Australian Dreams. Fiona McCallum
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his face, as she usually did, for the slightest sign he was waking up. Even though she wasn’t really expecting him to – she’d been doing this too long to still be getting her hopes up at the end of every sentence – it had become a habit to stare at him while she spoke. And part of Claire thought that if anything would get him over the line it was talk of horses.
‘Apparently his youngsters are giving his trainer grief. Speaking of which, Paycheque was at Morphettville the other week. He was in a bit of trouble. Apparently Al Jacobs was really piss –’
Claire shut her mouth suddenly. She had become so used to rambling about her bland life that hadn’t realised what she was saying. Shit! Jack would take the news even worse than she had.
Claire bit her lip and looked away. And as she did she noticed the slightest ripple under her hand. She looked back. Were his fingers more bent than two seconds before? Despite looking at her father’s hand the whole time, Claire had no idea how it had been lying. Damn it, she should remember.
She rubbed a hand across her face. Why now, of all times, was her memory failing her? She again picked up her father’s weather-beaten hand and slid her smooth, soft one underneath.
And then there it was, the slightest contraction and scrape of his thick dry fingertips on the top of hers. Claire’s mouth dropped open and she stared. He had actually moved! She was not mistaken. She wanted to shout for joy, grab his shoulders, shake him fully awake. She knew it might just be the muscles readjusting themselves with no consciousness involved. The doctors and nurses had told her over and over.
Claire’s gaze travelled up Jack’s arm to his face. It was a little contorted, as though he were trying to change the position of his mouth. Was she imagining it? She leant forward and put a hand on his chest.
‘It’s okay, Dad, take your time.’ His eyeballs rolled under his closed lids, and it was then that Claire noticed two tears making their way from the inside corner of his eyes. They became a glistening line, caught in his lashes.
Claire’s heart leapt. Tears filled her own eyes and before she could reach for a tissue, there was a hot wet line streaking down her face.
‘Oh Dad,’ she croaked, and clutched his hand tightly. A couple of tears had sprung through his lashes and were slowly running down his cheeks as well. Her heart lurched again. Claire had never seen her father cry before and didn’t know how to react. Part of her wanted to be happy he was coming around, but another part didn’t want him to be anguished, didn’t want to be the cause of it either. She watched the two rows of tears in a slow motion race down his face, trying to will her own to stop, and for the lump to dissolve and let her speak. Though what was there to say?
Should she get a nurse? Probably. But she couldn’t leave him, she might miss something. And without her there, he might give up, slip back to sleep. If she pressed the buzzer they’d all rush in for an emergency, shatter the peace, maybe give him a fright and halt his progress.
Claire could hear the metallic twang of the electric clock above the door. The seconds seemed to pass as slowly as minutes. Should she get a doctor? What if he couldn’t breathe, choked, and then died? No, she was being ridiculous, paranoid. Get a grip, she told herself. He’s fine. He’s just been asleep and is waking up.
She squeezed his hand harder. Shit, was it too hard? His face was contorting. Was it pain? Claire watched, transfixed, as her father’s lips pursed and then turned in on themselves. He was trying to speak. She found her own mouth copying him. What was he trying to say? Claire wished she could do it for him. What?! She wanted to shout. Just spit it out! She rocked forward in her chair, urging him on, holding her breath. God, she was so frustrated. She wanted to slam her fist into a wall or something – do anything but watch this man who so recently was strong, smart, full of dry wit, and now couldn’t even get his tongue around one word. If only she knew what that word was. She checked his lips that now seemed fused in their pursed position, and tried to work through the possibilities in her head.
Suddenly his lips parted and there was a little pop as some air escaped. ‘P,’ he’d said. ‘P’. Claire frantically searched her memory, her mind whirling like the spinning wheels of a car bogged to the axles. Her mother’s name had been Grace, so that hadn’t been it. Claire couldn’t bear it if he’d lost his memory as well, especially having to break the news again that his wife was dead. It was going to be bad enough confessing what had happened to his horses.
The anguish showed in her father’s face. Claire wanted to tell him not to bother, to try again later, not to strain himself. That it didn’t matter. But it did matter. What the hell was he trying to say?
And then he was sinking deeper into his pillows, as if giving up. Claire sank right along with him. She wanted to grab him, drag him up, do anything to stop him going back to that state.
Suddenly his eyes opened and he leaned forward ever so slightly. He was staring straight ahead, eyes vacant. Claire barely had a chance to react before his mouth opened and the word ‘Paycheque’ escaped with a cough. He slumped back, eyes closed again. His lips and face relaxed. To Claire it happened in slow motion. He looked just as he had ten minutes before, before she’d mentioned the horse. She frantically patted his arm.
‘No, wake up,’ she whispered. Her heart began racing as she tried to process what had gone on. Her head whirled. ‘Jesus, no!’ Her shaking hand reached for the red knob on the wall and she pressed, then pressed a few more times for good measure.
A dishevelled nurse arrived panting in the doorway, paused briefly to assess the situation before striding over to Jack’s bed where she reset the button.
‘Has something happened?’ she asked.
Claire wanted to slap her, yell at her to do something. Do something to stop her father dying.
But now she was the one who couldn’t form her words. ‘I, um. He…’ But it didn’t matter; the nurse was busy checking Jack’s pulse, his eyes. And then she was looking from Jack to Claire and back again.
‘Is he…?’
‘Sorry, no. There’s no change.’
No, you don’t understand. Finally Claire’s mouth was working. There was a change, he woke up, spoke. But Claire didn’t say any of it. She was now wondering if she’d imagined it.
The nurse was looking a little exasperated.
‘He woke up. He spoke,’ Claire said.
The nurse smiled at her with sympathy, patted Claire’s arm and said, ‘Maybe you should go home, get some rest. There’s nothing you can do here – we’re taking good care of your father.’
But you’re not, Claire wanted to yell. You just check him every so often. She stared at the nurse, frowning.
‘It’s all right, sometimes when we want something so badly…’
‘I didn’t make it up.’ This time she had spoken. It was obviously a fraction of what he would have experienced, but Claire now thought she could understand the frustration Dr Burrows had felt.
‘Please keep your voice down,’ the young nurse pleaded quietly.
What would she know anyway? She looked like just a kid, was probably barely out of university. Claire felt like slapping some life experience into her.
‘I think you really should go. Visiting hours are ending soon anyway.’
Claire took a deep breath, gave Jack’s limp hand another squeeze, leant forward to kiss his forehead and got up. She flashed the nurse an icy glare and stalked out.
Still fuming as she marched across the car park, she thought of what might have happened if he’d woken to see what all the commotion was about. That would have shut the smarmy kid up. Except there would have been nothing more humiliating than her father coming out of his coma to tell his thirty-something daughter off.
Claire sat for a few moments, collecting her thoughts and letting her emotions subside. Had she really dreamed