What the Light Hides (18 page)

He pulls his arm away from me. ‘Fucking nutter.'

‘I didn't mean…' I say, ‘I thought you were my son.'

He straightens his sleeve. ‘Why?'

‘The way you walk. You look just like him.'

He shifts his backpack, then looks ahead and gives someone a wave.

I follow his gaze and see a young girl at a cafe table, straight brown hair and lipstick smile.

‘Could you just stay for a moment?' I say.

He looks at me as if I'm crazy and I come to my senses.

‘Sorry,' I say and step aside.

I look back to watch him bend down and swoop the girl up in an embrace, whispering something in her ear.

I walk down the first side street I come across and welcome the rain on my face. I walk blindly, passing apartment blocks and old factory buildings. Pools of water collect in the gutters and cars pass by, window wipers working frantically. And all I can think of is that morning in Moscow and how Vera was almost run over. She had dodged a snowball by running across the road, and had narrowly escaped being hit by a Škoda. I caught her on the other side with our three friends in sharp pursuit. ‘Vera,' I said. ‘Are you crazy? You could have been killed.' And she had put her gloved hands on my cheeks. ‘I love you,' she said. ‘And I'm alive.'

I no longer know where I am, but keep walking. And I think of the day when Ben was born and jackhammers shook the hospital wing, and then I think of his last morning alone. And I can't bear it. I can't bear to think that he would have travelled an hour on the bus knowing what he was about to do and not have called me. I can't bear that he might have felt completely and utterly alone.

I stop at a street corner and throw up on the shiny bitumen. Wave after wave of nausea rushes through me and I have no idea how long I'm standing bent over on the footpath. When the nausea finally eases I stand up and gingerly find my way back to the house. Everything feels as if it's come loose.

When I get back I ring Vera. I get her answering machine and say, ‘It was never Ben.' Then I choke and can't say any more. I spend the rest of the day in bed unable to get warm. When darkness comes I finally fall asleep.

It's been raining throughout the night and King Street is shimmering with moisture. A stray dog scuttles down the empty footpath, sidestepping puddles.

The whole block is quiet as I let myself into Ben's flat. I find a garbage bag in the kitchen and begin to pack. I pack his photos, the pink shirt, the guitar, his favourite mug and the old picture book. I try to do it as quickly as I can, but the pressure in my chest is getting worse. I put the bag down, and only just make it to the bathroom before I throw up again. Afterwards I sit on the toilet seat, thinking that perhaps I am having a heart attack.

Ben's blue towel hangs next to the sink. A bar of soap rests in the soap holder. And instead of ringing for help I undress clumsily and step into the shower. The hot water eases the pressure a bit. The soap smells of sandalwood and I wonder if it reminded Ben of India.

By the time I leave the flat King Street has come alive and there are people everywhere. Stalls are being erected for the weekend market and a busker sings huskily outside the closed bank, but I don't pause for any of it. I want to get back in the workshop with Ben's things and I want to finish the chest.

I trace the drawing on the front of Ben's childhood book. I do it slowly and carefully. A car passes on the lane outside. A ray of sun falls on the concrete floor. I place carbon paper on the timber lid and with the tracing paper on top I print the image onto the wood. A small boy standing on the wing of a crop duster.

The indentation for the inlay needs to be nine millimetres deep, nothing more and nothing less. It's difficult to carve it by hand, but I prefer to do it this way. The process gives me time to imagine the inlay, and by the time I finish I know exactly what timber to use. I find a small piece of Brazilian rosewood, a piece of aged oak and a nice piece of creamy Japanese water chestnut.

Cutting the inlays into shape is precision work and takes time, but slowly the image comes together. When I place the last piece four hours have passed.

I walk up to King Street and have lasagne while I wait for the glue to dry. When I return to the workshop I sand the inlay, getting rid of marks from the carbon paper and any traces of glue. And then I rub it with methylated spirits and it comes to life. The lid still needs hinges and the whole chest needs to be oiled, but the inlay is magnificent.

