Cathy

This morning I remembered a scene from last month. I’m in Camperdown (Victoria), where I used to go to high school. I’m with Mum, and I suggest we go for coffee. We walk down Manifold Street as I piece together memories of when I walked here often. I feel a little anxious, realising that I might bump into someone I used to know. Mum takes me to what’s meant to be the best café. We sit and talk, and the coffee is surprisingly good. We’re having a nice chat, probably the most philosophical discussion we’ve had to date. We cover topics such as health care, stolen generations, foster parenting, social disadvantage, our own relationships with money.

At some stage a woman walks past. She’s holding the arm of another woman and a walking stick in the other hand. She walks with difficulty. She lifts her arm holding the stick and waves at Mum. Then she looks and waves at me. I realise that it’s Cathy. I used to work with her in the supermarket. I knew she had MS, but had not seen her in years. The woman on her arm is her mother.

Like most people from the old town, I’d forgotten that she even existed. But she does. She’s still there, and she probably couldn’t have left had she wanted to.

Meanwhile, I fled. Even as a faraway son I complained about my family, my town, the things I’d escaped. I believed my escape was necessary, that I had a lot to explore. And so I shredded the memories of people I once knew.

Not that I was close to Cathy. But we talked at work, and she was always nice to me. She was friendly with everyone.

She remembered me. She waved, stick in hand. I waved back. I was saddened for a moment. Then I returned to the conversation with Mum.

It felt more like friendship than our usual mother/son repertoire. I guess we have some distance between us. We’ve each changed and the lines are being redrawn. She asks about Mark, which feels strange. She tells me about Dad, allows me to see him as she does – the characteristics he hides from everyone else. I start to picture a more caring, thoughtful man. She talks about her parents – their history which is her history. And mine.

Things are changing. Things are good. I’m no longer the son who wishes he didn’t have a family. My anger is easing. I wish it had happened sooner.

Does Cathy ever wish that she didn't have her family? I don’t know why I thought of her this morning. I’d been reading Nikolas Rose’s theories on biological citizenship, but I don’t think that was it. Though perhaps it made me contemplate my own health-subjectivity. I watched the film The Edge of Heaven recently, but I don’t think that was it. Though it presented a nice take on parent/child relationships, and their social and historical attachments.

After reading and eating, I showered. Beneath hot water I thought of Cathy and I cried. Tears. Guilt. I ran away and she remembers me. She waved. And she still waves. And when I think of that I can’t help but cry. I’m sorry.