North of Nowhere, South of Loss. Janette Turner Hospital
swim. Their breath is fragrant, like frangipani, and when Beth vacuums the bright pink ribbons of their spit, pouff, tables appear, and waitresses in halter tops and gold lamé shorts. This way, the waitresses say, and Beth follows, though the sandy path between the tables twists and turns. There are detours around branching coral, opal blue. Here and there, clamshells lurk with gaping jaws. At every intersection, the bright angelfish dart and confuse.
“Where is he?” Beth calls, and the waitresses turn back, and beckon, and wink. “Is he waiting for me? Is he still here?”
The waitresses smile. “He is always just out of reach,” they murmur. “See? Can you see?” The waitresses point. And there he is beyond a forest of seaweed, fiery red. He sips a piña colada that wears a little purple paper parasol like a hat, but when she fights her way through the thicket of seaweed, he’s disappeared.
“Terribly sorry,” the waitresses say, winking, “but he’ll be right back. Dental emergency. Floss on, he says, and he’ll join you as soon as he can. He really really likes your work. He really likes you, you know.”
And all the waitresses line up and link arms and kick up their legs in a can-can dance. He really really really really likes you, they sing, but they roll their eyes to show it’s just a sick joke and then she sees that the waitresses are Peggy and Liz and Corey and Matron herself and she throws the piña colada at them and they disappear.
But their laughter stays behind them like the guffaw of a Cheshire cat. Sook, sook, sook, it splutters, hissing about Beth’s ears. We can hear you crying in your sleep.
No, Beth protests. Never! Never ever.
Nevermore, the waitresses sing, offstage. He’s gone for good.
No, Beth argues. That isn’t true.
And see, he’s coming back, he is, she can’t mistake his coat, there it is, yes, white against the brilliant coral, starch against sea-hair flame, but she won’t turn her head, she’s not going to make a fool of herself, she pretends not to see. She wants to be surprised. She wants to feel a light touch on her cheek and then she will turn and then …
And then? And then?
The dream falters. The water turns opaque with thrashing sand. Shark, perhaps? The pink flamingos avert their eyes. There is something they know, it’s no use pretending, the suck of the sobbing wave is pulling across the dimpled ocean floor. But still he taps her lightly on the arm. “It’s all right,” he says. “You’re such a funny little thing, Bethesda.”
And so she turns. But it isn’t him, it’s Giddie.
“Oh Giddie,” she says, resigned. “I might have known.”
“G’day, Beth.” It’s his lopsided grin, all right, and his bear hug, which haven’t changed. It’s the same old dance. Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you? the waitresses sing. We’re back again, he’s back again, all together now, the old refrain. “C’mon,” Giddie says, pulling her, and the waitresses twirl. Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, won’t you join the dance? “C’mon,” Giddie says, and now they’re swimsliding down and around, it’s a spindrift sundance ragtime jig, it’s the same old tune going nowhere. Shark time, dark time, lip of hell; they are going, going, gone. “C’mon” he says, and it’s the edge of nothing, the funnel, the whirlpool, he’s gone over, he’s pulling her down.
“No!” she screams, struggling. “No! Let me go, Gideon, let me go!”
But he won’t let her go and she’s falling, plummeting, there’s no bottom to this, it’s forever and ever, amen, though she makes a last convulsive grab at the watery sides — Gid-ee-oooooon! — and crash lands on her bed.
She gulps air, trembling, the sheet stuffed into her mouth.
Heedless, the sobbing wave rushes on, noisy, shaming, a disgusting snuffling whimpering sound, the sound of a sook.
No, wait. Wait. It’s not Beth’s wave. It’s not Beth.
She listens.
Sue, she thinks.
She must warn Sue: keep the sheet in your mouth. They don’t forgive, they’re like the fish on the reef. Remember this: the smell of injury brings on a feeding frenzy. They go for blood. You have to keep the sheet in your mouth.
“What are you reading?” he asks, and Beth startles violently. “Hey,” he says. “Sorry. What a jumpy little thing you are, Bethesda.” He sits down beside her on the sea wall, the hum of the esplanade traffic behind them, the tide lapping the wall below their feet. “Is this all you ever do in your lunch hour? Read?”
She says primly: “I’m watching the tide going out.”
He grins, then offers: “I’ve offended you. Would you like me to leave?”
“No,” she says, too quickly. Then, indifferently: “If you want. It doesn’t matter.” She tucks the book into her bag and sets it on the wall between them. “It’s me, I was rude.” She is angry, not with him, but with herself, for the thing that happens in her throat when he says her full name that way. “You gave me a scare. I didn’t think anyone could see me here.” She gestures toward the pandanus clump behind them, the knobbed trunks and spiky leaves rising from a great concrete planter with a brass plate on its rim: Rotary Club, Cairns District. She trails her finger over the engraved letters and says, inconsequentially, “I used to have to be a waitress at the Rotary dinners in Mossman.” She rolls her eyes. “Grown-up men, honestly. They sing the stupidest songs.”
“Oh God, I know. They tried to get me to join. One dinner was enough. They were raffling a frozen chicken and throwing it round the room. Playing catch.”
“In Mossman,” she says, “they had this mock-wedding. Fundraising for a playground or something. You should’ve seen the bride.” She shakes her head, incredulous. “Mario Carlucci. His father’s a cane farmer but Mario’s in the ANZ bank, he’s the manager already, everyone says his father got it for him because the Carluccis have the biggest account. Anyway, Mario, he’s about six-two, and they made this special dress, satin and pearls, with you know …” She gestures with her hands.
“Large mammary inserts,” he says drily.
She laughs. “Yeah.” She looks at him sideways. “You seem like you should be an English teacher, not a dentist.”
“What!” he says in mock outrage, his brows working furiously. “Fie on thee! Out, out, damned spot, you’re fired.”
“You’re funny.”
“You’re pretty funny yourself, Bethesda.” He smiles and she swings her eyes away, nervous. She focuses on the Green Island ferry, in the distance, nosing in toward the wharves.
“Look, Beth,” he says, “I don’t want to pry, but I’ve been making a few inquiries, and from what I hear, that hostel is pretty awful. I wondered if you’d like me to—”
“It’s okay,” she says. “I don’t mind it.”
“And another thing. I’ve been looking at your application and your references again. God knows, I don’t want to lose you at the clinic, but you got a Commonwealth Scholarship, for heaven’s sake. Why didn’t you take it?”
The ferry is bumping against the pylons now. Men will be wheeling the gangplanks into place. More tourists — people who are free to go anywhere they want, free even to go home again — will disembark and others will board.
“All right,” he says quietly. “I just want you to know, if you need any help … I’m worried about you, that’s all.”
“No one needs to worry about me,” she says politely, swinging her legs back over the sea wall in an arc, away from him. “But Mrs Wilkinson will worry about you if we don’t get back.”
Every