After the Fall (15 page)

CRESSIDA
•

Emma went downhill all through December, withdrawing a little further from us each day. We tested each of her relatives but none matched; none even came close. Next we tried the bone-marrow registry, but there was no joy there either, at least within Australia. I completed the paperwork for the larger international registries and sent it off with Emma’s condition listed as critical. After that all we could do was wait. Such a search usually takes between six and twelve months, but Emma didn’t have that kind of time. What sort of God makes us so unique it can kill us? Couldn’t there have been more margin for error?

A third round of chemotherapy brought a temporary remission, though only a short one. As Emma faded so did her parents, their faces growing more pallid with each passing day. The nurses moved her into a bigger room and placed a mattress on the floor so her mother could remain with the girl around the clock. But I never saw her sleep, no matter what the shift. Instead, she was invariably bending over her daughter, whispering to her or smoothing her hair, Shura clinging to her legs or tangled in a fitful doze beneath the bed. The father visited whenever he could, his workdays growing shorter as Emma declined. Toward the end he gave it up altogether and moved into the ward with the rest of his family. Each day, as soon as I got to the hospital, I’d open letters and check my e-mail, praying that a donor had been found. Then I’d make my way to Emma’s room, where their waiting faces would turn to me like plants following the sunshine, desperate for the news that never came. Hope slowly leached out of their eyes and was replaced by fear.

When I was little I looked forward to Christmas all year long. It wasn’t even the presents, but the novelty of my father being home for a full day, not just popping in for an hour or two between rounds and his own private practice. Since becoming a doctor myself, though, I’ve found the occasion depressing. I’ve worked too many shifts on Christmas Day, where the only thing that distinguishes it from any other is cold turkey and a paper hat in the hospital cafeteria. I’ve witnessed too much grief exacerbated by the supposed joy of the season, seen too many children lying inert and stuffed with tubes when they should have been unwrapping gifts or tying tea towels around their heads for the end-of-year nativity play.

My premonition was right, though it took three years to come true. Emma passed away in the early hours of Christmas Eve, not even having the strength to hold on for the visit from Santa she’d been so anticipating. I wasn’t there at the time, though the staff nurse called me at home. For the first time ever I’d been granted leave, five whole days to spend with Luke and our families. I’d planned to sleep in, but when I glanced at the clock it wasn’t even six.

“That was the hospital,” I told Luke, returning briefly to our bed for warmth after taking the call.

“I figured,” he grumbled, turning over as I tried to burrow into his arms.

“Emma died. The one I told you about, with ALL.” My voice cracked as I spoke, tears spilling down my face, seeping into my ears like slugs. “I’ll have to go in.”

“God, Cress, you’re meant to be on leave,” said Luke, extending an arm in a belligerent approximation of comfort.

“I know, but she was my patient. I should be there for the parents, at least.” The bed felt chilly, and I shrugged off the covers and got up.

Luke settled back to sleep, with one final comment: “Well, at least it happened today. There’s no way I would have let you leave on Christmas morning.”

I slammed the door on my way out of the house.

The words irritated me for the rest of the day.
Forget it
, a part of me said;
he was half-asleep, disoriented; he didn’t know what he was saying. And if he did he was just worried about you working too much, wanting you to be able to enjoy a rare holiday without something like this
. Such reasoning worked for a while, but then I’d get angry again. He didn’t give a damn that she died, only that it was inconvenient. He didn’t understand how deeply I was feeling this grief.

But why
was
it affecting me so much? I’d had patients die before, scores of them, children just as appealing and brave and deserving of life. I’d shed tears for some, but never like this. All that Christmas Eve whenever I wasn’t angry I was crying. I cried with Emma’s parents and with poor dazed Shura and with the nurses who had cared for the girl. I cried as I made my last entry in her history and completed the death certificate, then cried some more in a locked toilet in the staff bathroom. Emma had been my first patient in the oncology unit, the first time I’d experienced my strange second sight, the first child whom I had admitted already knowing whether she’d live or die. Even so, my reaction felt out of proportion. Was it because I’d dared to hope, discharged her three years ago with everything pointing to a full recovery? Or was I just worn-out after becoming entangled in her long, slow fall toward death?

I bumped into a consultant as I emerged from the bathroom, red-eyed and sniffing. It was Dr. Whyte, the one who had agreed to let me take Emma on when she’d relapsed and returned to the unit only three short months ago.

