The Lightkeeper's Wife - By Karen Viggers Page 0,41

. . I can’t breathe to speak. Tom, bring me my tablets, would you? They’re on the bench.’

I find her pills and give them to her, wondering if Jan might be right about Mum forgetting her medication.

‘Glass of water,’ she puffs.

I grab a glass on the sink and fill it for her.

‘Thank you.’

She’s so grateful for so little. I feel useless. When I bring her the cup of tea, she waves me into the armchair opposite her. After a few sips, small flushes of red appear on her cheeks. It’s better than ghostly white.

‘So, how’s Jan taking it?’ she asks.

‘Badly.’

‘Has she booked the funeral?’

‘Not quite.’

‘Then she must have a bed reserved in a nursing home with my name written in black ink on the card at the foot of the bed. How’s Jacinta?’

‘She’s okay.’

‘Taking a battering from Jan, I imagine.’

‘The usual.’

‘I really didn’t want to saddle her with this, but there was no other way. Jan won’t be very happy.’

‘No.’

‘Is Alex backing Jacinta?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. What about Gary?’

‘Surprisingly supportive.’

‘Wonders never cease.’ Mum rubs at her chest and clears her throat.

‘Why didn’t you ask me to bring you down?’ I ask.

She glances at me. ‘I considered it. But you’ve got enough to deal with. And Jacinta’s young and resilient.’

‘I’m not dealing with anything, Mum. All that Antarctic stuff was years ago.’

‘Yes, but you’re still carrying it. I keep wondering when you’re going to meet a nice girl.’

‘Not at the garage. They’re few and far between in the workshop.’

Mum laughs. Perhaps she’s thinking about the girlie posters some of the blokes have pinned up in the tearoom.

We sit in silence for a while. It’s not quite a comfortable silence. I’ve never been good at conversation; Mum usually carries it along for me. But it’s obvious that she hasn’t the energy today. I dig around for something worthwhile or amusing to say, but I can’t think of anything. Out the window, I notice the white tips of surf way out over the dunes. Mum follows my gaze.

‘Not a bad spot, is it?’ she says. ‘It’d be a good day to climb the Head . . . The wind and the view.’

‘You love it up there, don’t you?’

‘It’s one of my favourite places. A special place with your father.’

‘How long since you’ve climbed it?’

‘I can’t remember. Too many years. Once your father became arthritic, he couldn’t handle the track.’

‘You didn’t go up alone?’

‘There weren’t many opportunities. When we moved back to Hobart again, we were too busy.’

She watches me keenly, but I can only occasionally meet her eye. I want to shift the conversation to other things, like her illness and what might happen next. But I’m not sure how to ask her about death. I’m not sure how to ask if she’s ready.

‘Why don’t you go for a walk up there later and tell me what you see?’ she says, her face soft. ‘You can bring it home to me. Then I can remember everything through your eyes.’

‘Yeah, I might.’

‘You should. I want you to have a nice time here.’

‘What about you, Mum?’

‘What about me?’

‘How are you going here?’

‘I’m fine. Nothing to worry about.’ For a moment she looks fragile, as if something in her might break. Then she musters a firmer look and leans back to inspect me as only a mother can. ‘How’s work?’ she asks. It’s safer territory.

‘Busy.’

‘You took a day off?’

‘They’ll survive.’

She looks around the room, searching for something. ‘Where’s Jess?’

‘Outside.’

‘Bring her in so I can give her a pat.’

I open the door and Jess trots straight to Mum, pushing her head up under Mum’s withered hand. She’ll sit there for as long as Mum will stroke her velvety ears. She stares up at Mum with eyes that are subservient and patient. Mum bends her head towards Jess and whispers meaningless nothings to her. Stuff women reserve for babies and dogs.

‘So you like it here by yourself?’ I ask, finding a strand of conversation at last.

‘It’s a little lonely,’ she admits.

‘What about the ranger?’

She shrugs. ‘He’s a bit sullen. Wouldn’t even stop for a cup of tea the first day. But I’m working on him.’ She pauses. ‘Don’t tell Jan I said he’s sullen. She’ll be on the phone to Parks in seconds, trying to organise a nurse.’ She laughs, privately amused.

‘Any jobs you want done?’ I ask. ‘Want some wood chopped or anything?’

‘Not really. I’ve been using the gas heater.’

‘Are you eating?’ I go back to the kitchen and tip a few biscuits onto a plate, then carry it over