AS IF HUDSON’S shitty week couldn’t get any worse, he’d received a call from his father’s special accommodation facility first thing this morning, asking him to come in. The nurse hadn’t specified the problem exactly but had forcefully suggested he pay a visit today.
This after the blow-up with Mak last night and a maximum of ninety minutes’ sleep when he’d finally made it home from work at four a.m.
He’d thought discovering her naked on stage that night years ago had been bad. It had nothing on the way they’d imploded last night.
The way she’d confronted him, not giving him a chance to explain, thinking the worst of him...he’d had that a lot growing up. Teachers not believing in him because of his home life. Friends judging him for not having a good enough home to invite them over to hang out. Bosses not trusting him because nobody trusted anyone in the Cross, until he proved himself many times over.
That lack of belief drove him to be the best. To show the world that no matter what hardships he faced as a kid, nothing or nobody could keep him down. He prided himself on his work ethic, his dependability, his honesty.
Apparently, it all meant jack to Mak.
He’d been wise to distance himself this week, to re-erect emotional barriers. Their relationship had ended as he’d expected. Well, not quite what he’d expected. He’d envisaged them staying friends. Good friends. The kind of friends who chatted regularly and did video conferencing and even hopped on a plane to New York if the impulse hit.
Who was he kidding? He’d hoped they could’ve been a hell of a lot more than friends but that had been shot to shit.
He was better off without her.
Then why did he feel so goddamn bad?
Pulling into the parking lot of the special accommodation home, he killed the engine. It usually took him a few moments of gaining composure before he could face his father. It was the same every time he visited. Too much had happened between them, too many bad memories, to forget.
He’d tried. Had gone through a rough patch when he’d hit eighteen and gone in search of his mum. What he’d learned had driven him to drink, spending night after night drowning his sorrows in a bottle. Until he’d taken one look in the mirror, seen the resemblance to dear old dad and snapped out of it, switching to OJ without the vodka.
He’d confronted his father with the truth. Had blamed him for everything. Predictably, his old man hadn’t given a shit. Had called his mother every name under the sun and accused her of driving him to drink.
Hudson knew better.
He knew the real culprit in his disastrous upbringing and it sure as hell wasn’t his mother.
Taking a deep breath, he blew it out, counted to ten and opened the car door. The first thing to hit him was the sea air. Tangy. Stringent. The second thing was the views. The endless expanse of Sydney Harbour, a perfect cerulean today, dotted with sailboats and yachts, with mansions scattering north shore in the distance.
Though his father didn’t deserve it he’d chosen one of the nicest accommodations in the city and paid the exorbitant rates for the privilege. Tanner accused him of being a soft touch with a core of marshmallow and his friend was probably right. But the moment he’d set foot in this place after checking out six other dementia homes, he’d known this was the right one.
Maybe it was sentimentality, maybe it was guilt, or maybe it was a futile wish he could’ve done something like this for his mum; whatever it was, he’d handed over the hefty entry fee for his father and worked his ass off to keep paying the bills.
If there was such a thing as karma he’d be in line for a whole heap of good stuff coming his way. Though if that were the case, his relationship with Mak would’ve worked out.
Swiping a hand over his face, he slammed the car door, stabbed at the remote to lock it and strode towards the front doors. Perfectly manicured lawns flanked the terracotta-bricked path, wide enough to fit two wheelchairs side by side. Flower beds filled with a riot of colour edged the garden, with towering eucalypts casting shade over the lawns.
The entire scene screamed peaceful and he absorbed as much of the ambience as he could before the upcoming confrontation. He needed it, because his obligatory visits to his father only went two ways. His father having lucid moments where he’d berate him for locking him away in this ‘jail’ or a bad day, where the dementia would make him ramble, alternating between angry and recalcitrant. Exactly how he’d been as a mean drunk.
