Lola's Secret (7 page)

Geraldine didn’t answer, just waited. Lola had a suspicion that if the chair had an eject button, it would have been pressed by now and Lola would be sailing through the roof and up into the sky in cartoon-fashion. She had no choice. If she turned back to hide her file, she would only make Geraldine even more suspicious. She stood up, making a show of how hard it was, even though she’d had a good day flexibility-wise. “Not just my mind going either these days. Sometimes I can barely move, my joints hurt so much. Not long now, Geraldine, and I’ll have shuffled off this mortal coil and you’ll have the place all to yourself.”

Anyone else would have laughed at that, or protested. Not Geraldine. “Thanks, Lola. I’ll turn the computer off after I finish my order, will I?” It was a statement more than a question.

“Of course, Geraldine. Save power whenever possible. That’s always been my number-one rule of efficient housekeeping.”

THE NEXT MORNING
, before Lola had had a chance to get dressed and go over to the computer again, Jim appeared at her door. His broad open face was sunburned, as always, his tall stocky figure well turned out in a crisp white shirt, ironed trousers, and shining shoes. Even as a little boy, he’d been neat and tidy. It had always amused Lola. He certainly hadn’t inherited that trait from her. He was carrying a tray, with her favorite breakfast—a mushroom omelette. Beside it was a large pot of tea and two cups.

“Darling!” she said, beaming at him as she pulled a purple silk dressing-gown over her bright-yellow silk pyjamas. “How thoughtful. It’s not my birthday, is it?”

“No, it’s not. But I just wanted to spoil you.”

“You have been well brought up. Who did that? Oh, that’s right—me. What a lovely treat. And did you make this yourself?”

“With my two hands, yes. And three eggs and a cup of mushrooms.”

Lola took a bite. “Perfect, dear Jim, thank you.”

“When is your birthday, Lola?”

She stopped mid-bite and smiled at him. “You are funny today.”

He waited.

“It’s in February, darling. Don’t you remember? That old lady blowing out eighty-four candles in the dining room nearly a year ago? That was me.”

“Of course.” He cradled a cup of tea in his hands.

“What is it, Jim?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? So it’s perfectly normal that you bring me breakfast in my room, sit there sighing and looking anxious, and ask me when my birthday is? Are you worried about something?”

He nodded.

“Something about me or about you?”

“Both of us. It’ll affect both of us.”

Lola frowned. “Are you worried about
your
memory? Is that why you asked about my birthday?”

“Not my memory, Lola. Yours.” He held up a hand as she started to protest. “Geraldine noticed it first. She thinks you’re getting forgetful. That you’ve become secretive. She said she found you in the office last night and that you were behaving very strangely.”

“Really? What was I doing? Speaking in tongues?”

“She said you were at the computer, writing reminder notes to yourself.”

“To myself?”

Jim spoke quickly. “Lola, I know she shouldn’t have looked at your files but she was worried. She said you’d made out a questionnaire to remind yourself what your favorite food is, favorite drink, carols, songs, color, everything. She saw it on a documentary, that this is what people are advised to do when they’ve been diagnosed with early dementia. And she said you told her you’d forget your own head if it wasn’t glued on.”

“Attached. I said attached, not glued.”

“She also said you told her you keep forgetting which room is yours. And that you can barely walk some days.”

Lola sat more upright, and put down the knife and fork. “Dear Geraldine. So thoughtful. And what else? Did she have a suggestion or two as to what the next best step for me might be?”

“Lola, don’t be like this. You know how much I love you, we all love you, but you’re eighty-four. You’ve had a busy, active life—”

“But I’m too old now and it’s time to have me put down? Perhaps Matthew could do it. Family rates and all that.”

He seemed relieved to laugh. “Lola, please. I’m sorry to have just blurted it out, but is there something you’re not telling me?”

“There are a hundred things I haven’t told you. A million, probably. You’re my son. The last thing you need to know is the contents of your mother’s brain.”

“Is it getting too much for you here, is that it? Too many people around? Having to move rooms now and again? Look, I know you know your own mind better than anyone, but would you be happier if you were in your own place, a room that could be yours permanently, with all the support around you that you could possibly need?”

“What are you talking about, Jim?”

