Chris
Toby reckons they don’t sing that song at his school anymore. Nessa knows it, or reckons she does. We can’t remember the name though. Why did I? Why was I? That’s right, I was trying to explain how the song lyrics nail what has happened to me, and she asked me, or did she? Shit. No, she did, she asked me and she keeps asking me. Everyone keeps asking what’s it like and how does it feel and if I’ve told them once, I’ve lost count of the other times. Do they have memory problems? Or they…
‘Dad? Are you okay?’ Nessa asks.
…don’t want to believe me, or they never get sick of hearing the story, the fairytale. Come on, come on, tell us the one about the amazing floating man.
What were you thinking, they ask? What was going through your mind? As if I made it happen on purpose. Christ, I was asleep and then I was awake with my nose banging into…
‘Eh?’ I say.
…the ceiling. But those words. That song? That’s right, that’s right; ‘I woke up this morning, and my mind fell away, looking back sadly from tomorrow, and I heard an echo from the past softly say, come back, come back, won’t you stay?’
People like Doctor Harrup and Nurse Gladys, they don’t say as much, but it lurks behind everything they say and do: Why is this guy - a supermarket foreman - the centre of the whole world’s attention and not say, me? I reckon that’s why ‘they’, the doctors and nurses, scientists, corporations and governments want to take me away. They want to make me bloody well pay for my cheekiness. They want to imprison me. What a joke. I asked Nurse Gladys earlier, when she was taking blood for the umpteenth time, if they’ve figured out what they’re testing for yet? She keeps taking my blood, for God’s sakes, they must have enough by now. What did she say? ‘I’m just a district nurse, Mr Caruthers, people smarter than you and me are studying this kind of thing, young man.’ She isn’t that much older than I am, and how many floating people do you know, Nurse Gladys? That’s not what Harrup was on about though. The cynical bastard said something about a dog, keeping me at home like a dying dog.
‘Do you need anything? Are you talking in your sleep, Dad?’ Nessa says.
When did she come back in? I didn’t even hear her. See how carefully she holds your hand? My mind fell away, and Liz, where’s Liz? Slow, slowly now. I’m looking back sadly from a tomorrow I don’t have, or I’m looking back slowly? Slow or sad? Bloody hell, which one?
‘Doctor Hashimoto,’ I say.
‘What? Hashimoto? What about him, Dad? Dad?’ she says.
I once told Nessa that Hashimoto brushed my cock with his hand, but that was wrong. It was a nurse at his Institute, and not so accidentally; they’re all interested in cock size in Japan. I’m stoned and if that’s not good, it’s not exactly bad. Nessa’s weed turns the volume down and dampens everything except the panic. I keep fighting the panic, but it gets the better of me… I’ve nothing to do but lie here listening to my racing heart as I stare at the ceiling or whatever wall they’ve turned me to face. We tried tv and dvds, but even listening to music got too tiring.
Soon the padded straps felt too tight; I thought they were cutting me in half. Bloody pathetic, but what can anyone do? And I keep getting skinnier, so Liz tightens the straps even more. I wait for results from the blood tests, but they brush me off when I ask about them. They mix whatever medications they think I need with whatever else I’m taking, and hope my bones will stop fading away, or miraculously rebuild. Biophosphonates. No, hang on, biophosphates? Whatever they are, they’re not rebuilding lost bone. You can’t make new bone with what I have attacking them and you can’t kill it with drugs if you don’t even know what you’re trying to kill. They discussed using chemo; they wanted to kill everything. That fad passed. I float: I don’t have cancer. For most it’s physics gone wrong, a misalignment of gravity, atoms, and molecules, as if my body is a giant warehouse and the foreman has cocked up the arrangement of goods. Mostly they base everything on what I tell them about… my condition. My answers never make them happy.
I feel so heavy, one of these days I expect to fall through the floorboards. That’s what they don’t understand. That’s what Lizzie doesn’t understand. ‘But how the hell can you feel heavy, Chris?’ Lizzie, my bones, they’re made of concrete not crumbling chalk. Like clockwork were Lizzie’s morning checks to see if I had gained weight and lost flotation, ‘Any change, Chris? Are you sure, mate? Let’s have a quick check, eh?’ she’d say. After undoing the straps wrapped round the mattress, she’d let me go. This was before we moved on to the hospital bed. But sure enough, the foreman floats to the ceiling, again. And again. And again. What were we thinking? I was a balloon and I would leak air? Because I have to that’s the way things work, that’s physics, what goes up… I can’t float forever. Nobody in my family ever floated, Jesus, no way. Dad wasn’t the floating kind he wasn’t even the talking kind although Mum might have flotation. The morning arrived when I couldn’t take anymore, and Lizzie bounced in with the usual words on her lips, ‘Any change, Chris…’ but that’s where they stayed. No more flotation checks, thank you. She hasn’t asked since; she doesn’t need to.
What I want is to feel light, like the man in that painting looks, the way I look when I’m not strapped to this bed.
Where did I see the man in that painting? In Japan? Yeah, at a big gallery in the city: I can’t remember which city now. The painting had a long European name, and it was bloody massive, a wall of a painting. What is with this painting? That’s right, I want to be the man in the painting. He was floating up off the ground, his face to the sky and his arms wide. He looked so peaceful, dissolving into the night, yeah, bleeding back into the stars as if he was going back to where it started and where it might begin again for him, cause who knows, eh? Imagine that? Getting to start over?
I beetled around the gallery in a wheelchair with steel plates strapped onto the bottom in case the whole contraption achieved lift off. I float: I don’t make other things float. Bloody Muppets. I was lucky the chair was electric. The best part about Japan was nobody knew who I was. Just a sick man beetling around a gallery while a young kid ran riot through the place with everyone running after him calling his name, Andy! Andy! And that Lego man at the gallery, Jesus, Toby couldn’t tear his eyes away. Someone with too much time on their hands constructed a life-sized man wearing a black suit and carrying a black briefcase. ‘Do you want to make one, son? We’ll build one of our own at home. You build and I’ll supervise, what do you reckon? We’ll use the spare room. Keen or what?’ I said. What would we make? ‘Whatever you want, as long as we can get our heads around it,’ I said.
And what did he choose? A man walking a dog. Why would he choose that? We’ve built up to the man’s knees and a part of the dog’s body, mostly the legs. Why not a car? A rocket ship? A rugby player? No, basketball, isn’t it? A basketball player slam-dunking? We’re not sure what breed the dog is, only that it’s black. There’s a problem with the lead. A dog doesn’t have to be on lead. But we won’t finish it, will we? Toby’s lost interest, and Caruthers, well, you haven’t lasted the distance. God knows I’ve fought, I’ve refused to leave, but let’s face it I’m nearly dead. Now I can die in peace in my own home surrounded by my family, well, most of them. Bloody Murphy’s Law, dying at home is the last thing I want.
‘I want to be the man in the painting,’ I say, but Nessa’s left the room. You didn’t even notice her leave, dozy bastard.
I gave up thinking about my predicament for a while, isn’t that weird? Fun at first and by the time I got used to it I was already half-buggered: osteoporosis. Old chalky bones. Kept hoping though, didn’t we? We tried selling the story even though Liz was against it. That’s not fair we were both against it. The big fight for privacy. We should have sold out to a reality telly show months ago for at least a million bucks. What did that journalist say? You’re a significant, yeah, that was the word, a significant part of the history of the human race, Mr Caruthers, the second Adam, a new Adam - don’t you wan
t your amazing transformation documented for future generations? We’re still using the money from the story unless Lizzie’s lying and we’ve spent it. The guy had made his mind up before he interviewed me, I don’t know why he bothered. New Adam. Slick bastard. The only thing I’m leaving them is my bloody story, a cock-eyed fairytale at that. I want to show the kids what it’s all about, but I’ll never do it with words, I’ve never been any bloody good with words.
Nessa returns and perches on the edge of the bed, or tries to. Her added weight puts more pressure on the straps and more pressure on me. The bed is too small for perching. I don’t have the heart to tell her.
‘Where’s your mother? Is she back yet? Toby?’ I ask.
Who can blame him for all the trouble he’s causing? Not Toby’s fault, it’s not his fault his father’s a living balloon. The shit he must take from the kids at school. His father who art thou full of helium. Except it’s the weight, I can’t stand the weight. Hashimoto, Hashimoto. Something about Hashimoto I need…
‘Mum’s not back yet, Dad. She’ll be back soon, no worries. Have another snooze,’ she says.
