Chapter Thirty-Seven
CHAPTER
37
As I stir the soup I’m cooking for Grandpa, I settle my thoughts. I don’t trust Angelo, but going to the police could be a risk to Dad’s reputation and the documentary.
It will hurt Grandpa.
Keith Urban runs ahead as we take the path through the nursing home’s neat front garden. The bottlebrush trees won’t flower for another few weeks but tiny cream nubs, the petals, grow on the ends of the stems. Keith Urban, aware he’ll be tied up at any minute, stands back as I crouch at the rope.
‘Sorry, boy, but Nurse Frances is here on Fridays.’ Tail wagging resignedly, he joins me at the tree. ‘If I sneak you in, she’ll get angry at all of us.’
I’m pressing the keycode to open the door when the words ‘The Viking’ come up on my phone. I should change Kit’s details. Does he have a middle name? An address? Next time I see him, I’ll ask. When the phone rings out, my heart hurts.
‘I’ll call later. I promise.’
As I shut the door behind me, Frances waves me over. ‘Mac? Can we have a word in private?’
CPR directive. Resuscitation directive. End-of-life directive. By the time Frances stops talking about directives, I’m sitting stiffly in the chair and swallowing hard.
‘I don’t want to think about it.’
‘I’m afraid that you’ll have to.’ As if the very slight gentling of her voice releases a valve, a flood of hot tears stream down my face.
‘I can’t imagine being without him.’
‘His death is inevitable.’ She efficiently plucks tissues from the box and presses them into my hand. ‘Knowing that everything is settled will give him comfort.’
‘He has a will.’
‘He also has end-of-life wishes.’
A breath shudders out of me. ‘Yes.’
‘It’s time to consider the options.’
‘Do you know what he wants?’
‘Some of our residents would like their loved ones to be close when they pass away.’ She lifts her hands. ‘Mr Henry isn’t one of them.’
‘He doesn’t want me to see it.’
‘Nevertheless, you might want to be with him. That’s something else you can talk to him about.’
A shaky nod. ‘Yes.’
‘His reluctance to have visitors has meaning.’
‘He wants people to remember him as he was.’
‘Gordon is a modest man and wouldn’t express it like this, but the documentary is precious to him.’
‘A legacy.’ More tears. I blow my nose again. ‘He loves this town.’
‘Is there other family you can call on?’
‘No.’
‘In the past few months, we’ve heard from your mother a number of times.’
‘What does she want?’
Frances considers her words. ‘She enquires about Gordon. And about you. She’s … persistent.’
‘She’s also curious about the documentary, isn’t she?’
‘It has been mentioned, yes, but her concern for you and Gordon appears to be genuine.’
‘She’s a good actress.’
‘She wanted to know whether you and Mr Henry could stay with her in Sydney.’
I twist my fingers in my lap. ‘What did you tell her?’
‘The truth. As Gordon now needs twenty-four-hour nursing care, and palliative care will follow, it’s impossible for him to leave Summerfield.’
‘Does she suggest visiting us here?’
‘She tells me she has other commitments.’
‘Mum has never been to Summerfield.’ When I get up from my chair, Frances walks around her desk and puts a hand on my arm.
‘I’ve worked in aged care for a very long time, Mac. I’ve seen families at their best and their worst.’
‘We’re lucky that you’re here.’
‘Your Keith Urban would dispute that.’
A watery smile. ‘Yes.’
‘Some of the worst mothers create the best daughters.’ She squeezes my arm. ‘You put your grandfather first. It’s a wonderful thing.’
Sniffing a little, I point to the bag at my feet. ‘I made him chicken soup.’
In the bathroom, I press wet paper towels against my eyes. My mother is getting less attention than she’s accustomed to. That will upset her, and she’ll use whatever means available to her to get the spotlight back. I never played the model-daughter role my mother imagined I would, but the documentary will put me in front of the camera—she’ll want to wring whatever glory she can get out of that. Kit Thorsen is known internationally, he’s well regarded and he has connections.
Including a connection to me.
Isn’t there enough going on right now?
I hesitate in the doorway to Grandpa’s room when I hear him talking on the phone. He’s in bed with the tray across his lap. As the meals trolley trundles past, he smiles a welcome.
‘Here she is.’
I send him a wobbly smile. ‘Hey, Grandpa.’
‘It’s Mr Thorsen.’ He whispers loudly enough that not only Kit but the woman in the room next door must hear. ‘He couldn’t get onto you, so he called me.’
I’m teary again. ‘We exchanged messages last night.’
Grandpa does his best to read my expression. Frowning a little, he puts the headset against his chest and whispers again. ‘Talking is better than messaging.’
‘I’ll talk to Kit after I get your dinner out.’
‘I told the tea ladies you had a surprise.’
‘I made it to your recipe.’ Grandpa’s eyes light up when I peel back the lid of the container and steam rises. ‘Chicken soup.’
‘Goodness gracious.’
After finding a spoon and napkin and placing it on the tray, I take the phone. ‘Kit?’
‘Du er umulig.’ His voice is gruff.
‘Impossible.’
‘Why don’t you answer your phone?’
‘Is your eye still swollen?’ The words spill out. ‘What about the scratches on your cornea? Astrid said you’re fully booked. Are you well enough to do the television interviews?’
Frances, frowning and tut-tutting, walks into the room but after Grandpa indicates the soup, lifts his thumb and smiles, she nods her approval and walks out.
‘Mackenzie?’ Kit speaks quietly. ‘What’s going on?’
‘I got a lecture from Frances and now …’ My eyes burn and the lump in my throat is the size of a fist. Turning towards the window, I yank out a tissue and wipe my nose. ‘I have to go.’
‘Do you have a cold?’
‘No.’
‘Are you crying?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Please, Mackenzie. Call me back.’
Chicken, vegetables, grains and fresh herbs, cooked slowly on the stove then blended. As Grandpa sips slowly from a spoon, I tell him where I sourced the ingredients and how much of each I put in. There’s not much soup left when, after promising he can taste every little thing, he lies back against the pillows. I tidy up before sitting on the chair next to his bed.
‘What are you having for dinner?’ he asks.
‘Leftover soup.’
‘Mary Mackenzie.’ Reaching for my hand, he does his best to squeeze my fingers. ‘Why were you in tears?’
‘I hoped you wouldn’t notice.’
‘Frances said she wanted to see you. Did she find out about Keith Urban’s visit last week?’
‘She said I should talk to you about directives.’
Grandpa is yawning so loudly I don’t know that he hears. ‘That dog never puts a foot wrong.’
‘He has chicken scraps for dinner tonight.’
‘Mr Thorsen didn’t upset you, did he?’
I shake my head. ‘No.’
‘You’ll be closer to Kit now, having saved his life.’
I choke a laugh. ‘I didn’t do that, Grandpa.’
‘What? Halfway up a cliff and he’s as blind as a bat. You saved his life, just like he saved yours.’
‘Kit is seeing the specialist late on Monday, but he has commitments all week.’
Grandpa’s eyes are suddenly bright. ‘He’s only four hours away. You’d better go to him.’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘To see that he’s all right.’ He releases my hand before patting it firmly. ‘The salt air will do you the world of good.’