Helping Hand

There is nothing worse than losing someone. Especially if that someone is part of your family. And when that family member has known you for a large chunk of your life, it makes it all that much harder. But it is nothing compared to watching that family member waste away as cancer slowly shuts them down, you almost wish for their death. That guilt after the thought is horrible. Almost as horrible as the death itself.

My Nan is currently wasting away. The cancer is in her duodenum, the section at the end of your stomach that leads into the intestines. There is a stint in it now to allow her to digest because there was a point there when she would vomit everything that she ate.

Every time I see her, she is smaller than the last time. But her stomach is more bloated with each visit. The fluid inside solidifying to jelly. She is in so much pain, chemo is sort of working. I love her lots and will miss her terribly, but she needs peace. She is not ready to go having not yet seen her grandchildren married or with children of our own.

The rest of us are handling it in our own ways. Pop not so great. Mum in denial, Dad is helping where he can. Mum’s brother is dealing in his own way with his family on the other side of town. My brother, sister and I all leaning on each other as needed and helping as required. The hardest part is this contagious pandemic creating lockdowns which prevent us from going to see her. She needs her family; the last remaining days should be happy memories with her family. Mum calls daily and gets an update. Every fortnight one of us takes her to get a blood test before chemo.

Changes to her chemo are creating havoc to her health. More pain, less chemicals. More additional medications, less information from the doctor. It seems she is in an out of hospital. Constantly calling the palliative nurse, always putting on a brave face. We can see the struggle, we can see the pain, but we have all subconsciously decided that the whining and tears are reserved for the phone calls with Mum daily. Her outings and moments with her family are going to be happy and without complaint. She is strong. She is brave. She is admiral. And it is painful to watch.

Proud to call her my Nan, and willing to help with the medical costs and set my Pop up so he does not have to think or do a thing when the inevitable happens, I am standing in some shady part of a dodgy neighbourhood playing rock song after rock song on my violin, hoping to generate some extra cash. So far, it has been working. People have been dropping money in, but its only small money. Whatever small change they have and whatever small notes they have. The largest note I have seen dropped in is a $10 note. Most nights I walk away with $50. I head to the bank every Saturday morning to put it into that specific bank account dedicated to my Nan and Pop.

I do not play in the same neighbourhood I live in and I do not deposit the money in the same neighbourhood I live or play in. So far there is $5,000 in the account. $3,000 from busking and another $2,000 of my own money. Whatever money I can spare. I sunk all my savings into a house near my grandparents. I work by day, busk by night, create memories on Saturday’s and visit friends and family on Sunday’s, my cat gets all my other time. I am tired and stressed, but I cannot complain.

Some days it all gets too much, and I threaten to throw it all away, lock my front door and hide from the world, but that will not help no one. To help myself would be to find a new job. The current one is taxing on myself. I come home from work each night to cry into dinner. Every night I wish for someone to whisk me away from this life and take away all my worries. I know its juvenile to think such things, but I am a romantic and it makes me feel better. But with each stroke of the violin, with each violent note played I feel better, I feel empowered, I feel invincible. Like I can call my boss and tell him to stick it where the sun does not shine.

Too bad I am stupid shy. Hence why I wear all black and pick the darkest light corner to keep my identity obscured. And by the time I have zipped up my case and started my walk back to the train station, I am in a happy mood, in a strong mood, but not enough to quit on a whim, not when I have responsibilities.

Waiting on the train platform, the night is quiet. Usually, I can hear people shouting and mucking around. A bin knocked over with a thud or a car alarm going off, but tonight it is quiet. Tonight, was not as profitable as last, but I will properly count it when I get home. I catch the last train for four stops and walk straight to the bus stop. This neighbourhood is not any better than the last, but it is only a 5min wait until the bus arrives and I get off six stops later. This time to where I parked my car. Right under a streetlight to prevent people from attacking me or taking my car.

It takes nearly an hour to drive home. There is hardly anyone on the roads, and nothing to stop me, I just busk so far away from my bed that I will not get mugged or attacked in my own street. I pull into the garage and remote close the door, not getting out until the door has completely shut. Ironically, I fear the dark. Walking in through the interior garage door into the dining room, Betsy is there greeting me and happy that I am home. I am glad tomorrow is Saturday; I do not think I could do another day at work this week.

