The Pause (20 page)

‘Mum!' I call out from the sitting room. But
I'm too weak from the pain and vomiting. She can't hear me. ‘Mummy.'

Aunt Mary hears me and closes the kitchen door.

When I wake up it's after six o'clock and dark. Mum and Dad both work late so it's not surprising no one's picked me up yet. Aunt Mary is wandering around the house muttering and mumbling incoherently. She's also drinking something from a bottle. Not the one under the sink with the clear liquid. This stuff is brown.

‘My arm hurts, Aunt Mary.'

‘“My arm hurts, Aunt Mary,”' she mocks. She squeezes my cheeks which forces my mouth open. ‘Here. See if this deadens the pain. It certainly does wonders for me.' She pours some of the brown liquid down my throat but it's so disgusting that I immediately start choking and hoick it straight back up.

‘You dirty little fecker. That's a bottle of Jameson's you're throwing up. Do you know how much that costs?' She lays into me again but by this point I'm beyond caring. ‘This is all your fault. If you'd watched where you were stepping, none of this would have happened.'

‘Please, Aunt Mary. I'm sorry.'

‘No one will believe you fell over. No one will believe me. Just like back in Dublin. They
didn't believe me then, and they won't now. You've ruined everything. I didn't ask to look after you today, and now look where it's got us.' She sways for a moment, the drink throwing her off balance.

‘There's only one thing for it, God forgive me.'

She scoops me up off the sofa and half-carries, half-drags me out to her car. She opens the door and more or less throws me in the back, covering me with a dirty old blanket. She climbs in the front and turns on the engine, which splutters to life.

‘Where are we going, Aunt Mary?' I ask. ‘To the hospital?'

Her rosary beads clack through her fingers as her old Volkswagen coughs along the road. ‘We're taking a little trip to the seaside, my darling. The air'll do us good. Give us a chance to think.' The
click clack
of her rosary beads continues all the way to the coast.

I don't remember how we got over the fence. Maybe I fell asleep or passed out from the pain and Aunt Mary lifted me over. I hear the crash of the waves onto the rocks far below and smell the salt spray being whipped up by the thermals. A lone seagull cries overhead.

We're standing on the edge but I feel safe
because Aunt Mary is holding my hand firmly. My other arm – the broken one – hangs limply beside me like an empty shirtsleeve. It's dark so I can't see how far it is down to the ocean. To the rocks. A watery moon drifts in and out of the clouds.

‘Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death …'

‘Can I help you in some way?'

‘Stay back!' snaps Aunt Mary at the kind-looking man who seems to have snapped her out of her trance. ‘Don't come any closer.'

‘Would you like to come back to my house for a cup of tea? I just live over the road there.'

‘No one will believe me,' says Aunt Mary. ‘They never do.'

‘I know it gets hard,' says the man, ‘but there's always hope.'

Aunt Mary grips my hand tighter and sways against the breeze. She'd emptied the rest of the bottle of brown stuff down her throat on the drive. ‘His mother's a barrister. Know-it-all. She'll have them throw the book at me.'

‘What's his name?'

‘What's it matter? He's coming with me. He has to. I have to explain it to St Peter otherwise he'll never let me in.'

‘You don't need the young fella with you. God's compassion is infinite.' The man stops when he senses Aunt Mary hesitate. ‘C'mon, love. Give the young fella a chance. He's hardly lived. Come and have that cup of tea. My wife's made scones. Fresh out of the oven.'

‘I was making scones myself,' says Aunt Mary.

‘And you will again, love. Everything will sort itself out.'

‘Not this time,' she says. ‘Not this time.'

She squeezes my hand tighter and steps forward.

‘No!' yells the man.

I look over at the man and then back down at my hand. Although I can still feel Aunt Mary's fingers interlocked in mine, she's no longer there.

‘Don't move, young fella,' says the man as he clambers over the fence. ‘Stay right where you are.'

The man edges cautiously towards me. I look down into the gloom, wondering where Aunt Mary has got to but there's nothing but darkness and the distant crash of wave on rock.

‘Name's Bill,' says the man. ‘I'm very happy to meet you.' He scoops me up in his strong arms and I bury my face in the nape of his neck, never wanting to leave.

