The Lightkeeper's Wife - By Karen Viggers Page 0,39

be bringing oxygen bottles with me. You can hire them from hospitals, I think. After I see Mum, I might look into that . . . or would she see it as unwanted intervention?

I wish Jan could work out a smoother way to interact with Mum. I know it bothers Mum that they can’t get on. And it’s a shame she and Gary don’t visit more often. Since Mum’s mobility has declined she doesn’t get out much. It must be an empty life, sitting in that musty old house, listening to the radio or watching TV. Sometimes I leave Jess with her for the day. They’re quite good friends and I know it can be uplifting for Mum just to have Jess around.

I try to think of sensitive ways to discuss Mum’s heart disease. She’s a shrewd old lady and she’ll have her defence strategies worked out. I guess all I can do is express my concern and the rest is up to her. It’s a pity, though; she might benefit from a proper medical assessment. And a doctor could have some suggestions to make her more comfortable.

I don’t blame her for wanting to get away. With Jan lurking around talking nursing homes, I’d orchestrate an escape too. And her choice of Bruny Island shouldn’t be a surprise to any of us. We all know how she loves the place. But it’s typical of Jan to rant about it. She refuses to go there on principle, saying the island stole her youth. God knows why she has to be so dramatic. I’m not surprised her husband left her. And how did she produce someone as incredibly likeable as Jacinta? It’s a mystery.

Off the ferry, I head east and then south over the island, driving through memories of my childhood. I’ll be visiting Mum at Cloudy Bay today, but it’s at Cape Bruny that I remember her best. Working at the kitchen sink with the smell of baking bread thick in the air. Gazing through the smeary window towards the light tower on the hill. Scattering pencils across the table for lessons. Serving dinner in the steamy kitchen. Digging in the vegetable garden.

She was always so affectionate with me when I was small. Always so generous with her hugs and reassurances. Perhaps she knew I needed it—I’ve never been a particularly confident person. I suppose she was my first friend; after all, there were no other kids around. That wasn’t a bad thing; I learned to be self-reliant and independent. But I guess I was closer to her than most children are to their parents.

Dad was more of an enigma to me, though he did make an effort. We went fishing sometimes and he taught me how to play cards. But during the day he was rarely in the cottage, so then it was Mum and me. We did lessons, played board games, cooked, knitted, wandered around watching birds on the cape.

I remember what an upheaval it was when the school holidays came and Jan and Gary returned home. They were so big and noisy and they frightened me. It was never long before the arguments with Jan started, and then Gary would take to the shed with Dad to dodge the fray. My brother had an affable way about him and he could draw Dad out. I was less capable of this, and Dad was no artist at conversation, so when it was just him and me, the quiet always settled. I was never sure how to lift it. Hearing Gary and Dad joshing and bantering in the workshop always made me feel sad and inadequate.

We were an ordinary family, I suppose. Some good and some bad. Some happy and some sad. Isn’t that the way it is for everyone? We did live in a strange place, and I guess it infused my soul. But even though I’m a little different, I have the same needs as other people. I need love and company and hope, work and leisure. Mum has always been there for me, the silent and invisible force behind my recovery. She never had to do much: just knowing she was there helped. But soon things will change and I’ll be on my own. Then it will be all down to me.

At Cloudy Bay, I ease the Subaru down the track onto the sand. The tide is out and the sea stretches south into the distance. Jess scrambles onto my lap, panting in my face, so I