Read What the Light Hides Online

Authors: Mette Jakobsen

What the Light Hides (5 page)

I had felt moved and relieved at the same time, and we had ended up making love on the dirty concrete floor. I had to pick splinters out of my hands afterwards.

And now the decision seems easy. I've always wanted to make a larger chest for Ben, but never got around to it.

I take off my jumper and begin by cutting the log into twelve pieces of timber, enough for a good-sized chest.

I measure and then cut each piece to size before I begin planing. The hours pass and the heat from my labour fogs up the windows. I think about Ben. Random memories come and go, but there are moments of stillness too and that has been rare lately.

When night approaches and the skylights turn dark I leave the workshop and bring a sandwich upstairs with me. Eating at the desk I realise that I can see right down to Sydney Park and the airport beyond it.

Normally I would call Vera about now and tell her about the place. I would start by describing the four dark chimneys at Sydney Park—leftover relics from the brick-works factory that once operated there. Then I would paint her a picture of the airport and its runways and towers glittering in gold and red; a feast of light. Vera likes light.

One night during the first year in Mount Wilson I went to see her in the studio. It was the beginning of autumn; the weather had turned cool with crisp nights and spectacular sunsets. I had just finished a table in bloodwood with a walnut inlay. Vera had touched the inlay earlier, tracing it with her fingertips.

I cooked for us that night and it was almost dark by the time I walked across the lawn carrying our dinner. I had made pan-fried fish, salsa and charcoaled capsicums with tender red flesh. I looked through the glass door before walking in. Vera was on the floor, bent over a large acrylic wing in bright yellow. Her hair was up in a ponytail; four months pregnant, she was still slight.

She was working on an installation. Twelve huge acrylic birds in strong colours, lying on their backs, wings stretched out. Each bird had a unique expression. It was unclear whether they were dead or alive. To this day it's still my favourite work of Vera's.

She looked up as I walked in. ‘Darling.'

‘I made dinner,' I said.

‘Give me a minute.'

I arranged the plates on the step outside her studio and sat down. Venus had appeared in the sky, always the forerunner. The bush smelled of gum and soil and ferns and I was happy. We had lived in Mount Wilson for just under a year. There had been no adjustment period; we moved in and started work straight away, and soon after Vera discovered that she was pregnant. We hadn't planned it. I don't think we had ever talked about having a child, but Vera was happy and so was I.

I handed her a plate as she sat down next to me. Then I untied her hair and put my hand through it.

‘Tell me again why you're so good at cooking?' She leaned against me.

Night was hanging in the bushes, caught by the trees.

‘I just can't help it,' I joked.

And right then a wallaby with a joey in its pouch crashed through the bush into our garden. We sat very still, watching it feed on the grass. But when Vera adjusted the plate on her lap the wallaby disappeared back into the bush.

‘Sorry, wallaby,' she whispered.

Above us the sky was turning teal and stars were appearing quickly.

‘The Southern Cross is so bright,' I said.

She reached for my hand. ‘One day soon our boy will be sitting here with us.'

‘Boy?'

‘I think it's a boy.' Then she took a deep breath, inhaling the scents of the night. ‘I want him to see this light,' she said. ‘To see the beauty and the majesty in it all.'

‘I want him to be able to make a table,' I said.

She looked at me. ‘A table?'

‘To be able to use his hands.'

She nodded. ‘That's a very useful thing.'

I leaned in and smelled her hair.

‘I want him to know right from wrong,' she said. ‘And I want him to be as good a cook as you are.' She kissed me on the cheek.

‘I want him to feel loved,' I said. ‘I want him to never go one day without love. Not like Neil and I did.'

Vera turned serious. ‘I want him to be safe,' she added.

I looked at her, then back up at the stars. We were fairy godmothers sprinkling our wishes over our unborn child.

I stare out into the Sydney night. There are no stars visible, only heavy-bellied planes that lift, one after the other, out of the glimmering cityscape.

I leave the window, switch on the light and unpack my travel bag on the bed. Shirts go in the cupboard, everything else in drawers. I hang up my one and only suit, which is well on its way to being out of fashion. I hardly ever wear it. The last time was at Vera's exhibition—the last time I saw Ben.