Hudson didn’t visit often. He felt he’d paid his dues by keeping his father at home for as long as he had and now, with this luxury accommodation. But being summoned by the nurses couldn’t be a good thing and he braced himself for what he’d find.
Squaring his shoulders, he strode up the front steps and the glass doors slid open soundlessly. The faintest waft of lavender filled the foyer, probably filtered through the air conditioning ducts to calm the residents. A gleaming mahogany front desk, reminiscent of a five-star hotel, ran the length of the foyer, with huge floral arrangements strategically placed at either end.
The place definitely had a hotel feel; until he stepped through the electronically locked doors and realised his father’s mind had deteriorated to the point he had to be confined.
Fixing a smile on his face, he approached the front desk. ‘Hudson Watt to see Wiley Watt, my father.’
He didn’t recognise the forty-something receptionist. Then again, considering his infrequent visits, it wasn’t unusual.
She smiled and pointed at the locked door. ‘Go right ahead. I’ll buzz you in.’
When he had his hand on the handle, she said, ‘You have the same eyes as Wiley.’
Blurry and nasty? He hoped not. He managed a terse nod and pushed open the door when it buzzed.
The lavender scent was stronger here, as if the cleaners were trying to drown out the smells of antiseptic and old people. It made his nose twitch.
The nurses’ station stood just inside the door, a central rotund area that resembled a high-tech spaceship. Its positioning gave the nurses full view of every room and every corridor leading to the rec rooms, the grounds and the dining area. Perfect for occupants with a tendency to wander.
He recognised several of the nurses, particularly the younger ones who never failed to flirt with him. But his heart wasn’t in it today so he offered them a grim smile before turning his attention to the matron who’d called him.
‘Thanks for coming, Hudson.’ She folded her arms, a defensive posture that wasn’t a good sign.
‘How’s Wiley?’
He never called him Dad any more. Wiley Watt didn’t deserve the title.
‘He’s been asking for you a lot lately. That’s why I called.’ She paused, as if searching for the right words. ‘He’s due for his annual check-up and we’ll wait to see what the doctor says, but the dementia seems to be worsening. Most of his ramblings centre on you and a woman I assume is your mother, Kim? It makes him very upset. To the point he cries.’
Hudson’s heart turned over. Bit late for dear old dad to grow a conscience. ‘Is he lucid today?’
She nodded. ‘It’s one of his better days, which is why I thought you should come in and have a chat to him. See if he can make peace with whatever is bugging him so he’ll be more subdued on other days?’
She didn’t need to spell it out. His dad must’ve been saying some pretty revealing, damning stuff during his demented ramblings and the nurses thought that talking to him might ease the guilt. As if. Wiley Watt would need a year’s worth of confessionals to bring some semblance of peace.
‘I’ll talk to him,’ he said, sounding like he’d rather have a root canal. ‘Thanks for letting me know.’
The nurse hesitated, before briefly touching his arm. ‘I’ve worked in dementia wards for twenty-six years and it’s rare to see people exhibit the level of regret your father is showing because they can’t usually process emotions for events in the past, particularly when alcohol is the precipitating cause of the dementia. So give him a chance, okay?’
Hudson couldn’t promise anything so remained silent.
The nurse sighed, her lack of judgement appreciated. ‘He’s in his room.’
‘Thanks.’
Nothing his father could say would change the devastation of the past but if it made the nurses’ jobs easier he’d listen to whatever the old man had to say.
The ten steps from the nurses’ station to his father’s room always seemed to take an eternity, as if his feet refused to move and dragged across the pristine carpet.
He knocked at the door, waited the obligatory five seconds, before opening it and entering. He’d learned early on during his visits that his father never answered his door and if he waited for him to open it he’d be here all day.
Wiley sat in a recliner armchair next to a large window, sunlight streaming through and warming him like a cat, bald head gleaming. For someone who’d imbibed enough alcohol in his lifetime to pickle his liver and his brain, he didn’t look too bad. Wrinkles criss-crossed his face, set in a perpetual dour expression, but he maintained a good bodyweight. He appeared fit for his seventy-eight years. If not for the dementia, Wiley would still probably be drinking himself to sleep every day.
