Читать книгу No Way to Behave at a Funeral - Noel Braun - Страница 11

A young police woman, Catherine, appeared and asked some questions. Through my tears and running nose I blurted out the story of the last few days. I was surprised how logical and fluent I was. I seemed in control, as if I had detached myself from reality. I’m sure the calm that possessed me was shock as if someone had injected me with an anaesthetic or given me a pain killer.

Members of the hospital staff were present, although I wasn’t sure what their roles were, whether they were performing some function or there out of curiosity to know something of the beautiful woman who had arrived dead on their doorstep. They made supportive comments on what a strong, united family we were. I suppose we were. None of us raved or fired blame at whoever was in the way like some mad gunman shooting at random.

‘Could I see Maris again?’ I asked.

The social worker led me back into the room. I placed the pansy that Rick had brought from the house in Maris’ hand. She loved her pansies. Even in the bad times, she managed, like a glimmer of hope somehow, to care for those little plants.

‘I want her to take a tiny part of her garden with her to the Coroner’s Court,’ I said to the social worker. ‘Could I keep her wedding ring?’

A nurse removed it. ‘You might like the cross and chain she was wearing.’

The chain was broken but the cross was intact. As I write this, my hand traces the outline of that cross beneath my shirt.

* * *

I made two decisions as Tim drove me home. The first was that I would bury Maris at the Frenchs Forest Bushland Cemetery. Reducing my beloved Maris to ashes in cremation insulted the sacredness of her memory. I couldn’t bear the thought of her ashes in an urn gathering dust on an empty shelf. I wanted her to be in a special place, a place I could visit and sit in communion with her in the years to come.

The other decision was to tell the world. I had no sense of shame that Maris had died of suicide. For years, suicide was spoken of in whispers. A stigma is still attached to taking one’s life. Some families are reluctant to speak about their loved one, or use euphemisms such as dying ‘in tragic circumstances’.

I was outraged. I wanted the world to know that an insidious disease had driven my beautiful Maris to this tragic ending. She had lost confidence, hope and the will to live. I wanted everyone to know of the toll depression inflicts. The demons of despair had ensnared the mind of a peaceful, gentle woman, robbed her of peace and replaced any joy with a daily anguish which nothing, nothing could alleviate.

Inside I was crying but the logical part of my mind kept on working. I guessed I slipped into automatic. There were people to tell. I rang the family — my sister Maria and brother Tom. They made me repeat everything as if the news was too shocking to take in at one go. I left a message on Father Brendan’s answering machine. The children were on the phone, too. The terrible news spread rapidly.

For a while I was numb where the anguish had roared before. But then an awful battle began to rage beneath. A new sensation emerged. At first it was in the background like the roar of a distant football crowd or a roll of far-away thunder. It grew in intensity until the noise erupted in a new torment. It was my own voice in accusation, a whisper at first, but eventually screaming.

‘Why didn’t you listen when Maris needed to go to hospital? Why didn’t you stop her when she took her car keys? Why didn’t you stay with her if you knew she was suicidal?’

Over and over these accusations raged, causing havoc like an army running amok. I was overwhelmed. Guilt was undoing me. In desperation I tried to set up barriers and suppress the questions but they refused to be vanquished and kept breaking the ramparts and bursting into my thinking. If I wasn’t questioning, I was scourging myself.

‘I failed you, Maris. If I’d been more vigilant, you’d still be here, instead of in the Coroner’s freezer. I’ve killed you by my own neglect.’

Which was worse, guilt or grief? I’m not sure. Take one serving of regret mixed with a heavy dose of guilt and you get the bleakest cocktail of mental pain guaranteed to blight the strongest.

All that afternoon the noise of battle rolled around as one accusations vied with the other for the high ground, my rational self forced into dark retreat. I was losing the war. I was succumbing to despair.

Brother Damian, Father Brendan’s assistant and the proverbial knight in shining armour, came to my rescue. Damian is a member of the Passionist Congregation. They are an order of monks who administered our parish of St Anthony’s. A person of great compassion, he has the benefit of counselling training.