‘Thanks for the herbal medication,’ I say.
‘What? Sorry Dad, what was that?’ she says.
‘Herbal medication,’ I say.
‘The weed? Mum’s gonna spaz when she smells it,’ she says.
‘She’s no saint, mate,’ I say.
A car? Is that the car? Shit, I’ve dozed off. Yup, that’s the old sedan pulling up in the driveway.
‘Ness, is that your Mum home?’ I shout.
I’ve just realised I’m not shouting, am I? I might be whispering. Fuck, is this really dying? Did Dad go through this after his stroke? Mumbling out of the right side of his mouth when he thought he was talking clearly? I couldn’t take the pleading in his eyes and you’d never figure out what he was pleading for, but now I do, the poor bastard. That’s not true; I knew. I couldn’t face it. I guess I’ll end up doing the same thing if I last long enough.
Only one door, Caruthers. One door closed, that means…
‘Nuh, nuh nuh nuh nuh, NO! Toby, bloody Toby,’ I say.
An afternoon, that’s all I wanted with Toby, a little time before it runs out and the bloody stack’s toppled over and there’s vinegar spilling everywhere, a flood. The great foreman in the sky has fucked it up and misplaced precious goods.
‘Dad? Mum’s home,’ Nessa says.
‘Is Toby with her?’ I say.
Was that two car doors closing, or one?
‘Nessa? Nessa!’ I shout, but she’s left the room.
What I am supposed to tell the kids? I could tell them it will be okay, but it’s not. Why would you tell your children a bunch of bullshit and lies about everything being okay when it won’t and my passing will at least be a bloody inconvenience? Christ, they’re not stupid. But why tell them it’s terrifying and painful this lonely dying business? Why would they want to know that? So what am I going to say? Good luck with everything, sorry, I tried my best. My best? What does that mean, my best? What could I have done differently?
Is that the doorbell? Yes it is. Jesus, I must have dozed off again. Toby! It’ll be Toby. Lizzie’s locked him out. Finally, he’s…
‘Japan! Japan!’ Andy shouts.
They must be in the lounge. What’s this about Japan?
‘Hey, what’s going on? Is Toby home?’ I shout, but the buggers have closed the bedroom door on me.
Jesus, Japan? Does that mean?
‘Dad! Dad!’ Andy shouts, throwing open the door and running right up to my bed.
‘Your suit’s arrived, Dad, looks awesome!’ he says, and he bloody well turns and runs back out. At least he left the bedroom door open. I’ll be able to get an earful of what’s happening out there.
‘Can I get a gander at it, or what?’ I shout, but no one answers.
Did Hashimoto do it? My suit? A bloody gravity suit, that’s what it’s supposed to be. We agreed he’d bit off more than he could chew when it didn’t arrive. What we didn’t say was that maybe he was bullshitting. We didn’t believe it when he explained it to us. We didn’t, or couldn’t get it. Who would? What are they doing out there now? Laughing? That was a courier at the door. The suit is supposed to weigh me down so I can walk about in it and now that it’s here and finally arrived the buggers can’t stop laughing; they’re bloody howling with laughter. Jesus, they’re laughing so hard, they’ll wet themselves. Hashimoto made it for me and he reckoned he modified it for the one thing I want to do before the end. ‘What is thing, ah, thing would you love to do, Mr Caluthels?’ The one thing, the only? ‘Yes, Mr Caluthels, I make for you special suit, what use you for? Sorry, you use?’
Swimming. Mate, I’d go for a swim.
‘Swim? You swim, yes, possible, ahhh, possible, I make… change-ee, chang-ee,’ he said.
Hashimoto, did you make it work?
‘Have you been smoking pot, Christopher Caruthers?’ Liz says, scraping the vigil chair over. Will she call the cops on my dying, osteo-arthritic arse? I didn’t inhale, Officer, my lungs will burst and collapse. Something has happened to them, it’s like breathing through soggy cloth.
‘Toby?’ I say.
‘Andy love? Go see what’s keeping Nessa, will you?’ she says.
Jesus, Andy’s in here? When did he walk in here? Has he been watching me?
‘It might take me a few minutes, Mum, I’m wearing my zero-gravity suit,’ Andy says, walking past in slow motion.
‘If you start now the sooner you’ll find her, won’t you, hon? Chris, do you need anything? Shall we roll you over onto your side? Can you hear me okay?’ she says.
‘I’m forty-one, not eighty. What’s going on.’ I say.
‘Not eighty? Yeah, funny,’ she says.
‘Toby?’ I say.
‘Shit, I’m so sorry, the little bugger scarpered at the dairy,’ she says.
‘Dairy?’ I say. What? She stopped for milk? Seriously?
‘I tried to buy him an ice cream. I know, I know, thought it was a good idea,’ she says.
‘Not much time now,’ I say, thinking about the suit. Where is it? Why can’t I see it? Bloody well bring it in here.
‘Time? Oh Jesus, Chris, I’m sorry. He bloody ran away, he’s not coping. I tried looking for him, that’s what took me so long. Down at the beach, along the dunes, you know? Shall I call the police? They could keep an eye out for him,’ she says.
‘No, that’s bloody daft, no, not the police, he’ll come home when he needs to,’ I say, but I reckon she only caught half of it. He’ll come home when he gets hungry. More bloody sausages and chips.
‘Yeah, okay. Hey, Chris? We’ve got something to show you, you must have heard us,’ she says, and she calls out for Nessa and Andy to bring in the box.
Box? It comes in a box?
Finally, the bloody suit. Why were they laughing?
Nessa walks in and holds it up from the shoulders.
Oh.
Now I get it. Andy says it looks awesome, totally awesome, and the ladies are trying to hold back the giggles. It might be an outfit those characters wear on the telly shows Toby and Andy loved watching in Japan. Skintight spandex suit wearing heroes that fight giant monsters with stun guns, and plough through faceless hordes with bad Kung fu; it has a hood, and booties. It might be a touch shiny, and its white, a pearlish white. I reckon the girls are too embarrassed to go out with me wearing it… if we can get my crumbling body into it and that’s a big if.
‘I’m so sorry, hon,’ Liz says, turning her big wet eyes away from where Nessa has the suit held up against her.
Sorry about what? Hashimoto said he would make a suit and its here plain as truth. They must think it’s a joke. No, no, he made it, it’s here and I want to wear it. Liz holds up a note from Hashimoto and reads it aloud. I think she skims over a few things and I’m not sure why. Hashimoto wishes me luck and is certain the suit will work.
‘Not exactly the voic
e of confidence, is he?’ Liz mutters.
It was difficult to develop and hard to apply without testing someone with my condition…
‘There’s no one anywhere like Dad,’ Andy says.
and time is of the upmost importance as he believes (correctly) my condition may rapidly deteriorate, and yours sincerely, Doctor Hiroki Hashimoto.
‘God, he’s got a bloody cheek,’ Liz swears, and Nessa and Andy both try to say we haven’t even tried it, but Lizzie’s decided. It’s obvious she believes Hashimoto’s played a practical joke on us.
‘Lizzie? Can you ask the kids to leave?’ I ask.
‘The kids? Oh, okay okay, everyone out. Yes, out! Nessa put that back in its box, we’ve had enough laughs for one afternoon,’ Liz says, ushering the kids out, and talking over Nessa and Andy’s protests. I’m sure Andy wants to try it on himself. I imagine he will when gets a chance.
‘Lizzie, I need to ask you something,’ I say, when she scrapes up in the vigil chair again.
‘Ask me? What is it, hon? Do you need an ice chip? Is your mouth dry? Sounds dry,’ she says.
‘I want to go the pool, I want to go swimming,’ I say.
