Will

The surf was pumping and Wes stayed almost an hour longer than usual. It was the best surf since Bali and being a weekday he had it mostly to himself. Just after nine, he drove into his parent’s driveway and noticed that the grass was already becoming worn where he’d parked each day. Climbing out of the VW, he hung his wetsuit on the clothesline and wandered into the kitchen, calling out to his mum. Glass of milk in hand, he walked out the back door, up the driveway and into the front yard and noticed Sylvia from next door working in her garden. “Hi, Sylvia. Have you seen Mum?” “No, Wes, not for a couple of days. She hasn’t been out much.” Wes lowered his voice. “She’s not the best, Sylvia. The headaches have been pretty bad again.” A thought suddenly struck him and he spun around and sprinted down the driveway and into the house. “Mum!” He raced into her bedroom. “Muuum!” Panic tore as he lifted his unconscious mother onto the bed and trembled as he felt for a pulse. Sylvia called from the kitchen. “In here, Sylvia. Quick, in the bedroom—hurry!” Sylvia’s nursing training helped settle him as she assumed control. “Call for an ambulance and keep them on the line. They’ll want details.” Wes dialled emergency and for several minutes relayed instructions back and forth while Sylvia fought to keep Betty alive. It was a fifteen minute drive to Central Hospital where a small group of emergency staff was waiting. The ambulance officer had fought to stabilise the patient while the driver on the two-way fired back instructions and updates. Alongside his mother, Wes felt utterly helpless. Betty was rushed to Intensive Care while Wes was told to remain at the workstation to provide vital information to the medical staff. As the doors closed behind the medicos, Wes lost sight of his mum; he muttered responses to questions asked but stared blankly at the doors. No one divulged any details and Wes slumped into a chair, eyes glued to the doors. From time to time they would open, then close, but without a single hint or glimpse. Wes waited, only shifting his gaze long enough to check the time on the wall clock or to glance toward a sudden noise. What if there’s more than one way out? And why is Dad taking so long? Surely he’d come straight away! Wes’ scrambled mind wrestled with more questions: Did Dad ring Lyn? Should I ring the Network to get a message to her? Do I ring Sylvia? Maybe she hasn’t been able to get in touch with Dad. One hour later there was still no sign of his father. This doesn’t make sense. A doctor walked through the swinging doors and Wes leapt to his feet. “What’s happening?” “Mrs Brooks, is she your ..?” “My mother.” “Your mother’s in a coma. It is serious, but it’s too early to say how serious. Is your father here?” “I’m expecting him any minute.” Wes waited another two hours. He’d never felt so terrified and so utterly helpless. Suddenly, he heard his name mentioned from the workstation and he jumped to his feet and ran to the desk. The lady behind the desk was on the phone, but turned away and lowered her voice, continuing to speak for a short time before handing the phone to Wes. “It’s your sister.” Wes could see her lips quiver. “Lyn, is that you?” Lyn was hysterical. “Lyn, calm down. The doctor said Mum’s condition was serious but …” “Wes, it’s Dad. He’s been in an accident!” Wes rocked back hard against the desk. “Wes, he’s been killed! Dad’s dead. Wes, dad is dead!” Not a single sound would come. Every breath emptied from his lungs and every muscle from his head to his feet tightened. His eyes dilated and his hands shook. Wes could hear his sister’s pathetic and frenzied weeping coming through the phone, but he couldn’t speak. The lady behind the desk rushed to his side and eased him into a chair uttering some comforting remark but Wes heard none of it. Dad dead? Inconceivable. His mind couldn’t contain such an absurd notion. Dead? That’s impossible. My dad can’t be dead. No, this is a mistake. Any second now Dad’ll walk in here and I’ll tell him all about Mum. Dad’s not dead, he can’t be! **** The funeral was four days later. Betty was still in a coma. When the time for the funeral arrived Lyn and Wes left together. Hundreds of family, friends, neighbours and colleagues wept as Frank’s coffin was carried to the hearse. So unbelievably alone, Wes was besieged by a guilt that paralysed as scores of mourners filed by to pay their respects. In the back seat en route to the hospital the stricken siblings sobbed uncontrollably, feebly comforted in each other’s arms. Back in the ICU, Lyn astounded her brother as she sat next to her mum and told her all about the funeral, all the while struggling to hold her own shattered life together. Wes sat silently in the corner not bothering to wipe away fresh tears as they streamed down his face. Doctors and nurses came at predictable intervals. Betty was monitored around the clock by an array of electronic devices that flickered and flashed. Lyn had demanded the best treatment and as a consequence their mother was given every possible chance. Her brain patterns were constantly checked and stimulated but clearly the tumour was not only rapidly growing, but had been joined by several others. Lyn instructed that she and Wes were to be kept fully informed. “We’ve just lost our dad and we expect the truth about our mum.” “That’s what you’ll get,” the specialist assured her. “Prepare yourselves. Short of a miracle, it’s only a matter of time.” Six days later he was right.