In Jeopardy (13 page)

This was a remote fantasy that she knows is no longer possible. Richard’s betrayal and abandonment of her has left her damaged. In the cramped space of her temporary residence she drinks herself to sleep. Rather than seizing every opportunity to spend time with Julian she has avoided him on account of the shame and hurt that she feels. She is surprised that Julian hasn’t lost patience with her and written her off as a lost cause. Instead, he’s kept in touch, showing her kindness to the point that it’s insulting.

His face tightens. ‘As difficult as your situation is, you need to take stock.’ He pauses. ‘What I am about to say is likely to hurt. Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately?’

‘I have avoided it.’
Who want your burnt out mid-thirties self staring back at you?

He shakes his head without realising ‘Afraid to see what you’ve become, how this situation has worn you down?’

Since being plucked from a pampered existence I am grappling to find my bearings.
‘What else am I to do?’

‘You really have no idea do you?’

‘Am I missing something?’

‘The situation you have created stinks of self-sabotage. It drives me to distraction.’

‘Don’t you think you’re being a bit melodramatic?’

‘You think so?’

‘Seriously – you’re sounding like an advice column I’d expect to read in a women’s glossy.’

He doesn’t answer and she shuts her eyes. She regrets that last comment and realises that this isn’t Richard she’s dealing with. ‘I didn’t mean that – honestly – I didn’t mean to sound that rude.’

‘I’m not accusing or criticising you. What I do realise is that my concern is misplaced. You don’t want my help.’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘It’s what you meant though.’

A gap of silence ensues.

‘I extended my stay in Australia partly to support you. If I’m of no use to you and you prefer to avoid me I’ll return to London.’

‘Please don’t leave – at least not yet.’

He looks directly at her. She wears a tight expression. ‘You worry me Christine.’

He prefaces his revelation with an apology before launching into a blunt assessment of her. ‘Your hair is stringy, dull and thinning – I suspect from falling out and pulling out strands without realising.’ He stumbles through the following commentary. ‘Your face is pale and pinched; your eyes bloodshot
and sunken. Look at your hands, they’re wrinkled and blue. Judging by the state of your nails it looks like you’ve been feasting on them.’

She suspects he realises that she drinks but is too polite to include that in his summary. She has avoided the mirror but loose clothing shows her that she has lost weight. She tells herself that extra shifts, the frenetic pace of the hospital ward and failing to take adequate meal breaks are hazards of life and a result of her changed circumstances.

His words strike her as cruel; reminding her that she is weak. She attempts to speak, utters a soundless gasp before tears break from her eyes. Ashamed, she drops her head for a painfully long stretch, unable to face her brother and burst of emotion.

Julian stretches a hand over Christine’s and squeezes it. ‘I don’t want to see you wither away. I want to help you out of this mess.’

Christine looks up and blinks at the blurred figure in front of her.

‘No need for words. I have been where are now. I’ll tell you a story.’

Christine listens without interruption.

My hospital stay was brief. I returned home, but struggled to remain mobile, resulting from a broken leg, wrist and dislocated shoulder. Cracked ribs and bruises were healing. It hurt to cough or sneeze, sending shooting pains through my chest. Bloody London weather rendered me vulnerable to sudden pain and aching numbness. I was unable to work for some time largely because assignments and briefs require travel. As my physical mobility returned I remained confined to the local high street and the rehabilitation program set out by the hospital. In the early days I attended treatment almost daily.

It was winter in London. The long nights were often ruptured by smashing glass, shouting and flames. Grey days reflected my state of mind. I hated every slow moment, trapped in a damaged body. I woke wishing to die. Some days I drifted into sleep hours after light drained from the mid-afternoon skies. Just as often I would wake up in a sweat, trapped in the sheets, on the floor after reliving the riot over and over again.

In daylight the nightmare hovered over my life. Since that fateful event I still rely on sleeping tablets. I wasn’t their target or an obvious enemy of the rioters. I had been on their side, I’d spoken out against their disadvantage; defended them only to have them beat the shit out of me. I still berate myself, curse my own stupidity. Had I been fooled into believing these people had a cause worth fighting for?

