The Quarry Journal

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Mary’s collar was tight around her throat. She hadn’t worn this dress in almost a decade. It was her mourning dress; black lace and buttons. It usually sat, forgotten, at the back of her wardrobe. The collar had been much looser around her neck ten years ago.

Funerals had never been easy. Her first had been by far the hardest. She had been wearing another uncomfortable dress. But it was smaller, much smaller, to fit her child’s body. After the first came a slew of other, barely recognisable names that she had watched lowered into the ground. Now today. She wasn’t yet sure what to think of today.

She tapped her cigarette, and watched the ash tumble into an ashtray on the windowsill. John’s presence still lingered, even though she had watched his casket being lowered into its grave barely a few hours before. It was in the silver ashtrays dotted all over the house, in the sickly-sweet scent of cigars still hanging in the air of the drawing room. Emphysema had killed him, inevitably. Mary considered the cigarette in her own fingers for a moment, before remembering that she was too old to care. She looked at her aged hand, at the wedding band around one finger. The ring was perfect. Just like everything in their house, and their lives. Almost.

A lawyer had come to see her earlier, when John was barely in his grave. He had slicked-backed, greased hair, and his forehead was creased in apology.

‘Hello, Mrs Williams. I’m Daniel Brigham. I’m here to discuss the allocation of your late husband’s estate.’
‘Yes, come in.’

Mary heaved over the toilet bowl. Stomach acid burned its way up her throat and out of her mouth as tears stung her eyes. She coughed and spluttered a few more times before wiping her damp forehead. The nausea still hadn’t abated. Surely there couldn’t be much left in her stomach.

A knock on the bathroom door demanded her attention. She was about to answer it when her stomach heaved again. She supposed the sounds of her retching were answer enough.

‘This is the third morning in a row, Mary,’ John’s voice called through the door, ‘I’m taking you to the doctor before work.’

Mary didn’t answer. There was no room for discussion, she could tell as much from his tone. She got to her feet on wobbly knees and leaned over the sink. The glint of her wedding ring caught her eye. Six months. Just six months of marriage, and already his true colours where beginning to emerge.

The doctor’s face beamed at her across the desk.

‘You’re pregnant, Mrs Williams. Congratulations.’

Mary froze. Pregnant? The doctor continued to smile at her, seeming to wait for a reaction. John squeezed her hand. She looked across at him.

‘Hear that, Mary? Pregnant!’ John was smiling at her, just as the doctor was. But his was not the smile of an expectant father. She read relief in his expression. As though a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders.

Pregnant.

‘How wonderful,’ Mary said through bloodless lips.

‘May I say again how sorry I am for your loss, Mrs Williams?’

‘Thankyou, Mr Brigham. I appreciate your concern.’

Books and pamphlets every colour of the rainbow spread out in front of her; Pregnancy and Childbirth, Your First Baby, The Gift of Birth. Mary closed her eyes and picked one at random and flipped through it until she found some diagrams. They gave her a very detailed picture of how her body was going to swell to accommodate the growth.

She touched her stomach. It had thickened only slightly in the last six weeks. She probably wouldn’t have noticed if she hadn’t spent time every day in front of the mirror, looking for the signs. Her morning sickness still hadn’t abated. In fact, it had become part of her routine. The nausea woke her up each morning, and she spent at least a half hour over the toilet bowl. Once she felt well enough to get up, she stripped off her nightgown and studied her stomach in the mirror, from every angle.

She had tried to imagine a baby. A small, helpless creature that needed her to nurture and love it. But she could not equate the tiny, gurgling bundles she had seen so many women carrying with the invasion upon her person she was experiencing. Lethargy, vomiting, and a swelling abdomen. It was making her sick.

She continued flipping through the chapters, until a bold title caught her eye, and she froze. Her fingers brushed the lettering, but then jumped away as though stung. She breathed in deeply, and the long-ago, almost forgotten memory seemed to rush back to her.

‘Labour & Birth’

Mary had heard the sounds of childbirth once before. She was five years old, and her sister was coming into the world between screams and groans.

Her mother gave birth in her bedroom, with only Mary’s father and a single midwife. Their house was decrepit and isolated, and the summer sun beat down hard upon the tin roof. Suffocating heat filled the small rooms, and the smell of childbirth hung in the air.

She was called back and forth to the bedroom with orders from her father for towels or hot water. Every time she drew near the room, the sweat and stress of three adults would hit her nostrils, and she struggled not to retch.

She caught glimpses of her mother, her nightgown nearly transparent with sweat. She saw her sitting up and crying out in pain, her face beet red and her hands clutching her swollen stomach. She saw the midwife looking between her legs, and didn’t understand why. Her mother had always taught her to sit with her knees together.

She lingered uncertainly in the hallway, until her mother started screaming. ‘Get it out! Please, get it out!’

She started to rush into the room, but her father was already closing the door. He didn’t meet her eyes, and she watched the droplets of sweat roll down his cheek.

Mary heard sounds of panic coming from behind the door. She heard more cries of pain, and eventually the sound of a baby crying. Words about ‘calming her down’ and ‘stopping the bleeding’ echoed through the door. Hours later, there was silence for a very long time. Then she heard the two, irrevocable words that changed everything.

‘She’s gone.’

Mary sat with her back pressed against the wall, and didn’t understand why.

‘So, you are the sole executor and beneficiary of your late husband’s estate.’

‘Correct.’

‘And your current Will and Testament states that your assets will be divided equally between your sister, Susanne Hart, and your brother-in-law Marcus Williams. Are there any changes you wish to make?

‘No. No changes.’

The dining room was silent, but for the ticking of the cuckoo clock, and the little chimes of cutlery against the plates. Mary stared at her food, but felt no appetite. The pungent smell of John’s cigar wafted over to her, and she crinkled her nose. Why couldn’t he wait until after dinner to smoke the stupid thing, like most people? She started when he barked something across the table at her.

‘What?’

His forehead crinkled in annoyance. ‘I said, the asparagus is overcooked.’

‘Oh. Sorry.’

‘You know, if you can’t manage to cook a simple meal, I can just hire a maid to do it for you.’

Mary sighed. It was the long hours he was working, she told herself. He had never been so harsh, so unfeeling when they were engaged, or even in the first few months of marriage. He had been charming, and courteous. He had even bought her flowers.

‘No, John. It’s fine. I’ve just had a lot on my mind lately.’

‘What could you possibly have on your mind?’

Mary closed her eyes. She was feeling a little light-headed. She’d had an appointment with her doctor that day and complained of trouble relaxing. He’d sent her home with a bottle of white pills, and she’d taken two before dinner. She let their calming effect take over, and the words spilled out.

‘I don’t want to be pregnant.’

Her heart beat twice as fast as the cuckoo clock. John’s disbelieving, uncomprehending face stared at her across the dining table. Mary was already regretting the words.

‘It’s a little late. You already are,’ he said, and took a puff from his cigar before returning to his meal.

Mary steeled herself. She’d come this far.

‘I…I’ve told you about my mother before.’

John sighed, and placed down his knife and fork.

‘Mary, your mother lived in a dilapidated farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. She had no professional medical care, just a midwife doing some guesswork. We live minutes away from one of the finest hospitals in the country. Stop worrying. It’s pointless.’

‘But, I still–’

‘Enough!’ John pushed his plate away and stood up. ‘This is what you’re meant to do, and you’re doing it. I’m going for a drive to clear my head. You’d best get an early night’s rest. You’re not acting yourself, Mary.” He left the room without another word. Mary heard him coughing from the hallway, and watched the smoke rising from his cigar with tired eyes.

‘It’s a shame, really.’

‘What’s a shame, Mr Brigham?’

‘That there are no children to inherit this beautiful home. It’d be perfect for raising a family.’

‘I suppose it would.’

Mary’s hands shook as she poured herself another generous measure of whiskey. Her thoughts, and her vision, were pleasantly blurred. It usually took much more to get her this drunk. She supposed the pills were helping.

She touched her stomach instinctively, irresistibly, and for the thousandth time wished it away. She decided to go upstairs and sleep until the morning sickness woke her the next morning. She didn’t want to see John, whenever he got home.

She glared at the coffee table, stacked with her pregnancy books. On a whim, she lifted a high-heeled foot and upturned the table viciously, sending the books scattering and the table crashing after them. In that moment, however, she lost her precarious, drunken balance and fell to the floor. She landed hard on her stomach on the wooden floorboards. Pain shot through her abdomen, and she struggled back to her feet. She kicked off the heeled atrocities and stumbled, vision spinning, to the staircase.

A painful cramp gripped her stomach as she walked. She doubled over and clutched her stomach, gasping, until it stopped. She made it up five stairs before hunching over in pain again, heart hammering in her chest. A strangled noise escaped her as the cramp eased and she made her way, slowly, up the rest of the stairs. Somewhere in her lethargic, disorientated mind she realised that she had options. Only a few metres away was the telephone. She could take those last few steps and call an ambulance, and let them try to save her pregnancy. But that wasn’t her only choice.

She thought of her mother. She remembered her red face and sweat-soaked nightgown in the last, painful hours of her life. She remembered the last words she had heard her scream. Get it out! Please, get it out!

Just finish it, she thought. Mary closed her eyes. She lifted her unsteady hand from the banister, rose onto her toes, and let her stockinged feet slip off the staircase.

Her heart had finally settled to a steady thrum. She could hear it, and she could smell linen and chemicals. Her eyes flickered open. The room was as white as it smelled. Her heart seemed very loud in her ears, until she realised it was the beeping of the machine she was hooked up to. Hospital. She was in a hospital.

‘Mary?’ John’s face slowly solidified above her.

‘What happened?’ she croaked. She could already see the hard lines of his face forming.

‘You drank yourself stupid and lost our child, that’s what happened.’

Relief. Quickly followed by crushing guilt.

‘I’m sorry, John.’

‘You should be. What the hell were you thinking, Mary?’

What had she been thinking, marrying this man? With the permanent crease of anger between his eyebrows, and the inability to comprehend anything beyond his own, narrow scope of reasoning. She looked into his grey eyes.

‘I wasn’t.’

She watched his face carefully. It didn’t soften. She knew it never would.

‘They’re going to keep you under observation for the next twenty-four hours. I’ll be back tomorrow to pick you up.’

Mary nodded.  ‘I really am sorry.’

He left without answering. Mary was certain he would never forgive her.

‘Well, thankyou for making my job so easy.’

‘That’s quite alright, Mr Brigham. Have a safe trip home.’

‘I will. Do take care of yourself, Mrs Williams.’

Mary finished her cigarette, and stubbed it out in the ashtray. She sat back on the lounge and placed a hand on her stomach in a way she hadn’t done in so many years. So much unexpected, uncontrollable guilt.

She thought of her mother, who she so often tried to keep from her mind. She had died sweating and bleeding, with her husband beside her. She thought of John. Of his coldness, of their empty marriage. Death had been on Mary’s mind a lot lately, but it was only then that she acknowledged that she herself would die alone, in this cold house, with the smell of stale cigars in the air. But then, she remembered, she was too old to care.

Download pdf of Mourning Sickness

1. Mix together one cup of flour, three tablespoons of water and half a teaspoon of salt.

I didn’t just fall in love, I fell in love in Africa. And not with a man, but with what really was the most extraordinary, homemade, oven baked, hand perfected, glossy, shiny, tasty strawberry pie.

2. Roll the pastry into a ball.

I’m not assertive, and I hate confrontation. But I am – without a doubt – market bipolar. Not to be mistaken for anything real, market bipolar is just my other persona. Market persona, she’s a bitch. And when you’re early morning walking, the last thing you want is a bag of cumquats, sugar cane or a dozen turtle pens, so I say NO!, turning abruptly and pursing my lips. I probably look like a codfish, somehow I think it helps. It was in this way that I met Michael, who – with an armful of strawberries and bearing a sizeable grin with his impossibly white teeth – was the first to laugh at me. I held his gaze a little longer then was culturally appropriate, before turning around and storming off as best I could.

‘Where are you going? I can escort you,’ Michael said, following me closely, ‘this is my city, I am your guide.’

‘No thank you.’

‘Are you going to work perhaps? A strawberry for the road?’ He held one out. It looked delicious.

‘Not today.’

‘Miss, they’re juicy and sweet’ he said, and at this I stopped and faced him.

‘Don’t –’, I said, cod lips at the ready, before he interrupted me.

‘An everyday treat,’ he finished, all smiles.

3. Heat the oven to two-hundred-and-fifty degrees Celsius. Roll out the pastry.

Strawberries, big, red and freshly picked were cheap, and came in boxes and bowls and were handed to you through the car window whenever you stopped. It was the perfect and only time of year for them, warm in the day and cool in the nights. Perfection; in my opinion. Stopping, in general was something you tried to avoid. You’d have crowds instantly surrounding you, pressing hands and noses to the glass, just staring. Wide eyed, slack jawed men. If you dared open the window you’d have vegetables and animals pushed through, a back seat full of maize, in all its variations, quite possibly a goat and a bleating bunch of kids. And as you walked down the streets, you’d be offered these rich, red wonders by busty women in bright colours, and male vendors of all generations. Their strong, muscly, working arms holding trays of them above their heads, and cradled in their arms. Their hands were working hands. Like Michael, they bargained with you daily.

Strawberries are the only fruits that have their seeds on the outside. Unlike their vendors, unlike Michael, they play an open hand.

