The buzz from Tash’s words stayed with him through the night and morning, right until the moment Patrick passed through the gates of Springbank late Sunday afternoon, when his promise once more weighed heavily on his bones.
The break up north had done wonders for Grant and Nicola. Their skin glowed from the sun and they moved with a purpose and energy that had been absent these last few months, perhaps longer. New photos of their grandchildren plastered the fridge along with hand-drawn portraits of figures clutching hands with ‘Nanny and Papa’ written in clumsy lettering above. There was even a picture of Maddy riding Khan under a bright yellow sun, the only way she’d been known. The way everyone wanted to remember.
Nicola was preparing dinner. Grant was on the phone in the lounge, talking quietly. Patrick uttered a polite hello to Nicola and nodded at Grant as he passed through to Maddy’s day room. Absence hadn’t repaired the rift between himself and the Handrecks. He supposed nothing ever would.
Patrick headed for the shelf and took down the ring. He pulled up a stool and sat, then cradled her left hand in his. In contrast to her parents, Maddy had been left paler than ever after her time in care. There were no French doors and easy access to sunshine in the nursing home for someone in a trolley bed. Her colour gave her an ethereal beauty, disturbed only by the spontaneous flexes of her jaw and soul-jarring vocalisations.
The ring box remained unopened on the side of the bed. Patrick held her hand and toyed with her fingers, his head down. It was hard to face her with his heart so false. Though he hated himself for his betrayal, he couldn’t stop wishing it was Tash’s hand he was holding, Tash’s finger he could slide a ring on. Tash who owned his promise.
He pressed the back of Maddy’s hand to his forehead and closed his eyes. At the beginning of the year he would have been telling her about his day, about what their friends were up to, talking to her as though she could hear and understand. Now he had nothing. Only love for a girl who wasn’t Maddy, and despair at how he could break himself away without breaking himself apart.
Maddy twisted, and the ring box tumbled to the floor. Patrick stared at it, his breathing ragged, every breath ripping his chest. Slowly, he raised his head.
‘Maddy?’
He leaned closer, searching. Her eyes were closed, her lips slightly parted like they did when she was sleeping, but there was movement behind the lids—a rapid shift of her eyes as though they were following the action of a dream. Or in distress at what she could sense from the man who was meant to cherish her above all others.
‘Maddy, was that you?’
There was no further movement, no sound other than her shallow breaths. Patrick swallowed and stooped to retrieve the box. He slid the ring on her finger and held her weak hand in both of his, his thumbs caressing.
‘I’m still here,’ he whispered. ‘Still with you.’
He swallowed again and forced himself to be normal. Whatever happened, whatever his changed feelings, she must never know.
‘We won footy. Tight game.’ Patrick inhaled, gathering strength in simple words. ‘I took some good marks. Kicked four goals. Made some tackles. Ended up best on ground.’ He kept going. Footy was easy, normal. Safe. ‘Clip played well too. Bec was pretty excited. You could hear her and Tash cheering from right across the oval.’ He stopped. Tash. Even he heard the way he’d said her name, softer somehow. He studied Maddy’s face, scanning for any sign that she might have heard it too, but there was nothing.
Patrick continued talking about the game, about his teammates and how they played. The tackles he’d made. The corked thigh he’d received in the third quarter thanks to an errant knee; the size, shape and colour of the bruise, now coming into full bloom a day later. He made no further mention of Tash and Bec. Normal Maddy would have picked up on it and probed. Broken Maddy slept on.
He stayed for half an hour longer, starting other conversations, trailing off as he realised where they all led. Eventually he gave up. He slid the ring from her finger and fitted it carefully into its box, then rose and bent close to kiss Maddy goodbye.
Her eyes were open. For a split second they seemed to focus hard on him. Patrick’s heart lurched. ‘Maddy?’
He curled his fingers against her cheek. Hope rose then listed when her eyes resumed their usual uncoordinated travels. He shook his head. Guilt was making him see things. Gently, he kissed her forehead, his lips lingering as he breathed her in.
Grant was in the kitchen with Nicola, the two of them huddled close and exchanging whispers. Patrick paused at the door and rubbed his face, stubble scratching his palm. The movement caught the Handrecks’ notice, jerking them apart.
‘Son,’ said Grant, ‘do you have a minute?’
Son? Patrick wasn’t that naive. In their eyes he’d ceased being their future son-in-law months ago.
His senses sharpened. Nicola had her hand on the back of one of the chairs in a casual pose, but the skin over her knuckles was tight, her expression brittle. Patrick’s gaze returned to Grant. So another ‘talk’ was in the offing. Too bad he wasn’t in the mood to play.
