His phone vibrated in his pocket and shook him out of it. A call from a client. He had to get back to Brachen.
Chapter Three
‘Home, sweet home.’ Gabriel opened the front door and half-carried his mother into the house.
‘It is now you’re here.’ Sofia’s breath wasn’t quite strong enough to carry the sound.
He let her lead. He wanted her to go to bed, which was a short trip down the hall and a right into the master bedroom, but she continued into the living room to her favourite armchair. ‘You don’t have to carry me the whole way, you know. I’m fine.’
‘Fine people don’t end up in hospital.’
Or have to stay the night.
‘That was one time.’ She sat down and settled herself, no hiss of pain, no grimace twisting her mouth. But was this really the first time? The drive home to Brachen hadn’t been filled with much conversation, and the questions had built up without him finding the right moment to ask them.
Actually, he only had one question: why hadn’t she told him?
He’d been there when the doctor came in to discuss her care and the fact that she had stage three metastatic lung cancer. Diagnosis: bad—but not without hope. She’d explained what would happen next, how the cancer had progressed sooner than they would have liked, and what to expect in the days, weeks and months ahead.
No mention of years.
He’d taken that in somehow, like being in the dentist’s chair where the anaesthetic’s sting brought more pain than what came after. At least until it wore off.
She pulled a knitted blanket over her knees and cast him a grateful look that stuck straight through his heart. She was so pleased to have him home. And true, he only lived a couple of hours away, but he hadn’t come home nearly often enough. If he had, she wouldn’t have been able to keep this a secret. Those coughing fits she had, that shortness of breath … He’d noticed them but she’d said they weren’t anything to worry about. If he’d been around, could he have encouraged her to seek help sooner and bought her some more time? As much as he wanted to ask, he didn’t want to upset her.
And he didn’t want to hear the worst.
Most of the curls in her dark hair had straightened and her skin was paler without her makeup. When he’d gone back to the hospital to get her that morning, he’d brought everything she’d asked for but she’d found it too much to do her face. It had been a while since he’d seen her uncovered.
‘I’m going to put the kettle on. Want a cuppa?’
‘Lovely.’
That gave him time to gather his composure. He racked his memory for a time when he should have known something was wrong. Had that cold she had a couple of months ago been cover for this? When she hadn’t answered the phone that Thursday had it been because she was too weak to pick up?
He kept his hands busy filling the kettle and getting out mugs, tea, milk and sugar, but they were things he’d done thousands of times before when he’d lived here. So his mind easily wandered free and tripped on the barbs of his guilt.
The kettle boiled. He made tea. Now was the time to ask. But as he carried the mugs over, the spread of papers on the dining table caught his eye. He stopped and looked at the sketches, putting one of the mugs down on the table.
‘Use a coaster!’ she called out. Like always. Rings dotted the varnished wooden table, evidence of his—sometimes wilful—forgetfulness. No matter how hard she polished, she could never get rid of them.
He found a coaster and relocated the tea, then shuffled through a few pages. Sketches for the theatre’s new production. What had she called it? Aussie? Maverick? Larrikin. Her lines were shaky, but the ideas were coming. Costumes and sets, Australian-themed, olden, her notes around the edge about it needing to be the best because it would be her last.
No, not hers. The theatre’s. They’d spoken about it when he’d called. The theatre might be closing down and there was a proposed redevelopment on the cards—which he knew about almost better than anyone.
He carried a few sheets over with her tea, putting the mug on an old magazine on the side table beside her armchair.
‘What do you think?’ She took the pages. ‘I’m not sure they’re capturing the right feel. Lexi wants this show to be spectacular, what with the bicentennial celebrations and all, but I’m struggling to get the concepts right.’
Eight years of working on sets and costumes and she always said the same thing. It was part of her creative process. Part of her doubt. It was either hers alone or a carryover from the belittling that she went through married to his father. Some wounds never healed. Gabriel had always encouraged her, even as a surly and secretive teenager, but today, as she sat in her chair, somewhat diminished, shrunken, fading, such words were harder to form.
‘Don’t worry about it, Mamá. Focus on getting better.’
She stared at the designs, not at him, and his heart squeezed with the tactless way he’d said it, for forcing them to talk about this thing between them.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ He sat on the floor at her feet and put his hand over hers. ‘I would have come home. I would have been here to help you.’
‘Mijo, there wouldn’t have been anything for you to do.’ She put her hand on the side of his face, her fingers light on his skin as she stroked his cheek. ‘Honestly, I’ve been fine. I didn’t want to worry you.’
‘But there must have been something I could do.’
‘You living your life was the best thing for both of us.’
That’s because him not being around meant she could ignore it too. He’d always been the one to show up the truth and bring
