11 11

Artwork: Tea for One by Eraine McArthur

The following short story was created for the Eurobodolla Writers 2024 Literary Salon and was inspired by the artwork Tea for One by south coast artist, Eraine McArthur.

11 11

Numbers. They mark significant milestones like birthdays, marriages, anniversaries and even death. Numbers represent wealth and some people believe they have an important spiritual meaning.

I never thought about numbers in that way. Not until mum passed.

She died at 11:11 am on 10 October 2020. For over 30 years Trish Walton served as a nurse with the Australian Army. She rose to the rank of Lieutenant Colonel, trained countless nurses, and the way she told it, a few doctors.

Mum loved being an Army Corps Nurse but the job took its toll. She could patch people up, heal their physical wounds but it was the invisible injuries, what she called the ‘black dog,’ that she often couldn’t fix. By the time mum left the Army her marriage had dissolved. My parents wed young and slowly grew apart. Thankfully, the breakup was not bitter. For both of them it was like closing a chapter and starting a new one.

Mum had plans. She wanted to travel, read, write and paint … at least she got to paint.

The tick-tock of the clock echoes through the empty kitchen as the small hand bounces to 11. Today will be 365 days or 8,760 hours or 525,600 minutes since she left us.

Sunlight streams in through the window promising a beautiful day and I can hear the waves 500 metres away. John has taken the kids to the beach to give me some space.

The kettle whistles and I pour hot water into mum’s favourite teapot. Placing the pot on the dining table, I return to the kitchen for the matching teacup.

As I wait for the leaves to steep, my eyes are automatically drawn to it.

It’s time.

I pour myself a steaming cup of Irish Breakfast – mum’s favourite. The familiar aroma is powerful, stirring up memories of tearful chats about boyfriends and strategic career discussions.

I stare at the artwork. The cup I hold and the teapot in front of me are positioned on a small side table, with a vase of flowers and slouch hat in the background. She called it Tea for One.

Mum started painting as a way of expressing her emotions and dealing with the trauma she’d witnessed over three decades. She discovered that she loved painting, and to her surprise, was good at it and was chuffed when three of her pieces were chosen for an exhibition. I was too. I went to the opening, sipped champagne and mingled with other artists, their family and friends. Tea for One was centre stage. Mum was offered a great price for it but declined. I told her she was crazy and should take it. She shook her head. I didn’t know that Mum painted it for me or that it had a sister. It’s sibling was similar but had a different perspective. Mum painted that one for Jules, my twin.

11:09.

I place my phone on the table and my finger hovers over Jules’ number. Taped to the back of each painting was a letter. Mum told us that she would always love us, and was proud of us and our children, but she couldn’t stay. She said couldn’t bear to slip away, to not recognise her own family.

Mum was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s but never told us. If we’d been more attentive we would have seen the signs but Jules and I were busy with our own lives.

Mum painted Tea for One and One for Tea when she learned about her illness. In her note, she said the paintings represented feelings of abandonment after leaving the Army and what she saw as a bleak and lonely future trapped in her own mind. She told us she chose that time, 11:11, because it symbolised spiritual awakening and remembrance, and she liked the cadence of the repetition of numbers 11 11, 10 10, 20 20.

11:11.

I punch the video icon and Jules appears on screen. It’s like looking at a mirror image of myself, the mole on her neck is on the left, not the right, and her hair is slightly darker, although we’re both going grey.

‘Hey sis,’ I start. ‘How’s the tea?’

‘I just poured it. Oh Jen. I’m so glad we could do this.’

‘Me too. Are you looking at it?’

‘I am,’ my sister replies.

‘Here’s to you mum. We miss you,’ I toast the painting as tears slide down my face.

‘To mum,’ Jules replies, doing the same.