At midday I drive to Leichhardt. There are Saturday shoppers everywhere and the cafes and bookshops are bustling. I can smell coffee, sharp and fragrant, as I get out of the car and walk down a side street to my mother's house. Her curtains are closed and there is no answer when I ring the doorbell.

I sit down and wait on the step. I close my eyes and let the light catch my face. And I hear Ben's voice in my mind:
Once upon a time there was a little boy. All he wanted to do was to fly. Once upon a time
. Then I hear footsteps and look up.

My mother stands in front of me, striking as always in jeans and a bright blue coat. I can smell rosemary from her shopping bag.

I get to my feet and we stand in silence.

Then she asks, ‘Do you want to come in?'

I shake my head.

‘What are you doing here if you don't want to come in?'

A young boy flies past on his bike and at the same time, almost as if it was orchestrated, sprinklers turn on next door.

I reach out, slowly so as not to scare her, and put my hand on the cheek I hit. Her skin is soft and cold. She doesn't look at me, but presses her lips together. She keeps still even though I can feel she wants to move away. And something happens, something settles, in me, in her, and my hand stays on her cheek like a benediction. I close my eyes and for a moment everything is quiet.

‘Are we going to stand here all day?' She draws back, but I see that something has changed. Her eyes have softened.

‘Neil will need you,' I say. ‘He's going to need all of us.'

‘Neil?'

‘Yes,' I say and then I leave.

Vera is waiting in the backyard when I return. She stands up as I walk through the squeaky gate.

‘Vera,' I say.

She is wearing the old leather jacket again and I can't read the expression in her eyes.

‘Would you like to come in?' I ask.

She nods.

I unlock the door. ‘How long have you been waiting?'

‘An hour.'

‘Sorry.'

‘You didn't know,' she says and follows me inside. ‘What happened to your cheek?'

‘Nothing,' I say and add, ‘I'll tell you later.'

She looks as if she wants to say something, but is trying to figure out how.

‘Would you like something to drink?' I ask.

‘Maybe a glass of water.'

She walks into the workshop while I fill a glass at the sink.

I place the water next to her on the workbench and know that I won't be able to handle it if she has come to tell me that she is leaving.

‘You packed his things?' She touches the frayed spine of
Once I Had a Plane
.

‘Yes.'

‘The inlay is beautiful.'

‘Thank you.'

‘Let's go upstairs,' she says.

I follow her upstairs. The jasmine smells sweet and the drawn curtains colour the room blue.

‘Something has changed,' she says. ‘In you.'

‘Yes.'

‘What happened?' She reaches over and touches my cheek.

I almost start crying.

‘Lie down with me,' she says.

Vera lies next to me on the bed. She is still wearing her jacket and I push away the memory of the other night when she slept fully clothed next to me.

‘David,' she says.

‘Yes.'

She doesn't speak, just looks at me and waits.

‘Forgive me,' I say.

‘For what?'

I am about to say, ‘For not knowing what to do next,' but that's not what I am asking forgiveness for.

‘For wanting him to be alive,' I say.

Her eyes fill.

‘I wanted it so badly.'

She nods.

Something breaks in me and I can't breathe again. I try to cough, but it makes it worse. I want to tell Vera to call for help, that I need a doctor, but I can't get the words out.

‘Vera.' I call out her name as if she is a thousand miles away, as if she is still standing at Red Square in Moscow on a winter's morning.

She puts a hand on my chest. ‘It's okay.'

‘I can't breathe.'

‘You can,' she says, ‘you are breathing, David. You are breathing, and you are here. You are here with me. Look at me.'

And I start to cry like a small child, with open mouth and clenched fists. And I hear Vera say, ‘It's okay, it's okay.'

When I finally stop I squeeze her hand and get out of bed. Standing in the bathroom I splash cold water on my face and think of Ben. I think of him jumping off the cliff on that hot summer day and I hope he saw the horizon as he jumped. I hope he saw that line between sky and sea. I hope he saw the beauty that Vera talked about, because nothing else makes sense. It doesn't make sense that he is no longer, it makes no sense at all.

I return to the bed and lie down next to Vera.

‘Hi,' she says.