Some months, I swear it kept me sane. Liz could never see that, she never understood what drove me down to the saltwater pool first thing in the morning, most times before breakfast. Yeah, it was fun charging up and down the lane, especially with surf breaking over the wall and into the pool. I even swam in the rain. That was when it was the most fun, eh? In a decent downpour with the pool to yourself, and the staff standing around under cover and gawking out at you as if you’ve lost your mind. Mostly it was need, a need to move, a special privacy of movement where you’re completely alone even if you’re sharing a lane with another swimmer. Physical movement, rhythmic movement, movement so complete nothing can break your concentration; no Department Managers harping on at you about lost or misplaced goods, no breakage reports, no space problems, no late deliveries and no early deliveries to screw up everything else. No marriage troubles, your kid’s problems, money problems, Jesus H Christ, always those, nuh, nothing more than moving through that weakly chlorinated lukewarm salty water with as little effort as possible, as fluid as fish. Cleansing. Clean. This is the life; I’d say to myself, brother, this… is… living. The only thing Liz came to understand was that swimming was important to me.
They’ve moved through into the lounge. Liz stormed out after I told her I want to go swimming. She didn’t believe me. I had to tell her at least three times until I got through. Yes, swimming. I thought Nessa would go for it, but she’s sitting on the fence. Turns out she’s had reservations about the whole Dad being at home thing, and all this time I thought it was Liz. Good old Lizzie, but she’s not pulling through for you now, mate. Lizzie’s exhausted, more than usual. Nessa’s stoned. That’ll be sending Liz up the wall.
‘We can’t bloody do this on our own, we’ll break every bone in his body!’ Liz shouts.
Yeah, that’s not necessarily exaggerating, Lizzie, but why you think lying here strapped to this bed is…
‘I know we will. Stop shouting at me, why are you shouting at me?’ Nessa yells back.
‘You were feeding him pot, for God’s sakes. He’s bloody well got weaker, Nessa, thanks for that,’ Liz says.
…why you’d think lying here is any better, beats me. This isn’t how I pictured the end. Made of glass, made of chalk, light as air and as heavy as a block of concrete, but here I am - the end - and I want to go for a swim, my last. I’d ask to go surfing but I’m a crap surfer. I’d snap in half, literally. A rag doll swept out from under by a rip, food for barracuda.
‘I can’t take this we can’t do it. That’s that,’ Liz shouts.
They’ll be barging in here in a mo’.
‘Chris? Chris, hon? I’m sorry love, but it just isn’t, we can’t, it’ll kill you,’ Liz says, walking in and for the umpteenth time pulling up in the vigil chair.
‘Dad? How would we get you to the pool? Should we call an ambulance? They’re professionals,’ Nessa says, crouching beside Liz.
‘Let alone getting him into the pool,’ Liz says. She’s been crying, and not from laughter this time. Poor Lizzie, she has big black rings under her eyes. This arvo’s hit her hard. Wait, uh-oh, the committee’s over, they’ve reached a decision. Or not. Watch out, here it comes…
‘Chris, do you really want to do this? We don’t even know if it works. It looks kind of, you know?’ Liz says, leaning over me.
‘Not like our parents, not like my Dad,’ I say.
‘Dad? Your Dad? That’s different, no, a lot different,’ Liz says.
‘No different,’ I say. And it’s not. Forty-one or eighty-one, floating or otherwise, I’m buggered if I’ll lie around here waiting for everything to fail on me. If it will get me out of this bloody bed, I don’t care how half-baked the suit looks.
‘Dad? Does he mean granddad? What does he mean?’ Nessa says.
‘It means we’ve got to get him into this suit and down to that bloody pool,’ Liz says.
They’ve turned on little Andy. They do that when Toby’s not around. Have you been playing with the suit, Andy? Where did you hide the English instruction manual, Andy? Have you lost them, Andy? Do you remember playing with the instructions, Andy? Andy? Andy! I didn’t lose the instructions, I didn’t, the wee fella’s repeating. I wonder if they’ve checked inside his teleporting box. Ha ha, this could be Hashimoto’s real joke; it’d be a great joke to leave out the English instruction manual. They’re turning the place inside-out searching for it even calling the courier company and asking the driver to check his van. Surely they can work it out. A remote control’s involved, but what’s it going to control? Me? Okay Chris, get ready to walk; I have to press the red button. Are you ready? Now! Oh no, sorry love, it’s the green button. Okay, ready?
‘Chris? We can’t find the instructions,’ Liz says, pulling up in the vigil chair again. Nessa’s going through the wardrobe, but why is beyond me.
‘Try anyway,’ I say.
‘Oh Chris, how are we going to get you into it?’ Liz says.
‘Carefully. I need to do this,’ I say.
‘Dad’s looking better now, Mum,’ Nessa says.
That’s my girl.
‘But how do we get him into it, Nessa? What about the drive down? And getting him into the pool, how do we do that?’ Liz says.
‘Mum, they have wheelchair access. How do handicapped people get in and out of the pool?’ Nessa says.
Great, now I’m considered handicapped. And I believe they’re called physically…
‘What’s so funny?’ Liz asks me.
‘Never considered myself handicapped,’ I say.
‘What? Handicapped? All right, all right, what about the suit?’ Liz says.
‘We could slip it on, one strap at a time, you know, work it up the bed,’ Nessa says.
‘You mean keep him strapped down on the bed while we pull it on?’ Liz says.
Workable, Lizzie, that’s workable, you can see it. My kids are bloody geniuses, I tell you.
‘Yeah, we’ll start at the feet and work up,’ Nessa says.
As long as the bloody thing works and I don’t float to the ceiling, I don’t care how they do it.
It feels like live eels. You know, the first time you fish an eel out of the creek when you’re a nipper, and you and your mates are laughing like hell, the bloody thing thrashing and wriggling, fighting to get back to the water? Slippery and mushy, like rotten sponge, but hard under the slipperiness; firm, strong, and cold, and so different from anything you’ve ever touched before it may as well be an alien from one of Andy’s planets. I say, ‘Eels,’ as they slip it on over my floating feet and shins. They don’t hear me. They could perform laser surgery they’re that intense. I try to say I’m not made of cotton wool, but bloody Nessa bangs my shin hard, at least, it feels as if she did. Trying to pull the suit up another inch, she slipped. Hashimoto’s made it skintight.
Couldn’t be loose fitting that wouldn’t fit the image of a floating space age Kung fu warrior.
‘Sorry Dad,’ Nessa says.
‘Shit. Anything broken?’ Liz says.
‘Don’t think so,’ I say, but I wouldn’t know, would I? My bones are so fragile a bone or two might have fractured. Wasn’t there sharpness, more than a needle’s prick?
The gravity suit obviously isn’t working yet. They’ve paused and left my lower limbs floating towards the ceiling. It needs activated unless it’s a coverage thing, that when enough of the suit covers me it will weigh me down. The suit is super light so how does that work? There’s a small box sewn into the suit material up by the neck. They still haven’t found the instruction manual.
‘I don’t know about this,’ Liz says.
‘Won’t happen again, promise,’ Nessa says, louder than she needs. My hearing’s fine, better than fine, I swear it improves while everything else packs up on me.
‘Keep going, keep going,’ I say.
If they give up now there’ll be no second chances.
‘Okay Dad,’ Nessa says.
‘No second chances,’ I say.
‘All right, all right,’ Liz says.
‘Mum,’ Nessa says.
My legs aren’t staying down they’re still floating from the waist and the pressure on the next strap up cuts into me. I won’t give in, no way, suck it up, you bloody Muppet, last chance, Caruthers. At this rate the pool will close, and we still haven’t figured out how to use the bloody thing.
‘We’re taking off another strap now, Chris,’ Liz says.
‘But they’re not staying down,’ Nessa whispers to Liz.
‘Shall we try the remote control now?’ Liz whispers.
‘We’ll have to do the straps up,’ Nessa whispers.
‘Chris? Chris, are you okay? We have to do the straps back up, just until we get you sorted,’ Liz says.
‘Okay,’ I say.
Liz carefully lowers my legs back down to the bed, and she has that nice touch, eh? She always has known how to touch me that way. Tender, I guess is the word, a considerate touch. She was the same with sex, too. God Lizzie, you gave the best…
I try not to cry out when Nessa lashes my ankles back to the bed.
‘Is that too tight, Dad?’ she says.
Last chance Caruthers, don’t put them off, not now, they’ve already pissed around long enough.
‘Where’s Andy?’ I ask.
‘Over here, Dad,’ he says.
Christ, he’s been in here the whole time, I thought he was hiding in his box. Maybe Hashimoto made him an invisibility cloak to go with my gravity suit.
‘Hang in there, Dad, hang in there, mate,’ he says.
