It wasn't that I minded the idea of being alone for the night. On some level I welcomed the isolation. I felt safe enough in the townhouse in Darlinghurst and God knows, I'd been carrying on a non-stop conversation with myself in my sub-conscious since all of this began the week before, so it wasn't like I needed someone else to talk with. I'd spoken to Melissa earlier in the week about staying with me in the city after Candi left. I wanted to be able to have some time with just my youngest daughter before I, too, went back to California. Simultaneously, I knew Melissa felt that her mother needed her support and I didn't want to put her in the position of thinking she had to choose between us. It was with those conflicting thoughts that I suggested Robin and Melissa drop me in Darlinghurst as we exited the airport parking lot.
The conversation during that short ride back from the airport revolved around my desire to contact Geoff's employer and arrange a visit to his office. I thought it was important that we pick up his personal belongings and spend some time with Zlata (it's like "Cher", she uses no last name of which I am aware) and some of the other folks that worked with Geoff in the design firm and I said so. Melissa indicated she would like to come along and she volunteered that she felt JoJo would want to be included as well. As I was sitting in the back seat the only communication I had on the subject with Robin was some eye contact via the rear vision mirror. I knew the look; she was going to have to spend some time thinking about making that trip to North Sydney before she would commit. I would call the office of Zlata Creative Design first thing in the morning to find out what was possible and would advise Robin and Melissa once I knew.
The sky was clear but a little breezy when the two of them dropped me in front of the unit and waited until I unlocked the doors before driving off. Did I need anything? Would I be all right? Was I sure I didn't want to come to Bexley North for a while? Were all questions to which I had assuredly made the appropriate responses before they were comfortable leaving me. As I entered the townhouse in the dark I switched on the light in the living room and contemplated turning on the television. Knowing that, at best, the entertainment might be an Aussie situation comedy or re-runs of American shows, the idea held very little appeal. I remembered that at the end of the block there was a pub with seats in the windows that fronted to Oxford Street where I had observed others sitting and watching the world pass by. For lack of any better idea I decided to grab my jacket and make my way to the pub.
The brisk walk took only a couple of minutes and I entered the establishment and walked up to the service bar and ordered a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon which I took to one of the stools that were positioned at the windows with a ledge at bar height that served as a table of sorts. Directly below the windows on the outside of the building was a row of bistro tables and chairs that allowed for al fresco dining and, of course, smoking. No sooner than when I had positioned myself in a way I thought would give me a good vantage point to observe the steady stream of humanity that would pass by an even more recently arrived patron than myself commandeered the table directly below me and lit up a cigarette. Having to satisfy no one except myself with my choice of seats and with a certain amount of annoyance I reassigned myself a new bar stool that was strategically upwind from any new tobacco burners that might frequent the facility.
I slowly nursed my glass of wine, it had all the the subtle characteristics of a construction grade of sandpaper, and spent the next 45 minutes, or so, watching the world pass by that window. I observed several small groups that built up as the participants arrived separately by foot that I surmised were business associates meeting for drinks or old friends celebrating a special event that for whatever reason had chosen this location to do just that. Couples would arrive and order drinks at the bar and then place themselves at one of the inside or outside tables and engage in isolated one on one conversation. More than one patron availed themselves of the ATM that was directly adjacent to where I was sitting. I watched person after person pass by that window seat on Oxford Street and all had strides that were purposeful. Somewhere to go, someone to see, some event to celebrate; I tried to guess what the objectives were of each individual that entered my field of vision. I found my mind wandering towards questions that have no answers and thoughts of which I was not particularly proud: How was it fair that all these people could be out living their lives when my son was no longer able to be among us? Surely, some of these people must be more deserving than Geoff was to die at such a young age; how is that they are still out walking around and he isn't? Geoff had so much to give to everyone and gave he did, do any of these nameless individuals that I am observing have as much? Why was I sitting in a public bar at an open window, 8000 miles from home, alone, mourning the death of my only son, watching the entirety of this sample of humanity pass by on a Thursday night in October? How would I ever be the same? Would my life ever be the same?
Sensing that I needed to retreat to the more familiar confines of the townhouse on Taylor Street I took the last gulp of the overly rough red wine, dismounted the stool and trudged the short way back to the apartment. In the total silence I readied myself for bed, popped my mandatory single Advil PM, navigated the now familiar stairway and dove under the duvet. I lay on the bed with the vision of Geoff standing in the doorway of the Four Points Sheraton Hotel in Darling Harbour until I fell asleep.
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