Her heart did a little jig as she recognised Lenore’s flowing script, but then it froze. It had been a while since they’d corresponded and the last news on Lenore’s cancer treatment hadn’t been positive. A typical shit sandwich, layered with plenty of optimism but some parts of the filling decidedly bitter. Snippets of the last letter jabbed at her brain as she squinted up at a lorikeet hopping through the branches of a crepe myrtle.Third round of treatment. Doctors hopeful. Keeping busy.Even on the follow-up phone call she’d made, Hannah got the distinct sense Lenore was hiding more than she was saying. It had been way too long since they’d seen each other in person, when she’d flown to London for Lenore’s wedding to Nancy. What a surprise that had been, Lenore finding love—true lasting love—in her late sixties. Five years ago. Ever the traditionalist, she’d written a few times a year, saving the calls for birthdays. Truth be told, Hannah had more communication with Lenore and Nancy than she did with her own family. Her stomach hollowed out. No surprises there.
Anyway … Lenore’s letter was sure to be full of news. Hopefully good, but just in case, she’d save it for an evening read.
Her phone chimed: an alarm reminding her about her two pm appointment. In twenty minutes. Damn! She’d spent too long dillydallying. Time to get back to work.
Paperwork done, dinner cooked and eaten, and a glass of fine Hunter Valley shiraz in hand, now was the perfect time to settle in and read Lenore’s letter. In the past, there’d always been interesting stories about her travels, her latest favourite book or the antics of her cat, Carl Jung, and it was so lovely to hear Lenore’s voice in the words on the page. Fingers crossed this letter would be filled with good news.
Settling back against the sofa, savouring the peppery taste of the well-aged wine, Hannah slipped her pinky under the seal and opened the envelope. Tiny bubbles fizzed inside her stomach—was it wrong that a phone call from her mother, on the odd occasion when one came, elicited exactly the opposite response? A flattening out, as if her organs had been run over by a semitrailer. Probably, but she’d given up analysing the dysfunctional dynamics of her immediate family long ago.
The pages crackled as she unfolded the sheets of lined paper and Lenore’s gloriously old-fashioned script appeared.
My Darling Hannah
Greetings from the Cotswolds! The weather (we always start with the weather, don’t we?) is getting decidedly chilly as we teeter on the threshold of winter. Too early for snow but we’ve woken to frost on window panes a couple of times already and the central heating is enjoying a good workout. Nowhere near as much as our hearth of course, which Nancy has been keeping well fed and stoked. I imagine it’s the complete opposite there in the land of dusty plains … I have fond memories of Sydney in November, the warm spring days, flowers blooming and those gorgeous jacaranda bursting into flower. An explosion of purple. I had the most exquisite one in my front yard in Balmain. Do you remember it?
Hannah lifted her head, the tree appearing in her mind’s eye. Weathered branches arching out over the street like so many wrinkled arms, tiny bunches of amethyst jewels drooping, then dropping, onto the footpath. That tree had made visiting Lenore in spring such a pleasure, even long after their formal mentoring arrangement had ended. A frisson of yearning trickled through Hannah’s veins. She and Lenore would talk long into the night about anything and everything—nature versus nurture, free will versus fate, the impossibility of God versus the sublime functioning of the universe, and everything in between. Those discussions had helped form and solidify her belief system, and in so many ways created the woman—and the psychologist—she’d become. Lenore was more than a mentor. More than a friend. She was a guiding light Hannah could always turn to in the darkness. A wise soul she could always count on for solace.
Another sip of wine and back to the letter.
Carl is loving the cooler days and frosty nights. Curling up beside the hearth or depositing himself into my lap in the late afternoon and purring far too noisily. It’s such a shame you don’t have a cat—they’re such blissfully independent creatures while at the same time being completely loving and loyal. I do worry about you living there in that cottage by yourself. I’m all for enjoying your own company, as I did for years before Nancy bowled me for six, but there is a lot to be said for love and companionship.
