CHAPTER 21
Bradford
After I’m discharged from Prince of Wales on Monday, Bruno drives me straight to my appointment at the eye hospital in the city. “I could be here for a good couple of hours," I tell him as we round the corner towards the Domain. “Why don’t you just drop me off and I’ll get a cab back.”
Bruno shakes his head. “I’m not letting you out of my sight. I’ve got a book to read. I’ll be fine.”
“Well, at least go to the cafe. Or take a walk in the Domain. I hate to think you’ll be sitting there all that time on my account.”
“You are priority number one, Bradford. I’m just sorry I won’t be here for you this evening.” He pulls up at a vacant spot on Hospital Road and reverses in. “Are you really sure you’ll be OK without me while I’m at work?”
“I’ll be fine. Honestly. I’m buggered and I’ll probably just sleep all afternoon. It’ll be so nice to be in a proper bed.” I rifle through the big bag of stuff he’s brought for me. “Thank you so much for grabbing these things.” Stretching forward, I stick the disability permit on the windscreen. “And doing all this driving. And… everything .” I feel like such a scab. Some pathetic loser who’s completely reliant on the good nature of others.
Bruno leans over and buries his nose in my hair, breathing deeply. His hand gently clasps the side of my head, holding it against his face. “ Blinky, I will never be able to thank you enough for everything you did when Dad… you know…” I can see it’s a subject that’s still too raw to be discussed freely. There’s been that much turmoil lately, it’s hard to remember it all happened so recently. Maybe it’s the residual holes in my memory. In any case, Bruno and I don’t need to say more. Words may not come easy at the moment, but the language of his embrace transcends any and all of them.
Once I’ve been seen by the consultant, I make my way down the hall with the cane Bruno brought for me. Yeah, it’s like riding a bike, but I’m shocked at how much I’ve come to rely on Brendan. Every step I take is unsure. I’m trailing a hand on the wall, following the dark blue uniform of a nurse in front of me. If she’s not crashing into anything, then so long as I’m right behind her, I’m OK.
Bruno’s in the chair closest to the hallway and he shoots to his feet the second he sees me. “How was it?”
I try to smile, but it’s a real effort. “Doesn’t look like things will be getting better any time soon. They said the corneal transplant hasn’t gone into failure yet, but it’s definitely rejecting.”
“So, what does that mean for you?”
“Bombarding it with steroids every hour while I’m awake. Weekly appointments. Coming into Emergency if anything changes. And if it doesn’t get better, I’ll be looking at another transplant.” I sigh, long and hard. Back down this road again. “It’s not the surgery I’m worried about; I’ve had so many of them. It’s just… each time they transplant, there’s a much lower success rate. And this one would be the third graft on the left side.” I feel like tearing my hair out. “ Why did he have to wreck my good eye?”
I’m more upset than I thought. Bruno takes my weight as we make our way through the hospital grounds to the car. The whole journey back to Maroubra he’s holding my hand. He helps me into the rumpus room, undresses me to my underwear, and puts me to bed. I lay there with my eyes closed, my brain slowly churning with the magnitude of everything that's happened.
A soft kiss on my forehead wakes me from my daze. Bruno’s there in his uniform. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I wish I wasn’t leaving you.”
I reach up and stroke his beard. “Truly, you don’t need to worry about me. I’m just gonna sleep.” I trail my hand down over his belly and cup his crotch. His cock is fat and warm and I miss it dearly. “Obviously, I want you to stay for selfish reasons, but we have loads of time for that later.”
My eyes follow his blurry frame as he leaves. I don't deserve his kindness. I’m one walking disaster after another. All I can do is hope and pray he doesn’t realise this before I manage to redeem myself.
***
I love winter, I really do. After months of being in a continual sweat, it’s always nice to be able to get around in cooler air. To snuggle up and keep warm at night rather than stick to the sheets. One thing I’ve never got used to, however, is the early darkness. I’ve woken up just now and it’s pitch black. The sense of isolation is fierce. It’s like it’s torturing me down to my bones.
The hideous trill of Summer’s loan phone splits through my psyche. There’s no point in looking at it; I’d never see who’s calling. All I can see on the screen is a green splodge next to a red one. “Hello?” My voice sounds like a cane toad.
“Hi, Bradford? This is Susannah from Guide Dogs. I’ve spoken to Summer and she mentioned you’ve been discharged.”
My brain is lagging. Only one thought is galloping to the front of it. “Brendan. How is he? When can I see him?”
Susannah takes her sweet time answering me. Three seconds equals three years. “Brendan is recovering well physically. But…”
“Yeah?”
“There’s a very real possibility he may be too traumatised to return to you.”
Horror grips my chest and squeezes hard. “What do you mean? What’s gonna happen?”
