Turn A Blind Eye Read online

  I decided to leave him alone for the rest of the day; I knew how he felt. A crushing defeat was the mind’s devil’s playground. The doubts you’ve ever harboured about your ability simmering back to the surface. Some players had an innate ability to quickly conquer those mind games, for others, it ended careers. Blake always had an uncanny ability to bounce back, certainly better than I ever could. I’d text him later in the evening and see if he was up for a beer. By then he’d make for better company. The reality of his big payday sinking in, the painful loss banished and already looking ahead to his next tournament. Of course, the location wouldn’t be anywhere near as grand as the National Tennis Centre. It very rarely was.

  ***

  With equal amounts of sunburn and regret, I retraced my steps from the morning and trudged back past the MCG and up the hill through the park. The boughs of the trees swayed in the gale force winds and offered a meagre amount of respite from the relentless heat. I bypassed Jolimont station, crossing instead to Bridge Road and caught the #48 tram. The #48 trundled east for a few kilometres away from the city centre before veering left at Church Street and making a beeline for Kew Junction. At the Junction, I transferred for the short jaunt west along Studley Park Road. My destination only two stops further along, but in the searing heat of the late afternoon, the ten-minute walk was more than I cared to contemplate.

  The Sisters of Mercy Hospice nestled into a quiet, leafy, cul-de-sac off Studley Park Road and backed onto the Yarra River Parklands. Built in the early 1950s, the one-story brick veneer building was owned and operated by the Catholic Archdiocese of Melbourne. Its 14 rooms catered to terminally ill patients with little or no means of support. The Archdiocese, in its grace, forgave all charges in the event of a shortfall from the State’s health insurance coverage, as well as taking care of all burial arrangements.

  And all patients admitted to the hospice were without any surviving relatives, except one. I knew all of this because my mother had been a patient for the past month, she – as an employee of the Archdiocese – had been granted a special waiver.

  The double glass doors opened with a pneumatic hiss and a blast of frigid air escaped to greet me. Inside, the low-ceilinged lobby was dark and the temperature refreshing. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the gloom.

  Hello, Craig. Glad to see you again. Your mother will be thrilled to see you.

  I smiled and waved to Mavis, the attendant manning the front desk, and wished her a good afternoon. She and Mother had been close friends for years and was one of the helpers to offer assistance at home before the burden of care became too great.

  My mother’s room was at the far end of the corridor branching off to the left. Seven rooms made up this wing. The other seven rooms were in the corridor directly behind the front desk of the L-shaped building.

  The low ceiling and walls were painted a dull yellow. Once brighter but now faded with time, much like the lives of the patients. Lingering in the air was the scent of antiseptic and human waste. I made my way down the hallway to Room 12, the rubberised padding under the linoleum absorbing the sound of my steps. Drifting from the rooms along the way were the soft beep-beeps of various machines, their muted tones providing a sombre soundtrack to the slow passing of life.

  Each time I visited, I tried to repress the nagging lyrics of an old Eagles song – you can check in, but you can never leave.

  Mum, for the moment, had the room to herself. A replacement for Mrs Gonsalves, who lost her battle to liver cancer ten days prior, had yet to check-in. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be long before someone filled the void.

  This wing, thankfully, was relatively quiet and serene, as the alternate wing housed the majority of the dementia cases. Mother’s anxiety level and blood pressure both became dangerously elevated when first placed there. She was quickly moved and been much happier ever since. Happier, being a relative term.

  I entered the room to find one of the aides attending to Mum.

  There you go, Mrs Walters. All comfy now? I’ll be back in a few hours to check on you.

  The young nurse’s aide, Judy, talked to my mother as if expecting a coherent answer. I appreciated her spirit, but Mum’s lucid days were now few and far between.

  At first, Mum’s symptoms progressed very slowly after the diagnosis, so slowly in fact that I dreamed remission possible. The instances of forgetfulness seemed to fade and, for almost a year, she showed no visible signs of the hell lurking over the horizon. By the second year, events abruptly sped up like an orbiting moon unable to repel the gravitational pull of the sun. I could no longer leave her alone for any great length of time. Hiding the car keys became necessary, thereby reducing her wanderlust to stolen jaunts around the neighbourhood on foot. Locking the doors only made her escape attempts more inventive. Mum’s friends from church began to pitch in so I could continue my studies, and again I was lulled into a false sense of security.

  By the third year, we were both drowning. A nurse’s aide visited three days a week and offered some respite, but her efforts only delayed the inevitable. Mum’s mind was slipping away, and we were powerless to stop it. Taking her prescribed pills left her catatonic, and when they wore off, she alternated between a childlike state – reliving the days of her youth – to wandering through the house in total silence. She’d pick up items and stare at them as if trying to recall a memory hidden just beyond her reach. It was gut-wrenching to see the look of total loss in her eyes. Between the cost of the aide and the numerous prescriptions insurance failed to cover, Mum’s meagre savings slowly disappeared. My grades were barely keeping me in school, and the darkness engulfing my mother extinguished any semblance of her former self. Two weeks before Christmas we surrendered to the inevitable.