He reached down beside him. She had thought he was carrying a newspaper. It was a bundle of brochures for local old folks’ homes. “We’re not rushing you into anything, I promise. But, Lola, perhaps some time in the future, it’s something you might want to think about.”

She kept her temper with great difficulty. She wanted to stand up, push the now dry-tasting mushroom omelette onto the floor, call her son a traitor, and then go and hunt down his fool of a wife and … What? Lock her in the “storeroom?” Instead, she dug her nails into her palms, slowly counted to five, and kept her voice even. “How wonderful. How thoughtful of you both. And where are you putting me? Should I start packing now?”

“We’re not ‘putting’ you anywhere. And of course we don’t have a date in mind. I’ve made a mess of this, haven’t I? Lola, look, I wanted to wait until after Christmas to bring this up with you, but there’s something I need to tell you.”

Lola knew then what he was going to say. “You and Geraldine are leaving, aren’t you? Or you want to.”

He looked shocked and then instantly relieved. “Have you heard us talking about it?”

“No.” But suddenly many things made sense. The lack of repairs recently, for example. Their decision not to host Christmas parties in the function room this year …

“We’re ready to move on, Lola. We stayed here after Anna’s—” He stopped. Jim could still barely say his daughter’s name. “But it’s not got any easier for Geraldine, no matter how much time passes.”

Lola felt a momentary bond with her daughter-in-law.

Jim kept talking. “At first she wanted to stay here because there were so many good memories of Anna. It felt right to be here where she spent her final days, to be close to her grave … It helped us both, I know. But in the past six months, Lola, something has felt different. For Geraldine more than me. It’s making her sadder. She thinks of Anna every day—”

“That will happen wherever she is.”

“But she needs a new start. New surroundings. We’re going to look for a new business to run when we’re on our driving holiday around the state. In the Riverland maybe. Or perhaps the Adelaide Hills. We don’t know exactly where yet. As close to Clare as possible, but enough distance to make it feel new.”

“Have you told the girls?”

“Not yet.”

“Need to work out what to do with the old bat first?”

“Mum, please.”

He only called her Mum occasionally. At times like this when he was upset.

Lola sat upright. “Let’s be as clear as we can about everything, Jim, shall we? Geraldine isn’t inviting me to come and live with you in your new motel, is she?”

“Of course you’d be welcome. You’re my mother.”

“Jim, tell me the truth. Would she prefer it to be just you and her?”

A nod. Then another flurry of words. “We’re thinking about just a small B&B. Perhaps not even a restaurant, just a breakfast room. We’re not getting any younger either. We’d like to slow down a little. Find a new business just for a few years, perhaps, and then think seriously about retirement. I’m nearly sixty-five, after all.”

“My little Jim, imagine.” She took in his worried expression then and her heart softened. It wasn’t Jim’s fault he’d married an old cow. “Darling, thank you for being so honest. And so straightforward. There’s no rush, is there? You’re not about to pack up before Christmas?”

“No, of course not. We’re thinking in the next six months. Perhaps putting the motel on the market in the new year.”

“So I’ve time to enjoy one last Christmas here?”

“Of course! We’ll cancel our holiday if you want. I’m sure Bett and Carrie would too. We could have one final family Christmas here together. Is that what you mean?”

“No!”

He looked shocked at her vehemence.

“No, darling, of course not. The peace and quiet I’ll have over Christmas will be exactly what I need to make up my mind about the next best step for me. An old folks’ home here in Clare, perhaps. Or perhaps I’ll toss a coin to decide whether I go and live with Carrie or Bett and their babies. What’s one more drooling face to wipe or nappy to change?”

“Lola!”

“I’m joking, darling.” She leaned across and patted his hand. “I’m so glad this is out in the open. And my lips are sealed for now, I promise,” she said, making a zipping motion. “I won’t even mention it to Geraldine. It’s our little secret.”

“Thanks, Mum.” At the door, he stopped and turned. “Can I ask you one more thing?”

“Of course you can.”

“What was that list for?”

“The list?”

“The one called ‘Lola’s Secret.’ Listing all your favorite things?”

She produced the best smile she could. “You’ve spoiled every-thing. I was going to give it to you as a hint for what I wanted for Christmas. I guess it’ll just be bath salts again now.”