‘Okay, mate,’ I say.
‘I didn’t lose the instructions, Dad,’ he says.
‘Andy,’ the girls say.
I reckon Dad was wrong about the Ten Commandments. Stick to the Ten Commandments and you can’t go wrong, that was his philosophy. I can’t even remember when he first gave me that speech, one of the few. That and his belief about pre-dentist grooming: nose hair, ear hair, and facial hair all clipped, trimmed, shaved, and the old body clean and smelling fresh. Not to mention the actual teeth. He had good teeth, the old man. Cheaper to look after your teeth than lead them into wrack and ruin and have to cough up a small fortune. That was his thing, his… other thing. He didn’t have many things, the old man.
Seems naïve now, doesn’t it? The Ten Commandments. I’ve stuck to the Ten Commandments, most of the time, haven’t I? Guess where that got me - dead - not yet, you silly bugger, not yet. I haven’t even got through my mid-life crisis. No toupe. No sports car. Unless you look at it from that whole New Adam thing and floating is a reward for good behaviour. A reward, eh? Bloody booby prize.
‘Okay Chris, how’re we doing?’ Liz says.
She looks proud, with a rosy flush on her face. Nessa’s trying not to laugh. They’re both trying not to laugh. Even Andy, who spends most of his time under a box, looks like he’ll burst out laughing.
‘Sexy,’ I say.
This time they laugh. Thing is, it does, it makes me… loose? Loose and free, but it isn’t bloody working.
‘Wait a sec,’ Nessa says, and giggling walks away.
‘Where are you going?’ Liz calls after her.
‘How is this going to work?’ I say.
I’m in the suit, for sure, but I’m still strapped.
‘It completely covers him now, right? Is it working, Chris? ‘ Liz says.
‘No,’ I say.
‘Oh,’ Liz says.
‘Ta-da,’ Nessa says.
She has brought in her full-length mirror from her bedroom.
‘Not now, Ness, not good timing, mate. Maybe later?’ Liz says.
‘Eh? Sorry,’ Nessa says, looking at me.
She props it up against the wall. For a second I see myself on the bed, and it hits me; they’ve left out the booties, the gloves, and the hood. And I’m half the size I used to be. If I didn’t look like a skinny performer at a gay mardis gras, I’d cry.
‘Sorry Dad,’ Nessa says.
‘The booties, you left…’
‘Booties? Christ, you’re right,’ Liz mutters.
‘And the hood,’ Andy tosses in.
‘Oh yeah, they’re in the box,’ Nessa says.
‘They must have something to do with these here,’ Andy says, touching a small, hard object down on the side of my leg, an inch above my ankle. They’re above my wrist too, and on other sites.
‘I’ve been wondering about those,’ Liz says.
‘Magnets, I reckon,’ Andy says.
‘Here we go,’ Nessa says, holding up a bootie. It has a nifty grey sole with an angled tread and what looks like Andy’s magnets near the ankle. I’m guessing that’s how they’ll attach to the suit, but how are they going to keep out…
‘Whoa,’ I say.
‘Dad? What is it?’ Nessa says.
She just snapped the magnets together. Yes, Andy, you’re right, they’re magnets. An electric current shoots up my leg. Bugger me, they’re light, my foot and leg, my God, I’m lighter.
‘You okay, hon?’ Liz says.
‘The other one, the other one,’ I say, trying to struggle up onto my elbows.
‘Jesus. Pass it over, quick,’ Liz says.
‘Must have done the trick,’ Nessa says.
‘You’re going to be fine, Dad,’ Andy says.
Why can’t they get the fucking remote to work? It’s working, now that everything’s on: suit, booties, gloves, and hood. Fan-fucking-tastic, I’m one of those fizzy drinks you take the morning after a big night out on the sauce. Berocca? I’m a glass of Berocca, fizzing and spritzing, ready to burst out of the glass, or float out the window. That’s weird though, now I’m light and feel like I could float except I’m still not strapless. I’m a giant condom strapped to the bed, somebody’s idea of a twenty-first century Japanese Buck Rodgers crossed with an elephant’s prophylactic.
‘Is he going to cry?’ Nessa whispers.
‘If he isn’t, I bloody well am,’ Liz says.
‘We’ll figure it out, Dad, don’t worry,’ Nessa says.
They decide to call Hashimoto, but the twats have lost his number. They scrounge around and put the courier packaging back together and eu-fucking-reka! A phone number at the Institute, but Nessa can’t get through to anyone, not a soul.
They keep un-strapping and re-strapping with each little experimentation: What does the blue button do? What does the green button do? What does… but my legs keep floating, feet first. We’re so close, Liz keeps saying, we’re so close. But we’re not, and I’m so bloody tired, but I can’t imagine getting out of this now.
‘Looks like our console,’ Andy says, piping up. He always sulks after he’s suffered one of their nasty turns.
‘Console what?’ Liz mutters.
‘Our Playstation console,’ Andy says, in that tone of voi
ce kids reserve for people they suspect are mildly mentally retarded.
‘Let the boy take a look, eh?’ I say.
‘Sorry hon, what was that?’ Liz says.
I swear she selects what she wants to hear only when I have nothing to say.
‘Let’s let Andy have a look,’ Nessa says.
‘Over my dead body,’ Liz says.
She hasn’t a bloody clue. Her nose almost touches the instruction pages she holds them that close to her face. Nessa’s given up on strategy; she hits buttons at random and squints at me as if I’m a piece of meat on a slab: is it moving? Did it move? The remote, the remote…
‘Can’t hurt,’ I say.
‘Let Andy check it out, Mum,’ Nessa says.
‘Oh for God’s sakes,’ Liz shouts.
Why is she ripping the instructions in half? Of all the Muppet things to do.
‘Are you past caring?’ I say, but no one hears me, busy with shouting at each other.
‘Mum,’ Nessa says, rushing out after Liz, who’s fleeing the scene. Christ.
‘Just us boys now, Dad,’ Andy says, holding the remote in one hand and what’s left of the instructions in his other.
‘What’s the plan, Andy?’ I say.
‘Plan? Did you say plan, Dad? Pushing two buttons at once always works, does in Mortal Combat,’ he says, pushing buttons with a will.
‘That’s reassuring, Andy,’ I say.
The pressure against the straps drops away.
‘Hey! Andy?’ I say.
‘Not now, Dad, I’ve figured it out,’ Andy says, pointing the remote at me.
‘It’s working, it’s bloody working,’ I say.
‘Working? It’s working, Dad, I said I’ve figured it out,’ Andy says, moving closer to the bottom of the bed. Pointing the remote at me, he unwraps the bottom strap.
‘Andy? Andy! Call the girls before you do that, eh mate?’ I say.
‘Mum! Nessa!’ he shouts.
One strap, two, three, no floating feet no floating legs.
‘You’ve done it, you fucking little beauty,’ I say.
‘You said fuck,’ Andy says, staring at me as if I’m the boogie monster.
‘What’s going on in here? Andy! Are those straps undone, Jesus… your legs,’ Liz says.
‘Going to have a heart attack, Lizzie?’ I say.
‘Andy! You bloody legend,’ Nessa says, rushing over and trying to hug him.
‘Not now, Nessa. Nessa! Get away, will ya? I haven’t figured everything out,’ Andy says, trying to fight her off without losing the remote.
‘What did you do? How’d you do it?’ Lizzie says.
‘Pushing two buttons at once,’ I say.
‘We’re supposed to be filming this. I can get a video, easy as,’ Nessa says, turning on Liz.
Video? I’ve a hunch Liz skimmed over that part in Hashimoto’s letter. It makes sense. Poor Hashimoto, he’s probably waiting at the airport for a phonecall he’ll never get.
‘Look! If we get your father down to that pool looking like this, bloody Hashimoto’s will get ten years worth of footage, okay?’ Liz says.
‘Watch this,’ Andy says.
My legs are floating again. The suit, it controls… gravity, it controls the amount of gravity that’s working on me. I’m pressed tight against the straps again, my upper body that is, and now the cheeky little bugger’s increasing the gravity in jerky little stops. The pressure drops away from the upper straps. God, that’s restful. I’m resting here, a normal human being. How many times have I daydreamed about this exact moment?
‘Andy?’ I say. He’s too busy playing with the gravity working on my legs to pay me any attention.
