The Lightkeeper's Wife - By Karen Viggers Page 0,127
with tears.
‘She’s going to die, isn’t she?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say, staring past her.
‘I can’t cope,’ she sobs.
I look down at her, unmoved. She wants my support but I can’t help her. I have my own fears to deal with. ‘I’m going home,’ I say.
She follows me to the front door. ‘I’m coming with you tomorrow.’
‘Be at my place early then. I’m going on the first ferry. Either that, or you’ll have to go with Jacinta and Alex.’ A moment of guilt grips, and I hesitate by the car. My sister is watching me, her face sagging with the burden of regret.
‘Wait till the second ferry,’ she says. ‘It can’t possibly make any difference. I want to shower before I come.’
I shake my head in disbelief and climb into the car. Our mother is dying and all Jan can think of is taking a shower.
The night is dark as I head south on the highway, and it’s heavy with the weight of my concern. At Kingston, I turn the car east to the beach and walk along the sand. There’s no point going home to sit in silence when my thoughts are so heavy and sad. A cloak of clouds drapes the sky and the only light is from the buildings along the foreshore. My eyes adjust to the gloom and I shed my shoes, feeling the way with my toes. Jess pads behind me—I hear her panting in the breaks between waves. Sometimes she snuffles at invisible treasures on the sand. We walk and walk, seeking an emptiness that just won’t come.
Some time after ten o’clock, I drive home, wishing I could fly over the channel to Bruny to be with Mum. When I see the shadow of Nick’s Commodore parked beneath the streetlight at the bottom of my driveway, I want to turn and drive away. I’m worn out and I want to go to sleep. Has Emma driven herself here, or has she brought Nick along? Perhaps she’s asleep in his back seat. I swing my car up the driveway past the Commodore and step out into the feeble light.
It’s quiet. Jess and I slip along the path to the front door. If we’re lucky we’ll make it inside before anyone realises we’re home. But there’s a dark shape humped on the doormat. The body is too small to be Nick, so it must be Emma. Jess trots forward to sniff and lick her.
Emma’s face is pressed against the doormat; leaning forward, I smell beer on her breath. She must be pretty drunk to sleep with her cheek on the bristles of the mat. I unlock the front door and open it. She doesn’t move. It’d be easy for me to step over her and go inside to bed. But it’s cold out here, and if she’s drunk, she won’t be thermoregulating properly. I’ll have to get her inside and find somewhere to put her. I care for this girl, but tonight I don’t want her in my bed.
I switch on a lamp in the lounge room, then grab a blanket from the hall cupboard and find a bucket in the laundry, just in case she throws up. I pour a large glass of water and set it on the floor beside the couch. Returning to Emma’s limp body I shake her gently, trying to rouse her. She moans and rolls over, her lips red and swollen, her eyes pressed shut. I kneel beside her on the mat and loop my arm around her back. Then I lift her to her feet with effort, and she staggers into the house beside me, weak and uncoordinated.
‘Do you need the bathroom?’ I ask.
‘Tom,’ she slurs, ‘is that you?’
‘Yes, and you’re not well.’
She slumps against me. ‘Where were you? I made Nick bring me down here so I could see you, but you weren’t here.’
‘I’ve been at my sister’s place.’
‘Why weren’t you here? Nick wouldn’t leave, so we went down to the pub to wait for you.’
‘And you drank too much.’
‘Yes. Can you take me to bed with you?’
‘You can have the couch. But first we’ll visit the bathroom.’
I half carry her down the hall, and she closes her eyes against the light. In the bathroom I lean her against the wall. ‘Can you manage?’
‘I don’t know,’ she says, then, ‘I need to lie down.’
I take her back down the hall again and roll her onto the couch, her head lolling onto the cushions.