That she positively sailed through bowel cancer and recovered so speedily from a shoulder replacement (the latter of which she did without a single painkiller), should be enough to convince my mother that, while she may not be invincible, she unquestionably has the fortitude and strength to face whatever old age throws in her body’s way. But this does nothing to reduce her anxiety or stop her from lying in bed at night fearing the very worst.
* * *
We see a sign for the town of Stanhope and Dad starts humming Dusty Springfield’s classic hit ‘Wishin’ Stan Hopin’.
‘You and Mum should take more drives,’ I say to Dad before he softens his humming to a warble. ‘There’s so much to see and do around here and you guys have done hardly anything at all.’
‘Yeah right, Skeet. That’d mean getting your mother out of the club.’
‘You’d go for drives wouldn’t you, Jude?’ Jeff asks.
You don’t need to be a psychologist to decipher the look on Mum’s face. There is the dual threat of dying with Dad at the wheel plus potentially missing out on the biggest jackpot of her life.
‘Still, I guess you do all that driving down to bingo,’ I offer in her defence.
‘What?’ Dad says.
‘BINGO! YOU DRIVE.’
‘Yeah, to sit in another club,’ Dad says with a huff, even though it’s his job that takes them back to the clubs on the Central Coast.
‘You know Irene Fairchild?’ Mum suddenly asks me from the back of the car.
‘No, I don’t think so?’
‘You do. We’ve mentioned her,’ Dad chimes in.
‘Nope.’
‘She’s the one who lives in Terrigal,’ Dad adds.
‘Nope, not ringing a bell, sorry.’
‘Irene. Fair. Child. Terrigal?’ Mum says, as if repeating the salient parts of what Dad just said will suddenly make things dawn on me.
‘Sorry, Mum, I really don’t think I know —’
‘I told you before, she lives in that house on the hill next door to where Al and Barb used to live?’
‘Oh! So why didn’t you just say that then?’
‘Because you know who Irene Fairchild is!’
‘What about Irene Fairchild who lives on the hill in Terrigal next door to where Al and Barb used to live?’
In the rear-view mirror, I receive a blank look from Mum. Or, rather, my facetiousness does.
‘That lump she was worried about?’
I return her blank look. Either I have momentary short-term memory loss or she thinks she’s told me about Irene Fairchild’s lump but never has. I’m placing a fairly large bet on the latter but I answer in the affirmative, just to move this conversation along before I turn to dust. ‘Yep?’
‘Cancer.’
Mum delivers this so deadpan it’s like a comedy punchline, only without the humour. I feel robbed. How could she have just skipped over all the juicy detail to get to the end?
‘Oh, that’s awful,’ I say. And I’m sure it must be . . . for poor Irene Fairchild and all of the Fairchilds.
‘Three months to live,’ she says. It’s either a well-planned form of haiku, or deliberately intended to cause shock. ‘She was fine last week. Found a lump, went to the hospital and then they told her time’s up.’
‘Poor Irene.’ I nod solemnly for a woman I have never met, will never meet and, I swear, have never heard of before today. ‘How old is she?’
‘Ninety-seven.’
‘Pretty good innings, though, you have to admit?’ I say, turning from her reflection in the rear-view mirror to hide a smile.
‘Three months though . . .’ Mum says, and winces as she massages some of the arthritic pain out of her fingers.
Attention Twilight Waters Residents:
This is a reminder that Matron Beech-Fayes should only be addressed as ‘Matron’.
The use of her Christian name or any inappropriate nicknames may result in a permanent loss of privileges.
Thank You,
Management