  Mother’s room was just large enough for two hospital beds with a curtain dividing the room. To the side of each bed, stood a small end-table with three drawers. The meagre items I’d brought from home lay in the top draw. And her dresses hung in the built-in closet. Mother’s bed was the one closer to the window which looked out across the courtyard. The television mounted high on the opposite wall provided a tangible link to the outside world. On the opposite side of the bed from the nightstand stood various machines that, for now, lay silent. Not yet in use, but a portent of things to come.

  Mother was awake but in one her non-communicative moods. She stared listlessly in the direction of the television. It stared back, dark and silent. I could only wonder what she was feeling, thinking.

  Judy turned from my mother’s bedside and saw me standing in the doorway.

  Oh… Hello, Craig. I didn’t know you were standing there.

  I just arrived. How is she today?

  Well, come over and see. I’ve combed her hair and was showing her with the mirror her how delightful she looks. I think she’s pleased with it.

  Mum just stared up at me, eyes slow to adjust, struggling to focus. The medication she took helped most patients with their lucidity. With Mother, it produced the opposite effect. The pills slowed her movements, limited her speech, like a controlled drug-induced stupor. Her hair had become brittle, all body and lustre gone, and once sparkling blue eyes faded to a dull grey; as if her brain was sucking the life from her body, like a parasite, to enable it to survive.

  You’re too kind.

  Oh, it’s no trouble at all, your mother is so sweet.

  Judy was close to my age and of average height; coming up to my 190-centimetre frame’s chest. Her petite body was well-toned, not an athlete’s physique, more one used to toiling for long hours. Thick, dark brown hair, pulled back in a ponytail, extended slightly beyond her shoulders; her soulful eyes were of the same colour. When she walked her ponytail bounced with abandon belying her chaste appearance. She wore little to no make-up; her mouth slightly asymmetrical, turning up slightly on the left side. It gave her the appearance of knowing a sly secret but not willing to share.

  A loose strand of hair had broken free from beneath her matronly ca
p, she tucked it behind her ear and smiled as she left the room. Under the harsh fluorescent lighting, flecks of emerald green sparkled in her eyes.

  I’ll let you catch up with your mother. Let me know if you need anything.

  Thanks, Judy.

  I pulled a chair to Mother’s bedside, sat so that I was in her field of vision and recounted my day. For an hour and a half; I spoke of the weather, my morning run, the tennis, Blake’s match, other matches I watched, the train ride in, the tram ride to see her. Anything. Everything. All the while her eyes swam in and out of focus. I hoped she was absorbing my words but knew deep down it to be a lost cause.

  I’d spoken to my mother more in the past month than in the previous 20 years. Sharing mundane life events I’d always taken for granted, but now I so desperately needed her to hear. I talked to fill her of my life, of life outside her four walls. Outside the prison of her mind. I rambled on to keep her engaged, awake. And for myself, just hoping to grasp an elusive hint of recognition in her eyes.

  For when she dozed off each night and her eyes closed, I was never sure if they would ever open again. And if they did, who I would find behind them.

  So, I start my new job at the bank on Monday. Ever think I’d be a banker? No? Neither did I. Anyway; it’s just down the road from here in Toorak. So, you’re right on the way home for me to stop in each night after work. I still need to buy some new clothes this weekend, probably some ties, too. And getting that first cheque will be a nice feeling.

  Money which would be quickly consumed by bills. Our savings – I’d not yet kowtowed to saying my savings – were all but gone, but a steady stream of income would help plug the leak.

  Did I tell you Dayne was starting a new band? He’s still working at the Harvey Norman in Richmond, but…

  Mum, fighting sleep for the past 20 minutes, finally succumbed. I’d save the story of my friend, Dayne, for another time. I rose from the chair, kissed her on the forehead, and made my way from the room.

  Through the window by the side exit leading out to the courtyard, I noticed Judy sitting on one of the wrought-iron benches. Four such benches were strategically placed around the courtyard to face a towering golden elm. She noticed my passing and waved for me to join her. The wind had changed direction and dark clouds were gathering off to the west.

  She scooted over to make room.

  Your mum sleeping?

  Yeah, my scintillating conversation does it every time. I gather you’re on a break?

  I’m just taking a quick breather. I needed it after cleaning up old Mrs Baxter again.

  Mrs Baxter was one of the dementia patients on the wing opposite to Mother’s. Although tiny and frail, she was infamous for her vulgar language and for flinging faeces at anyone who came within striking distance.

  I swear if shot puts were sculpted from shit she’d be a shoe-in to make this year’s Olympic team.

  We both laughed at the horrible visual she’d stirred up.

  I don’t know how you do it. I mean, put up with all of this day after day.

  If not me, who? Anyone can get a job and just make money, but how many make a difference? How many people can say they preserve a little dignity for the dying?

  Judy paused and lifted her eyes to the branches of the elm. I followed her gaze and noticed two willie wagtails gazing down. A birdbath stood under the elm a few steps away from where we sat. They looked on nervously weighing the extent of their thirst against the dangers we posed.

  I’ll never be a doctor, maybe a nurse one day if I can scrape together the money for school. In the meantime, I do what I can. Besides, it’s not like the world needs another lawyer, or politician, or worse still, banker. Bloody useless the lot of them.

