When Grace Went Away Page 7

  ‘What’s your accommodation like? How far is it to the office?’

  ‘It’s nice, small but functional. Newish. Must be costing the bank a small fortune. There’s a park over the road. I’ll email photos. The tube is less than a kilometre away. Sue said the total commute is roughly thirty minutes, including the walk at each end. As long as I can get coffee on the way I’ll be happy. And you haven’t said how you are, Mum.’

  Grace heard her mother clear her throat. ‘I’m all right,’ she said. ‘Missing you, but I’m keeping busy, and I feel well.’

  ‘I hope I’ve done the right thing.’ Grace let out a pent-up breath. ‘I feel so far away. If anything happens …’

  ‘Nothing’s going to happen, Grace. And if it does, we’ll deal. You’ll feel more like yourself after another good night’s sleep. This time next week it’ll be like you’ve lived there forever.’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose you’re right,’ she said. ‘I’d better go and get in the shower. Give Nanna a kiss from me, but don’t you catch her cold.’

  Grace reluctantly severed the connection with home, hoping her mother was right and sleep would cure what was ailing her.

  Before showering, she made more tea and booted up her laptop to check the news and markets, gently easing herself back into the rhythm of work.

  Grant flew to Dubai at the end of that first week and Grace was too busy to notice he’d gone. They hadn’t talked a lot before he left and she assumed he’d be flying on to Sydney when he’d finished his business in the United Arab Emirates. With that thought came a pang of loss. It had been reassuring to have a familiar face around those first few days.

  The job was already gobbling her up. The sun rose after five and so did she. There were meetings, and more meetings; chunks of time spent familiarising herself with the portfolios she was responsible for; lunches and drinks with colleagues and clients.

  The days were lengthening as the northern hemisphere summer approached, but it was always dark by the time Grace let herself into the apartment. Dinner was usually a takeout shovelled in while she worked at her desk.

  Two weeks in, Grace desperately needed an evening at home and an early night. The makeup she applied in the mornings was going on thicker but not getting close to concealing the shadows under her eyes. She needed more sleep. So she packed up her desk early, ignoring the stares of several colleagues, and was trudging to the tube station well before sundown for the first time. Not that she would see the sun set in the concrete jungle, but the evening was mild, the light golden.

  Dinner was a stir-fry: everything in the packet, including the spices, and all she had to do was throw it in a pan and cook it. It was the first time Grace had used the small cooktop; the first time she’d had a meal besides breakfast at home – and a glass of wine, a Clare Valley shiraz she’d found in the Tesco off-licence not far from the tube station. It was a night of firsts, and a night where she gave herself time to sit back. Of course her thoughts drifted to home.

  Pensive, and bordering on maudlin after a second glass of wine, Grace sat staring at her phone. It was too early to ring her mother. She’d still be in bed, hopefully fast asleep. Maybe Tim would be up. Wouldn’t he be surprised to hear from his sister?

  The phone beeped with an incoming message. Someone was up. Grace’s mood lightened as she read the text.

  How’s it going? Thought after two weeks of endless concrete you might need a country sunrise. A x

  Attached was a photo of an unassuming Miners Ridge sunrise, the soft golds and pastels melting away the night. She tapped out a reply.

  Hi A. How did you know I was hankering for a country sunrise? Thanks. What are you doing up at five-thirty? G x

  A reply bounced back in seconds.

  I’m often up this early. Best time of the day. About to go for a run. You sleep well. X

  Grace easily imagined how the autumn morning would be where he was. The air would be bitingly cold, fresh, clean. And it wasn’t much of a stretch to imagine Aaron in running gear, powerful legs pumping—

  Whoa, she thought, fanning herself with a magazine. He was her brother’s friend, and around the same age as Tim—six years younger than her. Seventeen thousand kilometres wasn’t the only thing that separated them.

  Just as she was debating about a hot shower followed by bed, the intercom buzzed. She picked it up and the security guard said, ‘Ms Fairley, there’s a gentleman here to see you. A Mr Grant Hughes.’

