Etiquette for a Dinner Party Page 4

  There are plastic dishes with leftover Thai takeaways in them, grubby plastic spoons and forks sitting on the dishes. The air smells of garlic, lemongrass, orange peel, disinfectant and Ewan’s body odour. Mrs Harrison emits no discernible smell.

  Mrs Harrison’s breathing is of her own effort. The oxygen is an aid, not a necessity. The white sheet across her chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm. She has been given the maximum amount of morphine possible to ease the pain without killing her.

  Some time during the night an uninformed nurse has arranged Mrs Harrison’s grey hair into an awkward do. If that nurse had been on duty when Mrs Harrison was admitted, she would have seen how her hair should be brushed. Parted on the other side, then flicked back off her face. .

  Ewan wakes and sits up. The recliner chair creaks as he manoeuvres on to his side. He props himself up on one elbow and looks at his mother, frowns at her hair. Her chest rises and falls, rises and falls beneath the white sheet.

  She sleeps on.

  He slides forward off the chair, catching his shin on the broken footrest. ‘Shit,’ he mutters. His heel pushes the footrest in as he stands, stretches, and stumbles towards the door. He needs the toilet and he has a headache from the stale air.

  Before he leaves the room, he checks the white sheet again. Waits to see it rise and fall before he steps out into the blue-white light of the hospital corridor.

  He is surprised to see that it is just after nine in the morning, that he has slept so long. He would like a coffee. But he is afraid to stay away too long.

  Ewan returns and his mother snores just once: a grunty, horsy snort. He holds his breath. Then he checks the white sheet.

  Up, down.

  Ewan reaches for his mother’s hairbrush from the bedside table. It is still dark in the room, but he gently brushes her hair back off her face, then across to where it wants to go. Dragged through a hedge backwards, that’s how his mother would describe the look of it brushed the other way.

  A nurse bustles in, pulls back the curtains and opens the French doors.

  ‘And how are we this fine morning!’ she singsongs. ‘Any change?’

  Ewan is caught mid-stroke, the hairbrush waving in the air like a conductor’s baton. He blushes, startled by her jolly irreverence.

  ‘No,’ he whispers. ‘Just the same. She’s still sleeping.’

  ‘Right you are then,’ the cheerful nurse says. ‘I’ll come back soon and give her a wash.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he says.

  He knows there is little point to quiet tones and darkened rooms. They are waiting for someone to die, not to get better.

  But still.

  The nurse returns with a large stainless steel bowl and an armload of towels.

  ‘Right then, let’s bath you, Mrs Harrison,’ she says. ‘Why don’t you pop out and get some fresh air, Mr Harrison?’

  ‘You’ll call me back when you’re done?’ he asks.

  ‘Of course.’ .

  June is tall — about six foot — and a strong woman; she has an air of capability about her. She wears dark-rimmed glasses that make her look like Nana Mouskouri. She has brought her three children, Luke, Hannah and Josh. They are visiting their grandmother in hospital for the first and last time.

  The children grab and hold on to their mother. They stare at the woman on the bed. At a person they have been told is their grandmother, but who looks like someone that’s had the insides of her face sucked out. June pulls one of the armchairs out of the way, then picks up the long bench seat and lifts it to the bedside. She sits on the end nearest her mother and the children slide in next to her.

  Luke and Hannah watch their grandmother sleeping. They begin to understand that this is what dying looks like, and they start to cry. The tears roll down their cheeks but they stay quiet, as they have been told to.

  Josh, who is three, stares too. His little face creases in concern, then he leaps off the end of the seat and runs to the other side of the bed.

  ‘Wake up Gran,’ he shouts. ‘It’s us. We’re here.’ He prods at the tissue-paper skin of his grandmother’s arm.

  Ewan grabs the little boy as he tries to clamber on to the bed, and wrestles him into an armchair.

  ‘Shush now Josh, your Gran’s asleep.’

  ‘Is she tired?’ Josh stares on.

  ‘Yes. Very tired.’

  They watch the white sheet rise and fall some more. .

  ‘Any change?’ June asks Ewan.

  ‘No, she had a good night. Slept through.’