‘Hi.'

She sits up, takes off her jacket and jumper and her worn T-shirt that reads, ‘Charlie Brown is my hero.' She's not wearing a bra and her jeans are loose around her belly. She has lost weight. The bed squeaks as she lies down again.

‘Your turn,' she says.

I take off my sweatshirt, then lie back down. We look at each other. I dare not reach for her in case it breaks what's happening between us.

She pulls off her boots and pants, but keeps her briefs on. And then she waits.

I take off the rest of my clothes with shaking hands.

She looks at my erection and everything takes its own rhythm.

‘I've missed you,' she says and moves closer.

‘Your turn,' I whisper.

She pushes off her briefs. Her pubic hair is dark, her legs beautiful and shapely. I look at her, take her in as I reach over and ease my hand between her legs and then I kiss her. For a long time I kiss her.

‘Now,' she says and I find her again. Her mouth, the smell of her, my movements and the blue room, it all fits.

Afterwards I drift in and out of sleep. When I wake she is sitting at the edge of the bed pulling on her T-shirt. Fear rushes through me. Has she regretted what just happened between us? Is she about to tell me she's leaving? But when she turns I can see she's still with me.

‘Come home,' she says.

I put a hand under her T-shirt and rest it on her warm hip.

She leans over and kisses me. ‘Do we need to clean this place before we go?' she asks.

‘I'll come back and do it later.'

Vera stands and stretches.

‘Do you want a shower before we go?' I ask.

‘Let's go home and wash in the creek instead,' she says.

We leave the city with the chest and Ben's things on the back seat. We drive through the hills of Richmond, past the apple plantations of Bilpin and past the fields with the Appalachian horses. Every bit of road is familiar and takes us closer to home. Our lovemaking sits between us and before us clouds lift and shift in the horizon. We drive past the place where we bought the strawberries. The memory shimmers like a ghostly fata morgana at the side of the road. I glance at Vera. And I know she sees it too.

The bush is quiet as we walk down to the creek. Twigs break, leaves rustle, but otherwise everything is still. I breathe in the fragrant smell of the bush as we descend deeper and deeper.

Vera takes my hand when we reach the bottom and we cross the creek, one stone step at a time.

We take off our clothes standing on the flat rock near the waterhole and Vera gets in first. ‘Oh,' she says. ‘It takes your breath away.' Then she walks further out until she stands waist deep.

You take my breath away
, I think as I walk out to stand next to her in the freezing water.

‘It's too cold,' she says. ‘I feel like I'm having a heart attack.'

Two cockatoos call out as they pass above us. They're moving north.

I reach over and take her hand. I raise it high in the air as if we are the winners of some bizarre sporting competition.

‘What?' She smiles just a little.

‘I don't know.' I smile back, our arms sink. ‘We're here. It's a good day.'

‘Let's do it,' she says. ‘On three.'

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Writing a novel is like weaving a giant tapestry: a tapestry of stories, a sense of purpose and a huge amount of inspiration. It's also a long process and without good friends and expert support this novel may never have seen the light of day.

So thank you to my wise and wonderful friends for their feedback and their support: Vicki Hansen, Associate Professor Anne Brewster, Angela O'Keeffe, Dr Prue Gibson, Thomas Larsen, Narelle Jones, Elizabeth Gorringe and Dr Meredith Jones. And a very special thanks to Simone Fraser for the time she spent reading various drafts, as well as for her insight and kindness.

My gratitude to Dr Barry Webb for his superior listening skills. You let me talk until I found the missing thread, and you probably didn't even know how helpful this was.

Many thanks to Matilde Martin and Josef Ber for the many inspiring conversations, but most of all for being family.

I am grateful to Associate Professor Hans Skov-Petersen. Thank you for the lift and for the great conversations we had in the car. You impressed upon me the fact that no one is born with a sense of direction, regardless of what we might like to think. This sparked off several ideas that would later make it into this book.

My deep gratitude to Michael Heyward at Text. Thank you for your ever-present guidance, but especially for your faith in the dreaming that comes before a book. Every writer should have a Michael in their life.