“Oh, Cressida,” he said, ignoring my disheveled state, “I’ve been meaning to speak to you. Do you have a minute?”

He must have heard about Emma, though that wasn’t what he wanted to discuss. I was ushered into his tiny office, textbooks concealing three of the four walls, diplomas papering the last.

“I’ve got something I thought you might be interested in,” he said, scrabbling among a drift of papers on his desk, then transferring the search to an adjacent filing cabinet. Finally the document was located.

“Here we go. The Stevenson Fellowships.” He read from a dog-eared brochure. “‘For research and study in the United States. Funded for two years in the applicant’s choice of field. Recognizing clinical excellence,’ et cetera, et cetera, and so on.” He looked up to make sure I was listening. “The department thought we might nominate you, if you were interested. We’d hold your post here, of course.”

I didn’t respond. I’d thought about working overseas before—anyone who was serious about her career did. The best jobs, the longest tenures, inevitably went to those who had proved their worth in the wider world, far from the academic bell jar of Australia. But I’d always put off such a decision, comfortable where I was, unwilling to disturb my life. Dr. Whyte took my silence for reluctance.

“They’re very prestigious, you know,” he advised. “Something like that on your résumé would take you a long way. Of course, there’s no guarantee you’d be successful, but we thought you were our best shot.”

He smiled and I felt my own mouth lift for the first time that day. Suddenly the idea appealed. What was I so afraid of leaving? Luke and I were married. He’d come with me, find it easy enough to get a job in the country that practically invented advertising. Maybe his own firm could relocate him? I was sure they had offices somewhere in the States. My mind raced. It might do us good to start afresh with just each other.

“Anyway, have a think about it,” Dr. Whyte was saying. “Applications close in May, so there’s plenty of time yet. But you do need to come up with a proposal, some sort of research project that will convince them to spend the money on you. We can meet again in January and talk about it.”

I took the brochure and shook his hand, then left the hospital. Outside it was nearly Christmas.

CARY
•

Kate insisted on staying for drinks at her work on Christmas Eve, so we didn’t get away until late. I don’t really know why she was so keen. It was a long drive to where my parents lived and we’d already attended her department’s Christmas dinner only a few days before, but I figured the extra time would give me a chance to pack the car, water the plants, install the timer switches—tasks that were unlikely to have even crossed Kate’s mind.

When I got to the museum at our prearranged meeting time of eight o’clock Kate was waiting on the steps, more than a few sheets to the wind. The former surprised me; the latter didn’t. I’d half suspected I’d have to go in there myself and coax her out, but she climbed into the car readily enough. I leaned across to kiss her, her lips still tasting of wine.

“Did you have a good time? Do you want anything to eat? I made some sandwiches; they’re on the backseat. Just Vegemite—I didn’t want to leave anything in the fridge that might go off.”

“Cary, we’re only going away for a week,” she replied with mild exasperation, eyes closing as she settled back into the seat. “And I’m not hungry. Not for sandwiches. How about some McDonald’s? A hamburger, or some french fries, just cooked and dripping with oil.”

I grimaced. “Not in my car. We’ll smell it for days. And we’re already late enough. I’ll stop in Ballarat if you’re still craving junk food then.”

Kate didn’t answer. She’d fallen asleep.

Years ago, the drive from home to town had seemed to take forever, a daylong odyssey of golden paddocks and solitary gum trees cycling endlessly like the background in a TV cartoon. We lived just outside Horsham in the Wimmera, a wheat-growing district three or four hours north of the city. Age and new highways had condensed the journey. I’d learned there were more distant places, though it never seemed so when I was growing up. Back then, Melbourne was another country, as foreign and exotic as Paris.

Now I was going back for perhaps only the fifth or sixth time in the two decades since I’d left. There had never really been much of a need. Mom and Dad visited Melbourne frequently, and there was no one from school whom I’d stayed in contact with. Usually, when I thought of the area it was with a wash of ennui, of hours just aching to be filled, long, hot afternoons with no company save the heat waves crackling over the endless fields of wheat.

