‘I just want to hug you,’ I hear myself whispering, inches from his face. I mean the kind of hug Cam would wholeheartedly approve of, were he in his right mind, which he is less and less.
For the briefest second I feel like he’s going to give in and let me. We’re suspended in time, in what feels like an intense, sliding doors moment I can’t understand because I don’t have all the information.
‘I trust you to do the right thing,’ I say. I don’t know why, but it feels relevant.
He nods, and it looks like he’s using all his strength to keep himself together.
Three Saturdays later and I’m really worried I’ve done something wrong. The weekend after our conversation in his office, Hugh didn’t take Cam to the rugby as he normally would. Nor did he turn up the weekend after, because he took unexpected leave from work and went away. I don’t know where. But I wasn’t prepared for how bereft I felt without him.
They say you don’t value something until it’s gone, and it’s like that with Hugh. I can’t even articulate where he fits in my world – part boss, part support person, part friend, I guess. At least, I thought that’s what we were, but I think my relationship barometer is faulty. When you’re friends, you don’t just skip town and not say anything. I’m trying desperately not to make this about me, but I feel deserted and hurt and terrified of even more loss.
Opening the door now and seeing him standing here on our doorstep, on a gloomy Saturday afternoon in August, really disconcerts me. He adjusts the collar on his dark coat and pulls the black scarf more tightly around his neck. He needs a haircut. His haircuts are booked a month apart, a year ahead, and I can tell he’s missed one. There’s even the beginnings of a beard – the type a man grows from neglect rather than personal style. He still looks haunted. Whatever the problem is, it hasn’t gone away. It’s grown.
‘I’m sorry I left without saying anything,’ he says in a low, even voice.
I come outside with him and shut the door behind me, even though it’s freezing cold and I’m in jeans and a light shirt because the fire is roaring inside for Cam, who’s always cold these days. Hugh glances at my bare arms and frowns.
‘Where were you?’ I ask, searching his face for answers.
‘I had something I needed to think about,’ he explains. ‘And I couldn’t think about it here.’
Here in Canberra? Or here on my doorstep? I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about but it’s making me feel unmoored.
‘You still can’t tell me, can you?’ I observe. I’m almost hoping he’ll agree, because there’s only so much I can cope with at once. That said, if he needs me, I’m here. This is Hugh. One of my top people. I’d do anything for him. ‘Can I help you with this?’ I ask. ‘I mean it, Hugh. You look desperately upset.’
‘Are we going to stand out here much longer?’ he asks, while I shiver in front of him. ‘I’m starting to feel guilty about wearing a jacket.’
He attempts a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, not that I’m really able to get a good look because he won’t meet my gaze for more than a second. If I didn’t know better, I’d read that as guilt. It’s certainly secretive. What could he possibly have to feel guilty about where I’m concerned? It’s about a lot more than having a warm jacket when I don’t.
‘Cam has gone downhill since you were last here,’ I say, warning him before I open the door. ‘It feels wrong even sharing this with you but he’s becoming incontinent. In every way. He doesn’t make it to the toilet because he stands in front of it and can’t see it. And he needs help understanding how to use cutlery. The occupational therapist gave me a plain black placemat with a white outline of the plate and knife and fork to help him navigate.’
‘Did it help?’
I can barely speak for holding back the sob in my throat. ‘He tried to pick up the drawing of the fork, Hugh.’
My heart!
‘I’m terrified how fast this is progressing. I thought we had years.’
There’s so much pain reflected back in his eyes I can barely look at him.
‘I find myself lying awake at night, willing him to have the heart attack I once dreaded so much. It would be kinder than this agony.’
For once, he doesn’t seem to know what to say. I know he wouldn’t try to put a positive spin on this – he’s more clued in about my grief than that. But he’d usually say something. Everything feels even more unstable.
‘You don’t have to come in,’ I tell him. ‘He won’t remember you’re coming anyway. I don’t want to make . . . whatever this is even worse for you.’
He looks at me briefly and stands up straighter. Takes a low breath in and out. I can almost hear the self-talk: Get over yourself, Hugh. Think of Cam. Think of Kate.
Now he wants to get on with it. I’m standing in the way and he steps forward and reaches for the door handle at my back. It’s been getting stuck the last few days. When it falters, he pulls back a little. A strand of my hair drags against his chin. As I reach up and untangle it, my fingers brush his jaw. His body shields me from the wind and I feel so protected from the world in this moment, I just want to melt into it. It shouldn’t feel this warm here. I shouldn’t be this pathetic. I’ve been growing my resolve to handle the hard stuff single-handedly, since there’s so very much of it coming at me. But now he’s here.
And I’m not thinking of the hard stuff now. The usual scent of his designer aftershave is missing. In its place is something raw and rugged and far more familiar than it should be. I hope he thinks I’m cold now, the way I’m shaking.
‘You need some WD40 on that handle,’ he says next to my ear, still not meeting my gaze. ‘I’ll fix it on the way out.’
If I thought things were bizarre on my verandah, they’re even more so inside the house. Hugh goes through to the lounge room and strips off his jacket and scarf and sits in an armchair opposite Cam.
Two-year-old Charlie rushes over to him and puts his arms up to be swept into his lap. ‘Unckie Hugh!’ he says, patting Hugh on his chin, trying to work out what’s different.
‘Hey, mate. Nice Brumbies jumper!’ He’d bought it for Charlie to wear to a game the three of them went to a couple of months ago. Giving us merch from the rugby club seems to be a theme.
Charlie snuggles into Hugh’s chest, and it’s like a dagger to my heart when Hugh envelops him. Lately, when Charlie’s tried that with Cam, he’s been pushed away, and I’ve had to rush in and distract him to keep him from noticing the rejection.
Cam’s been asleep most of the afternoon and he’s confused when he opens his eyes and finds Hugh here. But then recognition passes across his face, and he looks at Hugh like he’s expecting an answer to a question he didn’t ask. Not just now, anyway. It’s odd.
Hugh’s eyes are glistening. His upper lip is twitching. What is this? I notice a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of his head and a deeply apologetic look. Cam shuts his eyes, like it’s too painful to be alive any more.