My mother was there too, in a red cheongsam and with her hair up, striking as always. It was her birthday and she spent most of the night charming everyone around her.

There was one moment when Ben and I were left on our own. We stood next to each other in awkward silence, holding a glass of champagne each. He wore his ‘Anarchy Rules' T-shirt and was his usual distant self. I asked him what he thought of the exhibition and he said, ‘It's cool.' I asked him how school was going and he said, ‘Fine.' The only consolation was that surprisingly he treated Neil with the same disdain.

Neil had arrived late, with red-wine breath and a dramatic account of his drive to the gallery. He was wearing a denim shirt a bit too small for him, looking like a fading rock star. The shirt gaped as he spread his arms wide to demonstrate the size of the wombat that had decided to enter the Sydney Harbour tunnel and consequently stalled the traffic for more than an hour. ‘It just strolled down between the cars and I rolled down my window and said, “How are you, mate?” And it did this little head shake, you know? From one cool dude to another.' Neil had roared with laughter and then started coughing. The account made me chuckle, but Ben had looked sullen and paid no attention.

My mother circulated over to us and hugged Ben. ‘My darling,' she said, ‘you made it.'

She gave Neil and me a kiss on the cheek. ‘I must confess,' she said, accepting a glass of champagne, ‘when I see all these wonderful people I regret not being more adventurous.'

‘What do you mean?' I asked, thinking she was plenty adventurous. Probably more so than any of us.

‘Look at them,' she said. ‘Colourful, that's what they are. They are open to the grandeur of life, to the wide open spaces.'

Neil nodded seriously as if she had just said something incredibly deep.

‘And talking about open spaces,' she said, ‘I have forgotten to tell you all that I've accepted a teaching position in Arizona. I'm leaving in three weeks.'

‘Grandma, that's amazing,' said Ben.

‘Isn't it, darling? You need to come and visit, I'll be there for half a year.'

‘Ben is just about to start his last semester, he probably won't have time,' I said, and not being able to stop myself I added, ‘We are all very proud of him.'

‘Please don't,' said Ben.

‘There should always be time for some globetrotting,' said my mother, as she put an arm around Ben. ‘Maybe we could go out into the desert together. We could sit there for a while, with a few sticks.'

‘A few sticks?' I said.

She laughed. ‘You know, dry twigs, a circle of stones, like these lovely people here would do. We could even join other like-minded people with twigs and stones of their own.'

‘You mean you want to be a hippie,' I said, feeling myself once again charmed by her.

‘Maybe I do.'

‘It wouldn't work,' I said. ‘You would read them the riot act before any twigs and stones were involved.'

‘Why?' She looked at me curiously.

Like an experienced soldier I stopped myself. I knew this scenario. I had said something that intrigued her, but ultimately she would be disappointed with my answer. I always fell short. She would up the ante without even knowing it and I would get caught up in an old desire to please her.

Ben was getting ready to go. He put his bag over his shoulder and said, ‘Grandma, forget about it. You are a
grand dame
, not a hippie.' Then he hugged her and said, ‘Don't forget I'm coming over tomorrow.'

She answered, ‘Birthday tea with my grandson, how could I forget?'

I finish unpacking and feel the familiar weight on my chest, a heaviness that feels both wild and dead at the same time. I put my notebook on the bedside table, and then get undressed. Standing under the shower I attempt to cry. I force myself to think of the funeral and the pressure gets worse, but nothing happens. My eyes are so dry they feel itchy.

Getting into bed I glance at the notebook, but I am too tired to sketch. I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling. The bed linen smells of chlorine and hospital, and I can't help thinking of the time Ben was born.

Vera almost died giving birth to him, but at first we thought everything was fine. It was a winter afternoon, the third of July, when she started having contractions. We left the light on in the bedroom when leaving for the hospital. Vera had made a mobile with horses made out of blue and pink felt. I had crafted a cot out of the lightest shade of ash, with soft corners and smooth polished edges. We had placed it on my side of the bed, because it takes an earthquake to wake Vera. And we had decided on names: Lauren if it was a girl and Ben if it was a boy.

