Читать книгу No Way to Behave at a Funeral - Noel Braun - Страница 10

Saturday 30th was the day of Stephen’s bucks’ party. It was a warm, humid morning, typical of early summer. While Stephen and friends went paint-balling, I was to attend my training course and late in the afternoon Guy, Angela’s husband, and I would join the paint-ballers for dinner.

When I woke Maris was staring at the ceiling. ‘I need to go to hospital,’ she said. My racing heart echoed her pain and my head tried to gauge the depth of her terrible anguish. I felt helpless.

She rang in turn her GP, psychiatrist and psychologist, none of whom answered her call. I was distressed about her restlessness. I had to stay with her even though I didn’t know how to help her.

I rang Marie, a colleague at Lifeline, who was attending the Gestalt course, and asked her to offer my apologies. Maris seemed to calm herself when I told her I would stay with her.

I showered and dressed and went downstairs to the kitchen. Even when under stress we slip into automatic and go through our routines. Each morning I squeezed us an orange drink. I had hers ready. She went into my home office before coming out to the kitchen.

‘I just want to dash up to Terrey Hills to get the books from Ginny,’ she said.

This sounded reasonable as I had heard them, both avid readers, discussing the books earlier in the week. ‘Have your orange drink and some breakfast first,’ I said.

‘I want to catch Ginny before she goes out.’

At that moment, I thought she had used the phone to contact Ginny when she went into my office. She took her car keys and dashed out the door to the garage before I could think. This sudden change confused me. I followed her out. I had it in mind to drive her. Too late. I caught a glimpse of her staring ahead as she drove her Blue Nissan Pulsar down our laneway.

She left just on 9 am. Thus began the longest morning of my life.

Tim and Stephen’s friends arrived for a barbeque breakfast. The smell of sausages and bacon drifted along our balcony as the young men gathered, chatting and laughing in anticipation of the day’s fun. I tried to reassure myself that Maris would be back soon with the books but as the clock advanced to 10 am dread possessed me. It was as though someone had intruded into a private inner space and violated something precious. Something was terribly amiss.

I mixed with Stephen’s friends and tried some small-talk but I couldn’t concentrate and wandered around the house waiting for I knew not what (but I really did). I tried to conceal my concern from Stephen. I did not want to upset his day. Besides Maris might be back any tick with her books and an excuse. Maybe Ginny kept her talking.

An hour later I looked down from the balcony and saw two police climbing our sixty steps to the front door. The knot in my stomach tightened as I waited for them to reach the house.

‘Do you own a blue Nissan Pulsar?’ the police sergeant asked.

‘Yes, I do. That’s my wife’s car.’

‘There’s been an accident. Would you go immediately to Royal North Shore Hospital?’ ‘What’s happened?’

‘Got no details. But here’s my mobile number.’

I was confused. I couldn’t think. Tim and Jacinta, waiting in the background, heard every word.

‘I’ll drive you, Dad,’ said Tim.

‘I’ll come, too,’ said Jacinta.

We drove down the lane in time to see some of Stephen’s friends already leaving. As the three of us were driving down Boundary Street, the police sergeant rang.

‘Is some one driving you?’

‘Yes. Why?’

He didn’t answer. There was only one reason why he’d ask such a question. But I tried to fill the vacuum with other possibilities. Another motor accident? Maris had written off her Toyota Corolla back in April. I felt my heart beating furiously at my ribs, as if it was trying to tear itself loose and abandon me.

* * *

‘I’ve been asked to come about my wife,’ I said to the clerk at reception, whose jolly mood was completely out of tune with my anxiety. ‘Is she alive or dead?’

‘Please fill out the admission form,’ he said.

With an unsteady hand I completed the details. I couldn’t remember my phone number.

We were asked to sit in the waiting room with lots of other people. Through the haze, I sensed a messy confusion as hospital staff, patients and the public came and went. I approached the desk.

‘How long do we have to wait?’

‘The doctor will talk to you.’

Another endless wait.

Angela arrived, flowing with tears and questions. I hugged her. ‘I can tell you nothing. They won’t even tell me if Mum’s alive or dead.’

Out of the murky bedlam of admission a social worker appeared with the completed form. She beckoned and took us into an adjoining room. As she led us from the bustle to a quiet place, I was shaking. I knew what we would be told, although from her cheerful manner, hope filled my heart. Perhaps Maris was alive but injured.

We found ourselves in a comfortable room with wide sofas and tea making gear in the corner. A place for receiving bad news? Again we waited forever. I wanted Stephen to be present and prayed he was on his way. Through my haze I sensed the room filling with people, social workers and nurses, and a young doctor. She spoke in a quiet, matter-of-fact manner.

‘An ambulance was called to the Chatswood Chase Car Park where a woman was found on the pavement, apparently from a fall. The paramedics tried to revive her but brought her to the hospital where she was pronounced dead. I believe she is your wife.’

Ours tears were uncontrollable. The emotion roared out of us, hit the walls shrieking and rocked around the room. Stephen arrived. The family was complete. Shaking with helpless grief, we hugged each other and wept, unified in our pain. I felt an enormous comfort as we gave each other unconditional support. We were always a close family but in that crowded room, bonds were cemented that will last forever.

‘Her body is in the next room,’ the doctor said. ‘Would you like to see her?’

By now, I was exhausted and had quietened down. ‘Yes,’ I said.

‘I want to remember mum as I knew her,’ said Stephen through his tears. Tim and Jacinta agreed. But Angela wanted to see her.

‘You might find disturbing the tube the paramedics inserted down your wife’s throat in their efforts to revive her. She doesn’t look pretty.’

I went in first. What I saw will never vanish in the mists of memory.

My beloved Maris, my cherished sweetheart, on a table, naked except for her wedding ring, but covered by a sheet with arms exposed.

I would like to say she looked peaceful in death, but I could see the grim lines of pain around her mouth, traces of the anguish that drove her to this place. The tube did not disturb me. What did upset me was her left eye half open and, although I guess they had cleaned her up, her beautiful dark hair was messy and the way her eye was turned told me she had suffered a severe blow to the head and incurred extensive internal damage.

I thought I had exhausted my tears but I wept again as grief once more took control. I took her cold hand and spoke.

I can’t remember what I said. A jumble of words. I was saying good-bye, I think. While the tears and emotion poured out of me like a torrent and flooded the room, a social worker continued to sit in the corner, hands folded, eyes downcast, noticing everything.

A sharp pain gripped my chest. Doctors would say my body was reacting to shock, but I now know what the poets mean by a broken heart. I could not believe I had lost my Maris, the light of my life. I could not grasp I was no longer one of a couple.

I was alone.