I leave my violin by the garage door for tomorrow, replacing my shoes with moccasins, sighing in relief and comfort and pad down to my room. Emptying my pockets on my dresser and slipping out of my clothes I feel sluggish, sore, sloppy. I hit my hand on the side of my dresser, drip out of my pants and somehow, I manage the three steps to the shower. I do not bother letting it warm up, letting the stone-cold water wake me up enough to wash away the night and shuffle into bed.

I sleep heavy and feel worse in the morning than when I went to bed. Rolling over, I see Betsy is patiently waiting at the end of the bed for me to get up and fill her bowl. She knows I will never forget to feed her. I always work a quick trip home into my evening plans to ensure she gets her dinner, and I always make it home every night so she can get her breakfast. She is my number one.

Pushing myself to my feet, finding my moccasins and wrapping myself in my dressing gown, I waddle down the hallway to the kitchen. Putting the kettle on as I pass, I grab a sachet of wet food and mash it into a bowl. Betsy eats all the jelly before I have even poured the milk into my tea. I grab a couple of biscuits and pick up my violin as I settle at the small round dining table wedged between the kitchen and lounge room and right in the doorway to the hallway.

Opening the case, the stench of money hits me hard, combined with other aromas. I pull out my violin, which I have lovingly nicknamed Tommy, and place him on his stand next to Thumbelina. I start digging out the coins and notes onto the table, when I notice a black satchel in the case.

Undoing the zip, I pull out a black book and a stack of cash. And too late, I notice a tracker. This money is being watched. Almost like they know, my front door is kicked in and the sound of footsteps fills the hallway. Betsy scampers up the hallway out of the way, as two big men charge straight for me. Halfway out of my chair, I am gruffly grabbed and held by one of the men, as the other stands off to the side. A tall man saunters in followed by another man. This tall man is wearing a grey three-piece suit over a black shirt, his hair styled in a quiff atop a square face with sharp cheekbones and squared jawline to distract you from the hawk nose and hard eyes. He is physique is still impressive through the suit, but nowhere near that of his companions.

“So, you’re the unfortunate person who got left with my bag.” His voice husky. He gives me a once over, noting my bed hair, dressing gown, pyjamas, and moccasins. He looks over to where my violin case lies open on the table, with small money mixed with his stack of cash, his black book, and the tracker. “And what do we have here? Busking for some extra cash?” He smirks. “Play me something.”

With a nod to his guy, I am shoved in the direction of my violins. Picking it up, I play “Hit Me with Your Best Shot”, much to the amusement of the tall man and one of his men. I hold his gaze during the entire song, watching his smirk grow with each note.

I lower my violin when I finish the song, still looking at him. There is silence in the room, as we continue watching each other. I can hear the clock on the wall ticking with each second that passes. I notice the green fleck to his blue eyes softens slowly with each passing second, like he is reconsidering whatever he decided to do upon entering.

My rapidly beating heart quickens further when he takes two steps towards me, standing close enough that I am sure he can hear my heart, but far enough away that we are not touching. He reaches his arm out around me and I hear the ruffle of something on the table. He lifts the book up so I can see it, “I have come for what’s mine. You can keep the money, consider it payment for the performance.”

My surprise is plainly written on my face, that I glance back at the stack.

“Yes, keep it. I do not care what you do with it, spend it, save it, invest it. I do not want it back. Just make sure it finds a bank account. People cannot be trusted.”

He makes a quick exit, throwing a smirk over his shoulder on the way out. After I hear my doors click closed, no doubt with their locks damaged, I turn around to the table and count the money sitting there.

I count it three times, not quite believing it to be true. He left me $20,000. To do whatever I wanted with. I decide to deposit it in $200 amounts each week, changing up the day and time which I visit the bank. No more, no less. Resolving that once it is all in there to gift it to my grandparents.

Despite our brief interaction, I knew right then and there that this is not the last time I was going to see him. No, I knew that I was going to meet him again, and sooner rather than later.