THOMAS GREENBANK

QUESTIONS

 

Sometimes, there are questions we don’t ask. It’s not that we don’t want to ask, or that we’re afraid of hearing the answer, but rather because some subjects are difficult to raise in everyday conversation. In my case it was partly the above, but also because I chose not to think about it.

Leigh was always economical with words. So much of our time together was spent in silence—each of us immersed in an engrossing task of some kind, whether it be a novel, a textbook, a movie, Leigh’s quilting, or the evening paper. Never much of a talker myself, I found this part of our relationship strangely fulfilling, as if there was little need for platitudes or empty conversation. We always kept one promise though: we never ended the day without saying ‘I love you’.

Now, when I visit her each day, I still utter those words before leaving, even though I’ve no guarantee she hears them. Sometimes she’s awake when I call; sometimes she sleeps. Either way, she doesn’t acknowledge my presence. One of the nursing staff told me the other day that she heard Leigh say my name after I’d left. Maybe she did; maybe she didn’t. I only know that since her fall and subsequent stroke, my Leigh has been conspicuous by her absence. A hollow facsimile of the woman I knew and loved.

Seven years is a long time. In the bigger overall picture, though, it’s also a very short time—less than ten percent of my life so far, in fact. When I think back now over all the things we’ve shared during those seven years, it seems simultaneously both an aeon and a heartbeat.

Illness and impending death are no strangers to either of us. Our marriage is a case of third time lucky for us both. We each married young—some would say in haste. We raised children who would later turn their backs on us, and suffered through bitter divorces. Our second marriages were happier, but short-lived. Each of our spouses suffered debilitating illness; illness that necessitated constant care before they finally left us—alone once more. This shared history was, I believe, the catalyst that fired the cosmic and chemical reaction that brought and held us together. Now, even that is dissipating.

Sitting in the arbour outside her window, I contemplate the questions we didn’t ask. If I were a smoker, as in my younger days, I’d probably have gone through an entire packet today without even noticing. Instead, I sit and stare into the distance and try to imagine what Leigh’s answers might have been.

Given our circumstances, you’d think we might have been more open to the discussion; more comfortable maybe, but we each chose the same path. With no proper agreement or debate, we each chose the path of silence.

“Starting to turn a bit chilly, isn’t it?” I glance in the direction of the voice. A young nurse, possibly the same one who fetched me a cup of tea earlier, is enjoying a cigarette out of sight of the lunch room.

“Yeah,” I reply. “Autumn’s nearly over. Now comes the Winter of our Discontent.”

I poke at a discarded cigarette butt with one toe. She doesn’t reply. Probably trying to decide if she’s actually heard that phrase before, and if so—where.

“Richard the Third,” I explain. “Act one, Scene one, though I’m paraphrasing.”

“Shakespeare?” She furrows her brow. “Oh. I thought it was… oh, never mind.” She shrugs.

“Never doubt the uselessness of a college education.” I toss this pearl of wisdom as much to myself as to her.

“You’re Leigh’s, er …”

“Partner,” I offer. “I believe that’s the appropriate term these days. We never bothered about marriage. Both been through that before, more than once. Didn’t either of us see the need to do it again.”

She takes another long drag before blowing a cloud of toxic smoke skyward. “How long …” Her voice trails off. “Sorry, it’s none of my business. I’m a nosy bitch sometimes. I’m always getting told off for asking personal questions.”

She quickly leans in toward me.

“You won’t say anything about it, will you—please? It’s just that I’m on a warning about getting too close to patients and their families.”

“Relax, Girlie,” I say. “I appreciate the fact that you’re interested enough to ask. Most couldn’t care less and aren’t afraid to show it.” Another question goes unanswered.

After a moment’s silence, she speaks again. “Julie. My name—it’s Julie.”

“Hello, Julie. Good to know you.”

We sit in collective silence for several minutes, during which she finishes her smoke and grinds the stub beneath one sensible work shoe.

“I’m off in an hour,” she says casually. “Can I buy you a coffee?”

I consider my reply. “Well I can only assume that someone such as yourself would definitely not be hitting on me, so yes, thanks, Julie. I reckon I’d like that.”

She places both hands over her mouth, blushing deeply. “Oh, shit. No. I … I mean, no, nothing like that. You just look so … like you need someone to talk to, I guess.”

I laugh aloud—possibly for the first time in months. Her discomfort is palpable.

“Relax, Gir … er, Julie. I’m pulling your leg.”

Rising to my feet, I offer her my hand. “Brian. Call me Brian. I’m about to go for a long walk—there’s something I have to contemplate. Meet you back here at …” I consult my watch, “five?”

“Sure, see you then.” She walks briskly away, leaving me to my solitude once more.

I admire her retreating figure, and I’m struck by how much she reminds me of my eldest daughter when I last saw her. Val would have been about her age now, had she lived—and assuming my estimate of Julie’s age is accurate. Chuckling at her chagrin, I make my way off in the direction of a nearby park.

I return at seven minutes before the hour, still no closer to the answers I need.