Susannah is clearly trying to be careful. “You may need to prepare yourself to work with a new dog.”
In my messed up state, it sounds like this is a done deal. “No! You can’t do that! Please don’t.” The words choke their way out of me like a whiny child about to burst into tears. “Haven’t I already lost enough?”
I’m not even listening to what Susannah’s saying anymore. My world is crashing down and someone else inside my head is finishing the conversation for me.
I’m absolutely parched. And freezing. Trembling. The blankets have made their way down to hip level. At some stage the call has ended, but I haven’t noticed. I need to go upstairs, but I don’t know this house well enough, especially now my sight is so much worse. The eight or nine percent vision I’d normally have is more than halved right now. And at this end of the scale, every percent lost means major changes to the way I live.
My back hurts as I swivel slowly to a sitting position. I feel like I’ve spent the past few hours in a state of complete tension while I’ve been asleep. Groping for my cane, I let it spring to its full extension and heave myself off the bed. I’m all giddy, but if I take it slowly, I’m sure I can make it upstairs.
There’s a jumper at the end of the bed, which I pull over my head. Bruno has left me house keys on the bedside table, and I gingerly feel around for them. If I knock them off, they could skid anywhere. I certainly don’t fancy lying face down on the cold floor tiles fumbling to locate them under the bed. Once they’re in my grasp, it’s time to work my way upstairs.
These first targets are large and easy enough—the sliding door, the pavement, the set of steps leading up to the back verandah of the house. The lock on the rear door is a matter of rubbing my finger over the keyhole, then inserting the key while I’m touching right next to it.
I know the kitchen well enough from the few times I’ve made lunch here. Of course, now I’m navigating it with virtually bugger-all vision. If things have been moved around in the fridge or on the counter, it’s going to be an impossible search. I’d love to make tea, but I don’t trust myself one bit at the moment: my head is aching and I’m too fuzzy to give it the extra concentration I’ll need with my eyes this bad. I’ll just fill a glass with whatever’s in the fridge.
The cupboard with all the mugs and cups and tumblers is high up, second from the right. Stretching out, I pat my hand around inside it, feeling for the coldness of glass. I really should have turned the lights on. Then again, what bloody use would they be? It’s not like I’m seeing anything more than blurs and shadows unless I shove something right next to my eyes.
After seizing a tumbler, I feel my hand bump whatever’s next to it. The item falls out of the cupboard against my wrist, and my instant reaction is to flail around trying to catch it. It ricochets off my hand, causing the tumbler to slip from my grasp just as my elbow thwacks hard into something on the counter. There’s an almighty smash as I lose my footing.
I’m down on the floor, struggling to get to a sitting position. Something hurts in my leg. As I feel the pain, the warm sticky wetness of blood, the jutting glass, a terrifying panic rises through my ribcage and closes like a vice around my throat. I can’t breathe. The back of my tongue is blocking my pharynx. Images of Jarrod’s hand bashing into my face for the first time. Falling to my knees amongst a pool of glass. Punches. Kicks. My dog yelping in agony. My poor little boy. My best friend who’s being taken away from me.
I can’t cope with this. I’m in a ball against the cupboard. Jarrod’s words fly into my consciousness.
“Nobody’s listening anymore.”
He’s right. I have nothing left to say. I am worthless. I am of no use to anyone. All of this, everything, I deserve it. I just want it all to end. If only I was at home, I’d have enough pills to do the job properly.
See, you can’t even top yourself like a man, Bradford. You’re an embarrassment.
***
Hours go by. Days. Months. I don’t know how bloody long, but I’m still sitting here. My arse went numb long ago. The door opens and bright light pierces right through to the back of my skull.
“Oh, God, baby.” Bruno’s voice is a maelstrom of worry, relief, concern, pity. And I am pitiful, plonked on these cold tiles in the middle of a colossal mess I’ve created. I may as well have pissed and shit myself given how pathetic it all looks.
I can hear the crunch of glass under Bruno’s boots, the sound of a door opening, the swish and clink of broken pieces being swept up. I feel weak. My hand falls to my side and lands on a huge shard. Running my fingers over it, I note the intricate patterns. “Oh, no,” I whisper. “Your mum’s beautiful glass dish.” I want to weep. I’m sure I would if I hadn't already died inside. “Bruno, you didn’t sign up for this. You can back out right now.”
“No. Of course I’m not going to do that.” His tone is gentle but firm.
“I’m deadly serious. I won’t ever hold it against you. You don’t need some lame millstone around your neck.”
He squats down in front of me and grasps my shoulders. “It’s far too late for you to kick me to the kerb now,” he says. “I love you, you little fucker. You’re getting all of me whether you like it or not.”