I remember removing my glasses, smearing my wrist over my eyes, squashing the tears, although I felt an occasional stray escape and slide down my cheek. ‘I should have taken Maris straight to hospital,’ I cried to him.

‘Sure, you could have taken her,’ he said, ‘but, with limited resources so overstretched, they would have taken one look at Maris, who presents so calmly, and either sent her home or just kept her overnight.’

I told Damian of my conversations with Maris.

‘It’s sounds as if she’d made up her mind to go. If she was intent on suicide, nothing would have stopped her. You could have done nothing.’ After a pause he added, ‘Perhaps God told her it was time.’

Damian’s reassurance banished those horrible demons for a time, as if he had administered another anaesthetic to deaden a pain that I knew was bound to return and counterattack with reinforcements.

‘Would you like an announcement made at the weekend Masses?’ he asked me.

‘Yes, I want our total parish community to know.’ I wiped my eyes. ‘Maris was loved and respected. Many people would wish to attend her funeral.’

We were fortunate, if that is the right word, that a weekend was intervening between Maris’ death and her funeral. The word would spread easily.

I thought of our Stephen. Poor bugger! His bucks’ party cancelled, his wedding plans wrecked. What a tragic lead-up to what should have been the most joyful day both for him and Anthea! How we protective parents hope to shield our children from sharp arrows.

I had flashbacks of little Stephen trying to play sport. When God lined up the children of the world to hand out sporting prowess, He stumbled as he passed Stephen. I remember the jeering of the St Ives parents as he swung his skinny five year old legs at the soccer ball and tripped, the impatience of the head teacher at his primary school, the irritation of the tennis coach at Stephen’s claims that his tennis racket had a hole in it. Fortunately, God handed Stephen a few brains which he made good use of at secondary school and university.

I could see how happy he was with Anthea. I wanted them to have a great day, to shield them from Maris’ suffering but my efforts were a devastating failure. If there was any good news that day, it was Stephen and Anthea’s decision.

‘Dad, we’re going to go on with the wedding,’ Stephen announced later in the afternoon.

I was so relieved. ‘That’s great. I was worried you might want to postpone it.’

Angela, Jacinta and Tim agreed.

‘Life has to go on.’ I added. ‘I know it’s an old cliché, probably quoted after every death, but it’s full of wisdom.’

A huge wave of emotional turbulence had struck the family. We were devastated, striving to make sense of the day. My four children were with me. If ever we needed to cling to each other, this was the time. We sat around the kitchen table where Maris had served so many meals. Tim ordered pizzas. Jacinta found some beers. We needed them.

‘Mum was so intense last night, the way she spoke to us,’ said Tim.

‘I think she was saying good-bye,’ added Stephen.

As the beer started to lift our sombre spirits, we told a few stories.

‘Mum loved the Sydney Swans,’ Jacinta reminisced.

‘She sure did. We went to all the home games.’

‘Mum was always telling us of your behaviour, Dad. It was embarrassing.’

I found myself laughing, actually laughing. I couldn’t disagree with that. I am a passionate supporter, shouting for joy and waving my arms when the Swans score a goal, and loudly abusing the umpires for their countless mistakes.

‘Membership for next year’s due this week. I’m going to renew Mum’s ticket,’ I said in between slices of pizza.

‘I’ll come with you, Dad,’ Angela and Jacinta chorused.

The kids wanted to discuss Maris’ sisters, Catherine and Loretta. As young children, they were only vaguely aware of the problems they created. Both had died of suicide, Catherine fourteen years previously, Loretta the year before. Catherine was diagnosed as bi-polar, Loretta suffered from depression and compounded her illness through drug and alcohol addiction. Their problems were evident in the dramas they created.

‘Those two were crazy,’ Angela said, drawing on childhood memories. ‘Mum was always the sane one.’