‘Not really.’
‘Please, Patrick,’ said Nicola. ‘It’s important.’
‘Not so important it can’t wait until tomorrow. I’ll see you then.’ He nodded at Grant and headed for the door.
Whispers sounded behind him and grew in volume. Patrick knew he was being rude, but he hadn’t forgiven them for putting Maddy into care, for making him feel like shit when all he’d ever done was love their daughter. Patrick wasn’t perfect—he had more faults than he could count—but he was a good man, an honourable one, and he was stuffed if anyone was going to take that from him.
He opened the door. Frigid air blasted his face.
‘For God’s sake, Grant, tell him!’
Grant’s voice sounded as tired as Patrick’s bones felt. ‘It’s about Maddy.’
He closed his eyes. This was going to be bad. It was in Grant’s tone, in Nicola’s frightened plea.
‘Come inside, son. Please.’
His shoulders slumped. He slowly shut the main door, his palm flattened against it as he turned his head to look at them. Nicola sat slumped at the table. Grant was staring at its surface with something akin to shame.
Knots formed in Patrick’s guts. ‘What’s going on?’
Grant pulled out a chair for him. ‘Take a seat.’
He glanced at Nicola, who nodded.
Patrick didn’t take the seat. He stood behind it, leaning forward slightly, hands around the back rail to brace himself. ‘What about Maddy?’
‘It’s not just Maddy,’ said Grant. ‘It’s us too.’
And with that Patrick knew. Always in the back of his mind he’d held the fear, felt it each time he looked at the fridge and its glorification of family. Now it was coming real.
‘No,’ he said, shaking his head as if the denial would make the truth go away. ‘You can’t.’
‘Please don’t make this any harder,’ said Nicola. ‘It’s bad enough as it is.’
Bad didn’t even begin to describe what was happening.
‘Maddy’s not our only child, Patrick.’ Grant stared at the fridge with all its photos and drawings. ‘We have Chelsea too, and the grandkids.’
Patrick lowered his head between his arms and screwed his face up against the urge to howl. His breath shuddered. He dug his nails harder into the timber, needing the pain to keep him focused.
‘We’ve found a good care facility,’ said Nicola. ‘It has gardens, hydrotherapy pools.’
Patrick’s head rocketed up. ‘What the fuck?’
Nicola rose and fetched a large glossy booklet, eager now. She flipped it open to reveal a page showing a property with lawns and special pathways made for wheelchairs and trolley beds. Palms swayed, the sun shone in a blue dome of sky. Eden for the neurologically disabled.
The move he understood. Not this. Not ever this.
‘You can’t do this.’
Nicola turned another page. ‘They have specialists on hand. Neurologists. Physical therapists.’ Tears crawled down her cheeks. ‘They even do music therapy.’
‘No. Not care. Not alone.’
‘She won’t be alone. We’ll see her every day.’
‘No.’ Perhaps if Patrick said it often enough he could make this nightmare go away.
A hand went to his shoulder. ‘Son.’
He jerked free from Grant. ‘Don’t you fucking “son” me.’
Nicola gave up on the brochure and pressed her face into her hands. Instead of feeling sympathy, her sobs only served to pluck harder at his torment. His own eyes prickled but he refused to give in to tears. He took deep breaths, desperate to keep from losing it.
‘Look, I understand why you’d want to move. I do. But not full-time care. Not an institution.’ Despite his efforts the prickles turned to wet heat. ‘Don’t lock her away like that, away from everything she loves.’ He swiped at his eyes. ‘I’ll move in here. Look after her. That way she’ll still have the farm. I’ll bring Khan back. I’ll even promise not to shoot him.’ He made a noise that was meant to be a laugh but came out like a choke. He knew it was irrational but he couldn’t stop the words coming. ‘I know you think I can’t do it but I can. I’ll do whatever’s needed.’
Grant’s entire face was like a landslide, his prematurely old-man’s jowls drooping as though hung with weights. He shook his head.
‘I promised her.’ Patrick’s voice faltered on the pain of it. He staggered towards the door to the lounge and braced his arms against the jamb, staring at her bed. ‘I promised.’
‘We know.’ Grant had shifted behind him. ‘But Nicola and I can’t stand by and watch you wreck your life too.’
‘I’m not.’
‘You are. We know you love her, we know you believe you’re doing the right thing by standing by her, but all you’re doing is ruining two lives. One’s enough, Patrick. Don’t make us feel responsible for yours too.’
Gathering himself, Patrick looked at Grant, his jaw set. ‘It’s my choice.’
‘Maybe, but now we’re making it ours.’