The Lightkeeper's Wife - By Karen Viggers Page 0,42
to her. She chooses a biscuit and nibbles it.
‘When I remember.’
‘Jan would say that’s not good enough.’
‘Just as well Jan isn’t here, then.’
‘What about your medication? Are you taking it?’
‘Same as the meals. When I remember.’
‘Jan’s worried.’
‘Tell her not to be. I remember often enough. And it’s only been a few days. Ask me again in a fortnight.’
She’s being deliberately provocative, and I’m just about done with the questioning. At least I’ll be able to report back, even if the answers aren’t quite as Jan would desire. ‘How long do you think you’ll be here?’ I ask.
Mum raises her eyebrows. ‘As long as it takes.’
I nod and look away, gripped by a dull, dry-mouthed sensation. It’s as I thought, she’ll be here till the end. Now’s my opportunity to pursue the issue. I should do it; I should ask her all the things I listed in my mind last night. All those questions that I’ve reserved till now—when it’s appropriate to talk about life and death. But it’s too difficult, and I start to come up with excuses: there will be a better moment when I can ask more easily; she’s not really that ill. The coughing’s abated; perhaps it was as she said, just bad on waking.
She bends and drops a biscuit onto the floor for Jess. I can tell she’s not sure how to have this conversation either, and I allow myself to be diverted.
‘You’re spoiling her,’ I grunt.
‘That’s my job,’ she says. ‘I wouldn’t want to disappoint her.’ Jess taps her tail on the floor and smiles at Mum with delight.
‘How did you find this place?’ I ask. ‘I didn’t think you’d been to Cloudy Bay for years.’
‘It was in a brochure someone gave me. And it was best to have everything organised before anyone found out. I couldn’t leave any reasons for Jan to drag me back.’
‘Other than the fact that you’re old and sick with heart disease.’
‘A minor point,’ she says with a crooked smile.
‘Tell me more about the ranger,’ I say.
She leans back against the pile of cushions on the couch and breathes heavily. I feel a hard lump in my throat. I’ve been kidding myself. She’s old and ill. And there’s no denying the moist rumble in her chest; her body’s tired. It seems as if death is creeping towards us across the ocean, riding slowly with the swell, biding its time until it washes ashore and finds her, whether she’s ready for it or not.
She gazes out the window. The sky is chilly and grey. What does she see out there? I wonder. My father? The light station? Us, as kids, fooling around on the cape?
I stumble on. ‘Jacinta and Alex are coming down on the weekend,’ I say. ‘They were talking about staying the night.’
‘That’s fine. There are plenty of beds.’ Small soft coughs rumble in her chest.
‘You don’t have to be alone,’ I say. ‘I could stay here with you. I could take a few weeks off work.’
She bristles. ‘No. I’m managing fine on my own.’ Her eyes are penetrating as she stares into me. ‘You think it’ll be over in a few weeks, do you?’
I glance away, not knowing what to say.
‘I am getting worse,’ she admits. ‘When your body’s this worn out, you don’t belong here anymore.’
‘Don’t say that, Mum.’
‘Why not? Because you don’t want to hear it? It’s the truth.’
I shrug. ‘Some of us feel like we’ve never belonged.’
She looks at me sharply. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘I don’t know. I must be like Dad. Not the best at putting it all together. Not a great communicator. I think I’m like him . . . with silence, and all that.’
She stares at me with a strange expression on her face. ‘No,’ she says. ‘You’re not much like him at all.’ She continues to look at me, and then it seems she’s looking through me. ‘And it’s the grip of Antarctica,’ she says, as if she’s talking to herself rather than to me. ‘You’ve never quite got over it.’
‘It was hard losing Dad while I was still on the boat,’ I say.
And we’ve come back to death again, as much as I’ve been trying to avoid it.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I know. I’ve often wondered . . .’ She stops, flashes a look at me and then points out the window, changing the subject. ‘Why don’t you go for a walk? Make a sandwich to take with you. You can’t come down here without getting outside.’