‘What is it Dad?’ Nessa says.
I want to say, find that bloody telephone number will you and get the phone handy, cause I’m calling that mad genius, Hashimoto. It worked, it worked, I’m getting out of here, we’ll have his phone number somewhere, but time, time, last chance Caruthers, do or die, the last bridge, he who dares wins.
‘Get the wheelchair ready,’ I say.
This… is… the… life, brother, you’re living now even though I must look a bloody treat in my fancy suit, spread-eagled in the middle of the pool. Andy stands at the pool edge, consulting the remote. I can only imagine what’s going through his mind: He’s a NASA technician going through a checklist seconds before Space Shuttle lift off, or he’s a space warrior about to battle the Morfians with his new weapon. I guess if he cocks it up, we might achieve lift off. I’m surprised Liz isn’t with him, or Nessa. Hang on, that’s why they’re terriers at my side. Sharpen up, Caruthers. Shit, you can’t blame me for slipping. I’d take slipping at the pool for getting my bloody foot jammed in the front door on the way out of the house and banged again getting into the car.
‘They’re laughing at me, aren’t they?’ I say to Liz.
‘Laughing? Whose laughing? Hon, how’s your ankle?’ Liz says.
‘The water might be good for it,’ Nessa says.
It doesn’t matter now, Nessa, but I don’t have the energy to tell her. My foot throbs; it’s pulsing a message to outer space. Most of the bones in that foot - in my ankle - have probably fractured, and yes, these are tears of pain mixed with joy. But the water, oh God, the water, you’re right Nessa, the water’s bloody amazing. I’m floating, not bobbing about like a bloody balloon.
‘We’ll have to take him to the E.R. after this,’ Liz says.
Hospital? God, I’m not going to hospital. No getting out of there once they’ve taken me prisoner.
‘It’s not that bad,’ I say.
They’re laughing, the crowd up by the café tables and on the landing. The staff, swimmers, and watchers on gawk at me, the man in a funny suit floating in the saltwater pool. It won’t be long before the news crews and reporters arrive with their stupid questions.
‘Hey, excuse me? Excuse me? Can you give us a couple more minutes, please?’ Liz shouts at people I can’t see behind me. Someone determined to get in a quick kilometre or two, their daily fix before the pool closes, like I used to be.
‘It’s okay,’ I say, but they’re both too busy trying to block the intruder or intruders.
‘Hey? Anyone?’ I say.
‘You okay, Dad? Mum? Dad wants something,’ Andy shouts.
Nessa’s arguing about the arrangement with the pool staff. They realised we were serious once they stopped laughing and recognised me, the famous floating man, and understood I wanted the pool to myself for a few minutes. And they gave us a few minutes, God bless the officious bastards. I guess a few minutes are shot.
‘What’s wrong? Everything okay?’ Liz says, cradling me again, and not for my safety. She can hold me here in water she can hold me.
‘As long as no one bangs into me, she’ll be right,’ I say.
‘All right? You sure?’ Liz says.
‘Public pool,’ I say.
‘Just a wee bit longer?’ Liz says.
Christ, the first time in months we’ve been together outside the house and the bloody bedroom, and we’re in a swimming pool, my pool. Bloody perfect, isn’t it?
‘Liz, grab the remote off Andy,’ I say.
To hear me, she lowers her head until her ear is right next to my mouth.
‘Take the remote off Andy,’ I repeat.
‘The remote? What’s he doing wrong?’ she says.
‘I want to go,’ I say.
‘Okay, we’ll try not to bang your foot this time,’ she says.
‘No, not home, I want you to let me go, float away,’ I say.
‘Float? I’m not letting you float away in a public pool,’ she says.
Nessa pleads for more time, but no one has any to give.
‘Hey! Can you give us space, please? This man here is fragile goods,’ Liz shouts, as young kids, with their parents as curious as the kids, slosh over.
‘Is it him?’ someone says nearby.
‘He isn’t floating, retard,’ another person s
ays.
‘How we doing, Dad?’ Andy shouts.
‘You’re not going anywhere, Christopher Caruthers, not yet,’ Liz says, giving Andy the thumbs up.
That was a good observation, whoever said it: He isn’t floating… Am I floating in this water? Or am I floating free of the water? That’s the weirdest sensation, eh? Water or no water, I’d still be floating, wouldn’t I? I mean, without the suit. Am I in this water or not? No, I’m floating in this water; it’s a bloody mind-bender. Jesus, get it together.
‘Shit,’ Liz says.
‘What?’ I say, turning my head. She’s staring up at the café.
‘Eh? Oh, a reporter, arsehole with a camera,’ Liz says.
‘Hey, guess who I saw,’ Nessa says.
‘Nessa? Tell those people to back up, please,’ Liz says.
Somebody asked me if it was okay, probably Lizzie. Word travels fast in this town. I guess a moron caught it on his cell phone, and now it’s on the internet; a rare sighting of that freak show, Chris Caruthers… ‘Swimming in a pool, bro.’ I guess it was Andy’s fault. Little bugger floated me up out of the water for a second before he lowered me. Unless he wasn’t paying attention and hit the wrong buttons? Guess what that means, old fella? You might get out of here. It’s mob rule now, with punters swamping the pool to get close to the loony in the suit. Do they know it’s the floating man? Or have they come to check out the perv who has the balls to go swimming in a skintight spandex suit in a public pool? This suit isn’t made of spandex. Things have definitely got weird.
‘Oh crap. Everyone’s pouring in,’ Nessa says.
‘What’s that guy asking you, Nessa?’ Liz says.
‘They want to touch him. Hey, Dad? I think they want to touch you,’ Nessa says.
I’m too tired to say no.
No one hits or bumps me hard, and Liz screams at them to be gentle, as if I’m a dog and they’re small children full of good intentions and rough clumsiness. There’ll be no biting from this old mutt, only my breaking bones if it turns to custard.
I can’t look at them it’s too uncomfortable, it’s too… it’s like being at the dentist. I try to stare at the sky: big, blue, and clear as a bell this arvo, but the cheeky bloody monkeys keep leaning over, getting in my face with big gapped tooth smiles and bloody freckles. I recognise a handful. Might’ve come up through school with Toby. They’re being gentle and tender, young and old alike, and saying nice things in amongst the obvious - ‘Keep your feet on the ground, boss’ - ha ha, that one never gets old. No, some of them are telling me things no one’s ever told me, at least not in public, ‘Our thoughts are with you and your family, Mr Caruthers.’ Their little touches are like caresses they’re so bloody gentle as if they’re touching a saint. This one guy, an elderly gent who has seen twice the years and has twice the wrinkles I’ll ever have, lightly rests his fingertips on my chest and whispers, ‘Safe journey,’ in my ear and for a second I thought he was my father and he hadn’t died.
‘Why is he crying?’ a kid asks.
Jesus, am I? I hadn’t noticed. And why not? These people, everyone; the photo snapping wankers, and people who never believed I float, let alone believe I will die from the privilege, are flocking to this pool and quietly waiting their turn to wade up and touch yours truly. They know they’re saying goodbye. Any fool can see I’ve run out of time, even the kids.
‘Time to go, Chris,’ Liz murmurs in my ear.
‘Let me go, Lizzie,’ I say.
‘I can’t bloody do that,’ Liz says.
‘I don’t want to get out of this pool, I can’t,’ I say.
‘Eh?’ she says.
‘I can’t get out.’
‘I’m not bloody doing it, okay? What about your Mother, and your sisters? What about Toby? He’s not even here. And Andy? What about your mates at work?’ she says.
This would be the mother and sisters that distanced themselves from their embarrassing floating son and brother. And my mates? My so called mates that haven’t visited me in months? There’s my mate, Mark the plumber, Mr handyman around the house while the floating invalid deteriorated, who stopped popping into the bedroom to say hello after I put the damper on his great idea for me to be the Super Fourteen team’s mascot. God he pestered me about that. But it’d only be home games, he’d say. I’ve been so unreasonable so disrespectful of everyone’s wishes.
‘Okay everybody! Show’s over, the show’s over!’ Liz shouts, standing poolside and waving her arms around. When did she get out of the pool?
‘Don’t worry, Dad, I’m here, I’ve got you,’ Nessa says.
