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On Thursday afternoon, Claire pulled into the hospital car park and turned the engine off. She laid her head on her arm across the steering wheel to try and gather the strength she needed to chatter to Jack for the next hour or so. She wondered if Bill and Daphne were inside. She hoped so.
A few weeks ago she’d started encouraging them to stay when she arrived, instead of scurrying off as had been their habit. It wasn’t fair for them to drive all that way and leave again if Claire happened to be visiting. And they weren’t expected to know when that was – Claire just came and went when she had the time.
Often now, the three of them would sit there together as if they were family. They sort of were – Claire had known them her whole life. Bill would sit beside Jack’s bed reading the paper to him and Claire would sit beside Daphne as she chattered about the goings-on at the CWA or the Hospital Auxiliary while knitting. Claire was amazed that Daphne could knit a jumper without a pattern. It wasn’t just plain either – it had all sorts of fancy stitches and twisted cables going down the front and back.
‘Only the sleeves to go now,’ Daphne had said the other day upon Claire’s enquiry. Claire had expected the constant click, click of knitting needles to be irritating – part of the reason she hadn’t insisted they stay early on. But instead, she found the sound strangely soothing.
Claire was startled to find a doctor, stethoscope strung around his shoulders, nose pressed against the window, peering at her full of concern. She must have dozed off in the fading sun. She sat up, rubbed her eyes, mouthed that she was okay, removed the keys and got out.
Her steps were leaden as she made her way across the car park. As she stared vaguely at the asphalt passing beneath her, she remembered the images that had flashed into her head while she’d dozed.
Paycheque had been screaming, rearing, lashing out, and was eventually manhandled to the ground by a small crowd of men. The images of the panic-stricken young horse – eyes alight with fear and hatred – refused to leave her.
Claire sat down in the visitors’ area for a few moments. Her heart was working overtime and her legs were having trouble carrying her. I’ll finish the week and then take the next two off, she decided. Almost instantly she was rewarded with enough strength to get up and make her way down the long, dark hall to Jack’s room. It was empty other than Jack in his bed.
Fifteen minutes later, Claire had run out of topics for conversation. Every time she’d drawn breath or changed tack, thoughts of Paycheque would start taunting her. If only Jack would wake up, she’d confess. He’d know what to do. Claire closed her eyes for a few moments to ponder how she would spend her time off – other than at the hospital. She’d sleep most of the first two days and then she’d visit Bernadette. And look for Paycheque? Maybe. Just to satisfy her curiosity and no more. It was really none of her business. Someone else owned him now.
‘Dad, I’ve decided to take a couple of weeks off. Just hang around, visit Bernie, catch up on some reading. I’ll be able to visit you during the day – you won’t be so tired then.’ Tired! What was she saying? He’s asleep, I’m the one who’s tired.
‘Actually Dad, my boss asked me to take a look at a couple of his horses. Derek Anderson – I think you’ll remember the name – he’s an owner, not a trainer. Anyway, he wanted me to go interstate with him to see them race. Of course I couldn’t go while you’re here like this. Not that I’d be much help anyhow – probably been out of the game too long. But I thought maybe I’d go to a couple of race meetings while I’m on leave – see if I’ve still got any sort of eye. Might be fun.’
Claire had her hand over Jack’s and was studying his face, as she usually did, for the slightest sign he was waking up. Even though she wasn’t really expecting him to – she’d been doing this too long to still be getting her hopes up at the end of every sentence – it had become a habit to stare at him while she spoke. And part of Claire thought that if anything would get him over the line it was talk of horses.
‘Apparently his youngsters are giving his trainer grief. Speaking of which, Paycheque was at Morphettville the other week. He was in a bit of trouble. Apparently Al Jacobs was really piss –’
Claire shut her mouth suddenly. She had become so used to rambling about her bland life that hadn’t realised what she was saying. Shit! Jack would take the news even worse than she had.
Claire bit her lip and looked away. And as she did she noticed the slightest ripple under her hand. She looked back. Were his fingers more bent than two seconds before? Despite looking at her father’s hand the whole time, Claire had no idea how it had been lying. Damn it, she should remember.