  Oh, crap, Grace mouthed, then said, ‘Okay, yes, I know him. He can come up.’

  Once upon a time when Grant came calling she would have rushed to change out of her yoga pants and T-shirt into something more attractive; combed her hair, spritzed on perfume and slicked on lipstick. Tonight she didn’t give her comfortable attire a second thought.

  She rinsed her wineglass, then filled the electric kettle and turned it on. Set out two mugs. There was a knock on the door. She peered through the peephole and then unlocked the door.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she said, standing back to let him through.

  ‘Well, hello to you too,’ Grant said. He walked into the sitting room and turned to face her, hands on hips. ‘This is when you say how pleased you are to see me, how happy you are that I’m back.’ He scratched his head, not looking happy when she made no move to respond.

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you?’

  Grace turned her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Tea? I have English Breakfast or Russian Caravan.’

  He zeroed in on the upturned wineglass on the sink. ‘What about a glass of whatever you’ve been drinking?’

  ‘One glass, Grant. I have a team meeting in the morning at eight, and I left work unfashionably early so I could catch up on sleep.’

  ‘This is comfortable,’ he said, looking around the apartment. ‘Bigger than I remember.’ Slipping off his jacket he draped it over the back of a chair before flopping onto the sofa.

  Grace filled a wineglass for him and made tea for herself. There was nowhere else comfortable to sit but on the sofa beside him. She put the drinks on the coffee table.

  ‘Not bad,’ he said after taking a sip. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘How was Dubai?’

  ‘Hot. Busy. Nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there.

  ‘I assumed you went there to work.’

  ‘I did. It’s always full on, meeting after meeting, and a couple of the senior staff …’ His mouth turned down and he wiggled his free hand from side to side.

  He looked tired, his eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot. Grace felt a moment’s remorse for being so unwelcoming. ‘Have you eaten?’ she said.

  ‘Yeah, on the plane, thanks.’ He tilted his head back and closed his eyes.

  ‘I thought you’d be home in Sydney by now.’

  ‘I didn’t say that. You assumed.’

  She had. She tucked up her feet, warming her hands on the mug of tea.

  ‘Richard said you’re settling in nicely.’ Grant spoke without opening his eyes. Richard Simms was one of the other senior analysts. ‘What are your thoughts so far?’

  Grace exhaled slowly. ‘Early days, but it’s all going well from where I sit. Sue is efficient, and the team seems competent.’

  Grant opened his eyes and turned to look at her. ‘But?’

  She eyed him warily. ‘There are no buts,’ she said.

  ‘You forget how well I know you, Grace, and you’re not your usual bubbly self.’

  She contemplated her tea, knowing he was right. It was as if the excitement and anticipation of the move had been the best part. Now she was here, and home and everyone she loved so very far away.

  When she thought about the actual physical distance, and the logistics of getting home in a hurry if she needed to, her heart sped up and her mouth went dry.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she fibbed. ‘Don’t think I’m over the jet lag yet. In hindsight I should have taken a day to recover before I started work. I’m not as youn
g as I used to be.’

  Grace’s phone buzzed, the sound muffled. She searched for the phone under the magazines and other paraphernalia on the coffee table.

  ‘Found it,’ Grant said, pulling it out from between the sofa cushions. He unapologetically read the screen. ‘Who’s Aaron?’

  ‘Excuse me,’ Grace said, reaching for the phone. ‘Someone from home.’ She put the phone facedown on the coffee table, dismayed when heat suffused her cheeks.

  ‘I thought you said you weren’t involved with anyone.’

  ‘I’m not. He’s a mate of my brother’s.’

  ‘Then why is he messaging you? And why are you blushing?’

  ‘God knows,’ Grace mumbled, pushing herself to her feet. ‘It’s getting late, Grant, and you look exhausted.’

  ‘You’re right,’ he said, draining his wineglass, watching her over the rim. He stood up, grabbing his jacket and slipping it on. ‘Thanks for the drink.’

  ‘Where are you staying?’

  ‘At the same hotel as I was before.’

  Grace followed him to the door.

