The Turning

14

14

"It's that job," Zivana said, shaking her head and glancing at her brother now and again. The two were in Zivana's four-wheel drive, passing the Wamoon turn off, halfway between Wilton and Tormon. Orange orchards in endless rows fluttered by, and in the odd vacant stretch, there would be a silo, rusted and weather-worn, as well as some old house nearby, rotting with mildew. She had seen all this and more in the last four years she'd spent living out here, and had become convinced that Wilton or any other dust bowl town was not where she wanted to spend the rest of her life.

Matt had begun to sweat profusely again in the last fifteen to twenty minutes, his face taking on an ashen greyness that floated just below the skin. It alarmed her slightly but not as much as the rancid smell that had begun to fill the car. She had wound down the windows, hoping it would dissipate but now the flies were inside, hanging around like the gate crashers to some unplanned party. Although it was an entirely new stink to her, she recognised it nonetheless: rotting. This, along with his hitched breathing, was beginning to plague her. She tried to tell herself that he wasn’t dying, that it didn’t just happen to people like this. Except somewhere deep inside, a voice was quietly arguing this logic.

Just after leaving Wilton, the shivering had settled in and now she could hear his teeth rattling. Occasionally he would say things, things that were mostly incoherent and made no sense like, “Put the lightbulb in,” or “Don’t stand on that it’ll bite you.” The one that had sent gooseflesh erupting on her arms had been a whisper, barely tangible but she had heard it nonetheless: “Mum, show me how to get there.”

She considered whether it might be better to take him to the hospital as opposed to the doctors.

Nearing Tormon now, only a kay or so from the first set of railways tracks on the outskirts, she glanced at him and terror dawn on her. She turned back towards the road and swerved, having veered off her side.

“f**k,” she muttered. She indicated left and began to slow just as a bend in the road was approaching. She would pull over and inspect him closely, just to be sure.

It’s impossible, this can’t just happen.

The side of the road was comprised mostly of white gravel and on the opposite side, across the weedy channel was a row of gum trees. There were farm paddocks out here but no signs of houses, and no immediate indication of civilisation despite being less than three kilometres from the Tormon township. She checked her phone to see what time it was and then forced herself to look at him again. He was still, his mouth ajar, eyes closed. He had stopped babbling twenty minutes ago but it was hard to know when exactly he had ceased breathing. Shakily, she undid her belt and leaned forward, lowering an ear to his mouth.

“Matt,” she said with a wavering sigh. Matt made no movement. No air flowed in or out of his mouth and with a hand on his chest she could not detect the steady beat of his heart. Weeping now, she scrambled to find his pulse.

“God… please…”

But it was absent. She migrated her fingers over every inch of his bare neck and knew somewhere inside her that in the stillness of the car she should have been able to see it beating let alone feel it. There was nothing. No breathing, no pulse. Nothing. She was checking for vitals on a corpse.

He is, he must be, he’s defiantly de-

Suddenly her hand sprang to her mouth, unable to allow that certain d-word to touch her thoughts. Not yet anyway. How could he be, a perfectly healthy, breathing man not an hour ago and now… nothing. It was more than impossible, it was absurd. He had his bad habits but so did anyone else and they kept walking around.

He can’t be dead! He can't be

But he was, and she could see that easily enough for herself through the tears that were forming in her eyes. She remembered seeing her mother’s body in the morgue in New Zealand after she had finally succumbed to her stroke following two intense weeks, her body so cold and so ridged and so. Absent? Was that what she had been? Yes, she had seemed absent, oblivious to everything happening around her. She hadn’t been there, she hadn't felt the warmth of her daughter's lips when they had touched her cool forehead for the last time. Zivana could remember hoping in some over-stressed part of her mind that her mother's eyes would open but of course, they hadn't. She had looked like a very ill woman in the throng of a deep sleep, and now he appeared almost identical. And here she was thinking the same thing. That he appeared absent.

"Please open your eyes," she suddenly screamed, shaking his body and trying to catch a pulse, the sensation of breathing or a heartbeat or a whisper. Then she slapped him. Hard

“f**k YOU, MATTHEW” she screamed. “IT’S A JOKE, I KNOW IT IS. NOT FUNNY.”

But it wasn’t a joke and she knew it.