It seems that now is an opportune moment to remind us all that I'm actually dead. Aunt Mary didn't drag me over the cliff and into oblivion with her that night. At the last second, her basic decency shone through. But maybe she was supposed to. Maybe I'd been on borrowed time since. I'm not a fatalist, but I suppose that when your time's up, your time's up. And my time finally ran out that day on the station when my depression and anxiety became too much. The weight too heavy.

That beautiful, healing evening with Lisa, and countless others just like it, would only have happened had I paused. But I didn't pause. I carried it through and my timeline came to an abrupt stop.
Everything else is just conjecture. A fragment. A taste of what might have been. That night with Lisa in Hong Kong, when we both shared our pain like two broken souls coming together and healing, would have been a memory burner, a near-perfect moment to talk about for the rest of our lives.

And there would have been others. In Hong Kong alone, Mum and Susanne would have become besties, leaving Lisa and I free to spend more time together. We would have caught the train out to Disneyland and another day we would have gone out to Ocean Park, riding the triple-loop dragon, which darts exhilaratingly out over Repulse Bay. We would have ridden the cable car back down and then jumped a bus to Stanley Markets and walked along the beach at sunset with our fingers interlocked, feeling the sand between our toes, and we would have danced cheek to cheek as a storm rolled in, using one earpiece each from Lisa's iPod, and I would have promised to spend the rest of my life with her, or else searching for her if we ever became separated again, even though we both would undoubtedly know that our time together was drawing to a close.

Golden moments. Priceless moments. Deathbed moments. Moments to let you know that life is worth living and that you need to embrace all its joy, all its wonder, all its pain.

But in order to have those moments you have
to work through the pain, find a way out of the darkness. You have to pause. You have to live.

It's only now that I
am
dead that I truly understand it. Lisa wasn't worth dying for. She was worth living for.

The intercom buzzes but I haven't got a clue how to operate the thing.

‘Mum!' I knock on the bathroom door. ‘Are you in the shower?'

‘I can't hear you properly,' she calls back. ‘I'm in the shower.'

‘Someone's here but I don't know how to let them in.'

‘Well, who is it?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Look at the screen,' she yells back through the steam.

‘Oh, right.'

The intercom buzzes again and I do as Mum
instructs but reel back slightly. I don't know what the hell is out there but it kind of looks like a whale rolling and sliming over a bunch of headstones. Headstones that are connected by wires …

‘Kate, you idiot. Don't put your stupid mouth up to the camera.'

Kate laughs down the intercom. ‘Let us in, douche.'

‘Us?'

‘Dad's coming up.'

I press the big silver button and downstairs the door buzzes open.

A couple of minutes later, Kate bustles in with her bags. Dad kind of hovers around behind her.

‘How was your weekend?' I ask.

‘Cool,' she says. ‘Went to the zoo.'

‘And they let you out again?'

‘Don't, Declan,' says Dad. ‘She had a nice time.'

‘Hello, Father,' I reply, annoying him with my formality.

I look at Dad's hair and try not to let him see me smirking. In all honesty it actually looks quite good. I just wonder if the horse misses it.

Mum emerges from the bathroom in her robe and with a towel wrapped around her head.

‘Hey, baby doll,' says Mum, giving Kate a hug. ‘Shaun.'

‘Gabriella.'

It's like a friggin roll call.

‘You're back early,' says Mum. ‘I thought you were dropping her this evening. That was the arrangement.'

‘Yeah, sorry,' says Dad. ‘Slight change of plan. I have to fly to New York this evening.'

‘So you're going?' says Mum.

‘We're going to look at apartments.'

‘“We're”?' says Mum, inviting the elephant into the room so that it can plonk itself on Dad's face.

‘Yes,' replies Dad, defiantly. ‘
We
.'

Here are three sure-fire signs that your father is having a midlife crisis:

1. He dumps his wife for a younger, blonder, dafter version, whose only qualification is an advanced degree in lip-gloss application.

2. He buys a red (seriously –
red
) convertible that actually complements the younger, blonder, dafter version's lip-gloss.

3. He invests a small fortune in the sort of hair transplant that only talk-show hosts and international cricketers can carry off and even then, only just.

There's a part of me that understands he's starting to feel the sand that remains in his hourglass running out at an alarming rate and he wants to recapture what's left of his rapidly declining
youth. So I kind of get it. But seriously, his midlife crisis is so clichéd he should be arrested for showing such a cavalier regard for stereotype. Still, at least he's ditched the beige pants and Hawaiian shirts for the sort of smouldering black-turtleneck look that was generally the domain of Jean-Paul Sartre and Albert Camus as they strolled along the banks of the Seine at dusk discussing existentialism, long cigars and Sartre's belief that he was being followed by crayfish.

