‘Isn’t it going to get too much for you?’ he asks me in the tearoom. I’m only working part-time hours now, barely keeping the job ticking over, and we have a carer who spends time with Cam when I’m not there, for company and to stop him wandering. It’s something he hates. The more I take on, the more it seems obvious that caring for Cam will get too much for me, but I’m not ready to make that real by saying so.
‘He doesn’t want to go into an aged care place,’ I argue. ‘He’s too young. I couldn’t bear it. Stuck in there with ninety-year-olds who are more switched on than he is?’
Hugh and Cam have discussed this ad nauseum, both of them relaying various conversations about it over the months.
‘This is the last thing he said he wanted – you struggling with his care on your own,’ Hugh says.
‘But now he wants to be with me.’
It’s been like this all through – Cam wanting one thing, and that one thing then being overtaken by the disease and made impossible. I’ve been worried for weeks that he’s well beyond being at work but, mental-health wise, it’s the best thing for him. Gives him purpose. So much of his identity is wrapped up in being a brilliant, academic thinker. He’s clung to it. Perhaps longer than he should have.
The department has gone above and beyond to support Cam in continuing to work. They’ve even paired him with PhD students in a reverse supervision arrangement for lectures. He’s been teaching one of the undergrad courses for the last three years, so they’ve let him continue to read his pre-prepared content as long as there’s a doctoral student on hand for any student questions. And for marking. And for anything involving higher-order thought. It’s pushing the HR envelope, but everyone loves Cam. Colleagues, students, admin staff – they’re all colluding to make it possible.
My phone rings, and I’m glad to stop arguing with Hugh about this.
‘Ms Whittaker?’ a young male voice says. ‘My name’s Sebastian. I’m one of Professor Whittaker’s Honours students.’
My heart leaps into my throat.
‘He didn’t turn up for our lunchtime lecture,’ Sebastian says. ‘We all stayed in the room for twenty-five minutes, waiting for him. Then we thought maybe we should split up and look for him . . .’
‘Oh, God!’
‘No, he’s safe. We found him wandering in the Hayden Allen building. Said he was looking for the “Old Arts” building, but we don’t know where he means.’
Melbourne Uni. Where we met.
Sebastian waits with Cam in his office until I get there. When I do, I find Cam packing books into boxes. When did this start? This dismantling of a magnificent career, terminated decades too soon.
‘I can’t do this any more,’ he tells me, tears in his eyes, hands shaking as he continues packing books. He means the job and, on the one hand, it’s music to my ears. Nobody wanted to be the bad guy, wrenching him away from this if he put up a fight.
‘I’m just so . . .’ My voice trails off. I’m so sorry, Cam. And so scared the target on his back is getting bigger.
‘Don’t say it, Katie. Just help me.’
While he puts books in boxes, I start to clean out his desk. On it, in addition to a massive pile of unanswered correspondence, I find what may end up being his last to-do list.
‘Cameron Whittaker,’ it begins. In case he forgets who he is?
‘Talk to Hugh.’ I wonder what that’s about and how he’ll ever remember, since there are no other details.
‘Cancel sports channel.’
Stop!
‘Birthday cards.’
I pick up the notebook and, underneath it, find a pile of cards, some still in plastic wrapping, others in various states of being filled out in shaky block lettering. Dear birthday boy: You’re four!
Five.
Ten.
Thirteen.
Eighteen.
Twenty-one.
Congratulations on your graduation.
Happy wedding day!
On the birth of your first child . . .
I look up from the cards, eyes swimming, and watch him methodically packing up his beloved library.
Packing up his life.
Giving up.
And I weep for him.
I don’t have the headspace to be worried about Cam and how awful Hugh looks. Nevertheless, a couple of days later, I stay back after everyone has left the office. It’s Friday, so they’ve headed out for drinks at a pub in Braddon. Mum’s home with Charlie and Cam, and I asked her to stay an extra half hour so I can have this conversation.
I knock on Hugh’s office door, which swings open. He’s leaning back in his swivel chair, staring out the window at the streetlights, and he’s clearly thrown by me still being in the office.
‘Kate, what is it?’ he asks, instantly worried. I hate that that’s his default response whenever I appear.
‘It’s you,’ I explain, shutting the door behind me even though we’re the only two people still here. ‘I’m worried about you. You look terrible. What’s wrong?’
Pain sears across his face. This looks really bad, and I get a feeling of dread in my heart. Don’t be sick, Hugh. I’m alarmed at how violently I’m responding to even the idea of it.
‘I don’t want you to worry, Kate,’ he says gently. ‘It’s true I am wrestling with something. I can’t tell you what it is, though.’
‘So it’s not my imagination?’ I move around to his side of the desk, which is real estate I’ve rarely set foot on.
He stands up and in effect backs me into the bookcase, because there’s not much room here, and nowhere for either of us to escape without invading one another’s personal space. We’re uncomfortably close. He searches my face, and opens his mouth like he’s about to speak, but nothing comes out. I swear, if I didn’t know better, I’d think he was about to cry. Strong, unflappable Hugh Lancaster. Whatever is wrong is very wrong.
‘You look heartbroken,’ I whisper. Is this about the woman he’s been seeing? Ruby? Cam came home from a drive with Hugh the other day and tried to relate the conversation afterwards. All I got was, ‘Hugh loves Ruby’， over and over.
Recognition flashes through his eyes.
‘What is it? You can trust me.’
‘I do trust you, Kate. I’m . . . mulling over a moral dilemma. A serious one. I’m sorry I can’t be more specific.’
‘You can tell me anything,’ I reassure him.
‘Not this.’ He moves his hands like he’s going to put them on my shoulders, bore his eyes into mine, close up, and beg me to stop pressuring him. ‘Please,’ he says, a catch in his voice. ‘This is hard enough.’
The man is emotionally destroyed. An intensity in his expression tells me I have to accept that he won’t tell me why. And now there’s something else. Somewhere in the furthest reaches of my soul, I can’t help feeling that this is not about Ruby after all. It’s somehow about me. But it’s about me in a way that I don’t think I want to find out. I don’t even want to ask him to confirm or deny my hunch. It would push him too far, and he’s already a mess. And I mean a really very serious mess, over whatever this is.