‘Yeah, Mum kept her suffering to herself. She’d drop everything to respond to their cries for help,’ I said, filling in some of the detail. ‘I don’t know how many times Loretta was admitted to hospital. It got so routine I was almost blasé when I took the call on the latest calamity. I’d get into trouble with Mum for forgetting to pass on the message.’

Father Peter McGrath arrived and shared our pizza. He, too, is a member of the Passionist Congregation, known to Maris and me since our arrival in Sydney twenty-five years previously. Once the Pastor at our church, he lived apart from Brendan and Damian. His amazing gifts of compassion enabled him to bring solace to the most distressed of people.

‘Gosh, Father Peter was in a mess,’ commented Jacinta, after he had left.

‘Yes, he was more than just a priest to Mum. He was a friend. He’s had problems with depression himself. He understood Mum’s internal struggles. He knew what she was going through.’

As we retired to bed, I realised that this night would be the first on my own. Maris would never share the bed with me again, a thought I could not grasp. I stood in the doorway staring at the bed. Despite her anguish that morning she had made it neatly as she did every other morning. It looked so ordinary, this essential tool of our life together.

Maris’ clothes from the day before were still draped on a chair. A basket of ironing stood in the corner. The walk-in wardrobe was full of her clothes. She dressed well, my Maris. The cupboard was full of her cosmetics and toiletries. She took care in ‘doing her face’.

For her birthday that year I bought her some talcum powder. The sales lady talked me into buying some shower mousse saying it was like velvet to the skin. The price was outrageous. Maris hadn’t used it. I handled the container and thought about that birthday and many others. I wanted to keep everything as it was, as if Maris had only gone on a holiday.

The demons returned in full force. Like an invading army, desolation and guilt took possession. As I lay in bed conscious of the space next to me I was powerless to stop the recriminations and blame. Why didn’t I stop Maris from driving off for that supposed appointment at Terrey Hills? All night long the battle raged. I slept fitfully and each time I woke the realisation flashed through my mind like a streak of lightning. I reached out and felt nothing. At one time, in my half-awake state, I reached over and felt something but it was only her pillow which had somehow travelled down the bed.

We would normally cuddle one into the other and find comfort in each other’s body warmth. She would chide me for my cold feet and complain if I placed them on her before they had warmed up. I would run my hand over her bottom and whisper to her how lovely it was. I would feel her breasts and tell her what nice tits she had. I remembered the soft down on her neck. Our gentle conversations, dancing in whispers, came back to me.

I would begin a request with, ‘Sweetheart?’ and she would reply, ‘Yes, my love.’ I indulged myself in sweet memories of the many times we made love.

One occasion stands out. In the days when I was a yuppie and drove a BMW we stayed a night in Merimbula. I woke early and went for a run on the beach like good yuppies do while Maris stayed in bed. I returned and had a shower. I stood by the bed naked feeling fresh and frisky and Maris suggested that instead of getting dressed I should join her.

* * *

I woke to emptiness as if I were on a vast barren landscape. I stared at the ceiling as Maris did, the light filtering in from the dawn. Black thoughts hammered me, all starting with ‘if only’.

I tried to visualise what life after forty-two years of marriage would be like on my own. I couldn’t. We had been in equilibrium, in mutual support, not realising how much we supplemented each other. We had been like two walls in a house supporting each other. One had been pulled out. Now the whole structure was caving in.

The early morning dose of grief, guilt and despair was too much. I resorted to self-deception. Maris was away and would be back. She was already up, having a shower. She was downstairs having her breakfast or sitting in a chair at the window watching the day.

I made the bed inexpertly. I did not have Maris’ skills. She had her nursing training and followed the hospital routines of many tucks and turns. I had to recall my army experience, my National Service days where we would receive penalties if we young conscripts did not make our beds properly. It took me several mornings to get it right, to approach the same neat shape that Maris always managed to achieve.

Each morning I took four oranges and squeezed a drink for the two of us. In the kitchen I automatically reached in the refrigerator for the oranges and realised with pain that I only needed two.