Since their marriage went down the gurgler, I'm happy to spend time with Dad (even if we still haven't been fishing), but I steadfastly refuse to waste one more second in the company of Cindy (Mindy, Bindy, or whatever the stupid-y she claims to be) – someone who, when she heard that Mum was a barrister, thought she worked in a cafe.

‘So your mind's made up?' asks Mum.

‘It's too good an opportunity to pass up,' replies Dad.

‘What about the kids?'

‘Well, Katie's already looking forward to spending the holidays with us.'

‘You have a son, too.'

‘Really, Gabriella?' replies Dad, applying the sarcasm with a high pressure hose. ‘I wasn't aware of that.' Dad turns to me. ‘You're welcome to come, too. You know that, Dec.'

I nod.

‘Do you want to stay for lunch?' says Mum, changing the subject and saving me because, seriously, I do not want to spend my uni holidays having Mindy play step-mum, especially when she's closer to my age than she is to Dad's.

‘I can't,' says Dad. ‘I have to go home and pack. And besides, Mindy's waiting.'

‘You left her in the car?' says Mum. ‘I hope you wound one of the windows down, or she'll overheat and run around the back seat.'

‘Ha ha,' says Dad with possibly the worst comeback in history. ‘It's a convertible.' Like that's the important bit.

‘Seriously. Bring her up.' Mum turns on the coffee machine. ‘We could always use a laugh.'

‘Okay, I'm leaving now,' says Dad, ‘if you're going to be mean.'

‘Mean?' snorts Mum. ‘How old are you, five?'

‘It's really unbecoming, Gabriella. You know Mindy has an economics degree, and yet just because she's blonde … If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything.'

‘Well, that's me struck mute. No, seriously,' continues Mum, whose muteness lasts about two seconds. ‘Bring her up. Kate probably has some old books. She could always do some colouring in while she waits for your hair to set.'

I try not to snort but fail.

‘If you went bald,' says Dad, ‘what would you do?'

‘Well, I'll tell you what I wouldn't do,' says Mum. ‘I wouldn't stick a dead porcupine on my head and expect to be taken seriously.'

‘Bye, Katie Bear.' Dad gives Kate a hug and marches off in a huff.

Mum looks at me and nods towards the door suggesting that I should go after him.

When I get outside, Dad is waiting by the elevator.

‘Have a good trip, Dad. I hope things work out.'

‘You seriously mean that?'

I nod. ‘Yeah. With work, anyway.'

‘But not with …'

‘Cindy Doll?'

‘Mindy.'

‘Dad, it's embarrassing. She's young enough to be your daughter.'

‘She's twenty-nine.'

‘Is that her age or IQ?'

‘I'm forty-six, Declan. You do the maths.'

‘Dad. She'll want to go clubbing. And you dance like a praying mantis caught in a spider web.'

We look at each other not quite knowing what to say. We've never quite known what to say.

I have to admit, I've been grossly unfair on Dad with his midlife crisis list. Firstly, it was Mum who
ended their marriage, not him, and not only does Mindy have an economics degree, she also has an MBA. Second, while they do have a red convertible, it's actually Mindy's not Dad's. He still drives around in his clapped-out Triumph that belongs in a museum not a garage. And third, while he
did
get a Ken-doll hair transplant, it was a birthday gift from Mindy so he didn't really have a whole lot of choice.

‘I know you blame me,' says Dad, completely out of left field. ‘With Aunt Mary and everything. I didn't know how damaged she was.'

I hesitate. We've never had this conversation. The closest we've been to intimacy throughout the whole ordeal with Aunt Mary was his writing, ‘Get well soon, son' on my cast. ‘I tried to tell you. Both of you.'

‘She left you in the car while she leapt off the cliff. I can't even begin to imagine what that was like. How terrifying it was. The not knowing what was going on.'

‘That's not exactly what happened.'

‘What do you mean?'

I take a deep breath. It's time he knew. ‘She tried to take me with her. That was her plan.'

‘How could you possibly know her plan? You were six years old.'

‘I was there, Dad. I stood on the edge of the cliff with her. She dragged me over the fence
and she was squeezing my hand while she was summoning up the courage to jump.'

