The first time I met her was at a social welfare office. She
looked healthy and bubbly and confident and rather pretty in her tight jeans
and long boots and short jacket. She had a mass of long, curly orange hair and
was accompanied by a young middle eastern looking man. I remember wondering if
he was her man-bag, and then I thought, that’s none of my business. I was
surprised that she was a pensioner. That meant she was unable to work and was
relying on welfare payment from the government. When the interview was finished
she said goodbye and kissed me on the top of my head. I thought that was a bit
strange but perhaps that was just her personality.
The next time I met her was on my way home from work, many
months later. The hair was still orange but no longer long and luxurious. She
was limping because of a bone overgrowth in one of her feet. She looked very
happy to see me and she said God probably arranged the meeting because she had
been looking for me. She needed some help with something. I was a bit alarmed
but I tried to be polite and we said goodbye.
Let’s just call her Melly. The next time we met she called
and told me that she was locked out of her apartment and didn’t have any place
to spend the night. Melly had a young daughter with her (let's call her Kerry) and she asked if she
could come to our home. I don’t usually meddle with my clients’ personal lives
but I didn’t have the heart to say no. She came and I made some phone calls to
find a place for her and her daughter but could not find any. Then I lent her
some money to stay at a hotel. She left but returned a few hours later and said
she could not find any rooms near by. I didn’t really believe that but I
still felt sorry for her daughter, so after a discussion with my nieces we
allowed her and her daughter to spend the night in the living room. She started
to tell me her stories. She told me that she was a victim of domestic violence.
Her ex-husband beat her up and injured her. She told me she still had to take
medication for her injuries. She told me that her father had been a rich man
Indonesia. She once studied and worked in London, etc. etc. She also told me
about the young man bag, who turned out to only want a permanent visa from the
relationship. One day he slapped her daughter and so she kicked him out. She
told me about her ex-husbands. Before long I lost track and even now I don’t
really know how many ex-husbands she had. She had other children in Indonesia and Sydney. I didn’t know which parts of her
story could be believed but I was not a lawyer or a police officer so I didn’t
really need to know. The next day she left. Nothing was missing from our home
but the bed sheet were soaking wet because her daughter vomited during the
night. I was just relieved that she was not a mass murderer, or something scary like that.
Over the next few years she continued to keep in touch. I
tried to help her the best I could, but I began to suspect that she was not
very rational. She kept moving from one place to another. There was always
something wrong with the apartment. She said one of the real estate agents
tried to sexually harass her. By this time she was not really very pretty
anymore, but when did that ever stop a wicked man? I guess she was vulnerable
and he tried to take advantage of her. I didn’t know how far he went but she
was very angry, and as usual, very dramatic when she told me. She told me one
of the priest from her church came with her to the real estate agent to
reprimand the agent. Also as usual, the story was so dramatic I didn’t know
which parts were true and which parts were exaggerated.
She began to wear a short satin bright green dress and shiny
black boots quite often. One time a neighbour thought that she was a
prostitute.
Amongst all these, she was also becoming quite ill. Every
time she called she told me about the pain, the treatment, what the doctor
said, etc. etc. I guess I heard about it so often I began to be desensitized
towards her condition. One day she just disappeared. I called and called but
she did not return my call. I was worried so I went to her apartment but she
was not there. Finally she picked up her phone. She was okay. I visited her at
the hospital after her surgery and a few other times.
There was always something happening in her live. Each one
more dramatic than the previous ones. Her stories and requests became more and
more strange. One day she called me and cried on the phone. “Mbak, aku
dibohongi, aku sakit hati.” She told me that ‘her priest’, who also happened to
be a bishop or a retired bishop, previously planned to marry her. Then he broke
his promise and asked her to come with him and live in India instead. She said
the priest had done inappropriate things to her. Now friends, what would you
think if you hear a story like this? I tried my best not to be skeptical. I
googled the name she gave me. Yes, there was a bishop by that name. I
remembered that this was the same Father X who shouted at the naughty real
estate agent, the same one who visited her at the hospital and embarrassed her
for acting quite possessively, the same one who was always mentioned whenever
she called. Okay, I believed her, but what did she want me to do? And what could I do? I was quite angry at Father
X. He abused his position and power and had take advantage of a sick and
unstable single parent. Melly told me that she and another member of the church
had written a letter of complaint about the situation. All I did was listen to
her and tried to calm her down. Since that day Father X was no longer in her
stories.