He shook his head, smiling as he walked away.

Lola kept the smile on her face too, but only until he was out of sight. Then she stepped back and slammed the door as loudly as she could. She hoped Geraldine heard it.

I
T WAS A WEEK NOW SINCE
Neil had been outside his apartment. That wasn’t unusual. What was the point of going outside? What was the point of anything these days?

A knock at his bedroom door. “Neil?”

It was his housemate Rick. He ignored him.

“Neil, your mother’s on the phone again.”

He still didn’t answer.

A harder knock, more of a thump. “Neil! Jesus, mate. You can’t stay in there forever.”

He didn’t plan to stay there forever.

Another thump. “You’re not the first person in the world to lose your job or your girlfriend. Come on, mate. Pull yourself together. Your mother’s really worried.”

He didn’t reply. He knew that if he stayed quiet for long enough, he’d eventually be left alone, by Rick and by his mother. She’d been trying his mobile that morning as well. He’d let those calls go to voicemail. Maybe it was annoying, for his housemate, for his mother, for everyone who knew him. Well, too bad. They’d be rid of the annoyance of his presence soon enough.

He turned up the volume on his computer to drown out the sound of Rick talking deliberately loudly on the phone outside his door. “He’s in there, Mrs. Harris, but he won’t answer. I’m sorry.” Perhaps he’d send his mother an email, get her off his back that way, before she got it into her head to drive the three hours from Wilcannia to visit him. He could hear her voice in his head enough already. He didn’t need to see her. He already knew what she’d say. The same thing she’d said to him, over and again, the last time he’d made the mistake of answering when she rang. “It’s Christmas time, Neil. Please come home. A family should be together at Christmas.”

“Why?” he’d asked her. “What makes Christmas better than any other time?”

She hadn’t had an answer for that. He’d said good-bye then, telling her there was someone at the door. There might have been. A takeaway delivery, probably. He wasn’t eating a lot these days, but what he did eat arrived at the house in plastic containers, ordered online. He lived most of his life online. What was the point in going outside when he could do everything from here? This way he was the one in control. He could decide who he spoke to and who spoke to him. If he didn’t like what he was reading, or hearing, he just had to change websites or blogs or press delete. It was … What? Better? No,
safer
, that was the word. He’d tried life out there, tried it and didn’t like it. It was much easier in here.

He hadn’t cut himself off from the world completely. If anything, spending so much time online made him more tuned in to world events and new music than he’d ever been in the “real” world. There were even a few people he spoke to, kind-of friends, he supposed he could call them, that he’d met via chat rooms and blogs. Not that he’d talked to them recently. They’d started asking too many questions. If he wanted to be interrogated, he’d ring his mother, or go outside his room and see his housemate. And he didn’t want to be interrogated. He didn’t want to do anything, not anymore.

His life had been good once. He’d worked in lots of different jobs, most recently as an upholsterer, played a bit of sport, did what most twenty-eight-year-olds did around Broken Hill, drank too much some nights, smoked some dope now and again, nothing serious. He’d even had a girlfriend for a few months. Until, piece by piece, it had all started to collapse around him. The job went first. Completely out of the blue. His boss had called him in from the workshop, his face all serious. “It’s not you, Neil. You know I think you’re a bloody good worker. It’s just the orders have dropped off, and it’s last in, first out.” He’d heard the same phrase again and again the following weeks, as he applied for other jobs. “Sorry, mate. The orders have dried up. We’ll let you know if anything comes up.” If anything
had
come up, they hadn’t let him know.

A month after he lost his job, he’d been drinking at home on his own, run out of beer, got in his car to go to the bottle shop, and had a crash. Nothing serious. All he’d done was hit a tree. The only person he’d hurt was himself, a stupid knee injury from slamming his foot so hard on the brake. At least he’d managed to start the car and get it safely home before the cops arrived and he got breathalysed. Some luck. But the car hadn’t driven properly since and he couldn’t afford the repairs. His knee was still sore, and he didn’t have the money for therapy. So he’d had to give up sport too.