An image of Hugh popped into Hannah’s head, his boyish, almost apologetic smile and the smoky jade colour of his eyes. If he hadn’t already been madly in love with another woman, it might have gone somewhere, but thank God she’d worked out what was going on before becoming attached. And she really was happy for Hugh and Eve. At least some people seemed to be able to get their acts together in the romance department. Based on her own track record, the only hero on her horizon was a literary one. And that was okay. Despite Lenore’s concerns …
Anyway, I digress.
I hope you have a glass of something strong in hand as you read this because I have some not-so-good news to relate. There’s no easy way to say it, which is why I’m writing rather than calling. So here goes … After a fourth round of chemo, the cancer isn’t showing any signs of slowing down. In fact, it’s doing the complete opposite.
Hannah’s chest simultaneously constricted and expanded, tightening at the very centre as if a sharp nail was being hammered into it, pain swelling above her ribs as she held her breath. The opposite of slowing down was speeding up. Getting worse. What was Lenore saying?
A hefty gulp of wine, the warmth of the liquid lining her throat, soothing the ache, and back to the page.
I’ve decided to take a break from chemotherapy over the Christmas period to weigh up my options. The treatment has taken quite a toll on my body and I’m not sure I want to spend whatever time I have left vomiting and lying flat on my back.
Christmas has always been my favourite time of year—I know it’s been different for you. And while I love the atmosphere here, it’s not all about the snow and the plum pudding. It’s about the people you spend it with and the joy their companionship brings. And to that end, Nancy and I are wondering if we could possibly visit and spend Christmas with you. As much as I love our home here in Ablington, the cold is wreaking havoc with my bones and I’m craving sunshine and beaches, and mornings spent debating the meaning of life (and death … sorry!) over strong coffee and a freshly baked lamington.
I’m sorry to be telling you all this in a letter, darling Hannah, but I’ve been coming to grips with my mortality and thought I might get too emotional if we spoke over the phone. An email seemed too impersonal. I also wanted to give you time to consider my proposition without putting too much pressure on you, as I know how you feel at this time of the year. But perhaps you’re over that now?
So, what do you think? Are you up for spending Christmas with a couple of ageing lesbians? I’m desperate to see your lovely place and check out this Yarrabee you’ve been raving about. We can have a good old Aussie barbecue and bring in the new year together.
Give me a call or drop me a message on WhatsApp and let me know your thoughts.
And don’t go worrying. Life is finite and we all have our time. Nancy and Carl send their love.
As do I,
Lenore. x
Hot tears burned the back of Hannah’s eyes. Don’t go worrying? How was she supposed tonotworry when Lenore had virtually said her days were numbered?
She slammed her glass down on the coffee table, red liquid sloshing over the rim and onto the timber, and strode to the window, arms clamped around her middle. A sky full of stars greeted her, illuminated by a creamy full moon, the Milky Way clearly visible, billions of luminous lights, dust and dark matter pinwheeling through space. All held together by gravity.
Was that where souls went after death? That’s what she’d been told when she was a kid, when her grandmother had one day just gone to sleep and never woken up again. A strong arm had wrapped around her shoulder as the first shining star appeared in the night sky.There she is, her mother whispered,watching over you. Keeping you safe. She’ll always be there; all you have to do is look up.A convenient story to tell a confused child, to make sense of something that seemed so unfathomable. And then she’d grown up and reality hit. Along with the truth—that there is no life after death. Her studies had made mincemeat of that possibility: if you couldn’t prove it, then it didn’t exist. And no one could prove categorically there was any such thing as an afterlife. Just like there was no such thing as a miracle.
Lenore.
Everything she hadn’t said in the letter appeared in Hannah’s brain as if it had been written in invisible ink and revealed by the heat of her concern:I don’t have long to live; I want to see you again; this will be my last Christmas.
She swiped at the wetness on her cheek, turned towards the table where her map and notebook were still laid out beside her computer. Her plans for a solo bush Christmas were already mapped out, like pretty much every minute of her life. So there was no time to think. No time to remember. And so far the tactic had worked a treat. Her life was perfectly organised, perfectly under control. Even considering Lenore’s request made her heart race, made her want to sprout a set of wings and smash through the glass of the window and vanish into the darkness. A classic fight-flight response.