The Lightkeeper's Wife - By Karen Viggers Page 0,40

swing the door open and she leaps out, running low and flat, kelpie-style, towards a group of gulls. I yell at her from the driver’s seat and she dashes in a large arc and loops back to me, tongue flapping. When I tell her off, she yaps at the sky, head thrown back. The gulls rise, chortling, and fly out over the water following the wind up the beach. Jess yaps again. She’s telling me the gulls have gone anyway and I ought to have let her chase them.

‘It’s a National Park,’ I remind her. ‘You know the rules. You shouldn’t even be out of the car.’ I bang the door shut. ‘Go on! Run to the end of the beach.’

She tears up the sand, looking back periodically to make sure I’m following her in my vehicle.

Towards the end of the beach, I turn up over the softer sand onto the track I know leads to the cabin. As I step out, Jess lollops up to meet me. Everything is quiet. Even the roar of the sea is dull here behind the dunes. I pause, hoping Mum has heard the car and will come to the door. She doesn’t appear, and I remind myself that she’s growing deaf, that she’s slow and I ought to save her the trouble. The truth is, I’m scared to go inside in case she’s dead. The quiet is making me nervous and Jess is waiting for me to do something. I step onto the porch and rap the door with my knuckles. There’s no answer. I open the door and call out. ‘Mum. It’s me. Tom.’

Inside it’s warmer. I notice the gas heater along the wall with its red windows alight. Mum has it on low—forever frugal. It doesn’t seem quite warm enough for her old bones. I know she gets cold just sitting. The smell of propane gas reminds me of Antarctica. We always had to open the vents as soon as we entered a hut to make sure the gas could escape so no-one would asphyxiate.

Mum’s asleep on the couch with a rug tucked around her. Her breathing’s moist and noisy. For a minute I watch, unsure what to do. Perhaps I should sit outside and wait till she wakes, or go for a walk on the beach. Perhaps I shouldn’t be here at all. Watching her feels like an intrusion. She’d hate me seeing her like this, with her legs slung wide, her arms askew and her head lolling crookedly.

She stirs and coughs a little.

‘Mum,’ I say loudly, trying to fill the room. ‘Mum. I’ve come to visit.’

She jolts and jiggles and her lips smack loosely, then she sucks in a drag of air and coughs it up again. Her eyes flutter open. ‘Jack? . . . Oh, it’s you Tom.’ She startles and looks around wildly as if she’s seeking something. Her hands scrabble around the couch and scrape beneath her blanket. What’s she looking for?

‘Can I help?’ I ask.

‘Did you see it?’ she gasps. ‘Was there a letter here? An envelope?’

‘No, nothing. I’ve just walked in. Is there something you want me to post for you?’

‘Thank you, but no. It’s fine.’ She waves me away, then slumps and wheezes and digs around for a handkerchief. ‘Sorry. There’s not much dignity in it.’

I stand by uselessly while she coughs some more. I don’t know what to do for her.

‘It’ll pass,’ she croaks. ‘I’m having a bad day. It’s always worse when I wake up.’ Her face is horribly pale. She reaches out an arm. ‘Here. Help me get up so I can hug you.’

‘You can hug me sitting down.’

‘It’s not the same.’

‘No. But it’ll do.’ I sit beside her so she can grasp me with her weak arms. It feels more like a clutch of desperation than a hug.

She sits back and looks deeply into me. ‘You’re a good man, Tom. You have a good heart.’

More like a lonely heart. I pat her hand then withdraw. It seems such a condescending thing to do.

‘Could you put the kettle on?’ she asks. ‘It boiled a little while ago, so it won’t take long to heat up. I could use a cup of tea.’

I go to the kitchen. The kettle is still warm, but it isn’t hot. It’s longer than she thinks since it last boiled. She watches me from the couch.

‘You called for Dad when you woke,’ I say.

‘Did I? Perhaps I’m going mad.’ She coughs again. ‘Damn these lungs .