Limbo

Rhea jollied me, "Stop daydreaming! We need to go, or we will be late!"

She gave me a soft-hearted nudge. I catnapped in a lounge chair, waiting for the big girl and the four little women in my life to get ready to go out. I promised to take Rhea and the girls to see a long-time friend, Ella.

Our girls, growing by the day, piled into our MPV, a babble of excitement. They looked forward to playing alongside Ella's children.

It was mid-winter 1998, the day locked into a perpetual cold drizzle. Our car played the same CD repeatedly on our trip. Miranda learned her timetables, so the CD recapped numbers in a catchy sing-a-long production. Alicja and Alina pitched in. Little Phoebe endeavoured to participate in a jumble of answers. The car's windscreen wipers seemed to be in key with the cadence of the music.

We arrived at our destination mid-morning. The rain, while easing off, meant the backyard grass would be too wet for playing outside. The wood heater warmed Ella's lounge as she greeted and hugged us. Her plump arms surrounded me like plush pillows. Ella was a good-natured mum of three kids whose life revolved around raising a family. We were regulars here and knew we could make ourselves feel at home.

"Where's Murray?" I asked after the general hugs.

Ella explained while making coffee, Murray, her husband, accepted filling a timekeeping job at a local hockey tournament at short notice. We agreed, clinking mugs; the day loomed particularly miserable to officiate an outdoor game.

Ella offered Rhea and me an open jar of cookies. I picked the smallest.

Ella's laugh filled the room before she winked and exclaimed, "Goodness! Take two, both of you."

I sidled to an easy chair while Rhea put down her coffee and picked up Phoebe. Ella grabbed a platter off the bench and heaped the cookies high. She excelled in the hostess role. A combination of her warm-hearted generosity and her physical largesse. Her frizzy dark hair dominated a room, her convivial rollicking humour, and her nudges and prompting to indulge in just one more sweet treat.

A plate of homemade chocolate biscuits and seven cans of fizzy drinks were quickly spread atop the dining table. The kids sat around the massive pine table in Ella's open-plan home, combining a lounge, dining, and kitchen area.

Tucking into treats were our girls and Ella's brood: chatty Simone squeezed between the twins, quiet but slurping Jack and active, mischievous little Abby crumbling her brother's second biscuit under her mitt.

I rested in an easy chair in the lounge, my feet up. I held a mug of hot coffee and eyed off the chocolate chip cookie lying on the side table next to me. The Saturday paper spread across my lap.

The kids demolished the plate of cookies in a few munches, plus the ones Abby crushed — and bounced to play Lego on the floor. They nestled on a big red rug, as the floor comprised polished wood too cold to sit on, especially in the winter.

I peeked guiltily at my girls, occupied with plastic bricks. I considered kneeling and joining them. Resistance came easy; I bit into a great cookie and enjoyed a mouthful of coffee. I started reading the sports section without interruption.

Ella and Rhea bustled in the kitchen, lifting dirty pots and pans from the bench to the dishwasher. My wife began to share a recipe Ella pressed her to learn: my mum's caramel slice.

We planned to stay for lunch and return home mid-afternoon, avoiding a dark, wet drive.

A knock at the front door interrupted the newspaper in my hands. Rhea and Ella were occupied in the kitchen in aprons. Their fingertips were smeared tacky from mixing ingredients, so I answered the door.

I peered out the front door's glass window and offered a short wave. Standing in the drizzle alone, Murray's friend, Ted. His six-foot-four frame dominated my view. He waved heartily, his fingers stretched, and I saw his mouth widen in a toothy, lopsided grin.

I opened the door immediately to get him inside, out of the rain. He greeted me with an open-palmed back pat, which I returned. A tad wet, he shook himself like a Great Dane.

Ted often visited Ella and her kids unannounced.

As I closed the door, the rush of cold air alerted the kids to his presence. I watched as he padded past me with his bushy eyebrows. His neck sported recent shaving knick welts.

Ella's children and mine adored this gentle giant; dropping Lego pieces, they sprung and hugged his tree trunk legs.

In his typical methodical gait, he allowed himself to be led to the mat, where he eased crossed-legged and joined the kids in their building. I returned to the sofa, where I watched for a moment his broad shoulders and powerful thighs, currently providing a seat for my twins.

Ted lived in a single-bedroom apartment in the public housing units next door. The love of his life was collecting action figures. We marvelled at their variety, scattered everywhere through his place when he invited us there. I picture poseable pro wrestlers, limited edition Marvel superheroes, Star Wars characters and G. I. Joe figurines.

As Ted played with seven kids, I thought about sneaking another cookie while they built a Lego farm. Instead, I read the paper guilt-free, leaving the cookie jar alone.

Ted entertained the children — they didn't need me.

Simone, Ella's eldest daughter, suggested they play hide-and-seek after they completed the plastic farm.

The kids, nudging Ted, left the lounge room via the kitchen door. Ella's home became a labyrinth through this door as the large house had undergone numerous extensions. Plenty of places to hide in a game where the kids would hide, and Ted would seek.

A routine game when their friendly colossus visited.