  Just as the last drop of blood drained from my face and my throat dried up, Judy turned in my direction.

  So, I’ve heard through the grapevine you’re starting a new job next week. What will you be doing?

  The willie wagtails were frolicking happily in the bird bath, so there went my only hope of water for my constricted throat.

  Umm… I’ve gotten a job with Southern Cross Bank & Trust.

  I wasn’t sure which one of us wanted to slide off the seat and hide underneath the most.

  Oh, Craig. I apologise. I didn’t mean you…

  I smiled. Perhaps the situation could be retrieved.

  Hey. Don’t worry about it. I never pictured myself as a banker either.

  I’m sure you’ll make a fine banker. Perhaps you can be an advocate for the little people. Redefine what people think of the profession.

  Think I can get that printed on my business card?

  Her laugh was infectious and soon also had me in fits. An exaggerated cough from behind turned our heads.

  Miss Graham. If you feel you’ve had enough of a break, there is work to be done.

  Sister Kathleen stood, arms folded under her ample bosom, breathing deeply, and with her mouth pursed like she’d just eaten something disagreeable.

  Yes, Sister Kathleen, I’ll be right there. Sorry, Craig. I’ve gotta go. Another time maybe?

  Of course, sorry for keeping you so long. I hope I didn’t get you into trouble.

  Judy was at the side of the Sister and back inside before I was able to finish the sentence. Another time? I found myself hoping so.

  The temperature had dropped appreciably in the past 15 minutes, and the familiar smell of ozone in the air spoke of a cool change and a welcome summer storm.

  Heavy drops of rain began to fall and dot the concrete path before quickly evaporating. They tumbled down sparsely at first, a brief warning, the deluge followed seconds later leaving me half drenched by the time I made it inside. I wondered, shamefully, how many of the patients with windows facing the courtyard even noticed.

  ***

  Good evening, Craig. Try and stay dry out there.

  The tall young man waved goodbye to Mavis as he left for the evening. She then turned her attention back to the portly gentleman in front of her.

  Mavis Morris had manned the front desk at the Sisters of Mercy Hospice for the past ten years and known Mrs Walters long before she’d become a patient. They’d met at St Ann’s Church in Bundoora and, together, worked with the Church in one capacity or another for close to 20 years.

  She whispered silently.

  Such a shame how his mother has deteriorated.

  Thinking about how quickly her long-time friend’s health declined saddened her; but glad hospice administration made an exception to its admittance policy. Mavis clucked her tongue and shook her head in despair.

  Such a shame. Now. What was it again you needed, Mr O’Neal?

  Garth O’Neal – Solicitor at law with the prestigious firm of Williams & Teacher – turned from the retreating figure of the young man and looked down upon Mavis as if eyeing a newfound stain on his trousers, wondering how it got there and how difficult it would be to remove. With all the energy and etiquette he could muster, he reined in his natural tendency towards condescension before replying.

  If it’s not too much trouble, could you check to see if the good Father has the paperwork ready for the new patients I was hoping to have received yesterday?

  Absolutely Mr O’Neal. Father Kelly has left for the evening, but he did leave me this envelope with your name on it. Would that be what you were after?

  Of course it is, you stupid old git. Is what he wanted to say. But with a weak smile managed instead.

  Why certainly, Mavis. Thank you so much.

  With a flourish, he whipped it from her grasp and strode towards the front doors before Mavis could say another word.

  Mavis stared at the back of the short, overweight, smarmy solicitor.

  And good evening to you, Mr Pain-in-the-bum O’Neal. Be careful the automatic door doesn’t close on your fat behind on the way out.

  Mavis looked around in shock praying nobody overheard. Not that anyone would have cared, but Mavis felt she had a reputation to uphold. She qui
ckly made the sign of the cross and returned to her crossword.

  ***

  Garth O’Neal sat in the front seat of his Range Rover attempting to bring his breathing under control. The 20-metre sprint through the rain from the front door of the hospice to his car was about 10 metres beyond his comfort zone. He thought, who I am kidding? No amount of exercise was within his comfort zone.

  Holding two fingers to the side of his soft neck, where a sizeable fold of loose skin overflowed the collar of his white Armani dress shirt, he measured the out of control thumping of his heart. Not to get a count, just to ensure it was still there. With his other hand, he loosened his tie, undid the collar’s top button and immediately felt the release of pent up pressure.

  His doctor recommended he lose some weight – a lot actually – to get some exercise and reduce the stress in his life. All in good time, he mused. The final stages to his personal marathon was in sight. A race ending with retirement and his remaining days spent relaxing in the shade on a secluded tropical beach, with a plentiful supply of alcohol and girls at the ready. The cost no consideration, for either.

  Two years previous, Garth lost his wife of 35 years to cancer. On that day, he lost both the love of his life and his moral compass. As they lowered her coffin into the grave carved from the unforgiving black soil, Garth lamented that all her years of temperance and holy living had, in the long run, all been for nought. Garth decided then and there he wasn’t going to make the same mistake. He just hoped not to be overtaken before his imaginary finish line by the coronary hot on his heels.