The Lightkeeper's Wife - By Karen Viggers Page 0,134

the waves. It flies up in the spume as the swell rears and collapses on itself. Today, it seems as if I’m watching the essence of my mother slipping away. I stumble west on the trail from the point, stopping eventually to lower myself onto a damp bench seat. I sit with my head in my hands, the heels of my palms pressing into my eyes creating spirals of colour.

Time withers. The sea roars, my heart beats—two separate rhythms. Eventually tears come, another rhythm rising from somewhere deep in my chest, the choke of contorted sobs, a welling emptiness. I lose myself in the sludge of it, thought dissolving.

Then a wet nose presses against my hands. A lick. A quick swipe across my fingers. I release my fists.

Jess is watching me with steady eyes. She doesn’t shy from my grief. My hands sag to her head and knead the softness of her ears, feeling her warmth beneath my fingers.

Slowly, we walk back to the car together.

The cabin at the end of the beach.

Leon’s four-wheel drive is parked on the grass, and I pull up alongside. Jess gallops around the lawn, her belly damp and heavy with sand after her run up the beach beside the car. I dig an old towel from the back seat and rub her down.

She bounds onto the deck where Leon is leaning against the wooden railing, his face ashen. I reach to shake his hand and he grips mine hard. He nods at me sympathetically, taking in my red eyes. ‘You made it,’ he says, releasing my hand.

‘Yes. Tough trip.’

‘Pretty tough night too.’ His voice is rough with feeling.

‘I should have been here. I should have stopped work a week ago to look after her.’

Leon shrugs a little uncertainly, as if afraid he might offend me. ‘She talked about that a few times,’ he says. ‘But she really didn’t want anyone. She was quite clear about that.’

‘You don’t think she was lonely?’

‘No,’ he says.

‘Perhaps we should have called a doctor . . .’ I’m riding on a moment of guilt.

He shakes his head. ‘She didn’t want to prolong things.’

I know what Mum wanted, but I need reassurance. I considered discussing death with her, but it was too hard. Now I feel inadequate; it seems Leon managed to achieve what I couldn’t. He sighs deeply and I see tears brimming in his eyes.

‘She was my friend,’ he says.

I pat him on the shoulder. It’s the best I can do.

Jess whines up at me and I glance uneasily at the front door. ‘I suppose I should go in,’ I say. Hesitantly, I step inside. Leon follows.

It’s hot in the lounge room, unbearably so. The wood fire is glowing and the gas heater is on too, pumping out heat. I peel off a couple of layers. ‘It’s hot in here.’

Leon’s face is haggard. ‘She was cold.’

‘Yes, but she’ll turn to soup.’

His lips quiver. ‘I didn’t think of that.’

He slams the flue shut on the wood heater and extinguishes the gas while I open windows. Jess is sitting by the door to Mum’s room, whimpering.

‘She knows,’ Leon says. ‘Dogs know everything.’

I glance into the room and swallow hard. Jess looks up at me. We step slowly inside.

The bedroom is dim. Mum is in the bed by the window, and a flickering candle on the bedside table makes her look not of this world. Her face is waxy and grey, and her eyes stare into nothing. There’s a strange smell permeating the room, slightly rancid. Leon has pulled the blankets high under her chin. I reach forward and touch her cheek with the back of my hand. Jess whines. Mum’s skin is cold and firm, like plastic. Something in my chest tightens. I sit on the bed and run my hand over the covers. Mum is so flat under there. So depleted. So absent. The silence that lingers over her is oppressive; the lack of movement, of breathing. I bend my head and weep while Jess circles restlessly. Mum wasn’t supposed to die without me. I wanted to be here with her. That’s what I promised myself. I let her down.

Then suddenly I need to speak. I meant to do this while she was alive. To thank her for everything—for my childhood, for her love, for being patient with me.

‘Mum,’ I say gently. ‘I’m here . . . It’s me, Tom.’

I shift the covers slightly and touch her arm. It’s cold and wooden and heavy. I fold my hand around