Lost

It takes me a long while to wake. I don't want to leave the dream. Opening my eyes, I get a sense of something that hasn't happened for a long while—not like this. I raise the covers a few inches to make sure I'm not mistaken. I should be embarrassed but feel somewhat elated. Any time I manage the one-gun salute these days is cause for celebration.

My euphoria doesn't last. Instead I think of Mickey and the ransom and the shootings on the river. There are too many missing pieces. There must have been other letters. What did I do with them? I put them somewhere safe. If something happened to me on the ransom drop, I would have wanted someone to know the truth.

There was a Royal Mail receipt in my wallet when Joe looked through it yesterday. I sent a registered letter to someone. Dragging my trousers off the chair, I tip the receipts onto the bed. The ink has almost washed away and I can only make out the postcode but it's enough.

Daj answers on the first ring and yells into the phone. I don't think she understands wireless technology and imagines I'm talking into a tin can.

“It's been three weeks. You don't love me.”

“I've been in the hospital.”

“You never call.”

“I called you twice last week. You hung up on me.”

“Piffle!”

“I was shot.”

“Are you dying?”

“No.”

“See! You're such a drama queen. Your friend came to see me—that psychologist chap, Professor O'Loughlin. He was very sweet. He stayed for tea . . .”

Throughout this guilt trip, she carries on a second conversation with someone in the background. “My other son, Luke, is a god. A beautiful boy, blond hair . . . eyes like stars. This one breaks my heart.”

“Listen, Daj, I need to ask you a question. Did I post you something?”

“You never send me anything. My Luke is such a sweet soul . . . Maybe you could knit him something. A vest to keep him warm.”

“Come on, Daj. I want you to think really hard.”

Something resonates in her. “You sent me a letter. You told me to look after it.”

“I'm coming to see you now. Keep the letter safe.”

“Bring me some dates.”

The main building of Villawood Lodge looks like an old school, with gable roofs and gargoyles above the downspouts. The sandstone is just a façade and behind it is a seventies redbrick building, with aluminum window frames and cement roofing tiles.

Daj is waiting for me on the enclosed veranda. She accepts two kisses on each cheek and looks disappointed with only one box of dates. Her hands and fingers are moving constantly, brushing her arms as though something is crawling on her skin.

Ali tries to stay in the background but Daj looks at her suspiciously. “Who are you?”

“This is Ali,” I say, making the introductions.

“She's very dark.”

“My parents were born in India,” explains Ali.

“Hmmmphf!”

I don't know why parents must embarrass their children. Maybe it's punishment for the mewling and puking and nights of broken sleep.

“Where is the envelope, Daj?”

“No, you talk to me first. You're going to take it and run away—just like last time.” She turns to a group of elderly residents. “This is my son, Yanko! Yes, he's the policeman. The one who never comes to see me.”

I feel my cheeks redden. Daj didn't just steal a Jewish woman's name—she adopted a whole demeanor.

“What do you mean, I ran away last time?”

She turns to Ali. “You see he never listens. Not even as a baby. Head full of fluff.”

“When was I here last?”

“See! You've forgotten. It's been so long. Luke doesn't forget. Luke looks after me.”

“Luke is dead, Daj. What day did I come?”

“Hmmphf! It was a Sunday. You had the newspapers and you were waiting for a call.”

“How do you know?”

“The mother of that missing girl called you. She must have been very upset. You were telling her to be patient and wait for the call.”

She returns to brushing her arms with her hands.

“I need to see that envelope.”

“You won't find it unless I tell you where it is.”

“I don't have time for this.”

“You never have time. I want you to take me for a walk.”

She's wearing her walking shoes and a warm coat. I take her arm and we shuffle along the white gravel path, moving in slow motion as her feet struggle to keep up with mine. A handful of residents are doing tai chi on the lawn. Elsewhere the gardeners are planting bulbs for the spring.

“How is the food?”

“They're trying to poison me.”

“Have you been playing bridge?”

“Some of them cheat.”

Even the half deaf can hear her.

“You really should make an effort, Daj.”

“Why? We're all just waiting to die.”

“It's not like that.”

I stop and button up the top of her coat. Spidery wrinkles radiate from her lips but her eyes haven't aged. From a distance we are mother and son sharing an intimate moment. Up close we are a stuttering monosyllabic tragicomedy played out over fifty years.

“Can I have the envelope now?”

“After morning tea.”