  ‘Has she woken at all?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s good then. She’s getting plenty of rest.’ .

  After a time.

  ‘Has a doctor been in?’

  ‘No. Just the nurses. She’s had a wash.’ .

  ‘I’m hungry,’ says Josh. .

  ‘Did you get much sleep?’ June asks Ewan.

  ‘Not bad. Cold though. Colder than the other nights.’

  ‘I’ll bring more blankets for tonight.’ .

  Hannah has stopped crying. She leans into her mother’s side. She refuses to look at her grandmother. She whispers into her mother’s shoulder that she doesn’t want to stay.

  ‘I don’t want to see her die,’ she says. Her chin wobbles and the tears come again. ‘Do I have to watch her die?’

  ‘No,’ says June, holding her close. She looks at Luke, who is crying again too, and wonders whether it was a good idea to let the children see their grandmother like this. It will be their last memory of her.

  ‘Here,’ she says, reaching into her handbag. ‘Take the keys and get the soccer ball out of the boot. Go and have a kick around on the park.’

  Hannah, who hates soccer, is first out the door. .

  The books the pensioners have brought for Mrs Harrison are stacked on her bedside table. Most of them are historical romances, library books out on loan for two weeks.

  The book on the top of the pile is a small, thin paperback. There is a dark green leather bookmark protruding from inside the front cover. The edges of the bookmark are embossed with gold. Ewan recognises the bookmark as one he brought back from a holiday in Rotorua. He pulls it out and picks up the book.

  ‘She must have been reading this one before she came in,’ he says. The book has a black cover, with a drawing of an old bearded man writing on white paper with an old-fashioned fountain pen. The title is The Death of Ivan Ilyich and the author is Leo Tolstoy. Across the top of the cover is a thin red strip, with the words Bantam Classic. He holds the book up to June.

  ‘It’s not one of her usual writers,’ says June. ‘Looks a bit depressing.’

  ‘Don’t ask me,’ says Ewan. ‘You know me and books.’

  He turns the book over, reads out loud from the back cover. ‘The world’s supreme masterpiece on the subject of death and dying … a thoroughly absorbing and, at times, terrifying glimpse into the abyss of death.’

  Ewan puts the book back down on the pile and runs his fingers along the gold edges of the bookmark.

  ‘The bookmark was in the front. Maybe she hadn’t started it, do you reckon?’

  ‘Probably not,’ says June. ‘If the bookmark was in the front. Definitely not, I’d say.’ .

  Colleen arrives with a brown cardboard box. It is huge — twice the width of her, and she is a big woman. She sets the box down across the armrests of the recliner chair and hugs Ewan and June.

  Colleen is Mrs Harrison’s neighbour and closest friend. They have known each other for thirty years, though Colleen is fifteen years younger than Mrs Harrison. It is her third visit in the five days, and each time she brings food.

  ‘How is she?’ she asks, looking at Mrs Harrison.

  ‘She’s good, resting well.’

  June holds Colleen tight, feels her big wobbly body twitching. Colleen’s tears come quickly. Again. It is like this every visit.

  ‘Has she woken up?’ Colleen is embarrassed, and tries to compose herself. She breathes deeply a
nd wipes at her eyes with a tissue.

  ‘No, but she’s peaceful. No pain.’

  Inside the box there is a huge bacon and egg pie, three dozen little savouries and two packets of chocolate biscuits.

  ‘I figured you wouldn’t have eaten today, so I did a big one,’ says Colleen, cutting into the pie with a knife that was taped to the lid of the box. ‘It’s a dozen-egger.’

  ‘You beauty,’ says Ewan.

  He is starving. He lifts a slice of the pie out and starts eating. Pastry falls away, on to his crumpled shirt and over the floor.

  June has had breakfast, but the smell of pastry and pie is too much to resist. She eats one savoury, then another.

  The soccer ball comes through the open French doors, bounces once on the floor, then lands in the middle of the bed. On top of Mrs Harrison. June and Ewan leap to their feet, but Luke gets there first.

  ‘Sorry Gran,’ he shouts. He plucks the ball from the white sheet and races out the door.

  Mrs Harrison sleeps on, mouth open, lipless. .

