One time I was about to leave a huddle meeting just as Lyric was heading into the room. They were wearing a little T-shirt that displayed their healthy arms. I held the door open and stood back. They said, ‘I’m perfectly capable of opening a door, Lyle.’
‘I was only trying to be helpful,’ I replied. But what came out of my mouth was, ‘I was only trying to be hurtful.’ It was hard to say who was more startled, Lyric or I. I glanced around, hoping to suggest that someone else had spoken. Lyric asked, ‘Are you okay?’
No, I wasn’t. But I could hardly tell them about the mystery playing itself out on Chanel’s skin. She said that it caused her no discomfort, but it was spreading – the splotches had appeared further down her leg, and some of the little ones on her stomach were joining up. There’s an autoimmune condition called vitiligo that causes loss of pigmentation, but Chanel had tested negative for that. She was using a corticosteroid cream that seemed useless, but Qing, her dermatologist, encouraged her to persist. He told Chanel that treatment in these cases is long and tough. What cases? Qing admits that he’s never seen anything like it. He’s consulting colleagues around the world. So far, no one’s had anything useful to say. Qing advises Chanel to wear a hat and keep out of the sun. She pays him thirty per cent over our health insurance rebate for that – advice you can read on any public poster about skin cancer. If there’s no improvement, there are other treatments to try: pills, exposure to UV light, lasers. Everything comes with side effects. Qing assures Chanel that there’s nothing to suggest the problem is contagious, but he’s moved their consultations to Zoom.
As a precaution, I started sleeping – or not sleeping – in Sydney’s room. I found his Spider-Man doona cover in his wardrobe, tucked under his trackies. He must have hidden it to save it from Chanel, a ruthless declutterer. When I shook out the cover, the past snapped red and blue. It showed me an afternoon when Sydney was small. We were playing kick-to-kick in the park, and after a while clouds began massing. The wind grew shouty and started bullying some stunted shrubs. Sydney plucked at my hand, saying that we had to leave at once. On the way home he told me a story that he’d heard at school. A woman was out riding in the bush a long time ago and found herself caught in a storm. As she was approaching an enormous tree, lightning split it open. Inside the tree stood a man holding a spear. The man was made of bones. Sydney’s voice rose as he repeated, ‘There was a man made out of bones inside the tree.’ He was thrilled and frightened in equal parts. Who would tell a story like that to a child? I can’t stop thinking about it now, the way old, forgotten things can suddenly appear. Sydney was right to be afraid – it’s frightening. The past should remain in the past.