  He turned. ‘But I’ll have to find somewhere more permanent because Richard’s taking time off, and they’ve asked me to stay and fill in for him.’ His expression was inscrutable.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘How long is he away for?’

  ‘His wife’s sick, so it’s a bit open-ended. They’re not sure how she’ll respond to the treatment.’

  ‘And you’re okay with that? Filling in for Richard? It’s a bit of a demotion I would have thought.’

  ‘It’ll be good being back on the shop floor, so to speak.’ Wistfully, he touched her cheek with his fingertips. ‘I am very okay with it. Are you?’

  She blinked. ‘I suppose so.’ What else could she say? She hadn’t had time to fully process the information yet. It would mean they’d work together again.

  Grant leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Goodnight, Grace, and I’ll see you at the office in the morning.’

  ‘Yeah, goodnight,’ she said.

  He left and she closed the door after him. Standing motionless in the cramped entrance foyer, a square metre of space with room for an umbrella stand and nothing else, Grace did a brief inventory of her feelings. Ambivalent was number one on the list.

  Grant claimed he knew her. Maybe he did, and she knew him just as well and she’d swear he’d been angling for more than a peck on the cheek. If she’d been more enthusiastic with her welcome maybe they would have been snuggling up between the sheets in her queen-size bed by now.

  Grace massaged her temples, annoyed with herself for even imagining that. And what was that about him having to look for somewhere more permanent to live? Surely he wasn’t thinking she’d let him move in with her?

  Wandering back into the sitting room, she picked up her phone. Aaron had sent another photo, this time of the sunrise from the town lookout. Before she could think better of it, she flicked back an irritated message:

  Why are you messaging me?

  He could type faster than her if the speed of his reply was anything to go by.

  Because I can.

  But I’m here and you’re there.

  That matters, because?

  Flummoxed, Grace paced up and down in front of the sofa, staring at the phone. How should she respond? Then the screen lit up with another message from him:

  Tim talks about you and it’s as if I knew you before we met. I like you, and thought news from home might interest you, but say the word and I’ll stop messaging.

  She yawned, plopped down on the sofa and reread the message. He liked her. Had a man ever told her that before? She’d slept with Grant for a year and he’d never once said that he liked her. Or loved her. Or wouldn’t go back to his wife because of her.

  Sorry. Tired and grumpy. Loved the photos. G x

  Okay. Goodnight. A x

  Grace scrolled through their conversation for the third time. The photos were beautiful. She remembered sunrises like that from her visits to the farm. She rinsed Grant’s glass and her mug and put them in the dishwasher, and set out the morning’s breakfast things. Then she cleaned her teeth and went to bed, having the best sleep she’d had since she’d touched down.

  10

  Sarah

  When I settled my hands next to my Mum’s, I couldn’t help but compare them. Hers were frail and leached of colour, a web of veins visible beneath the sun-damaged skin.

  If I made it to ninety, mine would be a facsimile of hers. Our hands were the same size, with the same shaped fingernails and our joints thickened with arthritis. We even had sunspots in similar places.

  Mum had loved the outdoors, loved her garden, and had never heard of sunscreen. I loved the outdoors and my gardens, and years of diligently applied sunscreen hadn’t made much difference.

  Now, watching Mum’s stertorous breathing, I realised that what had started as a common cold had rapidly developed into a chest infection, and would most likely be the end for her. Mum had been made vulnerable by age and chronic illnesses, and she was dying.

  Intertwining my fingers with hers, my heart sank even further when there wasn’t a flicker of response, her hand lifeless in mine. My head might have accepted the inevitable, but my heart wouldn’t.

  Kate, my elder sister and only sibling, was characteristically absent. I’d told her the situation was serious and still she couldn’t decide whether or not to fly from Perth to visit her mother. Our last conversation had been tense.

  ‘Leave it much longer and you’ll be coming for the funeral,’ I’d said, and Kate had ummed and ahed and promised to let me know. I hadn’t heard from her in twenty-four hours.

