A Home Like Ours Fiona Lowe (good novels to read .txt) 📖

‘It’s not stress. It’s very likely Parkinson’s disease.’

Jon’s mouth opened. No words came out.

The diagnosis boomed in Tara’s head, not making sense. ‘But that’s something old people get. Jon’s thirty-eight!’

‘There’s also a condition called young Parkinson’s. The only way to accurately diagnose it is to rule out every other possible neurological condition. So I’m going to refer you to a neurologist in Shepparton.’

Tara trusted Stephen. ‘But you think it’s young Parkinson’s?’

Empathy filled the creases on his face. ‘We have to run tests and rule out all other conditions before we can categorically say yes.’

An odd sensation filled her. Not exactly relief—how could it be when Jon was so sick—but something akin to a mild version of reassurance. An explanation for the shocking year that had left them floundering in an unfamiliar marriage.

‘So there’s a reason Jon hasn’t been himself?’ she said.

‘I’m still here.’ Jon’s voice was unsteady.

She reached for his hand. ‘I know. And I haven’t been myself either, but at least now there’s a reason.’

‘Give me some examples of what you mean, Tara,’ Stephen said.

A raft of changes flooded her mind. Things that individually meant nothing, but bundled together took on huge significance.

‘Jon, your handwriting’s become almost indecipherable. You get these blank expressions on your face as if you don’t care about what’s going on around you or what we’re discussing. You get frustrated faster. Those times your walking was so unsteady and your speech so slurred I thought you were drunk. The way you’ve cut yourself off from me. Our lack of a sex life …’

‘They’re all signs of a neurological disorder.’ Stephen looked at Jon. ‘I imagine you’ve been feeling like you’re wading through mud every day.’

Jon nodded. ‘Pretty much. It takes everything I’ve got to stay upright and get through the day. By the time I get home, I’m knackered and there’s nothing left. Sorry, T.’

A thousand thoughts buzzed in Tara’s head and she didn’t know if she wanted to weep or yell. Why hadn’t he told her any of this? Had he tried? Had she been so obsessed with imagining he was drinking and having an affair that she hadn’t listened?

‘Did you try to tell me?’ she asked.

‘I didn’t want to worry you.’ His mouth pulled down. ‘Guess that didn’t work.’

She turned to Stephen, needing to find a clear path through the jungle that had tangled them in its tenacious vines. ‘Now we know there’s a problem, how do we fix it?’

‘Let’s get a definitive diagnosis first.’

‘Yes, fine,’ Tara snapped. ‘But humour me. If it’s young Parkinson’s, how do we fix it?’

‘We manage it with drugs and physical therapy to minimise the symptoms. We respond and adjust when things deteriorate.’

‘Deteriorate.’ Jon’s laugh was hoarse and harsh. ‘My great-uncle had it. He died a dribbling, drooling, shaking mess.’ He pulled his hand out of Tara’s. ‘What Stephen’s saying is, there’s no cure. I’m going to get worse. You’re not happy now, you haven’t been for months. Get out while you can.’

His words eviscerated her as much as the dilemma they raised.

CHAPTER

22

‘Honestly. It makes you wonder about some people.’ Vivian surveyed the damage in the garden and took some photos. ‘You’d better fill in an incident report.’

‘I’ve already done it,’ Helen said. ‘I’ve also spoken to both Linda in Parks and Messina, and the police attended. I was wondering if the shire might stump up for a high fence on this side of the garden.’

‘We’ll have to look at Parks’ budget.’ Vivian glanced towards the sign. ‘Why isn’t the shire logo on that?’

‘It’s on the shelter and the tank. Plus the two plaques from back in the day when they funded the arts grant for the mosaics and the gates. Besides, they didn’t give us extra funding for this section so …’

‘Helen! The garden’s on shire land! Learn how to schmooze.’ Vivian sighed. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. But if we ever want to see tiny houses over there, we need to do everything we can to bring Geoff or one of the other councillors back on side.’

Helen wasn’t sure how a logo would change things, but it was worth a shot. ‘I’ll get it added to the sign asap. And I’ll write a letter of thanks for approving the garden extension even though the housing project is still up in the air.’

‘That’s the spirit.’ Vivian looked up the hill and shaded her eyes. ‘Who’s that?’

Helen instantly recognised the gait of the man who was fast approaching. ‘Bob Murphy.’

‘Name’s familiar.’

‘He’s a retired farmer, widower, member of the garden and a chronic helper.’

‘He’s got the grazier look.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Polished RMs, moleskins, checked shirt, Akubra hat. Any money?’

For some reason, the question grated. ‘I have no idea.’

‘It’s always worth knowing that sort of thing.’

Bob lifted his hat. ‘Morning, ladies.’

Helen did the introductions and Vivian asked Bob where in the district he’d farmed. At his reply, she said, ‘So you know Beckley Downs?’

Bob nodded. ‘The Inchleys were our northern neighbours for thirty years.’

‘Then we must have met at one of Gus’s Nats’ fundraisers.’

‘Gus loves a party.’ Bob turned to Helen. ‘I picked up your mail on my way past.’ He handed her an envelope printed with the shire’s logo.

She thought about her normally empty letterbox. ‘I never get mail.’

‘Then I guess today’s your lucky day.’

All Helen’s correspondence with the shire was done by email so she had no idea what this could be about. While Bob answered another of Vivian’s questions, she ran her thumb under the seal and pulled out the letter.

Dear Mrs Demetriou,

In regard to the recent house inspection of 17 Riverfarm Road, Boolanga: unfortunately the cottage has deteriorated over the last twelve months to the point where its condition is now considered hazardous. For your own safety, you are advised to vacate the property within seven days.

The past rose up like a spectre before Helen, laughed, then slapped her hard.

‘Everything okay?’ Bob asked, his blue gaze watching intently.

‘No.’ She pushed the letter at him with shaking hands. ‘I’m being kicked