I savoured the quiet lounge room and didn't dwell on a lost bonding moment. I sneaked an extra cookie, topped my coffee mug, and returned to the newspaper. Rhea and Ella flurried, creating caramel slices.

In less than ten minutes, mayhem permeated a suburban home.

Seeing a lifeless child in a living room is not within the usual range of everyday life.

Abby looked dead.

I developed a sickened, stomach-churning feeling.

Ted had emerged silently through the hallway door and halted just inside the kitchen; he chewed his lip close to drawing blood.

He didn't bother to wipe away a stream of tears running down both sides of his nose as he cradled a limp, pallid Abby in his arms.

I couldn't comprehend what had happened as Jack peered out from behind Ted's leg.

Yet, I jumped out of the lounge chair, sending the newspaper pages flying. 

Ella's flour-coated hands flew to her face in shock as she saw a pale, wilted Abbey.

She shrieked a blood-curdling cry I wouldn't ever wish anyone to hear.

Despair rooted her to the spot.

Rhea, sticky-handed, grabbed and hugged her dear friend, who shook and sobbed uncontrollably.

My instinctive reaction flicked to help as milling; jittery kids poured into the living room. They rushed to the kitchen from their hiding nooks, each trying to find the source of the wailed cry piercing through the house.

Arriving in the lounge, they were bewildered into silence by Ella's scream, and like Ted, they shrank towards the walls — mute.

They faced the terrible, beyond the range of commonplace or intriguing childhood experiences. Seven youngsters were in dumbfounded withdrawal as Ella descended into an inconsolable loss.

She bawled and screeched, her hand's flour glued to her face with tears.

Rhea reluctantly released Ella, providing a forearm pat and huddled the children behind the kitchen bench.

She blinked rapidly as, in a frantic sweep, she extended her arms to surround and shield the kids, protecting them from the grave scene.

Ted didn't say anything.

His disability of slow speech added to his frustration in a crisis. He paused against the wall inside the door; his chin trembled.

He couldn't progress beyond "I" without breaking down.

Jack, Ella's boy, whimpered despite Rhea's soft head pat.

The young lad offered when the gentle giant tripped over words, " I found — Bubby in the water."

No one pressed the child for extra details.

Rhea somehow managed exceptional comfort for one and cared for another six as Ella's head fell to the bench, her arms cradling herself, weeping.

I understood how Ted and Jack felt as I transferred the lifeless body from the massive man's arms to mine.

Thinking back, I found it unusual how Murray's laundry room had large plastic bins. Murray and his passion for water recycling. Some or one of the bins must have been full of washing water.

Abby, I surmised, decided to hide in a bin. They were usually empty; however, maybe Murray forgot because of his unexpected hockey schedule.

The why or how of Bubby in the water remains a mystery.

As I eased Abby's body from Ted's arms, she flopped into mine with the saturation of a soaked towel.

I entered an automatic response zone like I had never had before and never hoped to experience it again.

I'd completed first aid courses; now, I confronted a real-life situation!

In first aid courses, you learn the formula and repeat the process on a dummy. Guys consider the mannequin to be female. You give the dummy a few 'kisses' and have a beer later as you laugh about the training you believe you will never be required to use.

Abby had stopped breathing, her body limper than her matted, lank hair. I touched clammy, cold skin drained of natural colour. I stared at a ghost.

Her empty eyes adhere to my marrow of being to this day, open yet blank.

No vitality of existence mirrored back into my eyes.

How long did Abby lay submerged in the water?

I have no idea!

It may have already been too late; I paid no heed to the awful thought; my soul told me, Try! 

I placed Abby on the floor, face up. My out-of-date CPR courses emerged error-ridden from mothballs. I knelt by Abby's side, failing to check her airway and pulse. My pulse raced too fast to concentrate. As for the ratio of breaths to compressions - they were forgotten!

Time and space compressed to only Abby and me.

I tilted her head, her face so small. I remembered the directive, covering both the mouth and nose. I pumped breaths into her quickly, gaining a rhythm.

The CPR felt surreal, yet I calmed.

There was no time for panic, even though I couldn't remember the precise steps.

I wasn't going to stand around. If I chose to be a bystander, I'd live with a mother's anguish for a lifetime. It was harrowing that Rhea and my children witnessed the unbearable, along with Ted, Ella and her children.

I lost awareness of everyone else as I concentrated on giving Abby a breath.

What if her heart had stopped?

Various CPR scenarios crowded my head. I placed two fingers on her pasty chest, where I believed her heart might be. I pressed, then followed with a series of short pushes.

My mind was muddled.

Hell, should you be compressing a beating heart? Was I building a life here or taking it away? 

I pictured cheeky three-year-old Abby on the way to becoming a real heartbreaker.

She couldn't get there without a beating heart.

From a dormant state, Abby gave a spluttering cough. A gurgled trickle of water dribbled and bubbled weakly at the corner of her mouth.

Her eyes faltered into the world, viewing it from the floor while the remainder of her body lay unnaturally still.

Where had Abby's eyes and soul been for a couple of minutes?

Not alive nor dead—she existed within the actual, indeterminate limbo.

I remember being fricking relieved, kneeling in a prayer stance, loudly stating, "Call an ambulance."