Squeezing those two oranges had huge significance. From now on I would be making a drink for one and only for one. We had a ritual of sharing breakfast, making tea and toast for each other, sharing a banana on our cereal. I would collect the Sydney Morning Herald and the Manly Daily, split them and we would read them over our breakfast.

Never again, Maris! Never again!

I would be making tea and toast for one. No longer the ritual of cutting a banana in two, and slicing the flesh over two bowls of cereal. I would have a whole banana. I would have the papers to myself. I would have my breakfast alone.

The reality of a sunless life was sinking in. I was facing the first day of a new world. A third decision! There was no way of dealing with my grief that would make it painless. It just had to be endured. What could I do to stop it from destroying me? I had seen bereaved people build a wall around themselves. Others had taken to medication or to alcohol to dull the pain and worsen the problem. Facing my emotions full-on was the best means of coping. I should be ready to confront all situations, unpleasant or otherwise.

‘Will you come to church with me. I need you,’ I said to the family. ‘It’ll be an ordeal.’ Father Brendan would announce the news. People would offer condolences but also ask questions. Some would be gentle and tuned in; others would be clumsy. They’d want to know all the detail and trample through like elephants. But my family agreed.

* * *

As we walked from the car park for the 10 am Mass, people from the 8.30 am Mass were still gathered over their post-Mass tea and coffee. They knew. At another time I would have approached the church self-consciously, aware that all eyes were on me, but that morning I couldn’t have cared less if I was the centre of attention of everybody or nobody. I didn’t seek this notoriety. I would have given everything to be walking with Maris, just another couple, as we had done every Sunday for years. Some of these people scurried away to their cars as if to avoid me. I did not mind. I didn’t care much if they spoke to me or not. They would have been coming to terms with the shock and not expect to see me. They would have been uncomfortable, unsure what to say. Many people avoid speaking of death, regardless of the cause, but when it comes to suicide they are reluctant to say anything.

Some approached me. They did not say much but showed their support and were open to my emotions. They looked into my eyes and knew how I felt. Father Brendan made the announcement. I felt the tears roll down my cheeks. I don’t recall much more of the Mass. A young boy made his First Communion, but I was in too much haze. As I went to Communion I was acutely aware that Maris was not with me. The kids went with me. I thank God for my family.

Outside after Mass, people were incredulous. They could not believe Maris suffered from depression and was so deeply troubled. ‘Perhaps she was pushed,’ said one lady. ‘I just can’t imagine Maris taking her own life. It must have been an accident.’

We had visitors that afternoon. They came with casseroles and cakes, and soon the freezer was full — good practical help for a family in crisis. Over many cups of tea I retold the story of the last few days. I needed to tell it. To many of the people Maris had delivered a casserole herself. Visitors told us how she had supported them. I heard many stories that afternoon of Maris’ kindness. People asked if Maris had left a note. We hadn’t found any.

The phone rang again. ‘You can collect the Nissan Pulsar,’ said the policeman on the other end of the line.

‘Where is it?’ I asked.

‘It was on the top floor of the car park. It’s at the station now. We’ve put your wife’s handbag back in the car.’

‘I’ll go and get Mum’s car,’ volunteered Tim. When he returned he handed me Maris’ bag. It contained about $100 in cash, all her credit cards, and her driving licence. Two Chatswood Chase car park receipts told their story after she drove down the lane at 9.00 am. One was stamped 09.19, the other 09.57. Instead of going to Terrey Hills, she had driven to Chatswood, entered the car park, come out and returned. What was she thinking when she left the car park? Where did she go? What was going through her mind when she returned? The ambulance was called at 10.10 am so she wasted no time once she found the car park roof. What was she thinking in her last moments?

In bed that night, like all nights, I automatically picked up my book. It happened to be Elizabeth Jolley’s The Well. Underneath was a card, the Fathers’ Day card which Maris had given me in September. How did it get there beside my bed? Was it there all the time and I hadn’t noticed? Or did Maris put it there as a farewell message? I threw The Well aside and read the card over and over. A flood of emotions brought on the tears, the sadness, the love, the regrets, the guilt.