Dad is practically speechless. ‘But why would she want to …'

‘To cover up what happened. With my arm.'

‘You tripped over, taking out the rubbish. That's what your mother …'

I shake my head. ‘She clubbed me with a rolling pin.'

Dad is gobsmacked but it's right he knows. Finally.

‘This guy – he just came out of nowhere. He intervened. Talked her round. Got her to let me go.' I can still feel her squeezing my hand sometimes, late at night when I can't sleep.

Dad looks stunned, as if he's rethinking his whole life. ‘Why have you been lying to me all these years? Mum said you were in the car.'

‘That's what she wanted you to believe. She …'

‘Protected me.'

I nod.

‘I didn't even understand it myself at the time. That night was just a blur. It was all jumbled up.' I do remember the police taking me to the station, letting me turn on the siren. And I remember Mum and Dad picking me up from there – I must have known our home number.

‘It was only when I thought about it later, when I started having nightmares, that I remembered everything. I woke up screaming one night. Mum came in and rubbed my back and asked me what I'd been dreaming about. When I told her … she said to me she thought it might be best if you didn't know.

‘Why?'

‘She didn't want you blaming yourself. Said that if you didn't have any fond memories of Aunt Mary, then no one would. It wasn't a conspiracy, Dad. It's just how it was.'

‘But it's just led to a lifetime of resentment. From you. From your mum.'

‘It's not your fault Mary was out of her friggin' mind.'

‘But you used to tell us that she hit you.'

I start to choke up because I can see that Dad's eyes are watering. I swallow the pain that Dad is feeling. I see now that it was wrong of Mum to keep this from him. Although I think she did it with the best intentions, it created a sense of us versus him and he never knew how to fix it, because he never knew why it had come about. I feel for Dad right now, I truly do. None of this is his fault. Mum instigated the marriage breakup, my suicide attempt was due to his aunt, not him. All he's trying to do is stitch
his
life back together and I haven't exactly been there for him.

‘That's right. I used to tell you.
Both
of you. And I don't resent Mum.'

‘Just me.'

‘I don't resent you, Dad. Never have.'

‘But you're always laughing at me. Poking fun.'

‘That's because you used to do – and still
do
do – some pretty dumb stuff, and that's how families work. We take the piss out of each other.'

‘I'm sorry I let you down, Declan.' A single tear runs down Dad's cheek. He doesn't try to hide it.

‘You didn't let me down, Dad. I just work better with Mum, like you do with Kate. It's just one of those things. It's no one's fault.'

We stare at each other, not quite knowing what to say or where to go from here. Dad's good with accounts, not words.

I break the silence. ‘I reckon we're going to work better as adults.'

Dad wipes his eyes and holds out his hand. ‘Deal.'

I look at his proffered hand. I don't want to leave him hanging, but still. ‘What is this?' I say. ‘The nineteen-forties? Come here.'

I pull Dad to me and hug him. Really hug him. It's the first time we've hugged in as long as I remember. His body wracks with sobs. I leave my tears on his shoulder. But even though we're father and son and there's so much left to say, we still can't quite carry off the hug and after
a moment it descends into one of those back-patting deals.

We pull apart and look at each other.

‘If you come to New York, I'll buy you a beer.'

‘
When
I come to New York, you'll buy me a slab. And you'll tell me how you managed to get a hot chick like Bindy.'

‘Mindy.'

‘Whatever.'

The lift door dings open and Dad steps in.

‘See you, Dec.'

‘Later, Dad.'

The doors start to close.

‘And don't forget,' I shout after him, ‘you still owe me that fishing trip.'

‘It's a deal,' he yells through the door.

‘And shave your head,' I call back.

From the depths of the elevator shaft comes a distant, ‘Bite me.'

We celebrate our first full night in our new home with Thai takeaway and a bottle of Moët. Even Kate is allowed a small glass, which she pronounces disgusting and, despite Mum's yelp, tips down the sink and replaces with some lime cordial. Philistine.

We've swapped the burbs for the inner city so it's closer to Mum's work and to Sydney Uni for me. Kate has a forty-five-minute train ride to school and back each day but she's okay with it and she and Mum are talking about her spending six months here and then six months at school in New York, which Kate finds as exciting as Mindy (Cindy, Bindy, Windy) won't.