Authors: B L Hamilton
“Hello?” she said again–and waited. “Is anyone there…?
Hello…?” Nicola listened a moment longer but all she heard was dead air. She
shrugged and returned the hand set to the cradle.
Danny glanced over his shoulder. “No one there?”
Nicola shook her head. “It was probably just a wrong
number.”
“Probably,” Danny said as he wandered down to where a
comfortable looking sofa and chairs sat facing a wall of glass where the eye
was held captive by giant redwoods, bay laurels, tall oak trees, and wine-colored
maples. He stood with his hands in his pockets and listened to the wind
rustling through the trees and the faint tinkling of a piano. “I don’t see any
neighbors.”
Nicola came up beside him and pointed through the
trees at the bottom of the garden. “Oh, yes,” she said, “beyond those redwoods
in the back.” She stopped and listened to a ripple of notes that drifted up to
them. “That's Sam playing the piano. He’s a musician. His garden backs onto
mine but his house fronts the Dipsea steps.”
Nicola could feel the heat radiating from Danny’s body
as she chewed nervously on her bottom lip. “Can I get you something to eat or
drink?”
“Nothing to eat, thanks, but I sure could do with a
decent cup of coffee and a hot shower.” He looked over at Nicola and grinned.
“I need something to get my heart started again.”
*****
I stared at the screen and listened to the sound of my
sister’s restless tossing and turning from across the hall and debated whether
to go to her. But I knew there was nothing I could do to take away the fears
that constantly plagued her.
I felt the light touch of Ross's hand on my back.
He leaned down and whispered, “Come to bed, Bethany.”
I shut down the laptop, turned off the lamp and
slipped under the covers. Ross reached out and gathered me into his arms and as
I snuggled into the familiar strength of his body I felt the tears gather at
the back of my throat.
“It’s okay, babe, she’s strong,
she’ll come through it. Maybe a little battle scarred and worse for wear but
she’ll come through it.” Ross kissed the top of my head and held me close to
his heart.
SIX
As we walked through the door
Rosie looked around, smiling. “Hi everybody. How’s everyone doing today?” she
asked.
People looked up and
acknowledged our presence.
At the back of the room I could see the man who sat had
beside Linda yesterday and guessed the person behind the large magazine was
her.
My sister honed in on him like a heat-seeking missile.
The man saw the determined look on her face, grabbed his things and jumped up.
He looked around the room but the only vacant chair was squashed between a
large man and the refreshments cabinet.
“Hi Linda,” we both said in unison.
Linda stuck her head out from
behind the magazine, said a quick hi, and resumed reading.
Rosie handed me her bag and looked around for a place
to put the large parcel of fresh bones we had picked up for an elderly
neighbor’s dog.
She dropped the parcel onto Linda’s lap, said, “Would
you mind holding these for me?” and headed for the change room.
Linda stared at the package and noticed specks of
blood seeping through the white butcher’s paper. For a moment I thought she was
going to toss her cookies but she held onto them, even though she did turn a
little pale
.
Linda was obviously made of sterner stuff than I had given
her credit for.
“Don’t worry,
Linda, they’re just a couple of bones with bits of
gristle and meat on them. Did you know it’s really hard to get bones completely
clean unless you boil them for a couple of hours?” I offered this little piece
of miscellaneous information I’d picked up from watching CSI on the television
while I sorted through my bag looking for the packet of mints I was sure were
in there.
Linda jumped up so quickly the package fell to the
floor. She kicked the neatly wrapped package and sent it sliding across the
floor. It bounced off the wall, rolled backwards, and came to rest, partially
unraveled, under a chair.
“Ooh,” Linda howled and headed for the restroom.
It turns our Linda is not as strong as I’d thought. A
good solid kick would have sent the packages flying across the room, hit the
back wall and ricochet into the middle of the room.
As I shuffled through my bag searching for mints, my
sister did a catwalk twirl clutching the washed-out blue hospital gown that had
only one tie.
“Have you got my mints?” I asked her.
Her eyes scanned the room. “No.”
“Are you sure? Can I check your bag in case I dropped
them in there by mistake?”
“Go right ahead but I’m pretty sure you won’t find
them in there.”
When she reached for her bag she noticed the slightly
unraveled parcel lying partially hidden under the chair. She leaned down and
picked it up.
“Where did Linda go?”
“I think she’s gone to the bathroom,” I muttered as I
rifled through her bag – came up empty and handed it back.
“No luck?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Do you think I should go and see if Linda’s all
right?”
I picked up my bag, upended the
contents onto my lap and sorted through them. “Eureka!” I shouted when I found
a loose mint caught up in a crumpled tissue. I removed the ragged bits of
silver paper and popped the mint into my mouth.
“I’m sure Linda will be all
right. It’s probably just nerves,”
I said
as I felt the sugar hit kick in. I glanced at my watch and noted the time.
“It’s almost time for Judge Judy.”
I looked at the man seated beneath the old television
set hoping for another glimpse of firm gluteus that could probably crack
walnuts, but instead saw a gray-haired Japanese man who was so short his feet
barely touched the floor. He was clutching a black briefcase to his chest, his
face an inscrutable blank.
“Excuse me,” I called, and waved frantically hoping to
attract his attention. A middle-aged woman sitting next to him noted my
flapping, tapped him on the shoulder and pointed me out.
The man leaned forward and squinted through thick
Coke-bottle lenses.