But as the car moved beyond the suburbs, then through the bigger country towns, I felt the stirrings of excitement. We slipped through Ballarat, then tiny Beaufort, the halfway point, and on past Stawell. The Grampians flickered briefly to my left, bulky as a liner against the undulating oceans of grain. Bogong moths as big as finches fluttered against the windshield, and every so often my headlights picked out the eyes of some night creature crouching amid the stringy trees on the edge of the road. Kate slumbered on, her head against the window, face flushed and childlike. Seeing her like that I felt protective, almost paternal, and very much in love. Things had shifted subtly between us in the last month, but there were lots of reasons for that: the time of year, my being away at conferences, her own increased workload. Then, too, there had been the question of children. To be honest, I had dreamed about crowning Christmas Day by telling my parents that Kate was expecting, knowing that they were anticipating such an event almost as keenly as I was. It hadn’t happened yet, but I had reason to hope. Just last week I had arrived home early and come across Kate in the bathroom, sobbing her eyes out. When I asked her what the matter was she had hesitated, then hidden her face in her hands and hiccuped that it was that time of the month. I’d consoled her, of course, but secretly I was elated. If she cared that much she must want it too.

Kate finally stirred as we inched through Horsham, deserted by all except the most determined revelers. It was five to twelve; we’d made good time.

“Hey,” she said stretching. “You never stopped at McDonald’s.”

The smile that followed was provocative and cheeky and mine. I felt my heart contract in gratitude, and suddenly realized what I’d been looking forward to through all the miles behind us. Not going home so much as going there with Kate. Time just for us, with no distractions—time we’d been sorely lacking in the last six months. Time to spend with Kate and Mom and Dad, the only people in the world I loved. I felt my foot go down on the accelerator. Beside me, Kate hummed a carol and threw an arm around my shoulders even though I was driving.

LUKE
•

Though it was only a week I thought it would never pass. Christmas took care of one day; then we spent another couple at home bumping uneasily against each other in the unfamiliar togetherness. The days were long and hot and quiet, our friends away on holiday, the suburbs deserted. It was almost a relief when Cress went back to work.

For years I’d nagged her to take some leave, and when she finally did what happened? All I could think about was Kate. Cress may have been my wife but she was suddenly a distraction, a nuisance, something I had to attend to when all I wanted was space to fantasize. Everything Cress and I had previously enjoyed together—walking a neighbor’s dog in the local park, going out for breakfast—became a trial, tedious and inconsequential. I snapped at her once or twice and I know she felt the change in me. There were tears late one night and I ended up making love to her apologetically, relieved that I still found her desirable enough to at least get some pleasure from that.

I didn’t like the person I’d become; nor was I proud of what I was doing. I tried to talk about it to Tim on a rare occasion when he wasn’t trotting at Joan’s heels, but that was no use.

“Don’t worry about it,” he’d advised, suddenly the expert on relationships. “You’re just readjusting to each other. When was the last time you spent more than a day together?”

I had to think. Cress usually ended up working at least one shift each weekend, and half the time when she was home I had arrangements for golf or to go to a football game. When it came, the answer wasn’t reassuring.

“Easter last year,” I’d told him. “But we weren’t alone—we went away with Cary and Kate.”

“Ah, yes. You haven’t seen them for a while, have you?” Tim was almost smirking. Since going out with Joan he’d become far too confident.

“Well, thanks for your help, mate,” I’d said, turning as if to go.

“Hang on, Luke. I was only kidding. Sorry—I thought that was long forgotten.”

“It is, but that wasn’t what we were talking about.” I’d toyed with the idea of telling Tim—to unburden myself, and for the rich guilty pleasure of Kate’s name on my lips. But now as we spoke I realized just what a pipe dream that was. Tim would never recover from the shock, the defilement of his moral boundaries.

“You’re just out of practice with the whole togetherness thing. Go on a vacation. Take up a hobby that you both enjoy.”

I guessed that the advice was sensible, though I didn’t see how any amount of ballroom dancing or wine tasting was going to put things right. Still Tim trickled on.

“Join a gym together, or buy a beach house—something that gives you a focus. How long have you been married?”

“Coming up to two years.”

“There you go then. Plan some romantic getaway; fly her to King Island or Uluru; take a balloon trip over the Barossa. Make it something memorable, just for the two of you.”

Despite everything I had to laugh.

“Balloons? King Island? This from the man who thought Lorne was the height of vacation excitement only a few short months ago.”

Tim flushed and conceded my point.

“Yeah, you’re right, but things change. You meet someone and everything’s new. Nothing’s ever the same again.”

I couldn’t have agreed more, though I kept the thought to myself.