I wonder if I could convince Nessa to grab the remote off Andy and get her to do the deed. She might.
‘Andy can lift you out now, Dad,’ Nessa says.
I bet that boy’s having a field day. Kids from his school are here, I’m sure. Whoa, that’s pretty sweet. The show isn’t over yet; Andy’s raising me high above the pool. I’m dangling, that’s all I can do. Beyond the pool, good-sized sets roll in and I watch the waiting surfers’ turn and frantically paddle, trying to time their runs.
‘Andy! Not so high, Andy,’ Liz screeches from below.
Yeah, he’s putting on a good show the boy, a pity about the damaged goods on display.
‘Lower him, Andy, we need to get him over by the wheel chair, lower him for God’s sakes,’ Liz shouts.
I guess that means I need to get my legs below me without somersaulting.
‘Slowly, Andy, slowly,’ Liz shouts, and Nessa chips in as well.
Higher not lower, Andy, higher, higher. But no, lower we go. Helping hands from punters in the pool below help me across to the waiting wheelchair as if I’m the Sultan of Brunei.
Trying to catch a glimpse of me, the punters cram into the changing room entrance, but they can’t get past the pool staff posted sentry at the door. The photographers must be winning the ruck, going by the amount of camera flashes going off; there’s a bloody lightning storm bouncing off the walls in here. Why are they bothering? I’m behind the shower wall. They’ll be getting shots of Nessa’s back, or her bottom if they can even get those.
‘What’s happening to the suit?’ Nessa says.
‘What’s wrong?’ I ask.
‘Is it the shower water?’ Nessa asks.
‘Looks funny now, Dad, like totally weird,’ Andy says.
And it didn’t before? He definitely has a different outlook on things, our Andy.
‘Has the seawater streaked it? Funny blue streaks,’ Nessa says.
‘They’re green, are you blind?’ Andy says.
Hashimoto probably made it specifically for fresh water. That would be Japanese of him. Precise and specific, they must have fantastic foreman in Japan, the type that fuss for hours over the exact placement of two small boxes on a shelf.
‘I have to keep adjusting it,’ Andy says.
The wee fella seems to be busy with the remote. I’m not as light, not as anchored as I was earlier.
‘How’re you feeling, Dad?’ Nessa says.
‘It’s coming in waves,’ I say, but she won’t understand my panic at the returning weight.
‘Waves? Do you want to watch the surf?’ she says.
Why the hell not? When you’re as far gone as I am, what’s better or worse than watching the sets rolling in?
‘Okay. Where’s your mother?’ I say.
‘We parked on the level up behind the pool. You could watch the surf from inside the car, would that be okay, Dad?’ she asks.
‘Where is Mum?’ Andy says.
‘I don’t know,’ Nessa says.
‘I need to go to the toilet,’ Andy says.
‘One’s or two’s?’ Nessa says.
‘Two’s,’ Andy says.
‘How much longer?’ one of the staff posted at the door says.
‘Not much longer,’ Nessa says.
‘Sweet, take your time,’ the smartarse says.
‘Time to get going,’ I say.
&nb
sp; Nessa’s towelling me down, well, towelling the suit, and with her free hand furiously pushing buttons on the remote.
‘How did he figure this out?’ Nessa says.
Nessa reckons the saltwater is screwing round with it. How does she know that? Christ, it won’t be saltwater that’s the problem although fancy scientific suits might react to salt. What are you now, Caruthers, the great foreman turned scientist?
‘Can I sit down?’ I say.
Why do this standing when I could sit? Ahhhh, that’s the stuff, eh? Throw in a pie and a lukewarm cup of tea and we’ll claim overtime.
‘Where’s Liz?’ I say.
Where is Liz? The longer we spend in here more and more camera flashes go off. The annoying reporters outside won’t stop shouting stupid questions that echo around the changing room. I hear Nessa’s name called out. Front page news… Daughter Towels Down Floating Man At Pool. There’ll be a tv camera crew waiting when Nessa wheels me out of here, sure as. Maybe that’s what Liz is doing? Getting rid of the cameras? I hope she is; I hate seeing myself on television. The first time I couldn’t get over how fat I appeared. Later, I was skinny and bony. Fat or skinny, I don’t want to see myself on telly.
‘She saw someone in the crowd she didn’t care for,’ Nessa says.
‘My mother?’ I say.
‘Andy? How’s it going, mate?’ Nessa shouts towards the bogs.
Hell of a time to take a dump, son. I would have thought Toby’d be here by now. Surely someone’s told him that his weird old man is at the pool. When will he come skulking back? I can’t go without saying goodbye to him. What kind of father buggers off without saying goodbye to his children?
‘I’m poohing, give me a break,’ Andy shouts.
‘We doing all right?’ one of the staff bouncers says.
‘I asked your Mum to let me go,’ I say.
‘What? Let you go? Nobody’s going to fire you, Dad, not even Countdown did,’ Nessa says.
‘I want you to be there, for Andy,’ I say.
‘Andy? Sorry Dad, you’ve lost me,’ she says.
‘To help him when I go, like the man in the painting,’ I say.
‘A painting now? Do you want to go to the art gallery? Have you been smoking more weed?’ Nessa says, squinting at me.
‘All done,’ Andy says, washing his hands over at the sinks.
‘I want to go, Ness, today, I can’t… I’m sorry,’ I say.
‘Go? Fuck, you mean… go. Dad, you don’t have to be sorry, shit,’ she says.
She tries to hug me but ends up resting her fingertips on my shoulders. She pecks me on the cheek.
‘I don’t want you to go,’ she whispers.
‘Enjoy yourself, Saint Christopher? We ready to go yet?’ Liz shouts from the entrance.
‘Here’s Mum, what have you been doing?’ Andy says, shaking water off his hands.
‘Having a moment are we? What a bloody circus, eh? Whose bright idea was this?’ Liz says.
She doesn’t have to use the remote; the seat belt’s doing the job, but it digs in across my shoulder and my hip. The camera clickers won’t fuck off, will they? We’re bloody animals in a zoo, as far as they’re concerned: Hey look, he moved, I didn’t think he could move? Oh yeah, he can float. The wankers were coming right up to the car windows before Liz scared them off with her wild woman act. ‘Let him enjoy the view for a few minutes, you bloody arseholes! Fuck off, will ya? Fuck off!’
The view is worth the hassle. I’ll miss this; the coast, with its beaches and bays and the kids running over the sand, well Toby and Andy running around with not a soul in sight, not one. I want to laugh now, at our disappointment when a punter comes strolling along, paradise ruined. What a bloody joke. Like now, a multi-million dollar view and we’re sitting in a pool car park taking it in free. You’d have to pay for the privilege in another country packed to the gunnels with people. You’d be looking out of an expensive motel window if you were.
‘I guess this would be the time to get stuff off our chests?’ Liz says.
Andy will have ice cream covering half his face by now. Poor little fella, he wasn’t happy about giving up the remote to Lizzie. ‘She doesn’t know how to use it, Dad!’ he squealed. I’m banking on that, son, but there’ll be no floating out of here, not in this position. A seat belt. God, I bloody hate belts and straps.
‘Stuff?’ I say.
Oh Jesus, we’re not doing this now, are we? Stuff? Stuff, like little Julie at work? Bright, lovely, sparkly-eyed, Julie, that I couldn’t stand going one day without talking to, or at least seeing from a distance? I never told Julie. No, I didn’t, bloody perving coward. Used to hang around waiting for her to come in with the early birds on the night shift, or I’d make up excuses to go in on the weekends. That was always a soft excuse though. That weekend foreman, Wes, couldn’t shift goods from one side of the warehouse to the other without cocking it up, the bloody mug. Julie will finish her degree and head back up north and will never know about the dirty old day foreman’s crush on her unless I ask Nessa to tell her. What would Julie have done if she’d known? Laughed it off, or led me on, or both? Didn’t she treat you differently than the others? Too late now.
‘Jesus, Chris, why did this happen to us?’ she says.
That’s what Eve told the first Adam after it turned to custard, Why, Adam, why?
‘I’m sorry,’ I say.
‘That’s a bloody stupid thing to say,’ she says.
Good old Lizzie, never afraid to call a spade a spade.
‘Sell the story,’ I say.
‘Sell? Oh, don’t worry, Nessa’s all over that one. Are you hungry? Thirsty?’ she says.