She emerges at five past; smiling, confident, well-groomed. Her hair, no longer constrained in a tight ballerina bun, cascades over her shoulders, challenging the beauty of the diminishing sunshine. “Val!” I almost say. Instead, I offer her my arm and she slips her hand in at my elbow.

“Did you come to a decision, then?” Julie says as we promenade across the grass.

“You hinted at something you had to think about,” she adds in response to my puzzled look.

“Oh. No, not really.” We allow the silence to hang between us as we walk.

“So how come a pretty thing like yourself is spending time with an old fart like me?” I ask. “Boyfriend let you down?”

“There’s no-one at the moment,” she says. “I have a flatmate, but he’s gay, so I guess he doesn’t count.

“I was engaged,” she adds after another pause, “but he had a fling with my best friend.”

“So you lost a fiancé and a best friend.”

She nods.

“Can I help? You know, with the thing you have to make a decision about?”

“I’m really not sure if anyone can help,” I reply. “Are you a good listener, though?”

“The best,” she says, polishing her fingernails on her cardigan and pretending to admire her reflection in them, just the way Val used to.

*     *     *

“Cappuccino?” I ask, pulling out a chair for her. The café is almost empty. Thirty minutes before closing time.

“I’m supposed to be treating you,” she says.

“Don’t worry, I’ll let you pay,” I push her chair in and wave a waitress over before seating myself opposite her.

“How long have you worked at the hospital?”

“Almost three years.”

I hesitate, wondering whether to ask the next question.

“You’re going to ask me about patients who die, aren’t you.” A statement, not a question.

“Have you seen many patients die?”

“A few. Most of those in our care pass in their sleep.”

“Do you suppose they …”

“If you’re asking if I believe in an afterlife, the answer’s yes.”

We’re still staring into each other’s eyes—mine cataract-grey, tired; hers bright, and as blue as the ocean—when our drinks arrive. How does she seem to know what I’m thinking? Another question destined never to be asked.

“You seem so sure, Val.”

“Julie,” she corrects me.

“Oh. Of course. Sorry, you remind me of someone, that’s all.”

“She’s aware that you’re there. You know that, don’t you?”

“I like to think she is. It’s so hard to be sure, though.”

“Trust me, she knows.”

She sips her coffee delicately, watching for my response.

“I’ve come to accept that she won’t be with us much longer.” I say.

“There are so many things I wish we’d talked about. So many questions I wish I’d asked.”

“You can still ask them,” Julie says. “Just because she can’t speak doesn’t mean she won’t answer you.”

“Actually,” I say after a pause, “there’s only one question, really. Everything else is just window-dressing.”

“So ask her,” she whispers, placing a hand on mine. “You might be surprised.”

The rest of our ‘date’ passes quickly and I’m soon walking back to where my car sits waiting in the hospital carpark. I sneak into the ward and sit at Leigh’s bedside.

I take her hand as firmly as I dare and whisper, “Can you hear me? Do you really know I’m here?” I feel her pulse, but nothing more.

“You won’t believe what happened. A gorgeous young nurse hit on me and shouted me a cappuccino,” I gloat, before adding, “Yeah, well maybe that’s not exactly true, but she did buy me a coffee.”

Still no response. I lean closer, placing my lips against Leigh’s ear. “There’s something I have to ask. Please, if you hear me, let me know.”

Her rhythmic breathing, assisted by the ventilator, is barely audible. Her hand twitches ever so slightly. Did I imagine that? I decide it was simply an involuntary spasm.

Softly, I ask my question, whispering it into her ear as she sleeps—Perchance to dream?

After several minutes I make my departure, detouring for a take-away pizza before heading home.

*     *     *

The phone wakes me just after 4 am. The news I’ve been dreading, yet anticipating: Leigh was pronounced dead fifteen minutes ago. No, there’s no need to come in now. Yes, please see the reception desk first thing in the morning. I flop onto the settee and switch on the television in a vain attempt to fill the void and allow the tears to flow.

Ten o’clock finds me at the reception desk, where one of the nurses hands me a scribbled note. “Sister Jenkins says Leigh woke briefly last night, around one am.”

I look at the scrawl. ‘Albany—Frenchman’, it reads. “Does this make sense to you?” she asks, furrowing her brow.

“Perfect sense,” I reply. “Thank you.”

Albany Western Australia: Where we’d spent our last holiday. Where Leigh had said, “I could spend eternity looking at this view,” as we admired the vista overlooking Frenchman Bay from the Marine Drive lookout. Where one day soon I would scatter Leigh’s ashes; a westerly wind at my back and a tear in my eye.

“Oh, will you give a message to Julie from me?” I ask.

“Julie?”

“Yes. The pretty nurse with the honey-blonde hair. About yay tall.” I indicate a height level with my earlobes.

She purses her lips, shaking her head slightly. “No nurse here named Julie,” she says. “Are you sure you’ve got the name right?”

“I thought I had, but maybe it was Valerie,” I reply.

She’s shaking her head again, so I simply say, “No matter. I think she knows.”

Thomas Greenbank   ©    2024