His girlfriend pulled the plug next. She’d used almost the same words as his boss. “It’s not you, Neil, it’s me. I want to go traveling, see the world, not settle down yet. You’re getting too serious for me.” He’d pleaded with her, but it had been no use. Her mind was made up, she told him. Then change your mind, he begged. Please. She wouldn’t, no matter how many times he asked, how many times he called her. She was the only good thing in his life, he told her. It was the truth. No job, no car, no sport—she was all he had. He tried another tack, writing her letters, sending her emails. Couldn’t he go traveling with her? It didn’t have to be serious between them. He’d lighten up, he promised, but couldn’t they at least stay together? He didn’t think he could live without her.

She stopped answering his calls after that. She didn’t reply to any emails or texts either, no matter how many he sent and what time he sent them. He’d gone around to her house one night, one last-ditch effort. Her housemate was stone-faced when she eventually answered the door. “You’re too late,” she’d said, sounding almost happy about it. His ex-girlfriend had left for London the previous day. “You need help,” the friend said, before shutting the door in his face.

His own housemate started criticizing him. “You’re so serious these days, mate. Cheer up.”

His mother started ringing too often. He’d made the mistake of calling her one night when he’d been drinking, telling her everything about the breakup, the job, how he was running out of money. She’d threatened to visit again. He’d had to insist she didn’t. Told her he needed to work it out for himself. The next day a cheque had arrived, sent priority post. A note from her in it. She’d obviously decided all he had wrong with him was a broken heart. If only it was that simple. “You’ll meet someone else,” she’d written. “There’s plenty more fish in the sea. Don’t worry. You’re still young.”

Sure. Don’t worry, be happy. He had so much to be happy about, so much to live for, life was so full of wonders.

Bullshit. Life’s hard and then you die. And if you don’t want to hang around and wait for it to happen, wait for life to drag itself out day after day, then you make it happen, don’t you? Bring it to an end yourself.

What was the alternative? Get another job, lose that one? Find another girlfriend, break up with her too? Go through this pain again? Forget it. What was the point? So why not die before life gets even harder?

He’d done his research. He spent hours on the Web. He made his decision. He’d use tablets. Quick, painless. No blood, no guns. There had been site after site giving him advice. He chose the place next. A motel, he decided. Not here in the flat. He owed Rick that much. He chose it at random online—the town, the motel, the dates, everything. It was only after he sent the enquiry email that he realized the date he’d booked. Christmas Day. Ho ho ho.

When he got that email straight back telling him his stay would be free, that he’d won some online competition, he took it as a sign. He was doing what he was supposed to do. If the motel was free, there’d be no bad scenes money-wise afterward, his mother being chased to pay some outstanding bill. He’d also leave a note for her, explaining everything. He’d already tried to write it, several times. He wanted her to know it wasn’t her fault. It had nothing to do with the kind of mother she’d been, the fact that his parents had divorced years ago. None of that mattered these days. Everyone he knew came from broken homes. Bad phrase. His home hadn’t been broken. His mum had done the best she could for him and his little sister. Told them nearly every day how much she loved them. If anything, she laid it on a bit thick sometimes. That was one of the reasons he decided to leave home when he did. She’d been so proud when he started getting trade work, even prouder that time he came home for his summer holiday two years earlier and surprised her by reupholstering the old sofa in the back room. She’d carried on as if he’d redecorated the entire house. “All I did was fix up a sofa. That’s what I do. That’s my job these days.”

“It’s beautiful, Neil. It really is.”

She’d been so happy that day. So proud of him. But he couldn’t think about her. She’d understand. She’d have to understand. She’d have no choice. Just like him. He had to do what he’d decided to do. He was too sick and tired of living like this.

He checked his emails now and frowned. A new one had just come in. Another one from the motel, from someone called Lola Quinlan, asking him to list his favorite food, drink, his age, and occupation. For fuck’s sake—whatever happened to anonymous motel bookings? Who cared what his favorite things were? It wasn’t as if he’d be joining everyone for lunch, was it? Sitting around pulling crackers and telling jokes and singing “Jingle Bells” with complete strangers? He wanted to just catch the bus there, book into his room, and be left alone so he could do what he’d gone there to do. For his sake, for their sake, for everyone’s sake. So long. Good-bye. Forever.