‘Just dying,’ I say.
‘Chris, this isn’t fair. Those pricks out here. Why do they have to spoil everything?’ she says.
‘They don’t have to,’ I say.
‘What? Yeah, you’re right, they bloody don’t, they bloody well won’t,’ she says.
Liz said she wanted to do one last thing. I didn’t imagine this, eh? Jesus Christ, the woman has real talent when she can work up a dying man. Is she getting enough air? Can she breathe under the towel? I should be embarrassed about people watching, or Andy and Nessa returning to the car. The bastards outside are shocked aren’t they, once they figured out what Mrs Caruthers is up to under the towel.
The suit has a fly, a line of tiny magnets nearly too small to see if you weren’t searching for them or dying to take a leak. Hashimoto thought of everything, clever bugger. And the punters, ‘Whoa, what the bloody hell’re they up to?’ Yahooing and laughing with that laughter people get when they’re half-surprised, or shocked and half-excited. And those prudish types that sound like my mother, ‘Oh for God’s sakes, oh for crying out loud, we can’t have this, we can’t have’, but we bloody can, can’t we? Unless someone’s called the cops: I bet they have. More photo opportunities for the front pages, more photos for their stupid Facebook. Liz’s revenge, isn’t it? Fuck them. They’ve shown us bugger all in the way of respect these past months - except for in the pool just now - why should we bother? Don’t they want to be flies on the wall?
‘Try and relax,’ she says, taking a breather.
A kinky bastard might enjoy all this attention.
‘Think about that time, back at the start,’ she says, getting back to work.
The start? What start? Oh, the start, that’s right, Jesus, that’s right.
‘Do you remember?’ she says, taking another quick breather.
‘Never forget,’ I say.
How could I? I was healthy, except for my floating around, and we thought that was the way it would be, big strong Chris, the floating foreman. What fun, eh? It was the first time, and I was strapped to the old marital bed. Did we have proper straps? What were we using for… but Lizzie, good time Lizzie, she came in one arvo. She was off work, and the supermarket didn’t know what to do with me. They never did.
She crawled over the bed towards me in her
knickers and bra, and we tried everything you could do with a floating human being. Liz was mostly on top at the start and we laughed our heads off when I tried to be on top. She wrapped her legs round my hips, but it wouldn’t bloody work, would it? Not that way, but I wanted to do it from behind. And how did we solve that arrangement of goods? Oh Christ, that’s right, we used a tie off the mattress and tied each other together. We looped it around our waists and tied it tight around her tummy. She held on to the headboard, and I held on to her hips as hard as I could and the floating added to it. It was glor…
‘Oh Lizzie, Lizzie,’ I moan.
…glorious, I can’t believe it, I’m going to, I’m going…
‘Jesus, Liz! Jesus!’ I say.
…and the punters outside - don’t pay attention to them - remember that afternoon. Hey, isn’t that Mark the plumber? Jesus, someone’s removed his head, boiled it for ten minutes, and reattached it.
‘Ohhh, Liz,’ I say, groaning it out, what little I have.
What the fuck is Mark doing here? Is he watching us?
‘Oh Liz, thanks mate,’ I whisper.
‘You’re welcome,’ she says, surfacing and wiping her mouth on a corner of the towel.
‘That’ll give them something to gossip about,’ I say, but I can barely say it, my energy limped out with my gizz.
‘Oh Christ, we better get you home. You’re bloody exhausted. Shit, what was I thinking?’ Liz says, folding the towel up and tossing it over the back.
‘I’m sorry, oh God, Chris, you look, I just wanted…’
‘Not home,’ I say.
‘Hospital? Do you want me to call Harrup?’ she says.
‘Let me go now, Lizzie,’ I say.
‘Go? Chris, I can’t bloody do that, okay?’ she says.
‘Not here, somewhere else,’ I say.
Bugger me. I can barely get the words out. I’m fading, fading, dissolving.
‘Chris,’ she says.
‘Dying, Liz, let me go,’ I say.
‘Chris,’ she says, and she’s bloody crying now.
‘Please, Lizzie, please,’ I say.
‘You bastard, you knew I’d give in, didn’t you? Okay. The Point? Out at the Point? That’s a special place. We’ll get privacy out there at least,’ she says.
‘Perfect,’ I say.
Of all the things to weep about, Nessa’s pissed at the arse job they both did of stapling up the pant legs and taking in the jacket of my best suit. It won’t do, they won’t let me go to the heavens dressed as a streaked Kung fu space age giant-lizard fighter so they slipped my Sunday’s best over the top. What’s the bloody difference? I might not even make it out to the Point. What will they do if that happens? I suppose, when I die, I’ll keep floating, won’t I? Dying won’t suddenly change me. No, you won’t bloody die yet. They got you into the car without breaking bones this time. Someone’s looking out for you, Caruthers, maybe it’s the Old Man?
‘We did the best we could, I’m not a bloody tailor,’ Liz snaps.
‘He looks like a P O W,’ Nessa whimpers.
‘Nessa! Keep quiet if you’ve nothing nice to say,’ Liz says.
Great. I’m shipping out and my daughter says I look like a prisoner of war. It doesn’t matter, Nessa, dignity only goes so far where dying is concerned. You don’t understand, but Lizzie does. It doesn’t matter one iota, Nessa.
‘Where’s Toby?’ Andy says.
The little guy hasn’t cried once. Does he understand why we’re going out to the Point?
‘Andy,’ I say.
‘He’s okay, Chris, he wants to be here,’ Liz says.
Andy’s wanting to be here doesn’t mean he needs to be here.
‘We can’t wait forever, Mum,’ Nessa tries to whisper from the backseat, but my hearing is sweet as.
‘You be quiet, Vanessa Caruthers,’ Liz says.
Bugger me if it isn’t our Toby. He’s peeking round the corner of the Carlson’s hedge, and it looks as if he’s crying. The girls haven’t seen him yet, and they won’t. They’re on the wrong side of the car to see him as easily as I can. Clever, he probably thought of that too. He shakes his head. Stubborn little bugger: He’s not coming with us. Goodbye Toby, eh? Some bloody father you turned out to be, Caruthers.
Take a kiss I blow at you, Toby, take it to your heart the way you did when you were a nipper. Good boy, he remembers. Make a stacking motion with your hands, Caruthers. The Lego. He’ll get that, won’t he? He gets it, or does it look like I can’t breathe? Don’t forget the Lego, Toby, don’t forget the Lego project, will you? He nods. He understands. But even from here, I see he’s losing it and balling his eyes out. He ducks out of sight. That’ll be the last time, Caruthers, you screwed up that one. You said goodbye though, and everyone has their own way.
‘Chris,’ Liz says.
‘We have to go, Mum,’ Nessa says.
‘We can’t bloody well leave Toby behind,’ Liz says.
‘Okay, it’s okay, I said goodbye,’ I say.
‘Dad said its okay,’ Andy says.
I wonder if the little bugger saw Toby? Andy’s behind me in the back seat.
‘He bloody did not, Andy,’ Nessa says.
‘He did. God you’re deaf,’ Andy says.
‘Enough of that you two. There’s dodgy buggers parked down the street,’ Liz says.
‘Reporters?’ Nessa says.
‘You’ll have to lose them, Mum’ Andy says.
God, what I wouldn’t give to have Andy’s teleporting box, I’d take the Morfians on at their own game, though I’ve never figured out what game that is. Better than trying to survive this; Liz couldn’t outdrive a car full of Sunday morning nuns on the way to church.
‘They’re still there,’ Nessa shouts.
We’re not even out of the City boundary. If they follow us across the bridge, we’ll never see the end of them. I’ll be saying my goodbyes with sunglasses on to keep out camera flashes.
‘Hang in there, Dad,’ Andy says.
As slow as Liz is driving, every time she corners, I’m expecting bones to snap.
‘I can’t bloody lose them,’ Liz says.
‘Nuh, you are, you’ve put some distance on them,’ Nessa says.
‘About bloody time,’ Liz mutters.
‘Shit, isn’t that Mark’s van?’ Nessa says.
That would be Mark the plumber’s van that’s now passing us on the wrong side of a suburban street, with Mark at the wheel, waving at us like a man trying to flag down a battleship.
‘What does he want now?’ Liz says.