  The doctor had suggested antibiotics and I’d initially agreed, if Mum would swallow them. She wouldn’t, and now she couldn’t. Mum and I had talked a long time ago, before dementia, and before advanced directives and the likes, and I knew that when the time came she wouldn’t want her life prolonged by unnecessary treatment.

  Was this that time? My gut, and many years of nursing experience, screamed yes. The inert, frigid hand in mine was testament to my instinct.

  A carer appeared in the doorway. ‘Is everything okay?’ she said. Her familiar round, freckled face was flushed, wispy white-blonde hair stuck to a sweaty forehead.

  ‘Can you please help me turn Mum, if you have time? She’s been on her back for hours now.’

  The carer glanced over her shoulder, and then back at Mum. ‘I don’t know where everyone else is,’ she said, sounding harassed.

  It hadn’t been so long that I couldn’t remember what it was like to have too much to do and not enough hands to do it. The staff knew I’d once been a nurse and I understood their unspoken expectations.

  Knowing how understaffed they were I tried to do as much for Mum as I could, but now I needed help. I was exhausted and emotionally drained and my despair must have been apparent. The carer came into the room, and the corners of her eyes crinkled.

  ‘I guess I can help you now, love,’ she said, and we set about washing Mum’s face and hands and back, changing the bottom sheet and settling her onto her side.

  And Mum let us, with only a guttural moan when we turned her.

  ‘Her skin is so dry,’ I said, massaging rose-scented body lotion into her arms and hands. The carer paused in her task of wiping out the sponge bowl.

  ‘Has she been drinking much?’

  I shook my head. ‘Nothing since this morning, and that was only a couple of sips before she started coughing.’

  The catheter bag dangled from the side of the bed, almost empty. I put down the moisturiser and, as if reading my mind, the carer raised the head of the bed. I filled the plastic feeding cup with water and replaced the lid.

  ‘Mum,’ I said, touching the cup’s spout to Mum’s lips, gently pushing it between them. ‘Here’s a drink of water for you.’

  Her eyelids fluttered and I swear her lips tightened against the intrusion. When I tilted the cup the water drib
bled down her chin and onto the towelling feeder.

  ‘She doesn’t want it.’ The carer acknowledged this with a nod.

  ‘Why don’t you go home, have dinner and get a decent night’s sleep? You know the RN will ring if there’s any change.’

  She was right. There was nothing I could do here, except be here. I was worn out, and the worst was yet to come.

  ‘All right,’ I said, carefully placing the feeding cup on the bedside cupboard. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow. Pass on to the morning staff that I’ll tend to her personal needs when I get here.’

  She gave my shoulder a squeeze and she was gone.

  Collecting up my belongings, I packed the novel, unread magazine, uneaten apple and empty water bottle into my basket.

  ‘Mum, I’m going home now,’ I said, hovering over the bed, willing her to open her eyes and look at me and say, ‘All right, Sarah my love, I’ll see you when I see you,’ just like she used to.

  But of course she didn’t. Grief lodged like a lump in my chest. My lips brushed the papery skin on her cheek. Perhaps tomorrow I’d ask the doctors about a subcutaneous narcotic infusion to gently ease Mum out of this life, mitigating her pain, and mine.

  Though the walk to the car park wasn’t far, it seemed to take forever. With each step I reminded myself that in reality I’d farewelled the gentle, loving woman who was my mother some time ago. It had been a slow and heart-wrenching parting, the final goodbye came when she no longer recognised me as her daughter. Since then I’d visited and cared for the living, breathing husk that had once had been my mother.

  Unlike others I’d nursed, who’d fought and bitten and railed against their demise, Mum had accepted her fate, quietly turning in on herself, incrementally losing touch with the world and the people around her.

  Walking past the rose garden that bordered the manicured lawns adjacent to the car park, I gave thanks for Grace. Well, Grace’s money really, because without her generosity Mum’s final days would have been spent in much less comfortable surroundings.

  Self-reproach always followed my appreciation. Grace shouldn’t have to help pay her own mother’s and her grandmother’s way in the world. Not to the extent that she had.