She rubbed a hand across her face. Why now, of all times, was her memory failing her? She again picked up her father’s weather-beaten hand and slid her smooth, soft one underneath.
And then there it was, the slightest contraction and scrape of his thick dry fingertips on the top of hers. Claire’s mouth dropped open and she stared. He had actually moved! She was not mistaken. She wanted to shout for joy, grab his shoulders, shake him fully awake. She knew it might just be the muscles readjusting themselves with no consciousness involved. The doctors and nurses had told her over and over.
Claire’s gaze travelled up Jack’s arm to his face. It was a little contorted, as though he were trying to change the position of his mouth. Was she imagining it? She leant forward and put a hand on his chest.
‘It’s okay, Dad, take your time.’ His eyeballs rolled under his closed lids, and it was then that Claire noticed two tears making their way from the inside corner of his eyes. They became a glistening line, caught in his lashes.
Claire’s heart leapt. Tears filled her own eyes and before she could reach for a tissue, there was a hot wet line streaking down her face.
‘Oh Dad,’ she croaked, and clutched his hand tightly. A couple of tears had sprung through his lashes and were slowly running down his cheeks as well. Her heart lurched again. Claire had never seen her father cry before and didn’t know how to react. Part of her wanted to be happy he was coming around, but another part didn’t want him to be anguished, didn’t want to be the cause of it either. She watched the two rows of tears in a slow motion race down his face, trying to will her own to stop, and for the lump to dissolve and let her speak. Though what was there to say?
Should she get a nurse? Probably. But she couldn’t leave him, she might miss something. And without her there, he might give up, slip back to sleep. If she pressed the buzzer they’d all rush in for an emergency, shatter the peace, maybe give him a fright and halt his progress.
Claire could hear the metallic twang of the electric clock above the door. The seconds seemed to pass as slowly as minutes. Should she get a doctor? What if he couldn’t breathe, choked, and then died? No, she was being ridiculous, paranoid. Get a grip, she told herself. He’s fine. He’s just been asleep and is waking up.
She squeezed his hand harder. Shit, was it too hard? His face was contorting. Was it pain? Claire watched, transfixed, as her father’s lips pursed and then turned in on themselves. He was trying to speak. She found her own mouth copying him. What was he trying to say? Claire wished she could do it for him. What?! She wanted to shout. Just spit it out! She rocked forward in her chair, urging him on, holding her breath. God, she was so frustrated. She wanted to slam her fist into a wall or something – do anything but watch this man who so recently was strong, smart, full of dry wit, and now couldn’t even get his tongue around one word. If only she knew what that word was. She checked his lips that now seemed fused in their pursed position, and tried to work through the possibilities in her head.
Suddenly his lips parted and there was a little pop as some air escaped. ‘P,’ he’d said. ‘P’. Claire frantically searched her memory, her mind whirling like the spinning wheels of a car bogged to the axles. Her mother’s name had been Grace, so that hadn’t been it. Claire couldn’t bear it if he’d lost his memory as well, especially having to break the news again that his wife was dead. It was going to be bad enough confessing what had happened to his horses.
The anguish showed in her father’s face. Claire wanted to tell him not to bother, to try again later, not to strain himself. That it didn’t matter. But it did matter. What the hell was he trying to say?
And then he was sinking deeper into his pillows, as if giving up. Claire sank right along with him. She wanted to grab him, drag him up, do anything to stop him going back to that state.
Suddenly his eyes opened and he leaned forward ever so slightly. He was staring straight ahead, eyes vacant. Claire barely had a chance to react before his mouth opened and the word ‘Paycheque’ escaped with a cough. He slumped back, eyes closed again. His lips and face relaxed. To Claire it happened in slow motion. He looked just as he had ten minutes before, before she’d mentioned the horse. She frantically patted his arm.
‘No, wake up,’ she whispered. Her heart began racing as she tried to process what had gone on. Her head whirled. ‘Jesus, no!’ Her shaking hand reached for the red knob on the wall and she pressed, then pressed a few more times for good measure.