Now? What did he want earlier? My body might be dying, but my mind is here, I think.
‘Follow him, he wants us to follow him,’ Andy shouts.
‘Yeah, he does. Follow him, Mum,’ Nessa says.
‘Follow him where? He doesn’t know where we’re going,’ Liz says.
‘He knows we’re going somewhere,’ Nessa says.
Mark knows these streets better than anyone does, the time he spends driving from job to job round here. Nessa’s right, he’s followed us, and any fool that’s following us can see we’re trying to avoid the other dickheads following us.
‘We should call the police, it’s bloody insane,’ Liz says.
‘Van,’ I say.
So infuriating, I’ll end up like the old man, playing charades with my eyes while everyone tries to guess what I’m saying. Lizzie, we could switch vehicles and use his bloody van.
‘See? Dad wants to find out what Mark wants,’ Andy says, his head bouncing against the roof.
‘All right, all right, how’re we doing behind us? Andy! Bloody calm down,’ Liz says.
‘Clear. Nuh, that red one’s still there,’ Nessa says.
‘Okay, okay, let’s see what Mr Wainwright wants, eh? We’ll have to lose that other car,’ Liz says.
Mark laughed when he saw me slumped in the seat, and he laughed at my best suit. I’m one and a half feet in the grave, more than, and he bloody laugh
ed at me. What else did he say, fuck, what was it? Oh, he said, shit, he said, bla bla bla, he didn’t bloody know what to say, did he? Bobbing from foot to foot, he couldn’t look me in the eye, the guilty bastard. He’s been dropping by the house for more than a quick cuppa and a hello, and there’s Lizzie’s afternoon disappearances Nessa’s tried to cover up for months.
‘It was a good idea, Mum,’ Nessa says.
Yeah, flooring it through a red light and switching vehicles behind the old bank building, sheer genius.
‘He’s not as comfortable in this smelly van,’ Liz says, considerate woman.
That’s what Mark said! ‘Not too late to be the team mascot, Chris.’ Who would say that? In my state? Come on. It was like that every day for a while, wasn’t it? Mark poking his ginger head into the bedroom, and saying, ‘Howz Mr Floatie today?’ Dropping off one of Kathy’s dry casseroles, a quick tinker with the ancient superheater, replace a worn washer here and there, and oops a daisy, you’re looking lonely this arvo, Mrs Caruthers, what can I do to cheer you up, eh? As long as it wasn’t with Nessa, there’s no knowing with that guy. She’s a good girl. She wouldn’t touch him with a barge pole.
Shit, Mark said something else, yeah: I’m sorry I won’t be there to see you go, Chris, he said. I reckon he meant it, but why he’d believe I want him to be there, when my own son won’t be is beyond me. That last part, what was the last part: At least I can do this much for you, mate, he said. As if driving our car home and leaving the key in our letterbox is the least you could do… mate. He did more than most of them, that’s what sucks.
‘Almost there, Chris,’ Liz says.
‘Jesus Mum,’ Nessa says.
I guess I’m not looking that good, eh? My head keeps banging against the door, that’s bloody irritating.
‘Well, can you straighten him up please, Nessa?’ Liz says.
‘Okay, okay,’ Nessa says.
‘Don’t break anything,’ Andy says.
We conceived Nessa out here. That was always my theory. Liz has found the actual clearing we parked in that evening. It’s the same one. Already gloomy in here, but that’s why I remember it. Backed up into the trees in the back of my blue Datsun 180b full automatic, we called it our cave. I nod and try to smile at her, but she gets it, she knows. It’s smaller than I remember. There’s the estuary past the pine trees and the walking track starts over there, on the far side of the clearing. We used to take the kids along that for a post-lunch amble. It links up all over the Point. Walk for an hour easy. We used to have barbies on Sunday arvos down the road at the bigger clearing with the picnic tables, not in here.
We were so bloody poor we didn’t even talk about the future. We knew we had one, but not one like this and we’re not even old and you’ll be starting over with three kids and a bunch of bills. Will you get in trouble for this? People go to jail for… what’s this called? Unauthorised euthanasia?
‘Jail?’ I croak, but the effort, it isn’t worth repeating.
‘Don’t worry love, save your energy,’ Liz says.
‘You’re a floating man, Dad. Rules don’t apply to floating people,’ Andy says.
‘Andy,’ Nessa says.
I guess the boy’s right. Surely they can’t be held to blame if I accidentally float away. They could lay the blame on Hashimoto’s suit and say it malfunctioned, or even blame the saltwater, which isn’t fair on Hashimoto, the suit works perfectly. I should have told him, but Liz will. I hope she does. His name is too much work to get out now. Not many words left.
They’re crying; even Andy’s caught the bug.
‘Is here okay?’ Liz says.
‘I can’t believe we’re doing this,’ Nessa says.
‘Andy? Can you work the remote?’ Liz says.
‘It’s not working anymore,’ Andy says.
‘Okay guys, listen, we’re going to float him out of the van, all right? And we’ll carefully…’
‘Okay Mum, we get it, eh?’ Nessa says.
‘No listen, Nessa, we’ll carefully walk him out to the middle and we’ll say goodbye one last time, okay? Do you understand, Andy?’ Liz says.
‘What if Dad gets hit by an airplane?’ Andy says.
‘Andy,’ the girls say.
‘He won’t get hit, okay?’ Liz says.
‘I hope he doesn’t,’ Andy says.
‘Can he hear us? Dad? Can you hear us?’ Nessa says.
‘Dad? Dad, can you hear what I’m saying?’ Andy says.
‘Yes, he can hear you. Trust me, he can hear you. All right, let’s honour your father’s last wish,’ Liz says.
All business, that’s my Lizzie. I’m nearly floating up out of this seat. Open the door and unbuckle the seat belt. Everything’s packing up on me faster than that old Holden did. Well, the car body went to shit the engine went on forever.
‘Careful, careful,’ Liz says.
They make an awkward job getting me out - my head bangs into the doorframe - but I feel awesome, and I try to tell them, except it sounds as if I’m gurgling.
‘Quick guys, let’s go let’s go,’ Liz shouts.
And it’s a bloody great rush; it always is at the end - for my father and for Liz’s parents - a race to get everyone where they need to be, in my case the middle of a clearing at the Point. I always thought it would be that bloody hospital bed.
‘Say goodbye, everyone, say goodbye,’ Liz says, and they’re all bawling. I want them to understand: I’m so light I’m a feather. I’m the man in the painting. I’m going back I’m going back there’s no need to cry you should laugh. It’s all over and I’m floating. Let me go now let me go.
‘Bye Dad, bye Dad, I love you, I love you Dad, thanks for being the best Dad in the world. You look good in your suit, Dad, I didn’t mean what I said, I love you so much,’ Nessa’s saying.
‘See ya Dad, see ya, love you, love you,’ little Andy’s saying.
‘Take care on your way up, Christopher Caruthers. I’ll be seeing you again one day, I never bloody deserved a man as good as you, no girl in her right mind would let you go, and Toby loves you, he loves you, I’ll say goodbye to him for you, I’ll let him know how much you love him,’ Liz says, and…
‘Okay guys, it’s time.’
and…
‘Let go now, Nessa. Andy. let go. Andy love, it’s time.’
and…
I’m free.
****
About the Author
David Bath was born in a steel bathtub in the middle of a freak lightning storm.
The bathtub was located in a small town at the bottom of the world (Invercargill, New Zealand).
David is a father, a husband, and an excellent conduit for electricity.
Overqualified with degrees in Art History, English Lit, and Physical Education, one day David decided to add creative writing to the list. David has published poetry in literary journals in both New Zealand and America.
His website - davebath.com - contains a blog he calls GUFF, which is full of articles about his various travel (mis)adventures, poetry, book and film reviews and more besides.
Currently living in Japan, he juggles his time as a shufu (housewife) and a writer.
David wishes he could transcend all his perceived, real, or deserved slights, irrational grudges, feuds, and separations; his irritability and fatigue; his stubborn anti-social tendencies, and his hot and cold sex drive. He doesn't want to be different anymore; he is who he is, and he can only work on that flawed clay.
David is reading the collective works of Leo Tolstoy on his Kindle; he has 88 hours and 47mins left.
Contact
[email protected] https://www.davebath.com
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends