Chapter 115

I have thought a lot about what must have happened to me on the flight.

I think it’s possible I suffered from “delirium” due to dehydration. I believe I was severely dehydrated that morning and I’ve been told I refused all offers of water during the delay. People my age are susceptible to dehydration and it can lead to the sudden onset of delirium, resulting in confusion and hallucinations.

I have also considered the possibility I suffered a psychotic break caused by grief. This is rarer than delirium, but it happens.

In my day we would have said I suffered a “nervous breakdown,” but the new term is “mental health crisis.”

Grandma would have said I had “a funny turn.”

I have tried to remember everything I can about the moments while I was still lucid.

I know I got an awful shock when I saw the fair-haired flight attendant because he was there the day Ned died. I will never forget that boy’s grim, frightened expression as he leaned over Ned, pressing two fingers to Ned’s darling neck, which I loved to kiss, which smelled so good, right near the little dark spot we were keeping an eye on. I knew there was no pulse to find. I knew the CPR wouldn’t work. I knew the paramedics who came on board wouldn’t save him. I’m sure the young flight attendant would not have forgotten the day one of his passengers died, but perhaps all his attention had been on Ned’s face, not mine, or perhaps ladies of my age all look the same to him, because he looked right through me when I boarded. It added to my feeling of unreality, as if I’d dreamed the whole thing, as if I’d never been married to Ned.

I had Ned’s ashes in my carry-on bag, above me in the overhead bin, and yet there was an empty seat right next to me, the only empty seat on the plane, as if it were waiting for Ned, and then the man across the aisle from me, who I now know was Leo Vodnik, wore the very same stylish shoes as Ned, and tapped his feet in an identical impatient manner, while he sat next to the couple who reminded me of Jill and Bert, and I saw the Jewels of Europe—well, never mind, none of this matters.

I did what I did.

—

When I got to Hazel and Tony’s house in Sydney after the flight, I didn’t technically faint, or collapse as such, but Hazel says I sat on her couch and “toppled sideways like a tree.”

Embarrassing.

She put me to bed in her guest room, and I stayed there for a week, like an invalid suffering from consumption. It was decided (without anyone asking me) that the scattering of Ned’s ashes would be postponed until I was well enough.

I lay in bed and listened for Tony’s voice because, although he and Ned are nothing alike in looks or personality, their voices have always been eerily similar. Hearing Tony’s voice didn’t upset me. I found it comforting.

Goodness, my in-laws were kind to me that week. Sometimes over the years I had wondered what Hazel and Tony truly thought of Ned and me, traipsing about the world while they stayed in one place and brought up a family. There were long periods when we had no contact and then we’d breeze in at Christmas, with our gifts and stories. Just as their children got close to us, off we went to live in another city or country. Tony and Hazel might have secretly rolled their eyes at each other while we talked about tandem skydiving and trekking in Nepal. Families do secretly roll their eyes at each other, but never mind, it doesn’t matter if they did. There is no doubt they treated me like a loved family member that week. I am ready to do the same for them when and if they need me.

—

When I felt well enough, we scattered Ned’s ashes at the scenic lookout Tony suggested. He told a lot of stories I’d never heard before about boyhood adventures involving bikes and surfboards and sand dunes. Tony said his little brother Ned made any activity ten times more fun.

I thought, Twenty times more fun. A hundred times. Maybe a thousand times.

—

Ned and I had thirty-four beautiful years together. That’s longer than my dad’s lifetime. Longer than Jack Murphy’s lifetime. Longer than Kayla Halfpenny’s lifetime.

I remind myself of this whenever I feel particularly cross with him for walking out of that damned appointment.