Not Much Time (Short Story)
From Party Animals
After all these months, I think I've finally worked it out. If I hadn't been so slow, I might have been able to do something. But now? My timing is terrible. There is no way I can prove it. Who would believe me?
My head aches. Will I scream, pretend to faint, shout my accusations? Or simply sit here, frozen with sickening dread?
Somewhere at the back of my mind is a sliver of doubt. What if I'm wrong? I can't think what to do and there is not much time...
It was a year ago that the phone call came, its insistent ring demanding attention.
We didn't sleep for the remainder of that night or for many nights afterward. I would hear the springs on Mum's bed squeaking as she thrashed about with feverish dreams. Then I'd hear her footsteps, the chinking of a cup and saucer as she made a hot drink in the kitchen. I couldn't sleep either, but I never got up when Mum did. She would worry that she had disturbed me.
Dad's funeral passed in a blur of kind words and friendly pats on the back. Mum I returned to a silent house. Dad often sang off-key when he was in his workroom, and we would tease him about it. Some days I thought I would scream if he didn't stop. Now he had. Forever. I longed to hear that woeful singing again.
After a while, things gradually changed. Eric began to visit. We'd known him for several years. He was my father's partner in an opal polishing business. But this was different. Eric spent long hours talking with Mum, and he took her to the movies and the beach - all the things Dad had been too busy to do.
Eric also made a point of spending time with me, telling jokes - usually bad ones. But I laughed because he tried so hard. Best of all, he made Mum laugh again. I suppose I might have resented him, but he was kind and Mum was happy.
I didn't mind that Mum was distracted by Eric. I had a problem of my own: not one I wanted to share. I had seen my father. 'Seen' might be the wrong word. But I can't think of a better one. I wasn't asleep but a picture formed, just for a few seconds - a body falls into a deep, dark tunnel. Immediately, instinctively, I knew it was Dad.
My mind is playing tricks, I told myself. No great surprise. I think about Dad a lot. And he died when he stepped into an uncovered opal mining shaft.
Even so, I didn't want to picture him like that. But I couldn't stop it happening, over and over.
'What's the matter, love?' Mum asked me just after I saw him for the first time.
She had enough on her mind without my problems, so I hesitated. But it was hard to handle this on my own. 'I saw something...'
There was a long silence before she answered. 'You know that's not possible.' Her voice sounded sad.
'Not something outside. Something inside.'
'What thing?'
'I saw Dad.'
Mum was quiet for so long, I thought she wasn't going to answer.
When she did, her voice was shaky. 'You miss him. So do I. It's natural.'
'Mum. What was Dad wearing when he died?' I heard her sharp intake of breath. She did not want to answer and I didn't blame her. But I needed to know. 'Mum?'
'Jeans and a shirt.'
'What shirt?'
'Is this really necessary?' Her voice rose.
'Please?'
'A red checked shirt. Now, no more questions.'
Her feet gave angry little taps as she retreated to crash dishes into the dishwasher. I didn't ask her anything else. It wasn't necessary. I knew what my father had been wearing.
The next afternoon, as I sat in the sunshine, drowsy with warmth and the buzz of bees, I had another sighting. This time it wasn't just a slow motion replay of the fall. There is a grunt as he overbalances and plummets downward. He screams, 'No!'
Something was wrong with the picture I saw. Before I could figure out what it was, footsteps sounded on the paving bricks. It was Eric. He made a slight dragging sound with one foot, as though it was turned in a little.
'Howdy,' he said.
I answered reluctantly, not really wanting to talk. The image of my father was still fresh in my mind.
'Everything okay?' His voice was deep and pleasant.
'Yeah.'
'Want to go to Pizza Hut for tea tonight?'
'Pan friend, double cheese?'
'Sure. Why not?' Eric took a deep breath. 'Mum tells me you're having disturbing dreams about your dad.'
They were not dreams. They were totally different. But I didn't argue. It was too hard to explain.
'Grief shows itself in strange ways,' he said. 'And I know you and your dad were close.'
I nodded.
'After my grandfather died, I saw him sitting in a chair in my lounge-room,' said Eric. 'I knew it wasn't him. Not really. It was my imagination, creating a picture of him.'
'What happened?'
'I spoke to him and he vanished. I never saw him again,' said Eric. 'Your dreams about your dad... do you want to tell me what you see?'
'No, not really. It's nothing.' I really didn't want to discuss this with Eric, or anyone else right now. I'd sound crazy. Maybe I was crazy.
'Are you sure? I'm a good listener.'
I shook my head. 'Well,' he patted my arm. 'You know you can talk to me anytime.' I couldn't see his face. But the way he patted me and the tone of his voice made me think of someone being nice to their pet dog.
'Can I ask you something, Eric?'
'Fire away.'
'Can I see you?'
'What... what do you mean?'
There was uncertainty in his voice and I hurried to explain. 'Would you mind if I touch your face? I know your voice and the sound of your footsteps, but I don't know what your face is like.'
I heard the scrape of his trousers as he knelt in front of my chair.
'Here I am,' he said.
His voice told me the height of his face. Before I learnt to think about things like that, I poked a friend of Mum's right in the eye. But that was a long time ago, just after my illness.