4. Lay the pastry in the pie tin. Bake for ten minutes. Cool.

It was out of these strawberries, these beautiful, rich, fresh strawberries that my neighbour, another white and wonderful missionary like myself, made this most incredible pie. Or maybe it was a tart. Or a torte. A torte tart. I was never taught the difference, never taught the tart. Once, I was told I was a tart, and not the sweet kind. But this one was sweet, and the baker was kind.

Strawberries have the most incredible healing qualities, and the Ancient Romans believed them to be the perfect remedy for all sorts of ailments, from liver disease to fevers and infections. And the Ancient Romans bought us toga parties, so my theory is that strawberries – in whatever form – can’t possibly be bad for you. Me in a toga these days, however, is an entirely different story. That’s bad for everyone, an ailment to all.

When I was younger, we had a dog, but my neighbours had a garden. My dad always told us that it was one or the other, and I loved my dog. And the wood of the fence was wearing and old, a faded green with holes in places. Holes I used to look through, on tip-toes, watching the neighbour woman hang colourful strands of long, silky garments on her washing line. She was Indian and her house, and she, always smelt of spices. They grew all sorts of wonders in their garden, tomatoes that tundeled over the top of the fence line, and lemon trees in bud with huge and thick-skinned fruits. They would bring us bags of them over the Summer. There were all sorts of flowers, and natives, hibiscus and frangipani and plants that looked like herbs and smelt like onions. And then right in the depths, in the foliage and most often under the rest, sat the little strawberry plants. Green and thin, with tiny little red fruits that went bad, or were eaten by pesky cockatoos, before you even noticed them.

Once, poking my little hands through the fence, I nabbed two. Pitiful things, and blackening at the edges. Almost prune-like, they sat in my hand. I ate one and it was sour, so I buried the other, beside my hermit crab grave, in the childish hopes that it would sprout, and grow something real and wonderful. Every day I would go out there, with a bucket of water and water, in the hopes that it would seep through the earth and beneath the soil, begin to grow a miracle.

‘They’re all together desirable,’ Michael had said, when I bumped into him another time, holding out the strawberries, but looking up at me.

5. Mash six cups of strawberries with one cup of sugar, two tablespoons of cornstarch and half a cup of water.

You could tell who had been in Malawi the longest by their ability to cook despite the cultural differences, and the interesting list of local ingredients, which often upon inspection, would contain all kinds of animal innards, and almost always MSG. But regardless, here we were, at a friend’s long and well deserved farewell evening, and in front of me sat the most incredible, beautiful, glossy perfect strawberry pie I had ever seen, and I was completely and utterly in awe of the thing.

‘Get into my belly!’ I demanded, and minutes later I sat extremely happy and in complete and utter want of more.

6.  Heat the strawberry mixture in a saucepan till it boils.

I have a theory. That when I got my large toenail removed, (long story, has to do with fungus) I somehow lost my balance. Yes, like a tangible thing that I had and now misplaced, I had balance, I had poise and then I had an operation. Now, just an uneven surface jumps out at me like unexpected party poppers, causing me to fall.

At home, in sunny, surly Sydney this is never really a problem, except when in heels on a particularly frisky night out with the girls, where we drink sex on the beach, and naked cowboys to drown out the fact that our feet are red, swollen, blistering – and hurt like hell. We dine cocktails.

The low-land villages in Malawi on the other hand, are an entirely different story. Each little village section, as you meander down and down, trailing eleven children and following your non-English speaking guide, is joined by thin, rotting, ancient logs. The locals, with their bare feet and their practice navigate the ways with ease, often carrying bundles of goods, or sticks, or children on their heads and backs. Knowing that I’m crossing, they love, in fact, to gather around. I’m sure, making bets in their own language, about at which point I’m going to fall, what I will land on, and how long it will take me to right myself. The answer is usually a very long time.

My own guide, already on the other side looked over, as in front of me the log lay, ready to roll me off and plunge me into the depths below. Not overly far down, just a couple of meters, but a couple of meters and into the lake. The lake where people wash, bathe, and go to the bathroom. Where the pigs wander, ready to eat you, and if not – just your poo. I call them the ‘poo pigs’. They disgust me. I stared at the log and I stared at the lake and I looked at the crowds. Kids giggled into their palms and the women, in a huddle, exchanged little glances. They think I am ridiculous. Well now I have to do it, I thought to myself, if for no other purpose then to simply prove them wrong.

‘There is a way around,’ I heard from behind me, turning to see Michael, all smiles. I rolled my eyes.

‘It’s you,’ I said, averting my eyes to the log again. In ‘his way’, he was carrying a box of strawberries.

‘My name is Michael, what is yours?’  His English was perfect, which was strange for a village man.