He looked at the email again and felt another surge of rage. One more person nagging him, demanding attention and answers. His housemate and mother were bad enough. He pressed Delete. Forget it. He’d go somewhere else, where he wasn’t going to be interrogated.

Then he remembered it was free.

He clicked on the trash file and retrieved the email. If he didn’t go to that motel, he’d have to find somewhere else. Maybe even pay a deposit with money he didn’t have. He’d already spent most of his welfare money. What did it matter what he said back, anyway? It wasn’t as if he’d be eating or drinking anything there, anyway.

He wrote back one line,
No favorites,
and pressed send.

Outside, he heard Rick say something, call good-bye, maybe, and then the sound of the door being pulled shut behind him. Good. He was alone again.

In their suburban home, Tony and Helen had been fighting for the past ten minutes. Helen had made the mistake of telling him about the email she’d received from the Clare Valley motel that afternoon asking for their favorite food, drink, carols etc., in preparation for Christmas. She’d answered on behalf of both of them, sending the email straight back, impressed at how organised this Lola Quinlan was. She’d told Tony all about it, hoping to get him even slightly enthused. Instead, he’d said again that he wouldn’t go.

“Why not?” she asked again.

“I told you. Just because.”

“That’s no excuse. Why not?”

“We can’t afford it. Business hasn’t been great this year, you know that.”

“But it’s
free
, Tony. I told you last week, I won a competition. I showed you the email. So you can’t use that as an excuse.”

“We’ll still have to pay for most of our meals.”

“I’ll pack sandwiches if I have to. I’ll go without you.”

He shrugged.

The shrug triggered it. She burst into tears. It was the first time since everything happened that she’d cried in front of him. Now, once she’d started, it felt like she would never stop. He didn’t move. He just stared at her, shocked, but he didn’t move.

She made herself calm down, roughly wiped the tears away. But she had his full attention, for once. She had to use it. She had to talk to him, had to try to make him understand. “I can’t go on like this, Tony. I’ve tried to be patient. Give you the time you need, the space you need, the understanding, everything. But what about me, Tony? What about us?” It all surged up from inside her, the hurt and frustration finally overtaking the sympathy she’d felt. “You think more about that man than you think about me, your wife, or your kids. Is it making you feel any better to wallow in this guilt day after day? Making anyone else feel better? No, Tony. It’s only doing bad things, stopping you from celebrating the fact that you’re alive and punishing all of us who live within sight or sound of you.”

“My life’s been a living hell the past year, Helen.”

“And so has mine, Tony, so has mine.”

“You weren’t there that day. You didn’t hear Ben scream. If I’d been a minute earlier, I might have seen it start to happen. Even thirty seconds earlier, I could have stopped the van from falling on him—”

She’d heard every detail of the accident so many times she’d had nightmares herself about it. The simplest of workplace errors, a chain not fastened properly before the car was hoisted onto the ramp. “But you
weren’t
there in time, Tony.” Her tone was much gentler. “You weren’t. And it doesn’t matter how many times you go over and over it, how many days and nights you lock yourself away from the world, from me, how unhappy you make yourself, you’re not going to bring him back to life. He’s dead, Tony. It was an accident. A terrible, tragic accident. And it wasn’t your fault. You read the coroner’s report. It was an accident. You weren’t to blame.”

“It was. I was his boss. I should have trained him better.”

“You did train him. You taught him all the safety rules. And that morning, Tony, for a reason we’ll never know, Ben ignored the rules and he paid the worst price possible for it. But
he
ignored the rules, Tony, not you. It wasn’t your fault.” She took a step toward him. “You can’t just let it go round and round in your head forever. It’s been more than a year, Tony. And nothing has changed. Can’t you see that? Is this it? Is this what life is going to be like for us now?”

“At least we’re alive.”

“Yes, Tony, we’re alive. But it’s no life. Not for either of us.”

They didn’t talk for the rest of that night. He went into the living room and turned on the TV, though she knew he wasn’t watching it. Helen washed dishes, filled more time cleaning out cupboards that didn’t need cleaning, knowing the sound of the dishes and glasses being moved would be annoying. She wanted to annoy him. She wanted to keep talking to him, shout at him, get some new reaction out of him. Anything but this … this
nothing
, night after night.