Eric had short, straight hair and it felt clean. I caught a whiff of shampoo. His forehead protruded slightly and his thick eyebrows ledged over high cheekbones. He was clean-shaven, except for the prickly roughness of a man who had shaved some hours earlier. 'What colour are your eyes?' I asked.
'Sort of mixed up.'
'Can't you make up your mind?'
'I don’t usually have to explain them,' he said. 'Uh... they're mostly green with brown and yellow flecks. I guess you'd call them hazel.'
Gently, I ran my fingertips across his cheek and over the prominent bridge of his nose.
'Ah, now you know,' he mumbled from under my hand.
'What?'
'I have a big nose.'
I withdrew my hand, satisfied that I could picture Eric as a real person, not just a disembodied voice.
'Now I know all about you,' I teased.
His voice, when he spoke, sounded strange. 'Not everything, I hope. A man is entitled to some secrets.'
I’ve embarrassed him, I thought. People sometimes reacted in odd ways when I asked to touch them.
After he went back inside the house, my thoughts returned to Dad. What was it that didn't fit? Something about the way he fell - head first. If he was walking and stepped into the hole, wouldn’t he fall feet first?
Restless and worried, I stood and touched the brick house wall for guidance. I felt my way along the side of the house, towards the back door. Why did Dad shout, 'No', as if he was calling out to someone? The police said he was alone when it happened. I had more questions than answers.
That night at Pizza Hut, I was in for another surprise.
'Eric and I are getting married,' said Mum, over the garlic bread. Just like that. I froze with a hot slice of pungent bread halfway into my mouth. She could have told me gradually, let me guess what was in the wind instead of hitting me with the news like that. It was too soon. Friendship was one thing: marriage was another.
'Haven't you got anything to say?'
I shook my head. What good would it do? They had made up their minds without me. My opinion didn't count.
'Would you like to order more drinks?' A voice to the right asked in a bored tone.
'Er... no thanks,' said Eric. 'Maybe later.' The noise level in the room seemed to rise with my anxiety.
Eric was all right as a visitor, but would it be like living in the same house? Suddenly I missed Dad more than anything. I wanted him back.
Silently, I finished my garlic bread. But it was tasteless.
Mum and Eric decided there was no point in waiting.
When Mum and Dad were married, they whipped into a registry office. Mum always regretted that. This time, she wanted the full disaster. In a church, with a reception to follow.
In the week before the wedding, the phone rang incessantly. Mum flew around like a mad bird caught in a building. She cried over her tea and yelled at the caterer.
Me? I was swamped with my own thoughts.
The night before the wedding, I saw Dad again. He's not alone. There's another person. A man. The man shoves Dad in the back. Dad shouts as he pitches headfirst down the dark tunnel.
Hot sweat broke out all over me. I had seen someone pushing Dad. Deliberately and maliciously. Were these things I was seeing real? Or, as Eric had suggested, was I missing Dad so much that my brain created weird fantasies about him?
But that didn't explain how I 'saw' what Dad was wearing when he fell. I couldn't know that. Yet I did. What Mum told me confirmed it. It was possible, though, that I'd heard someone tell Mum but I didn't remember. Or was Dad trying to tell me something?
His assailant wore a blue shirt with rolled-up sleeves, revealing strong, hairy arms. I had seen a glimpse of greying beard and blue eyes. I had no idea who he was.
Whispers grow around me as I stand in the church. She must be at the door. The organist misses a few notes now and then as the Bridal March echoes around the building.
I hear the sweep of a long dress over carpet. Mum told me her dress was pink, 'Like the shell of an oyster.'
A hand presses my arm. 'Ooh, she looks gorgeous,' whispers the girl beside me. I forget her name. She's Eric's niece.
'Uncle Eric's gorgeous too.' This girl thinks everything in the whole world is gorgeous.
'Uncle Eric looks heaps younger since he shaved off his beard. It was mostly grey.'
Goosebumps run up and down my arms. Time slows, stops. The crowd, the church, the voice of the minister - all fade into a huge blanket of fear. A bearded man pushed my father into the dark mine shaft. But Eric has hazel eyes. The man in my vision had blue.
'Psst.' I tap the niece on the arm.
'Yeah?' she whispers back.
'What colour are Eric's eyes?'
'What?'
I feel like squeezing her skinny arm to make her answer quickly. 'What colour are Eric's eyes?'
'Green, with brown and yellow spots in them.'
Relief makes me weak at the knees. I feel like fainting. My hands tremble.
'Course it depends what he's wearing,' the niece adds, 'If he's wearing blue, then his eyes look blue... are you all right? You look awfully pale.'
Was it Eric? I don't know. How can I? I've never seen him. I never will. Eric worked with Dad. He found the opals that Dad polished and sold. Eric knows the mines like the back of his hands. And now Eric is marrying Mum.
I feel sick.
The minister is leading up to the part where he asks if anyone knows a reason why this couple should not be married. I've heard all of this plenty of times at my cousins' weddings.
If I'm going to speak out, I'll have to do it soon. A few more seconds, that's all. There is not much time...