The only suggestion Greg had given to ease the abdominal swelling was gentle massage. Limited arm movement made it impossible to perform the task myself. Understandably, there weren’t many volunteers. To my astonishment Lydia stepped forward and offered her services. Twice daily she instructed me to lie on the couch while she rubbed almond oil on my belly. Her willingness to overlook my gruesome wounds, her tender dedication, was overwhelming. I’d never have been so physically intimate with my own mother. Lydia cooked meals, brought cups of tea and took over the running of the household.
Whenever I asked about her time in Sri Lanka, her gaze drifted sideways. Her descriptions were vague. She’d meditated a lot, often more than twelve hours a day. (‘How do you sit still that long?’ I asked. ‘Oh, sometimes I’d get up and do walking meditations,’ she replied.) There had been outings with the monk, blessing a few bits and pieces, and taking part in ceremonies.
I still couldn’t get a feel for the place and why it held such magnetism for her. The more I probed, the less willing she was to talk. Nevertheless, I was so overjoyed to have her home I didn’t want to do or say anything to make her uneasy.
When I asked what had happened to Ned, she looked away and said they’d broken up. Another No Go area.
Assuming her father Steve had paid for her return fare to Melbourne – there was no other possible way she could have afforded the ticket home – I wrote him a fulsome card of thanks. For all the disagreements we’d had in the past it was heartening to know he understood the importance of family.
Soon after I posted the card, I dreamt Lydia’s monk was sitting in a pool of light at the end of our bed and laughing good-naturedly. With his maroon robes folded neatly around him and his bald head gleaming, he looked so amiable my animosity toward him faded temporarily. I wanted to thank him for the cave ceremony, but by the time I’d woken up properly the monk had disappeared.
It was the second outlandish visitation I’d had in a couple of months. Maybe it was just a matter of time before I’d be wandering down streets muttering to myself. There had to be some explanation for the visitations. The first one with Mum in the wellness retreat was probably due to caffeine withdrawal. And the monk to a hangover from hospital drugs.
Steve didn’t reply to the thank you note, but our relationship had never been straightforward.
Forbidden to vacuum, lift anything weighing more than a kilo, drive or pick things up off the floor, I struggled to adapt.
‘Don’t bend over like that!’ Lydia snapped as I stooped over to pick an envelope off the floor. Her tone was sharply maternal. The power dynamic had changed.
A patient is so called for good reason. In the early days after surgery, progress had been fast. In hospital I’d woken one morning suddenly able to creep to the loo. Once I was home, improvement slowed. Some days I even went backwards. A drive to Rob and Chantelle’s for pizza one night was surprisingly harrowing. I’d forgotten to wear the surgeon’s ‘corset’ that held the ghoulish grin of stitches in my abdomen together. It was a lovely evening but I was wrecked the following day. Then there was the night I spent bonding with Katharine watching Dr Who with a hot-water bottle on my stomach. I’d forgotten that a wide strip of flesh there had no feeling. In the morning it was bright red and accessorised with two large blisters.
Other times, I felt a lot better, like the day I asked Lydia to stop at the chemist and buy leg waxing strips. As if I needed to volunteer for more pain.
The delight of my sister Mary’s arrival was immeasurable. The dark brown curls of her girlhood were lighter these days, and tamed by regular visits to the hair salon. Having stayed in the town we grew up in, her outward style was conservative, but her perspective surprisingly broad. She’d raised three children with her husband Barry and continued to work as a substitute primary school teacher. Her pupils had grown up to be cops and car thieves, opera singers and opticians. There wasn’t much she hadn’t seen.
Some people deteriorate with each decade – and not just physically. Disappointment seeps into their bones and turns them bitter. Mary’s one of those rare beings who grow more beautiful every year without even trying. The tenderness in her hazel eyes had intensified with time. Since her bout with breast cancer, she’d accepted that while life’s not perfect, it’s still pretty wonderful. I watched her savour a shaft of light on water, or the blue of a hydrangea flower. She’d learnt how to live.
Unlike me and our brother Jim, Mary was always The Quiet One. You’d think a reserved person in a household of loudmouths would lack power, but it turned out the opposite. Whenever Mary ventured a well-considered opinion in her calm, steady voice, we always listened. Still do.
When she wrapped her arms around me I was the little sister again, protected in her embrace. Nothing could hurt me now. She smelt of home.
Mary’s easy-going presence in the house over the following days was medicine in itself. To the outside world we would’ve looked like two middle-aged matrons sifting through old photo albums together and drinking mugs of tea. Inside our heads we were the little girls we’d always been – Mary, wise and tactful; me, eager for her approval.
Every day I crept around the block, trying to walk a little further each time. Faced with steps to climb up or down I could almost hear my stitches screaming ‘Nooooooo!’ Hobbling back from a 500 metre marathon, we bumped into Patricia from down the street. When we’d first moved into Shirley, Patricia had introduced herself and said she wasn’t social and would prefer not being asked inside for cups of tea. Respecting her for that, I’d tried to stay out of her way. Fate had punished us both ever since, arranging for us to bump into each other constantly – at the supermarket; waiting for crossing lights to change. Trapped in another unplanned encounter, I asked how she was. Not too good, she said. She was having women’s problems.
I hoped she wouldn’t go on too long. My legs were getting wobbly. When she asked after my health, I hesitated. Telling her about the mastectomy could’ve been perceived as one-upman-ship, so I said, ‘Good.’
Patricia beamed at my sister and said, ‘She always looks well, doesn’t she?’ and trotted off down the street.
Sometimes Mary would say I was looking tired and excuse herself to catch a tram into town or go for walks. I sometimes worried she might need a higher standard of entertainment, but she assured me she was happy with her own company. On her last day with us she returned from an excursion with a twinkle in her eye.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘I don’t think I should say,’ she said smiling enigmatically at Lydia and me.
I recognised that expression from years back. The old ‘I know what you’re getting for Christmas’ smile.
‘Come on! Tell us!’
Lydia stopped rattling the dishes in the sink and put her head to one side.
‘Is it a secret?’ Lydia asked.
‘No,’ Mary replied. ‘Well yes, it should be. Oh all right. The only reason I’m going to tell you is you’ve sworn you’re never getting another cat.’
‘Of course I’m not getting another cat.’
‘Okay, then,’ Mary said, settling to her subject. ‘I’ve just seen the cutest Siamese kitten in a pet shop across town!’
My sister is in possession of what’s commonly known as a long fuse. She doesn’t get hugely annoyed or enthralled by anything much. When she does it’s for good reason. Her eyes were positively blazing.
‘What were you doing in a pet shop?’
‘I was just walking past and I saw him. Well, I think it’s a him. He’s really special!’
Another thing about Mary is she has an eye for quality. Her taste is restrained, and exceptionally good. Any kitten she considered even half cute would be off the scale of adorability by anyone’s standards.