“Do-you-speak-English?” I asked loudly making sure to
enunciate ev-e-ry syll-a-ble clearly the way you do with people who don’t
understand English.
“English! Ah so.” The elderly man nodded his head up
and down like one of those plastic dogs you see in the back of cars driven by
old men wearing hats. Nodding dogs we used to call them – the toy, I mean, not
the men.
Don’t get me wrong I have nothing against old men−or
their hats. I happen to be married to one. It’s just that they have a tendency
to nod off at the drop of a hat–so to speak.
“Would-you-change-the-channel-to-Judge-Judy?” I spoke
loudly and clearly.
The man nodded his head up and down.
What did I
tell you about old men, and nodding heads?
“Ah. Judge Judy,” he said. When he stood up and leaned
over to place his briefcase on the floor, the back of his gown opened slightly
displaying a hint of white flesh. Then, as he climbed onto the chair and
reached for the controls, the back of the gown parted, like an old movie
theater curtain, and revealed a fine line of black hair that ran down his spine
and disappeared between white cheeks that put me in mind of partially deflated
party balloons.
As the controls were located at the very top of the
set, the diminutive man had to stand on tippy-toes to reach them, causing the
gown to hitch high above his nether regions and reveal parts of his anatomy
that I dare not name–for modesty’s sake.
Still standing on the chair, his
arm extended high above his head, he turned and squinted in my direction and
everyone in the room had a full view of what I could only describe as an
overcooked, shriveled-up sausage between a couple of dried prunes. Now I can
tell the girls in my mah-jongg group back home in
Australia that Asian men are built that same as white men. Just goes to show
what you can learn when you’re out there amongst Joe Q Public.
Shame my best friend, Hilda won’t be there when I give
them the news, but she ran off with an eighty-year-old toothless man from
Kazakhstan who sold her a Moroccan rug in a bazaar while she was holidaying in
a Siberian Gulag last year. Last I heard, Hilda was living with an Eskimo on
some remote island off Greenland– claimed her rug seller was a hot-blooded
gigolo. I guess Hilda’s what you might call a well-traveled woman. However, I
call her my ex-best friend.
An audible gasp could be heard from a couple of
elderly women at the back of the room. This was a Catholic hospital so they may
have been nuns who lived in cloisters and had never seen a male body up close−marble
statues aside.
I figured it was time they got a public school
education.
I’d received mine at the back of the shelter sheds in
the park – aged five, when Billy Simpson flashed his willy at me and Julie, who
was my best friend at the time. Little itty-bitty thing it was too–hardly worth
the effort. And from what I heard from his wife, my old childhood friend,
Julie, it hasn’t changed much since then.
I’ve always said there’s nothing more complete than a
public school education.
“Channel-Five–C.B.S. I enunciated loudly.
The man bobbed his head up and down, changed the
channel then turned and looked down at me, his hand still hovering above the
dial awaiting further instructions.
I moved my hand in a twisting motion and spoke slowly.
“Could-you-turn-the-volume-up?”
He looked at me strangely, and tried to imitate my
action.
I could see that was not going to work. I put my hands
to my ears, opened and closed them and said, “Turn up sound.”
He gave me a wide gap-toothed
grin put his hands under his armpits and gave a fascinating rendition of the
chicken dance, while humming the tune. At least, I think that was what it was.
But I don’t speak Japanese.
I found the sight of the man’s dangly bits bobbing up
and down a tiny bit disconcerting. And from the gasps that emanated from the
back of the room, I figured the nuns were getting an advanced course in human
anatomy. Good thing the gown was secured by a couple of frayed ties at the neck
or they’d be passed out on the floor by now.
“Very nice,” I said. “But, no.”
I put my hand in front of my mouth, opened and closed
it, to indicate speech, then rolled my hands in a circle near my ears.
The man scrunched up his eyes.
Suddenly recognition bloomed across his face.
“Me, no deaf,” he said happily, pointing to his chest.
I smiled–and pointed to my chest. “Me happy.”
“Sound… good, no good?” he asked in barely discernible
broken English.
I laughed. “Sound definitely no good.”
“Me fix!” When he stood on his toes and reached for
the volume control situated on the top of the set, there was a shuffling of
seats in the back of the room and I figured the nuns must be going for their
Masters.
The subject of their thesis turned and looked down at
me, his hand still hovering up near the dial–dangly bits swaying in the breeze,
awaiting approval before vacating his roost.
I grinned and gave him the okay, thumbs-up sign.
“Perfect,” I said.
Just as the dear man settled back on the chair, Judge
Judy’s face filled the screen ready to dole out justice–as only Judge Judy
could.
The door to the treatment room opened and a figure in
white, backlit by bright lights entered the room; like an alien emerging from a
spaceship. The flickering light from the television reflected off glass lenses
as the lone figure looked around the room.
“Mr. Takamura!” a deep voice called, loudly.
The Japanese man jumped to his
feet, bowed twice, grabbed his briefcase, and hurried across the room. When he
reached the large door, he turned and smiled and nodded in my direction. A look
of surprise flashed across his face as he was bumped inside by the powerful
hydraulic door closer that waits for no man.
Rosie looked up at the screen, and smiled. “It’s
almost like being at home with friends.”
“Next time I’ll bring popcorn.”
SEVEN
Moonlight streamed in through the open bay window as
we lay on the bed with the light off, our bodies rippled with moving shadows
from the large oak tree outside, my laptop balanced against my knees while I
read aloud to my sister.