One of her last requests was for my sister-in-law, who was
coming to Sydney, to bring some medicine from Indonesia for her. My
sister-in-law was not very happy about this, because in the package there were
also some syringes and needles. So I told myself, okay, this is the last time.
Then she went to Indonesia! With several nuns and priests! I
was left scratching my head. She told me that she wanted to visit the grave of
her son, who passed away recently. She was not very well herself, so I thought
it was not very wise, but I understood that as a mother she probably felt a
very strong urge to visit the grave. She got very ill when she got back from
Indonesia. I was not surprised.
Melly got better but her illness continued. She got thinner
and darker and her hair got shorter and shorter. Her latest project was
arranging an Aussy citizenship for her daughter. And for that she went to
Indonesia, again! She also started to talk about death. She said, “Kayaknya aku
udah mau mati, Mbak. Aku udah ampunin my ex-husband. Soalnya supaya jangan
dibawa-bawa kalau aku mati nanti.” Of course I told her she was not going to
die. She would be well again, she just needed to be patient and did what the
doctor told her.
She called me from Indonesia to tell me that she had to
extend her stay for a few days. Could I lend her some money and give it to
Kerry (her daughter) who was looked after by her friend? I met up with Kerry
and her six foot tall young male baby-sitter, who would not look me in the eye
when I talked to him. Kerry seemed well and happy so for the hundredth time I
said to myself, none of my business. And for the hundredth time I scratched my
head.
Again she got very ill when she got home from Indonesia. She
called me and ask if she could come, if her ‘father’ would give her a lift. She
wanted to return the money. I was staying at my brother’s home while he and his
wife was away so I told her I would come to visit her in a few days. But I
didn’t. I think I was busy and annoyed for having to babysit at my brother’s
home. About a week later I called her to ask about her upcoming surgery. I
called a few times but nobody picked up the phone. I received a picture message
but could not open the attachment. I called again. Nobody picked up. Perhaps
she was still in the hospital after her surgery.
A few days later I went out for dinner with some friends. We
chatted until quite late at night. The topic included bits and pieces of gossip
from the Indo community in Sydney, until my friend suddenly said, ”Ada yang
baru meninggal. Melly, anaknya si … yang orang kaya itu. Anaknya yang di Indo
nelpon kesana kemari nyariin. Telponnya ga diangkat. Kami juga ga tau. Ternyata
sudah meninggal. Katanya sakit.” My feet went cold a bit. I asked a few
questions and confirmed that it was the same Melly that I knew.
I googled her name when I got home and sure enough, there
she was in the obituary section. The obituary mentioned the cemetery where she
was buried so about a week later I went to visit her grave. It was a very
simple grave amongst two rows of very simple graves. The cross at the head simply
stated her name and date of death. Two small flower bouquets were drying up on
the ground. It was so desolate I could not help but weep a little.
I would never again hear her very loud voice on the phone,
telling me the most confusing and fantastic stories and the most mundane in the
same dramatic way. And what would happen to her daughter Kerry? Melly gave me
Kerry’s number when she called me from Indonesia, but in the confusion of living
in two places I completely forgot where I had put it. I looked for it in my
stack of files, amongst the brochures, and even in the bin. Finally I found it.
I was so happy but when I called, nobody picked up. I didn’t know her
ex-husband’s phone number or address, where she went to church, or Kerry’s
school (she moved school a lot too). I haven’t given up, but I think it is
likely I would never find Kerry again. I just want to know how she is and if
somebody is looking after her.
I felt a tinge of regret. I wish I had been more
sympathetic when she called me for the last time. She told me that she spent
hours in the plane’s bathroom, and caused quite a commotion. Luckily there was
a doctor on the plane, etc. etc. Again she talked about death and that maybe it’s
better to die. I told her I would come and visit her in a few days. I asked her
if I went to her suburb would she be able to walk to the station. Looking back
I wondered how I could ask such an insensitive question. She passed out on the
plane for goodness’ sake. What was wrong with me? I have turned into one of
those nurses who ignored patients who cry a little too loudly, believing that
the patients are over-acting. In my job, detachment is very important, because
the things that I see and the stories I hear are really heart-wrenching
sometimes. Maybe I went to far. There is nothing I can do for Melly anymore. I
hope she is in peace, and I hope Kerry is in a more stable environment now.