A dishevelled nurse arrived panting in the doorway, paused briefly to assess the situation before striding over to Jack’s bed where she reset the button.
‘Has something happened?’ she asked.
Claire wanted to slap her, yell at her to do something. Do something to stop her father dying.
But now she was the one who couldn’t form her words. ‘I, um. He…’ But it didn’t matter; the nurse was busy checking Jack’s pulse, his eyes. And then she was looking from Jack to Claire and back again.
‘Is he…?’
‘Sorry, no. There’s no change.’
No, you don’t understand. Finally Claire’s mouth was working. There was a change, he woke up, spoke. But Claire didn’t say any of it. She was now wondering if she’d imagined it.
The nurse was looking a little exasperated.
‘He woke up. He spoke,’ Claire said.
The nurse smiled at her with sympathy, patted Claire’s arm and said, ‘Maybe you should go home, get some rest. There’s nothing you can do here – we’re taking good care of your father.’
But you’re not, Claire wanted to yell. You just check him every so often. She stared at the nurse, frowning.
‘It’s all right, sometimes when we want something so badly…’
‘I didn’t make it up.’ This time she had spoken. It was obviously a fraction of what he would have experienced, but Claire now thought she could understand the frustration Dr Burrows had felt.
‘Please keep your voice down,’ the young nurse pleaded quietly.
What would she know anyway? She looked like just a kid, was probably barely out of university. Claire felt like slapping some life experience into her.
‘I think you really should go. Visiting hours are ending soon anyway.’
Claire took a deep breath, gave Jack’s limp hand another squeeze, leant forward to kiss his forehead and got up. She flashed the nurse an icy glare and stalked out.
Still fuming as she marched across the car park, she thought of what might have happened if he’d woken to see what all the commotion was about. That would have shut the smarmy kid up. Except there would have been nothing more humiliating than her father coming out of his coma to tell his thirty-something daughter off.
Claire sat for a few moments, collecting her thoughts and letting her emotions subside. Had she really dreamed he woke up, the tears? No, she hadn’t been asleep. Imagined it, then? Anything was possible in the state she was in. Claire sighed wearily. She was beginning to lose all perspective.
Chapter Six
The next morning Claire bounded into work full of purpose and energy, her leave form already filled out and awaiting Derek’s signature. If she got all her work done, she might even take the last few hours off – get an early start to her break.
After dumping her handbag and laptop, Claire made her way down the corridor to Derek’s plush corner office. He had his back to the door, and was hunched over something on his desk. Something about his tight, uneasy posture – one hand holding the side of his head in contemplation – stopped Claire at the open door. Her eyes darted across his desk, which was scattered with papers. To his left was a takeaway cardboard coffee cup, the remains of cappuccino froth lining its upper edge, and a half-eaten toasted sandwich lying on a white paper bag. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Claire shook the uneasy feeling free, she was just being paranoid. She knocked tentatively on the frosted glass sliding door.
Derek looked up and turned in his chair, startled. His face was clouded in confusion for a split second before reddening. It was as though he’d been caught stuffing company stationery into his briefcase.
He glanced down at a small pile of business-sized envelopes in front of him before roughly shoving them out of sight under some papers. Definitely caught doing personal business on company time, Claire thought smugly.
‘Claire, please,’ he said, sweeping an arm toward a vacant chair.
‘Thanks.’ Claire went in and sat down at the small round low table, part of the new ‘touchy feely’ concept in working environments at Rockford.
‘Did you enjoy your time off? Successful week away with the gee-gees?’
‘Um, yes, not bad. Something I can help you with, Claire? I’m rather snowed under…’
Claire was annoyed. It was all right for him to stand at her desk fiddling with her bits and pieces, but now when the tables were turned she was getting the royal hurry on. Bloody typical.
But she wasn’t going to let it get to her – she was on the cusp of two glorious weeks away. Nothing could ruin that now, not even Derek and his double standards. Claire smiled sweetly at him, got up, flapped her leave form theatrically and laid it on the desk in front of him.
‘What’s this?’
‘Leave form, Derek.’