I drove as fast as I could, but had to stop the car three times because of Vera's contractions. Just before we reached Katoomba she said, ‘David, don't let them give me any drugs.' Then she added, ‘You know what happens to me.'

Once Vera had eaten magic mushrooms at a party in Redfern. Her friends from art school shared a rundown terrace in Abercrombie Street and had arranged an elaborate dress-up party. It had been a feast of creativity. Most people wore masks to go with their outfits and more than a hundred people were crammed into the tiny terrace. There were lions and geese, pirates and mice. One had dressed up as a trumpet, another as Gough Whitlam, and yet another as a plain cardboard box. The standout was the couple who came as the characters in Grant Wood's painting
American Gothic
. The guy even carried a real pitchfork, which became increasingly hazardous as the night wore on. When Vera's hallucinations began the masks came alive. ‘David,' she said, clinging to me. ‘Their eyes, I swear to you, they're looking at me.' She was desperate to make it stop and having read somewhere that dairy helps counteract the effects of hallucinogens I took her to the corner store to find some. Vera sat down on the footpath in front of the shop and drank a whole litre of milk in one go. Then she looked at me. I had pushed the papier-mâché zebra mask to the back of my head. I liked it a lot; it was the first thing Vera had made for me. But before I knew what was happening she pulled it off my head and stuffed it in the garbage bin next to us.

Passing Katoomba station, window wipers working frantically, I recalled that milk seemed to have absolutely no effect. I had to lead her like a blind person all the way back to Newtown when she realised the hallucinations were triggered by sight.

I overtook a car and saw the emergency sign ahead. ‘Almost there,' I said, and glanced over at her. But by then Vera had passed out; her mouth was open and her head dangled against the window. I panicked. Completely panicked. I shouted at her as I leaned forward and sped up the hospital driveway and into the emergency bay. Later, when I moved the car, I saw that there was a pool of blood on the passenger seat.

They were renovating the hospital that day. Jack-hammering shook the waiting room and overshadowed the sounds of monitoring machines.

They brought Ben out to me while Vera was being operated on. I picked him up and held him. He was wrapped in a flannel blanket that felt too big and rough for his small tender body. His face was red and all scrunched up and his eyes were closed, but I could see that he was listening to my voice. I was completely unprepared for the love I felt. Later a nurse appeared and said, ‘Your wife will be out soon—they're closing her up now. It all went well.' She had put a comforting hand on my shoulder. ‘Do you need anything? Would you like me to take your boy for a little while?'

I shook my head; there was no way I was letting go of him. ‘No,' I said. ‘Ben and I are fine.'

I fumble with the unfamiliar switch and turn off the light next to me. Streetlight fills the room, and I drift off to sleep. A car passes on the back lane and a dog barks somewhere in the distance.

I wake a little after 2 a.m. A moth, grey as a ghost, bangs against the window, drawn to the streetlight outside. I get up and let it out. It tumbles into the night and is gone in an instant.

The window is still open the next morning and the room is freezing. When I pull it closed I see a priest in a black robe smoking on the back stairs of the church. He has bright red hair and looks peaceful. I can't even begin to imagine what his day might look like.

I check my phone when I get downstairs. There are no messages from Vera, but I am certain that right about now she will be walking across to her studio, carrying a mug of coffee.

The workshop is chilly, but it doesn't come close to the cold mornings in Mount Wilson. I eat a cheese sandwich standing in front of the workbench. The room is dim, but I don't turn the light on. The Japanese masters talk about the importance of waiting for the wood to speak, and I have always found it easier to listen at dawn.

I watch and I wait, and after a little while I see a different way of putting the chest together, one that will bring out the grain and emphasise the depth of the colour. I rearrange the pieces and stand back to have another look. Then I decide to go a bit thinner and I start the day by planing.

The workshop is quiet. Once in a while I hear people pass by on the lane outside, but otherwise all I hear is the sound of the plane. Two hours pass. I move slowly and don't make any quick decisions. I keep turning the wood, I keep touching it.

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