  Colleen sits next to Mrs Harrison. She takes in her face, then looks at the white sheet rising and falling. She gently takes the old woman’s hand in her own.

  ‘You know, I miss her already. She was wonderful, your mum.’

  ‘I know. She’s a real lady. From another time really.’ June’s voice chokes. She won’t speak of her mother in the past tense.

  ‘You’re exactly right, that’s what she is. She’s a lady. Gentle, kind, not one to push her point of view on anything. An ordinary person. Funny, when you think about it.’

  ‘Funny?’ June smiles at Colleen.

  ‘No, I don’t mean your mum is funny. I mean, it’s funny that there are still ordinary people around. You know, the sort that are just there. They just quietly get on with their lives, without making a drama about things.’

  June knows what she means. She has been to funerals where there have been a lot of ‘remember when’ stories. She can’t think of one story like that to tell about her mother. Maybe those sorts of memories come later. After.

  Colleen can’t control her emotions. She puts her head on the side of the bed and cries again.

  ‘Sorry,’ she says. She gets up and walks out into the corridor, leans against the wall under the sign that says: In Case of Fire, Please Exit in an Orderly Fashion.

  Ewan sighs and rolls his eyes at June. Then he follows Colleen out, holds her while she sobs.

  ‘It’s alright, Colleen,’ he says, dry-eyed. ‘It’s alright.’ .

  There are ripe, heavy buds on the trees and the air is thick with pollen. Ewan goes out to the veranda and sits on the wooden railing, sneezing and coughing and rubbing his red eyes. The hay fever sneaked up on him this year. His medication is at home.

  He blinks in the strong sunlight and watches his niece and nephews kick the soccer ball around the field. He feels exhausted, and tries to count the number of days and nights since he slept well. He cannot remember. He moves further away from the doorway and lights a cigarette.

  A door opens behind him, and Reg Bryant comes out of the room next to Mrs Harrison’s. Reg and Ewan have known each other all their lives. Reg is blinking in the sunlight too, scratching his head and stretching.

  ‘Ewan. I never realised it was you next door.’ Reg reaches out, shakes Ewan’s hand. ‘It’s your mum, eh?’

  ‘Yes. Yours too?’

  ‘Yeah. Not long to go now.’

  Ewan offers Reg a cigarette and they smoke in silence, watching the kids play.

  ‘You busy with work?’ Reg asks.

  ‘Pretty full on. Not much I can do right now though,’ says Ewan.

  Reg finishes his cigarette, stubs it out under his foot on the decking.

  ‘I’ve got to go into town soon. You guys need anything in there?’

  ‘Nothing I can think of right now,’ says Ewan. ‘But there’s bound to be something.’

  ‘I’ll give you a yell before I go, see if you need anything, eh?’

  ‘Cheers.’

  Ewan returns to his mother, to the remaining empty armchair in the room. The children follow him inside and sit silently on the bench stool. They say nothing. Everyone watches the white sheet rising, falling. .

  At three o’clock, Mrs Harrison’s arms fly up into the air, as though she is reaching for something on a high shelf. Hands outstretched, lunging. Her eyes open, for just a moment, and she stares straight ahead.

  ‘Wiener schnitzel,’ she says. Then she resumes her sleep. Eyes closed, mouth open, head tilted to one side.

  It is some time before they dare to take their eyes off her. They look at each other.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ says Ewan, softly. ‘What was that about?’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ repeats Josh. ‘Gran woke up, Mum. She’s hungry. Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ.’ He does a little dance at the end of the bed, rocking sideways foot to foot. ‘Wiener schnitzel, wiener schnitzel … I’m hungry. Gran and me are hungry.’

  ‘Should we call a doctor?’ says June. She is leaning forward in her armchair, half in and half out, as though in the starting blocks for a running race.

  They look at Mrs Harrison again.

  ‘What for, ask him to cook her schnitzel?’ says Ewan. He shakes his head, his eyes fill with tears. He looks down at his shoes, his jiggling knees. When he looks up again, he is smiling.

  He starts chuckling, quietly at first, then Colleen joins in and they are laughing. June joins in, little giggles, and soon everyone except Mrs Harrison is gasping for air, giggling, then collapsing into mad laughter again. The children too.

