‘A Brazilian.’
‘Not in a million years.’
Roberta snorts on the other end of the phone. ‘You’re telling me you wouldn’t even try it? Even if it’s on special?’
‘The hair is there for a reason, Robbie. Not to mentionouch.’ I have a thought. ‘God, tell me your mum isn’t doing it.’
‘Ew!Please. Mum makes Pam do all the waxing treatments. Anyway, I’m not gonna tell her I’m getting one, and neither are you.’
I laugh. ‘You’re safe, because I’d never have that conversation with your mum, like, ever. And for the record, I think you’re totally bonkers.’
‘Gotta try everything once,’ Roberta says, and I can hear her grinning. ‘Maybe next time you come up here to Mildy, I’ll bring you to the salon. You might change your mind…’
‘Not a chance,’ I say, still laughing.
‘So how’s things at the hospital with Nick?’ She says it casually, so I know she’s softened me up with the Brazilian joke.
‘Fine.’ I pick at a bald patch on the knee of my jeans. ‘We’re not twelve, Robbie.’
‘I know. But I’m pretty sure he’s still into you.’
My cheeks warm. ‘We broke up ages ago, Rob, and we decided that together. Anyway, I like what we have now. Me and Nick get along great. Everything’s friendly.’
‘Good. I mean, I know Nick’s not a jerk. I figured he’d be all right.’ Robbie sounds satisfied. But her next question is more tentative. ‘And is your dad doing okay?’
This is the question she should have prefaced with the Brazilian joke. I swallow before replying. ‘He’s fine. No more dizzy spells. He knows this is his last year on the force, he’s already talked to the Mildura CO about it.’
‘That must be a relief.’
‘Yeah.’ I sound upbeat, but I’m not sure. What will Dad do if he’s not a copper? ‘Anyway, he’s on medication for his heart. The doctor says…’ I pause, struggling to keep my tone light.
‘Ames? What does the doctor say?’
I shake it off. ‘Nothing. Dad’ll be okay. I’m keeping an eye on him.’
Once I finish on the phone with Robbie, I take off for Pink Lakes with the camera. It’s not the best time of the day for shooting, but it’ll do.
Last month, I went through a phase of shooting close-ups of old metal – gate bolts, padlocks, faucets, rusty flakes peeling and broken. Now I’m a bit hung up on native mistletoe. Tight frames of dripping sap, of sticky green tendrils burrowing their way into bark, smothering the new growth… I don’t know exactly what’s drawn my eye, but I find the subject fascinating.
Time seems to move differently in certain places, and Pink Lakes is one of them. The salt pans throw the light up in the air: everything seems to glow like a Martian landscape. Sometimes I get so focused I’ll take shot after shot, and only realise when I look through the viewfinder that the sun’s gone down and I’ve lost the light.
Time moves differently in hospitals as well. Depending on the roster, I work four or five shifts per week. Anything can happen in between. Some days I go in and the patient I’ve been seeing in a certain room is gone. Recovered and checked out, or moved to another ward. Sometimes you know they’ll be back. Sometimes it’s like they’ve disappeared, snapped out of existence.
Mrs Dougherty’s angina clears and she returns to Aged Care. Kevin Monaghan comes into A&E having nearly completely ring-barked his left thumb after a fence-wire accident. He stays overnight. Monday to Friday is generally pretty sedate. In that time we get the usual complement of geriatric cases, a whiplash patient from a minor fender bender near Sea Lake, and an infant with febrile convulsions. Friday night through to Sunday afternoon is the busiest period. We see kids who’ve banged themselves around playing junior sport, as well as people who’ve waited all week to come in after injuring themselves, and a number of DFOs (drunk, fell over).
Harris Derwent won’t get to see that. He’s due for discharge today. He’s moved from the bed to a wheelchair and now onto crutches, in his five days on the ward. He’s been examined by the physio and sits in a chair for meals. It was weird when I came on shift and saw him standing again for the first time – I’d forgotten how tall he is. Pushing six foot, and broad in the shoulders.
I go in to collect his tray and he’s wearing a faded black T-shirt and navy trackie pants, standing – crutch-supported – by the window that looks out onto the back car park. Far as I know, the only thing to see out there is a series of external vents for the hospital air-conditioning and the plastic milk crates where Barb and a couple of the other die-hard smokers sit during their break. Barb isn’t out there now. She’s here, in the room, and so is Harris’s dad.
Dennis Derwent looks the same as all the blokes I know locally who do the heavy lifting and hard slog of day-to-day farm work. He wears the same kind of jeans and boots and flannie shirts. He isn’t any more physically imposing. But he’s intimidating. He gives off a strange energy, like an acrid smell. His muscles are always tense, his eyes narrowed. He reminds me of a guard dog: hackles raised, ready to snap.
Maybe all the time spent looking through a viewfinder has honed my eye, but to me it’s very clear, the family resemblance between father and son. They don’t have matching eye colour, and Harris is stubbled while his dad is smooth-faced, but they both have strong full-forward builds, although Dennis seems leaner, as if he’s lost weight. Dennis is dark-haired, close-cropped; Harris’s messy blonde surfer hair stands out as an almost deliberate point of difference. But together like this, their similarities are more striking. Harris has the same slow-twitch muscle, the same tanned skin. Harris also seems tense. He doesn’t have his dad’s intimidating presence, but he has the same sense of contained energy.
Dennis sits back in the hospital chair in his son’s room, legs loose and knees akimbo, rolling a cigarette. His tobacco pouch rests on his thigh. Barb seems to be trying to keep his attention on her.
‘…so yes, he’s ready to go, except for the paperwork. But he’s going to need time to rest, and a bit of looking after when he gets home.’
‘Yep. No worries.’ Dennis is focused on his smoke, dressing the paper with the brown threads.
