The Lightkeeper's Wife - By Karen Viggers Page 0,38

then more years when the passing of seasons and the growth of the children marked the passage of time. Somehow, she and Jack had disengaged until they arrived at a grim place that was neither love nor hatred. They existed in an empty place which, over the years, she came to know as indifference. Left alone there, she was forced to depend on secrets and fantasy to feed her soul—a dangerous place for a woman to go.

Though she didn’t like to remember those times (and she still wasn’t ready to think about them now), she had always blamed the storm, her accident, and all that followed for the near-demise of her relationship with Jack. And, because of that, within the deepest recesses of her being, she had long blamed the lighthouse itself. It had been their making, their breaking, and their making again. The life–death–life cycle of everything. But it had been the fault of neither, really. She and Jack had been already crumbling. The other factors were simply catalysts. They had made choices which led them to a place where there were, perhaps, no choices. They’d created a situation where the actions that came after became the only possibility. And the events that unfolded were consequence, not causality.

The awful truth was that the aftermath to those events became the path which would eventually lead to that letter hidden in her suitcase in the cabin at Cloudy Bay.

10

It’s the day of my visit to check on Mum. As I eat breakfast, Jess skulks around my feet under the table. Occasionally, she peeks out at me with tragic eyes which switch to hopeful when she sees the toast in my hand. She’s disappointed I haven’t taken her for a walk. Usually, we head out early to the beach and watch the sunrise creeping across the water. At this time of year, the mornings are often stunning and the sea is like liquid glass. When it’s clear, smoke haze hangs over the mountains from the forestry burns and the sun is a blazing ball of orange. But this morning a walk is not an option, despite Jess’s pleading eyes. She’ll have plenty of time to run at Cloudy Bay, even though she doesn’t know it yet.

As the car slips down the driveway, I notice a removal van outside one of the houses across the road. I see the dark shape of a man at the window of the house. I wonder who’s moving in and what they’ll be like, whether they will expect anything neighbourly of me. I’m not good at change and it’s enough to start a churring in my stomach.

It’s not far from Coningham to Kettering and I’m still brooding on the prospect of new neighbours when we arrive at the wharf. We don’t have to wait long before boarding, and there’s hardly anyone heading out to the island at this time of day, so loading is quick. When we push out from the terminal, I’m the only one standing at the bow.

As the ferry hums across the channel, I meditate on emptiness. The morning is quiet and sleepy, and a few cormorants beat across the water, flying low. I stand in the cold wind watching North Bruny inch closer, immersing myself in the grinding throb of the engines, feeling the rhythm of the lapping waves, doing anything to avoid thinking about Mum. But the restless workings of my mind won’t be suppressed. I missed the opportunity to say goodbye when Dad died and I’ve been determined to be here when Mum’s turn comes. Now the time is approaching, I can’t think of anything to say.

Since Dad’s death I’ve visited Mum every week. Usually I stop in after work for dinner and mostly we have something simple: sausages and mash, or chops and vegies. Sometimes I buy a nice steak for her. She can’t afford much on her pension, so I often tuck something extra in her fridge: a small roast for the weekend, some chocolates, maybe a few rashers of bacon.

We sit and watch the news together and we don’t talk much. There’s simple comfort to be had in quiet company; she likes to know I’m okay, and I’m reassured each time to see her relatively well. At her age there are always health complications, but the medication has kept her stable for a while. Jacinta has me worried, though. If she’s concerned about Mum then maybe her heart condition is worsening. Perhaps Jan is right and I should