‘Not today’ I said, taking that moment to step out in faith, placing one foot in front of the other and making it, almost the whole way along before a flying something distracted me and tripping over nothing, I managed to not just slip or fall, but launch myself over the edge, face first, hurling my backpack into the lake. My arms hurt, I was soaked through, the kids were in hysterics, the pigs were closing in and Michael looked right down at me, holding out his hand.

‘Did you know,’ he’d tell me later, pointing out a chameleon and handing me a strawberry free of charge, ‘that in my culture, this is like giving you a rose?’

I googled it later, they’re in the same family.

7. Once cool, spread the strawberry mixture over the pie crust.

The thing about HIV medication is that often times, it keeps you alive at the cost of causing you a hundred thousand other ills. The side effects are as aggressive as the virus itself, and can range from burning legs to skin disease, lesions, headaches, insomnia, numbness, pustules, lumps and heart palpitations. This is why, unlike my midnight dreams of glitter shoes and dancing, they take a myriad of pills and call it a cocktail. You take a pill for the virus, and another to counteract the effects of the pill, and the cycle thus continues, and you can’t stop in the fear of resistance. And you can’t stop, and it can’t stop it. Not really. Whether now or eventually, one old man once told me, people with HIV, they will always die of AIDS. He died of AIDS. And we bring such pills to our patients on our home visits, and it was on such an occasion that I met Michael once again.

I almost turned right back around, as I ducked my head under the concrete slab and walked into his house, seeing him there on the floor, a huge smile on his face, clinically thinner, amidst a pile of maize husks.

‘You really need to stop following me,’ he said, ‘it’s borderline suspicious.’

As I observed, the nurse asked him questions.

‘I have something for you,’ he said, ignoring her, pulling a double strawberry from the basket by his side. ‘If we share this,’ he continued, ‘you’ll absolutely fall in love with me.’

‘Not today, thank you,’ I said, picking up my stethoscope and leaving out the door.

8. Refrigerate until set.

In Australia, I used to speak in high schools. Standing before a couple of hundred teenagers, as they passed notes between one another, judged me, and in question time accused me of forcing my views upon them. To ‘get down to their level’ I would play the Black Eyed Peas, wear Cotton On and talk about ninjas.

If your body is a martial arts school, then your immune system is like your disease fighting ninjas, I would say. HIV slowly kills your ninjas, leaving the school what? And I would hope for the answer, ‘open to attack’.

I would leave, and forever be in their minds, ‘that religious girl who said something about ninjas, shouldn’t wear a tube top and sweat quite a bunch’. All of which were true. What I failed to mention was the herpes. The weight loss, mouth cancers, brains tumors, the slowing of speech, the weakness of the limbs, the migraines, fever, vomiting, nausea, dizziness, leprosy, severe scabies, body aches and ulcers that the loss of these ninjas results in. That the human immunodeficiency virus hijacks lymphocytes, and like a honeymoon nest; multiplies within them. Leaving the very old and the very young – a void working, parenting, contributing generation, destroying not only T-cells and individuals, but families, villagers, communities, generations and entire nations, like Malawi. A fact that takes on a different face when it is just that, a face. A mother and child, a man in a suit, a mini bus driver, a father, an uncle, a teacher, a student, a barefoot grandma, the sweet newborn. The laughing, the driving, the serving you at the counter, the smiling, the begging, the crossing the street. Michael.

I’d never mention that being ‘open to attack’ left your heart completely vulnerable, and in each and every way just that; open to attack.

9. Share.

This strawberry pie, in all its glory, both on the plate and in my stomach really was a huge blessing and completely unparalleled. It beat my daily ritual of sausage substitute and fresh lettuce by the handful, as I tried to be healthy and support both fruit and vegetable ladies, when they came to my front door.

And it was over this pie that I was quickly pulled aside.

‘Hailey, did you hear that Michael went home?’ There was a moments pause, as she placed her hand on my shoulder, ‘to be with his family,’ she added, trying to gage my level of comprehension.

Strawberries are good for you, filled with all sorts of nutrients and healing beneficiaries. They must be picked by hand, and each one has over 200 seeds. They are beautiful, rich, healing, but all together fragile, and their season is too short.

‘Hailey,’ she said, ‘he’s gone home’.

I wept bitterly, by myself and in the kitchen. My grandmother told me once that she listened to the human heart through only one means, tears when you’re alone. There’s too much pressure, when others are around, to be first too dramatic in want of sympathy and attention, or rather, to be silent and still and tough and hard and strong. But when alone, with nobody to impress, and nobody to care, tears are deep and powerful codes; the embodiment of something deeper. Richer. Sweeter. Like a homemade, oven baked, hand perfected, glossy, shiny, tasty strawberry pie.

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