“I'm not,” she'd say. “Just — exasperated.”
“Oh, well,” he'd say. “That's all right then.”
What tormented her was the certainty she felt of his nursing some secret — a lost love perhaps, an old grief — that he could not share. Which was there in the distance he moved into; there in the room, in the bed beside her; and might, she thought, have the shape on occasion of that ukulele tune, and which she came to feel as a second presence between them.
It was this distance in him that others were drawn to. She saw that clearly now. A horizon in him that you believed you alone could reach. You couldn't. Maybe no one could. After a time it put most people off; they cut their losses and let him go. But that was not her way. If she let him go, it would destroy her. She knew that because she knew herself.
There was a gleam in him that on occasion shone right through his skin, the white skin of his breast below the burn-line his singlet left. She could not bear it. She battered at him.
“Hey, hey,” he'd say, holding her off.
He had no idea what people were after. What she was after. What she saw in him.
For all the dire predictions among the clan, the doubts and amused speculations, they lasted; two people who, to the puzzlement of others, remained passionately absorbed in one another. Then one day she got a call at work. He had had a fall and was concussed again. Then in a coma, on a life-support system, and for four days and nights she was constantly at his side.
For part of that time she sat in a low chair and tuned her ear to a distant tinkling, as a breeze reached her, from far off over the edge of the world, and rolled a spent light bulb this way and that on a glass tabletop. She watched, fascinated. Hour after hour, in shaded sunlight and then in the blue of a hospital night lamp, the fragile sphere rolled, and she heard, in the depths of his skull, a clink of icebergs, and found herself sitting, half frozen, in a numbed landscape with not even a memory now of smell or taste or of any sense at all; only what she caught of that small sound, of something broken in a hermetic globe. To reach it, she told herself, I will have to smash the glass. And what then? Will the sound swell and fill me or will it stop altogether?
Meanwhile she listened. It demanded all her attention. It was a matter of life and death. When she could no longer hear it—
At other times she walked. Taking deep breaths of the hot air that swirled around her, she walked, howling, through the streets. Barefoot. And the breaths she took were to feed her howling. Each outpouring of sound emptied her lungs so completely that she feared she might simply rise up and float. But the weight of her bones, of the flesh that covered them, of the waste in her bowels, and her tears, kept her anchored — as did the invisible threads that tied her body to his, immobile under the crisp white sheet, its head swathed in bandages, and the wires connecting him to his other watcher, the dial-faced machine. It was his name she was howling. Mitch, she called. Sometimes Skip. At other times, since he did not respond to either of these, that other, earlier name he had gone by. Bobby, Bobby Kohler. She saw him, from where she was standing under the drooping leaves of a eucalypt at the edge of a track, running round the far side of an oval, but he was too deeply intent on his body, on his breathing, on the swing of his arms, the pumping of his thighs, to hear her.
Bobby, she called. Skip, she called. Mitch. He did not respond. And she wondered if there was another name he might respond to that she had never heard. She tried to guess what it might be, certain now that if she found it, and called, he would wake. She found herself once leaning over him with her hands on his shoulders, prepared — was she mad? — to shake it out of him.
And once, in a moment of full wakefulness, she began to sing, very softly, in a high far voice, the tune he played on the ukulele. She had no words for it. Watching him, she thought he stirred. The slightest movement of his fingers. A creasing of the brow. Had she imagined it?
On another occasion, on the third or fourth day, she woke to find she had finally emerged from herself, and wondered — in the other order of time she now moved in — how many years had passed. She was older, heavier, her hair was grey, and this older, greyer self was seated across from her wearing the same intent, puzzled look that she too must be wearing. Then the figure smiled.
No, she thought, if that is me, I've become another woman altogether. Is that what time does to us?
It was the night they came and turned off the machine. His next of kin, his mother, had given permission.
TWO DAYS LATER,red-eyed from sleeplessness and bouts of uncontrollable weeping, she drove to Castle Hill for the funeral.
His mother had rung. She reminded Jo in a kindly voice that they had spoken before. Yes, Jo thought, like this. On the phone, briefly When she had called once or twice at an odd hour and asked him to come urgently, she needed him, and at holiday times when he went dutifully and visited, and on his birthday. “Yes,” Jo said. “In June.” No, his mother told her, at the hospital. Jo was surprised. She had no memory of this. But when they met she recognised the woman. They had spoken. Across his hospital bed, though she still had no memory of what had passed between them. She felt ashamed. Grief, she felt, had made her wild; she still looked wild. Fearful now of appearing to lay claim to the occasion, she drew back and tried to stay calm.
The woman, Mitch's mother, was very calm, as if she had behind her a lifetime's practise of preserving herself against an excess of grief. But she was not ungiving.
“I know how fond Bobby was of you,” she told Jo softly. “You must come and see me. Not today. Ring me later in the week. I can't have anyone at the house today. You'll understand why.”
Jo thought she understood but must have looked puzzled.
“Josh,” she said. “I've got Josh home.” And Jo realised that the man standing so oddly close, but turned slightly away from them, was actually with the woman.
“I can't have him for more than a day or so at a time,” the woman was saying. “He doesn't mean to be a trouble, and he'd never do me any harm, but he's so strong — I can't handle him. He's like a five-year-old. But a forty-year-old man has a lot of strength in his lungs.” She said this almost with humour. She reached out and squeezed the man's hand. He turned, and then Jo saw.
Large-framed and heavy-looking — hulking was the word that came to her — everything that in Mitch had been well-knit and easy was in him merely loose. His hands hung without occupation at the end of his arms, the features in the long large face seemed unfocused, unintegrated. Only with Mitch in mind could you catch, in the full mouth, the heavy jaw and brow, a possibility that had somehow failed to emerge, or been maimed or blunted. The sense she had of sliding likeness and unlikeness was alarming. She gave a cry.
“Oh,” the woman said. “I thought you knew. I thought he'd told you.”
Jo recovered, shook her head, and just at that moment the clergyman came forward, nodded to Mitch's mother, and they moved away to the open grave.
They were a small crowd. Most of them she knew. They were the members of the clan. The others, she guessed from their more formal clothes, must be relatives or family friends.
The service was grim. She steeled herself to stay calm. She had no wish to attract notice, to be singled out because she and Mitch had been — had been what? What had they been? She wanted to stand and be shrouded in her grief. To remain hidden. To have her grief, and him, all to herself as she had had him all to herself at least sometimes, many times, when he was alive.