do to stop it from destroying me? I had seen bereaved people build a wall around themselves. Others had taken to medication or to alcohol to dull the pain and worsen the problem. Facing my emotions full-on was the best means of coping. I should be ready to confront all situations, unpleasant or otherwise.
‘Will you come to church with me. I need you,’ I said to the family. ‘It’ll be an ordeal.’ Father Brendan would announce the news. People would offer condolences but also ask questions. Some would be gentle and tuned in; others would be clumsy. They’d want to know all the detail and trample through like elephants. But my family agreed.
* * *
As we walked from the car park for the 10 am Mass, people from the 8.30 am Mass were still gathered over their post-Mass tea and coffee. They knew. At another time I would have approached the church self-consciously, aware that all eyes were on me, but that morning I couldn’t have cared less if I was the centre of attention of everybody or nobody. I didn’t seek this notoriety. I would have given everything to be walking with Maris, just another couple, as we had done every Sunday for years. Some of these people scurried away to their cars as if to avoid me. I did not mind. I didn’t care much if they spoke to me or not. They would have been coming to terms with the shock and not expect to see me. They would have been uncomfortable, unsure what to say. Many people avoid speaking of death, regardless of the cause, but when it comes to suicide they are reluctant to say anything.
Some approached me. They did not say much but showed their support and were open to my emotions. They looked into my eyes and knew how I felt. Father Brendan made the announcement. I felt the tears roll down my cheeks. I don’t recall much more of the Mass. A young boy made his First Communion, but I was in too much haze. As I went to Communion I was acutely aware that Maris was not with me. The kids went with me. I thank God for my family.
Outside after Mass, people were incredulous. They could not believe Maris suffered from depression and was so deeply troubled. ‘Perhaps she was pushed,’ said one lady. ‘I just can’t imagine Maris taking her own life. It must have been an accident.’
We had visitors that afternoon. They came with casseroles and cakes, and soon the freezer was full — good practical help for a family in crisis. Over many cups of tea I retold the story of the last few days. I needed to tell it. To many of the people Maris had delivered a casserole herself. Visitors told us how she had supported them. I heard many stories that afternoon of Maris’ kindness. People asked if Maris had left a note. We hadn’t found any.
The phone rang again. ‘You can collect the Nissan Pulsar,’ said the policeman on the other end of the line.
‘Where is it?’ I asked.
‘It was on the top floor of the car park. It’s at the station now. We’ve put your wife’s handbag back in the car.’
‘I’ll go and get Mum’s car,’ volunteered Tim. When he returned he handed me Maris’ bag. It contained about $100 in cash, all her credit cards, and her driving licence. Two Chatswood Chase car park receipts told their story after she drove down the lane at 9.00 am. One was stamped 09.19, the other 09.57. Instead of going to Terrey Hills, she had driven to Chatswood, entered the car park, come out and returned. What was she thinking when she left the car park? Where did she go? What was going through her mind when she returned? The ambulance was called at 10.10 am so she wasted no time once she found the car park roof. What was she thinking in her last moments?
In bed that night, like all nights, I automatically picked up my book. It happened to be Elizabeth Jolley’s The Well. Underneath was a card, the Fathers’ Day card which Maris had given me in September. How did it get there beside my bed? Was it there all the time and I hadn’t noticed? Or did Maris put it there as a farewell message? I threw The Well aside and read the card over and over. A flood of emotions brought on the tears, the sadness, the love, the regrets, the guilt.
Chapter 5
My husband, My Love, My Best Friend
You’re a wonderful husband, and I love you
For so many reasons
That it’s hard to know
Where to begin
You’re loving, supportive and sensitive
And I find comfort in knowing that
No matter what happens
You’ll always set aside time for me.
You’re a wonderful father,
Patient and understanding,
And I can tell by watching you
How much you enjoy being a parent.
You’re my partner, my lover and my best friend…,
And everyday that we share
I discover more and reasons to love you.
Happy Father’s Day
Black thoughts of regret darted through me again that night. They swooped out of nowhere and flashed away just as quickly, chattering with a voice that accused me of neglect, stupidity, ignorance and indifference to Maris’ suffering. Somehow I survived the tormenting hours.
The kookaburras began their day with their derisive laugh. I glanced across the bed, then closed my eyes, trying to put off for a few seconds the vacuum of Maris’ absence, willing her back. I opened my eyes. Still an empty bed.
I got up to face the day.
A lot had to be done. Remnants of that calmness that comes with shock once more took over. Certain people had to be contacted. The first was an undertaker. I rang Chris Lee, recommended by Father Peter, and we arranged to meet later that morning.
I rang Fiona, Maris’ psychologist.
‘Maris won’t be keeping her appointment tomorrow.’
When I told her why, I could hear the distress in Fiona voice.
‘Maris tried to ring you Saturday.’
‘I was with one of my boys at his sport. But I had my mobile with me. I would have certainly seen Maris that day.’
Maris had only rung the home number. That missed opportunity sent a sharp blow to my chest. ‘Maris kept saying she wanted to go to hospital but I wasn’t sure of the procedure for admission,’ I said.
Fiona sighed. ‘It’s just a matter of turning up.’
Her reply sent me spiralling. I felt as though my ship had struck a rock and I was thrown into the water, drowning in a sea of regret, heavy splintered beams striking me on the head and crushing me. If only I had taken Maris straight away to the hospital. If only…
I felt the vice-like grip on my heart — that broken heart sensation. I could hardly breathe. I will torture myself with this regret for ever, I thought. And I deserve such torture because I failed Maris through unforgivable ignorance.
I guess Fiona knew I needed help. ‘Come and see me tomorrow,’ she said calmly. ‘You take the appointment instead.’
I