The medical staff reassured me that my recovery was remarkable. Days following my release from intensive care were blurred and the medication only managed to dull the pain. I woke up to an aching body. I slept in a drugged, bruised and battered state. When mobility returned to my body after being in a frozen state it surrendered to pain. Raw agony was aggravated by any movement making my recovery seem to slide backwards.

Fortunately, I didn’t endure this ordeal alone. Lucy was an entrenched fixture at the hospital. She refused to leave me to the mercy of medical staff. I didn’t want to subject her to the broken mess I’d become; I didn’t want my crisis to become hers. She insisted on visiting every second day, often bringing her six year old son Troy, after collecting him from after-school care.

As I recovered I was able to dress and have a meal with them at the hospital cafeteria. However, Lucy’s commitment to me and my situation rested uneasily. I wondered whether I could repay her kindness. More disturbing, I never imagined I would be dependent on another person, or how it might feel to be alone, helpless, and of no use.

One afternoon Lucy appeared at the hospital; her hair was messed up. She complained about the aberrant weather, despaired about her appearance. I commented on her smudged mascara, windswept and rain-spattered hair and how actually, she looked stunning. She shot me a look that smouldered followed by that buttoned-up tight expression you see on Diana’s face. The dishevelled, messed up look on short dark hair suited Lucy. She looked impish and you’d be forgiven for mistaking her for a rebellious teenager.

She walked to the window, avoiding further eye contact, pulled a mirror from her handbag, held it up to the light and vigorously ran a comb through her hair. The mirror shifted and threw me a reflection of myself. This was the first time I came face-to-face with myself following the riot, days before I was to be discharged.

I couldn’t leave the hospital looking like this. I wanted the earth to open up and suck me into it. I wanted to dissolve and be forgotten as if I’d never existed. I knew my hair had been shaved off, though it was growing back. I had a scar running diagonally down my face. I often ran a hand along the dry peeling scratches and cuts and noted that they slowly atrophied and shrunk.

Knowing this didn’t prepare me for the face that looked back at me; it was sour and pale. The scar was nastier and ran deeper than I believed. My eyes were sunken and appeared larger on a thin
face. Even more confronting was that my once long mane of hair had disappeared. I was a foreigner, a prisoner from a holocaust camp.

I snapped at her, ‘And you’re worried about a few stray hairs.’

Lucy dropped the comb in fright, turned and before she was able to respond, I barked, ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Tell you what?’

‘That I am a fright beyond recognition. Why, why did it have to come as such a shock? Why has everyone in this f—king place lied? The same lies.
You’re looking better today, your colour is returning. You look brighter today.
Why all this pretence? You colluded with them didn’t you? Why didn’t you cut through the crap and tell me the truth?
’

Following my volley of angry words the room was filled with a stunned silence. Lucy looked at me in disbelief. I was suddenly overcome by tiredness and it became an effort for me to speak.

‘What am I to say? Would you rather I leave – now – today – and not return?’

Her words struck me as a threat. I snapped back to reality. A multitude of thoughts flashed through my mind. I had offended her, was dismissive of her kindness and showed myself ungrateful for the sacrifices she made. She had dragged Troy, a small boy, to this depressing place. She didn’t complain, nor did the boy. They fought their way along crowded streets under wintery English skies.

Instead of retreating in horror when she first encountered my altered state, Lucy wore a cheerful face and had obviously primed Troy to be brave. He was his mother’s son and hadn’t, as Lucy feared, taken on his father’s wild traits. I recoiled at my selfishness. Had I trashed a friend’s priceless loyalty and generosity? I thought:
what a prick of a thing to do.

I was shaken, firstly by how the injuries had dropped me down to earth, forcing me to rely on others; then by what the accident had done to my appearance. I resigned myself to accepting Lucy’s
kindness and the commitment she made to me with grace and gratitude. Not only would rejecting it bring on more suffering, I risked losing a rare friendship.

‘That’s some story.’

‘It’s all true – there’s no fiction in this tale.’

