Cleo

Rob’s body gradually adjusted to eating and absorbing solid food again, though he still looked like a survivor from a wartime prison camp. If, for some reason, his body refused to heal properly and he had complications I wondered if he’d have any strength left to muster a fight. Fortunately, he was young and he seemed have stores of vigor to draw on from his athletic years.

Cleo, a more conscientious nurse than I, trotted after him around the house, snuggling into his blankets and presenting him with the occasional get-well present in the form of a decapitated lizard.

Through our long days at home together, I had the blessing of getting to know Rob better. It’s rare for a young man in his twenties to share his thoughts with his mother. In an unexpected way, his illness brought us closer together.

“I used to wish I had an easier life,” he mused. “Some families sail through years with nothing touching them. They have no tragedies. They go on about how lucky they are. Yet sometimes it seems to me they’re half alive. When something goes wrong for them, and it does for everyone sooner or later, their trauma is much worse. They’ve had nothing bad happen to them before. In the meantime, they think little problems, like losing a wallet, are big deals. They think it’s ruined their day. They have no idea what a hard day’s like. It’s going to be incredibly tough for them when they find out.”

He’d also developed his own version of making the most of every minute. “Through Sam I found out how quickly things can change. Because of him I’ve learned to appreciate each moment and try not to hold on to things. Life’s more exciting and intense that way. It’s like the yogurt that goes off after three days. It tastes so much better than the stuff that lasts three weeks.”

My young philosopher in a dressing gown had theories to rival an Eastern mystic’s. Yet deep down we both knew his dreams were the same as every other young person’s. More than anything, he longed for love and happiness.

Connection

A cat who appears in a dream is no less real than one who pads a kitchen floor.

The psychic cat is connected to the world in more ways than we imagine. She can creep into a kitchen or, just as easily, a dream. Waiting on her favorite window ledge, she knows when her slaves are on their way home to her. Guardian of unworldly powers, she beams a shield of protection over the human household she has blessed with her presence. Sometimes they are aware of her ability to slide between worlds. Mostly they are not.

A couple of months later Rob was still as thin as a sapling in winter and, as far as I could make out from an anxious mother’s perspective, not fully healed. Nevertheless, he insisted on planning an Outback adventure with a couple of old schoolmates—“the boys.” They planned to drive through the desert to Australia’s red heart, Uluru, a journey that would take three weeks. To say I worried was an understatement. Yet I had to accept that Rob had no intention of having an “invalid” sticker attached to his forehead for the rest of his days. He craved a normal young man’s life brimming with adventure, but the risks were enough to turn a mother’s heart to jelly.

I lectured the boys about the Outback being basically a vast zoo for creatures armed for attack. From crocodiles and sharks to snakes, spiders and ants, they’re all expert killers devoid of affection for the human species. Even kangaroos can be killers, crashing inadvertently through drivers’ windows at sunset.

They listened and nodded sagely. They weren’t fools who’d go out of their way to get into trouble.

The only thing that concerned me more than wild animals was the danger of mechanical breakdown. Since his surgery, Rob had been urged to keep hydrated as much as possible. If their vehicle sputtered to a halt in some parched wilderness, lack of water could be a serious problem. The boys assured me they had plenty of spare water on board. Technically, they weren’t boys anymore but young men well beyond the age of consent. I was left with no choice but to trust them.

“What are you worrying about?” Philip asked one night when I couldn’t get to sleep. “Rob’s mates are fantastic. You saw their loyalty when they visited him in hospital every day. They know what he’s been through. They won’t let him down.”

Their beat-up Ford hardly looked ideal for journeying across the vast emptiness of central Australia. They insisted they were prepared with the latest snake-proof camping gear. Imagining them inching across barren terrain under a merciless bowl of blue sky, I wanted to beg them to stay home and do something safe and sensible—enroll in cooking classes, take dancing lessons. Anything but this. But I’d learned enough about parenthood to know there are many times when it’s wiser to keep your mouth shut. I was hoping this was one of them.