Like every other visit, Wiley ignored him until Hudson sat in a chair opposite him. ‘Hey.’
‘What are you doing here?’ The same guttural tone, almost a snarl, that Hudson had endured every day growing up.
‘Came to see how you’re doing.’
‘I’m locked away in a loony bin full of stinking old fools, how do you think I’m doing?’
So he was having a good day. Completely lucid. Hudson didn’t know if that boded well or not.
‘This is a good place. You’re well looked after,’ he said, wishing he could rattle the selfish old goat and make him understand exactly how hard he had to work to pay the bills.
‘You still working odd jobs at the Cross?’
Wiley’s question came out of left field. In all the years he’d been here he’d never asked anything about Hudson’s job, let alone the jobs he’d worked as a teen to keep food on the table.
‘No, I manage a nightclub now. And I’m involved in theatre.’
Wiley screwed up his nose and snorted. ‘Pansy-ass occupations, if you ask me.’
‘I didn’t.’
Hudson waited, curious to see what else his father would say and more than a little hopeful he’d reveal more about his mother.
He’d never forget the day he’d found her. Far too late.
It had haunted him ever since.
He’d wanted to know more about the mother he remembered as a toddler, the mother who’d cuddled him every chance she could, the mother who’d smelled like exotic frangipanis, the mother who’d tell him bedtime stories and tuck him in every night.
That was the woman he wanted to remember, not the woman lying in a grimy bedsit with a needle sticking out of her arm.
‘Your mother wanted you to be a lawyer.’
Hudson startled. As if Wiley had read his mind, he’d mentioned his mum.
‘Bloodsucking leeches, the lot of ’em, but would’ve paid well.’ Wiley ran a hand over his head, smoothing back non-existent hair. ‘She was dating one when we met. But couldn’t resist my charms so we got hitched three months later.’
Hudson couldn’t imagine his father having a single charming bone in his selfish body but he remained silent.
‘I’ve been thinking a lot about her lately. When I’m not...’ Wiley made loopy circles at his temple. ‘Hate how I can’t bloody remember my own name half the time.’
Another first, Wiley admitting he had a problem with his memory.
‘Docs say the alcohol did it.’ Wiley shook his head, having the guts to look guilty for once. ‘Looks like the alcohol did a lot of things to screw up my life back then.’
His father didn’t deserve an ounce of pity but for a moment, Hudson felt something close to it. ‘You could’ve stopped at any time.’
How many times had he tipped bottles down the sink in the hope his dad would stop drinking? How many times had he heard Wiley’s empty promises that he wouldn’t touch another drop of the demon drink? How many times had he propped him up on the way home from the pub despite Wiley saying he’d only popped in for lemonade?
Empty promises to match his empty life since his mum had left him to be raised by a mean prick.
‘I only drank to stop the pain here.’ Wiley thumped a fist over his heart. ‘Kim broke it when she left.’
He lowered his hand, shaking slightly. ‘My fault. I drove her away. Was never good enough for her, made her do terrible things for the money then hated her for it...’
Hudson knew his mother had turned to prostitution to survive. The woman who’d owned the bedsit had told him more than he’d wanted to know and then some when he’d tracked down his mum in Melbourne and found her dead.
But never in his worst nightmares had he suspected Wiley had made her do it while they were married.
‘What did you make her do?’ He spoke with lethal precision, using every ounce of self-control not to pummel this shell of a man who’d never done a single thing to earn the title of father.
‘I was working full time as a mechanic when we met. We got married fast, had you nine months later so she gave up her teaching degree. But I couldn’t cope with a baby, was a lousy father.’ Wiley coughed and Hudson waited. He hadn’t known any of this.