‘Is this why the Antipodes project has been your first since the accident?’

‘I couldn’t work for months before this project. The riot I was caught up in became the epiphany that forced me to reassess how much my work distracted and defined me. Lucy and Troy threw me a lifeline and I was slow to pick up that they not only made sacrifices on my behalf but that they valued my friendship. Up to this point, I lived in a vacuum, disconnected from the world around me. I was absorbed in the projects I undertook. They were adventures that too often cut me off from life and dear friends.

‘My situation runs parallel with yours. Warning bells sounded loud and clear forcing me to take stock of my situation, rather than living in an abstract and colourless reality.’

‘No need to elaborate on your relationship with Richard before the painful and final breakdown. When you left him and engaged legal advice, no doubt you must have hoped that despite him abandoning you that the relationship could be patched up. This dream is fraught with danger and will lead you down a blind alley.’

‘My life was in limbo as my sanity stood on a cliff’s edge. The past was a clutter of experiences, events and relationships; seemingly unreal and belonging to someone else. The present appeared to be an empty void; it seemed that my future would fill up with nothing of value. I was staring into a dark hole. My waking life was hell; weightless, empty and in free fall. Sooner or later you, as I was forced to, must deal with your circumstances.’

Christine breaks in. ‘Instead of just remaining buried in my work I suffocated in a well of alcohol. This is how I dealt with Richard, his cynicism and patronising comments; to blot out his nastiness. The bottle was my refuge from him. Alcohol dulled the raw pain of his insults. I would collapse into a painless sleep, wake later, still buried under the covers to the sound of a voice. Richard’s cursing becoming a distant angry blur.’

‘Step one: pack yourself out of the hospital. Step two: reassess your work commitments. No more extra shifts.’

Christine had anchored herself to the hospital and the apartment that became her refuge. And surprisingly, rather than surrounding herself with home comforts reflecting the luxury she was used to, she packed her belonging into two suitcases. I arranged two adjoining rooms at the hotel, booking them for the next week while we looked for somewhere for my sister to rent.

The following morning when we meet in the hotel dining area for breakfast she appears flat and sullen. I avoid sounding too cheerful. ‘You haven’t been working too hard have you?’

‘The charge nurse’s recovery hasn’t gone to plan. She’s off for another month.’

‘That doesn’t mean you need to burden yourself by taking on extra shifts.’

Her face looks strained. ‘Unfortunately, I can’t avoid double shifts over the next month as we have a new intake of student nurses. To add to my misery I have the complication of finding somewhere more permanent to live.’

‘You’re the charge nurse now. Can’t you arrange agency staff to cover some shifts? I implore you Christine – you have to scale back your workload.’

She picks at her breakfast. A worried and distracted look is etched on her face.

‘Aren’t you hungry?’

‘Sorry – I must have been lost in my own thoughts. Did you say something?’

‘You have to make finding somewhere to live your priority.’

‘It’s a daunting prospect and one I utterly dread.’

‘Again, I remind you you’re not alone. I will help you with the mission.’

‘The very thought scares me. Do you have any idea how long I’ve lived in a protected state?’

‘It’s not the impression I have of your former existence. Didn’t you tell me your estranged husband is a brute?’

‘It’s the grand and spacious home I’m talking about.’

‘We will find you something, but not so grand.’

We scan the street directory marking locations to search for a place for Christine to rent. She drives to a number of real estate agents in middle-class suburbs looking for a place similar to the one she shared with Richard. She despairs; sees nothing she would even contemplate living in.

She is rostered on a late afternoon shift. At the hotel I insist she has something to eat before she leaves for work.

She checks her watch. ‘That time already.’

She rushes off with a vague promise to grab a bite at the hospital.

She returns to the hotel in the early hours of the morning. I hear her open the fridge in the adjoining room, slam it shut, followed by hushed cursing. I refrain from checking up on her.

When I return from a walk in the park I hear the kettle in Christine’s room boiling. I knock, but there’s no answer. I knock again. As the door opens she is hidden from view. In a quiet voice and flat tone she invites me in.