‘Yes, I can see that, but you said…’ He ran a hand through his hair.
‘I decided you were absolutely right – I need a break. So as of this afternoon, if you agree, of course, you’re rid of me for two whole weeks.’
‘Great,’ Derek groaned, and closed his eyes.
‘I’m touched by your concern, Derek, but don’t worry, I’ll be back before you know it.’
‘What a mess,’ he murmured, barely audible.
‘I don’t know what your problem is, it was your idea.’
‘This,’ he said, reaching over to the small pile of envelopes he’d hidden moments before. He removed the top one and handed it to her.
Claire stared at her full name in bold black type: ‘Claire McIntyre’.
‘What’s this? Party invite?’ she laughed. She looked back up at Derek, whose face was now an ashy shade of salmon. His lips were in a grim line. He nodded to the envelope in her hands and she looked back down at it: the words ‘Private and Confidential’ were in large uppercase print and underlined twice, at the top left. How could she have missed it? Claire had seen similar envelopes before, but had never been handed one with her own name on it. She knew what it was but just couldn’t seem to grasp it.
‘What is it?’ she asked, brow knitted in genuine confusion.
‘You’d better open it,’ Derek said with a sigh.
Claire knew if she did her life would never be the same again, just like the night she’d opened the door to the police. She didn’t want to do it, didn’t want to know.
‘No, I don’t want to,’ Claire said, sounding almost child-like. Her hands were already beginning to sweat, her vision blurring.
‘Come on, you have to some time.’
No I don’t, Claire thought. What are you going to do? Hold me down, jack my eyelids open with toothpicks, have me arrested for not opening a letter?
‘It might not be so bad,’ Derek offered.
But Claire disagreed. In her experience, good news came in person or by phone and bad news came by mail. Except, she found herself correcting, when it came to really bad news – like the phone call about Jack’s accident. Or really really bad news – like the police knocking on her door at one o’clock in the morning to tell her that her husband was dead. There were exceptions to everything.
‘You can’t fire me, I haven’t had any warnings, and my performance…’
‘Claire, just open the damn envelope.’
He was right: she was just delaying the inevitable. There was no way it could be the worst news she’d received that year. Claire carefully prised the seal apart and pulled out the folded sheet of Rockford letterhead. She held her breath as she straightened it.
She sighed at seeing ‘Redundancy Offer’. Okay, she thought with relief, it’s an offer. She tried to scan the following text but her eyes refused to focus. After a few moments pretending to read, she passed the sheet across to Derek and sat back with arms folded.
‘Sorry, no deal.’
‘Claire, this is not a game – you don’t have a choice.’
‘Why not?’ Suddenly all Claire’s experience of middle management had left her and she was just like any other bewildered employee trying to hold on to her job.
‘Claire, you know why not.’ Derek was rubbing his face, clearly exasperated.
‘No, it says there “redundancy offer”. And I think you’ll find the dictionary meaning of “offer” is “to present for acceptance or rejection”.’
Derek blinked twice while he processed what she’d said, and then glared at her.
‘Don’t be a smart arse, Claire. It doesn’t suit you. And being difficult is really not going to help the situation.’
‘Difficult, Derek? I’ll be as difficult as I bloody well like. I’m about to lose my job, my final shred of security. Kick me while I’m down, why don’t you?’
‘I know and I’m sorry, I really am.’ Derek stared at his fingers in his lap.
‘Not sorry enough to stop this.’ She jabbed a finger at the piece of paper.
‘Please, Claire, don’t shoot the messenger,’ he said wearily.
‘You could have stopped this. I don’t know how, but you could have.’ Claire’s eyes flashed at him.
Derek looked back down at his desk. ‘Claire, for the record, I did actually try. If you’d been on leave like I suggested, you couldn’t have been made redundant.’
‘Oh, so it’s my fault now.’
‘And if you look at the figures, you’ll find the offer is well above…’
‘This is not about the money, Derek.’
‘Of course it is, Claire. It’s not personal. The new CEO is just making his mark by changing the organisational structure – it’s not about you.’
Claire shot him an indignant glare.