Two weeks before I’d agonized over what to get Cress and Kate for Christmas. There’s an old joke about a man who buys a cookbook for his wife and a negligee for his mistress. Somehow, though, the two parcels get mixed up and he fears that all will be lost. But on the contrary, both women are delighted: the wife thrilled to be viewed in a sexual manner after years of domestic tedium, the mistress overjoyed that her lover considers her as more than just a body. I imagined the scenario as I trudged my way through Myer and David Jones. Should I look for lingerie for Cress, reassure her that despite all the hiccups of the past few months I still loved and wanted her? I thought I did, but a leopard-print G-string didn’t seem the right way to express that.

As I left the department store I had a sudden nauseating vision of Cary presenting Kate with the same thing. I assumed that they must have sex. They were married; there was no reason not to. And if she didn’t he’d no doubt become suspicious, so it was in my interests that she kept him happy as well. But why should I even imagine that she didn’t? Kate was a sexual woman; she’d have no trouble sleeping with both of us. Stupidly I found myself trying to remember her underwear. There was a purple set I’d seen her in once or twice, albeit briefly. The color was remarkable, regal and whorish all at once. Not something Cress would wear, though it would suit her too. Was it a gift from Cary? Had he gone into a shop, knowing her measurements, familiar with the weight of her breasts in his palms and anticipating exactly how she would look when she tried them on? I found myself suddenly sweating and angry and with no justification for either.

Cress solved one problem by suggesting we buy a barbecue as a joint gift to each other. She’d already picked out the model. I was grateful to be let off so easily and in my relief bought a tiny bottle of her favorite scent so she had something to unwrap on Christmas morning. Kate’s gift was proving more difficult. She never wore perfume, claiming that clean skin was a more appealing fragrance. She barely wore jewelry either, or makeup, and I could hardly buy her clothes. Maybe it would have to be a cookbook after all.

I gave her the present on Christmas Eve. We had just two short hours together, having skipped out of our respective office parties to meet under the Moreton Bay fig in the botanic gardens. Dusk was falling, a humid twilight with the sun hanging heavy and crimson above the horizon. There was the prediction of a scorcher for Christmas Day.

“What’s this?” Kate asked, looking delighted and abashed all at once as I handed her the package.

“Open it and find out,” I replied rather predictably, enjoying her excitement.

She tugged at the wrapping, shredding tissue paper and tape. Inside was an unlabeled CD, the silver disk blinking up like the eye of some great landed fish.

“I made it,” I explained. “It’s all the songs I hear you humming, plus the ones that remind me of you.” I hurried on, suddenly scared she would think I was cheap or presumptuous. “I’ve left it anonymous, just for us to know about. Play it in your car or put it on your iPod for when we’re apart.”

Kate was quiet for a moment, turning it over in her hands, not meeting my gaze. When she did look up her eyes were wet.

“Thank you,” she said simply. “That’s the most beautiful thing that anyone’s ever done for me.”

She moved into my arms and we kissed, deeply and at length, passion joined for the first time by something stronger. When we broke apart Kate was smiling.

“I didn’t bring anything for you, but I’ve just had an idea. Close your eyes.”

I did as I was told, leaning forward with my head in my hands. Kate busied herself behind me, quietly crooning the melody from one of the songs I had recorded. After five minutes she announced she was ready.

“Turn around,” she commanded, lifting my fingers away from my eyes. Carved into the trunk of the Moreton Bay fig in front of me was a small heart, its outline sharp in the desecrated wood. Inside it were our initials, stacked neatly one above the other like a child’s blocks.

KH

LS

The gesture was pure Kate: impulsive, heartfelt and probably illegal. Instinctively I glanced around to make sure we hadn’t been spotted. The tree was well over a hundred years old. I’d read somewhere that it was thought to have been planted by a descendant of the First Fleet, yet Kate had defaced it without a second’s thought. The gesture moved and awed me.

“Do you like it?” asked Kate, sitting back on her heels and reattaching a tiny Swiss army knife to her keys. Its red casing winked once between her fingers like blood.

“Like it? I’m overwhelmed,” I replied truthfully, flattered but a little uneasy.

“Don’t worry. It will grow over in time. Soon no one will know it was there.” She regarded me coolly, as if daring me to express relief. I felt it, but kept my counsel and kissed her insouciant mouth instead. What the hell. There was more at stake than a tree.