The Lightkeeper's Wife - By Karen Viggers Page 0,136
of her face, open-mouthed and expressionless.
The curtains shift as air leaks around the window and light washes across the room. The candle flame bobs and flitters in the draft.
Mum’s gone and there’s nothing I can do.
After a long while I leave the room. The front door is open and Leon is slumped at the picnic table on the porch. I grip the railing and stare out.
‘You okay?’ Leon asks.
I shrug.
‘It’s a bugger saying goodbye to people you love.’ He brushes his hand through his hair. ‘She helped me a lot, your mum.
She listened to me. Most people are too busy for that. Too self-absorbed to hear you talk.’ He nods at me. ‘Your mum was a special lady.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘She was a good woman.’
‘It was a brave thing to do, coming here alone in her condition.’
‘She knew what she was doing.’
‘Yes, but it must have been difficult to allow it. Knowing something like this could happen.’
I recall Jan nagging at me on the phone. ‘It caused a bit of friction . . . I suppose she talked about my father too . . .’
‘Yes. And life at the lighthouse. She loved this place. It feels lonely here now . . . without her.’
‘You were a great support to her.’
His eyes fill with moisture. ‘I tried to spend more time here as things got worse. I only knew her a few weeks. But she knew me better than my own mother.’
My own tears threaten and I look away. Silence swallows us then. Eventually, I encourage him to go for a walk on the beach. He has sat out a difficult vigil overnight and I want him to take a break. As he steps off the deck and glances back at me, all the pain of the past eighteen hours is reflected in his face. I nod at him in mute thanks, and he wanders down the hill. Turning, I see a four-wheel drive spinning towards us along the sand. It will be Jacinta and Alex, bringing Jan with her bucketloads of guilt and grief. The timing is excellent: Leon has borne enough. He doesn’t need to be here for this.
33
The week after Mum’s death passes in a blur of preparations for the funeral. You’d think the death of a parent would have the potential to bring siblings closer, but not so with my family. Mum was the glue holding us together, and without her, we have nothing to bind us. Despite our common sadness, we drift from each other like feathers on the wind. Jan descends into a dark world of self-blame and remorse. Gary closes down around his hard little core. And I do what I always do in a crisis—retreat into silence and find solace in nature: the flight of a bird, the nuances of light over water, the sound of wind shuffling leaves.
We grind through a series of difficult meetings to decide on everything from a funeral MC and songs to flower arrangements and burial clothes. Mostly, I spend time alone.
Laura comes timidly to the door with lilies from a florist, and she leaves soon after. I’m not capable of being in company yet, and I’m relieved she respects my space. In the mornings, I see her watching through her kitchen window as Jess and I trudge down the path to the beach. Each time, she waves and I nod. It’s nice to know someone is looking out for me. It makes me feel less alone. Often, when I’m home, staring out the window over the channel, I see her leave in her car, driving away somewhere—maybe to see Mouse.
Before the funeral, I visit Mum’s coffin in the dim hall of the crematorium. It’s quiet—only the muffled sound of my footsteps on the slate floor and the dull rustle of my breathing within the dense silence. The lid of the coffin is open and there’s nothing to fear, but my heart tumbles and my palms sweat.
They’ve dressed her in fresh clothes—a dress Jan selected from her wardrobe. Her cheeks have been padded with cotton wool and her lips have been tweaked into an almost smile. She’s been carefully made up with powder and lipstick, and her eyes have been somehow fixed shut. It’s not the face I know. She’s a study of absence, nothing of life left in her.
Seeing Mum resurrects the pain of my return from down south. It reminds me of all the losses I bore back then. My father. Leaving Antarctica. My marriage.