  ‘Gran smiled,’ says Hannah, excitedly. ‘Look, she’s smiling.’

  Mrs Harrison’s mouth has changed shape, the corners twitch. She sleeps on.

  ‘Someone once told me that the hearing is the last thing to go,’ says Colleen.

  They settle down again, thinking carefully now about their words. They watch the white sheet.

  An hour passes, then another. The adults doze and wake, talk quietly. They take turns at watching the sheet. The children come and go between the room and the field. .

  Mrs Harrison begins to tear at her clothes, at the sheet. Her eyes are still shut, but she picks at the right shoulder strap of her nightie, as though it has fluff or something objectionable on it. She pulls the strap down, exposing her bare, thin shoulder.

  June reaches over and pulls it back up. With her other hand, Mrs Harrison pulls the white sheet to one side. Her nightie has ridden up and her legs are exposed to her thighs. They too are thin, the skin a blue-grey colour.

  She is restless, muttering words that make no sense. Names no one knows, places she has never been to. But her eyes stay closed.

  June sends the children outside, then talks quietly to her mother.

  ‘It’s okay Mum, it’s June. I’m here. I’m with you.’

  Mrs Harrison pulls and grabs, agitated, eyes closed. As soon as June rearranges the bedclothes, they come off again.

  Colleen goes out into the corridor and comes back with a nurse. It’s the loud one.

  ‘Oh Mrs Harrison, what are you doing?’ the nurse says, quietly this time. ‘I think we’ll give her something to calm her down.’

  She disappears.

  June tucks the sheets in around her mother, and Ewan moves into the seat on the other side to help.

  ‘It’s okay Mum,’ he says, softly. ‘We’re right here. It’s okay to go.’

  Mrs Harrison is fighting hard now; she has pulled the shoulder strap of her nightie down, right down to her elbow.

  Her breast, a flat and wizened fold of skin, is on display.

  She tears, frantic, as though she is a child opening a wrapped gift. Her eyes are closed, her breathing shallow and the strange words keep coming.

  Ewan senses a presence at the French doors. When he looks up, Reg is stepping into the room. Ewan gently pulls the strap of the nightie up again, covering his mother’s breast.

  Reg stops, his eyes turn aw
ay, his face scarlet.

  ‘Sorry, mate. Sorry,’ says Reg. ‘I was just … town … sorry.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter Reg.’ Ewan repositions himself in the chair, protecting his clawing, agitated mother from Reg’s line of sight.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Ewan says again, as Reg disappears and the last of the day’s sunlight comes back into the room.

  Colleen has taken the empty food cartons and all the other rubbish from the room. The children have gone home with her.

  June finds a cloth and disinfectant and wipes down every surface in the room.

  It is clean and warm and quiet.

  June and Ewan sit at Mrs Harrison’s bedside, listening to her death rattle, watching the white sheet. Rise and fall. Rise and fall.

  It moves up and down quickly now, and there are moments when it doesn’t move at all. June holds one of her mother’s hands, and Ewan the other. They watch the white sheet rise and fall. It falls and does not rise again. Mrs Harrison has died.

  LOOK, MA, NO HANDS!

  It was just after midnight when Jim arrived at his mother’s. It had been a fast trip from Wellington, six and a half hours. He’d chucked the Wiggles CDs on to the floor of the car and found his own at the bottom of the glove box. Nick Cave, The Cure — he’d forgotten they were there. He grabbed blindly at the silver discs as he drove, shoving them into the player one after the other. The songs had taken him back to parties, old friends, girls.

  Julie had wanted to come too, bring the babies. Your mum loves seeing them, she said. She loves making a fuss. But he wanted to go alone. Julie gave him a look. He hung in there, gave her a look back. I want to spend some time with Mum, he said. I want to make a fuss of her for a change.

  He was not worried about his mother. His mother was fine; he rang her once a week to check that this was so. It was the business that was niggling away at him. He’d been thinking about franchising. Others were doing it — every day he read the headlines. Each time, he felt a prickle of resentment, as though he’d just missed out on a prize. So he’d taken the first steps, had a brochure made up. It was on the seat beside him.