Australian Women's Book Review Volume 14.1 - School of English ...

* * *
This is just one bubble of story I didn't let float out the other day. My story is different from hers; the
nature of my hurt is different too. We all have different things to learn, it seems. Some of us are robust,
some are fragile. Some are good at survival, some aren't. We all have our means of escape, of
rationalising, of explaining, or excusing. And some have to feel it all the way. She's coming over to
dinner this week. Bring a story; write it down, I said. Doing the splits I said, call it that. We've come
from such a different time and things have changed so much; somehow we need to accommodate it all,
the changes, the then and the now.
I know we'll talk and talk and talk, again; and more stories will rise to the surface, wanting air. Wanting
out.
* * *
We did talk and talk, the nursing horror stories, how you never got off duty on time, monster sisters,
huge responsibilities. I gave her the story to read, and she laughed in places. Once, she said: Oh that's a
bit close to the bone. I didn't find out which bit, but she asked if she could keep the story. She rang me
the next morning.
I just rang to say thank you, she said, in her sweet and friendly voice with its slight English accent; I
did enjoy last night, we must do it again soon. I've been on the phone all morning; J died last night.
There was a message when I got home. It's all right really, it'll bring the kids closer to me at least, they
want me to go down for the funeral. My neighbour's going to feed the dog.
It shocked me. J was the ex-husband she hadn't been allowed to contact. Do you know, her voice didn't
change at all. I've been on the phone all morning, J died last night. It's been on my mind ever since.
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