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He got two brisk pats on his knee. He got, “Darling, what is it?” and, “Jesus, he can’t tell you, Midge. Write it down, mate.”
He put the pen on the page and then nothing. He had nothing; brain function shut down, it was too big to think through. He made angry lines on the page, digging the pen in hard so it scored, so it tore. They’d be watching him, thinking he’d have something profound for them, something to make them feel better, or at least show he understood. He didn’t understand. He’d had a routine operation. Polyps were a common, fixable complaint. He was supposed to be fine, not looking at the end of his career.
“Damon, mate?”
All he had was harsh lines, emptiness and the screaming he wanted to do, pounding in his head. He needed to move. He needed to get out of bed. He didn’t want them looking at him. He needed to be alone. He ground the pen into the paper, the noise of it ripping like the echo of his whole life coming apart. Then a hand over his and the pen and pad were gone. “It’s going to be okay, mate.”
Doc’s pat, pat on his knee. “Damon, no use of your vocal cords at all. Not a sound. There are other instructions as we’ve talked about. I’ve written them down for your carers and emailed a copy so your computer can read them to you. We’ll know more in two weeks, and we can talk about the new surgery, but until then I want you calm, quiet and close by.”
The bed shifted and there were nice to meet you’s and goodbyes. Dad’s heavy tread following doc’s heels into the corridor, wanting a private word, wanting the bottom line. Mum, sitting on the end of the bed, her hand over his shin. So many times they’d been in this place together, bouncing bad news between them; Mum and Dad practical and stoic, trying to manage the disappointment, the damage, trying to replace the dark with new sources of light and seeking, always finding a way to make it okay, accepting that others had done it, that it was never the end of the world.
But there was no bullshitting this time. His voice was his world and that’d been taken from him, what else was there left to give?
Mum was talking, he couldn’t take it in. He knew Dad was in the room again. He thumped the bed to get their attention and the pad and pen were slipped onto his lap.
He wrote. “I’m OK,” because that was his job. His part to play. He was always all right no matter what happened, no matter what he really felt.
“You’re not, mate. You’re not all right at all. This is a terrible blow.”
“Dunc, did she do a good job this surgeon, did she make a hash of it?” Mum’s anxiety whirred in her like a noisy ceiling fan. There was the clack as she clutched at a necklace, they’d be her good pearls, like rosary beads between her fingers.
The sound of Dad’s hand on Mum. “I don’t think she messed up. I think he’s just very unlucky.”
Unlucky! Unlucky was when you lost your wallet, when you pranged your car, when your house got broken into. Unlucky was catching your girlfriend two-timing you, losing a bet at the races or breaking your leg. This was the end of him, the end of everything he’d built and made his life into. If he didn’t have a voice he couldn’t work, when his savings ran out, he’d need to find some other way to earn his living, but doing what? What skills did a blind, mute man, who’d spent his adult life pretending to be a cartoon character, have to offer?
“You’re already at the empty pot, mate. Get off the rainbow.”
“Your father’s right. It might be okay still.”
Doing their job, they were only doing their job, but they’d heard doc. He wasn’t getting his old voice back, he might not have a voice. He didn’t know who Damon Donovan was without being The Voice. And fuck what did this mean for Georgia. He couldn’t lose her, but it wasn’t right to hold on to her either. She’d been to this place with Hamish; if he dragged her back there he was a calculating, selfish bastard.
; “Darling, can we get you anything? Are you sure you don’t want us to stay. I think we should stay, Dunc.”
Mum would fuss. Dad would go mad with nothing to do in the city. There was no one to mind the farm for more than a day or two anyway. He shook his head. He had Georgia and Taylor, and Angus was coming to collect him. He’d be fine, physically fine, and there was nothing anyone could do for his mental state. He needed to keep it together. He’d drug up and sleep for as long as possible and otherwise hold his breath until there was something more to know.
He picked up the pen and found wrote. “Don’t tell. Only us,” and turned the pad around so they could see.
“You don’t want to tell the boys and Taylor, darling?”
He shook his head. He couldn’t handle the questions, the way this would change everything. Not yet, not yet.
“Are you sure that’s best, mate?”
“What about Georgia?”
Georgia, Georgia. He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed a hand over his face. They’d not met Georgia yet and that was probably for the best. He was desperate for a shower. He wanted to be home. He wanted to be in Georgia’s arms and he’d let himself have that, the coolness of her touch, the healing of her presence.
He turned the pad, wrote, “4 now.” There was now, when the worst was unclear, and there was what happened when he knew the worst for sure and he needed to make changes.
He needed time to think this through and he didn’t want everyone second guessing the future, or tiptoeing around him any more than they were already going to. He needed to get through these next two weeks and then he’d make a new plan, but for now, for now, this was the right use of silence.
26: Postmarked Sorry
Dear Georgie,
I imagine a letter from me is like a dose of plague. You were well rid of me and now I’m back like a bad smell. And I appreciate that if you’re reading this, it’s a miracle. You might well have chosen not to. If I was you, and I’d been treated so poorly by someone who’d professed to love me, this letter would be confetti now.