From the time he was old enough to understand anything, his father hadn’t worked. He’d sat around the house, drinking, a belligerent man who’d scared the bejesus out of him. His mum had been the one to go out and work, mainly nights. Those had been the pits, when he’d be left with an angry man he barely knew who’d yell at him to stay in his room and not come out.
Some nights he’d gone to bed hungry, wishing his mum would suddenly appear like a guardian angel. But he’d be asleep by the time she came home and he’d fling himself into her arms first thing in the morning, not breathing a word of how terrified he was of his father.
‘I couldn’t work with a hangover so after you were a few months old I lost my job. That’s when things got tough.’ Wiley glared at him as if it were his fault. ‘Kim had no qualifications so she took whatever jobs she could. Check-out chick. Cleaner. Waitress. It still wasn’t enough.’
Sorrow made Wiley’s eyelids droop and for a moment Hudson thought he’d fallen asleep.
‘A friend told me how much she could make in the strip clubs, taking her clothes off. I encouraged Kim to do it because we needed the money desperately.’ Wiley’s upper lip curled in disgust and Hudson didn’t know if it was at the thought of Kim stripping or at himself for pushing her into it. ‘It took the pressure off. The money was a godsend. But I couldn’t look at her the same way.’
Wiley blinked rapidly, and Hudson hoped to God he wouldn’t start crying. What he was hearing made him sick to his stomach. He didn’t want to cope with crocodile tears too.
‘Made the mistake of going to a club to watch one night. And that was the end of it for me. I snapped.’ Wiley pressed his fingertips to his eyes. Hudson resisted the urge to do the same. ‘Said I couldn’t come near her again. That what we had was over. Drove her away deliberately with day after day of abuse.’ Wiley waved his arm around. ‘And ended up here because of it, a lonely old man losing his mind.’
Impotent rage simmered in Hudson’s gut, a slow-burning anger he’d harboured against his father for years. The old bastard deserved it, considering he’d driven his mother away because of something he’d pushed her into doing in the first place.
But no one had held a gun to his mum’s head once she’d established distance. She could’ve found another job, could’ve come for him and taken him away from his drunkard, pathetic excuse for a father.
Instead, she’d followed the money and taken the step from stripping to prostitution. And she hadn’t looked back. Hadn’t called him. Hadn’t come for him.
The kicker? He could identify with what his father had felt the night he’d seen Kim stripping, because he’d felt the same way when he’d seen Mak naked on stage. It had changed everything between them. He’d been angry too and he’d taken it out on her, driving a wedge between their friendship for years.
The only way he’d found his way back to her was once he’d learned the truth about her motivations. That was where he differed from Wiley. He’d known Kim’s motivations but he’d lashed out anyway. Bastard.
‘Why are you telling me all this now?’
Wiley slumped further into the chair, as if he was trying to disappear into it. ‘Because I was a shit husband and a shit father and I don’t want to go to my grave without telling you the truth.’
‘That you were a mean-spirited drunk who pushed my mother away and left me being the primary care-giver for you?’
Wiley shrugged, as if the years of Hudson’s sacrifice and hard work meant little.
‘Been having a lot of dreams lately. Nightmares. Past blending into the present, that kind of thing.’ Wiley plucked at a thread in the seam of his corduroys. ‘Just felt like I had to tell someone.’
‘Lucky me,’ Hudson muttered. He’d heard enough. He felt pity for his father, for the shell of a man he’d become. But he couldn’t forgive him. The time for absolution had long passed.
‘What are you doing here? Get out of my room!’ Wiley bellowed, pushing to his feet with difficulty and brandishing a non-existent cane. ‘I don’t let strangers into my room. Nurse!’
Hudson stood and headed for the door, relieved to leave. The switch from lucid to confusion happened like this sometimes, so quickly he didn’t have time to come up with a way to placate his irate dad.
‘Get out, I said.’ His father’s face turned puce, the familiar colour of anger Hudson recognised well from the old days. ‘Get out!’
Hudson did exactly that, without a backward glance.