Free Remember Me by Derek Hansen

was pulverising, his bawling a pitiful cry against injustice. The suddenness and unfairness of it all shocked the daylights out of the rest of us. It meant that overnight our world could change forever. And we’d never see it coming. As it turned out there was a lot we didn’t see coming.
    Peter was no different from the rest of us in that he judged everything from his own narrow perspective. I judged Mack’s story by its impact on me, by my sense of disappointment and by my sense of shared shame. When I’d lain awake in bed I’d never given a thought as towhat effect the telling of his tale might have had on Mack. As far as I was concerned Mack had unburdened himself on me. In reality he hadn’t unburdened himself of anything—quite the opposite. By reading my essay to him all I’d done was open an old and painful wound. He hadn’t unloaded his burden but been forced to take it up again. And this time he proved unequal to the task.
    I think Mack’s wife had died from cancer. My guess is based on the fact that my mother would never tell me what was wrong with her. Cancer was a word never mentioned in front of children and often only whispered between adults, the grown-up version of the nameless, faceless fear. Mack’s wife’s name was Anya, a foreign version of Ann or Anna. She might have come from somewhere near the border of Hungary and what had become Yugoslavia. According to Mack, her family had been displaced at the end of World War I and somehow they’d ended up in New Zealand. They’d chosen to live on Great Barrier Island because Anya’s father had been hell bent on getting as far away from Europe and the horrors of war as it was possible to go. He must have thought all his prayers had been answered when the old scow that occasionally plied the sixty-mile passage to Great Barrier Island landed them in Tryphena, on the island’s southern tip. Back in the early thirties the island was still wild, frontier country. It wasn’t the end of the earth but, as far as Anya’s father was concerned, it was a darn good likeness.
    Mack met Anya at a dance. She was pretty without being a raging beauty and struggled with her English but, as Mack liked to say, he was neither Valentino nor Shakespeare himself. (I must admit Mack looked pretty goofy in his wedding photo on top of the HMV radio cabinet.) Mack also liked to say Anya was harder to catch than a snapper in shallow water on a bright, clear day. He had to go cap in hand to her family’s farm and was never allowed to sit alone with her. This went on for a couple of years before his patience and persistence finally paid off. To hear Mack talk about it, no angry or unkind word ever came between them. They lived for each other; husband and wife, best friends and constant companions. Given that they had few neighbours and even fewer distractions, it was just as well.
    When Anya fell ill Mack did everything he could to help her. He gave up a life he cherished to move to Auckland and live in a wooden cottage, cheek by jowl with neighbours on either side and behind him. It was the only way Anya could get the medical attention she needed. Nowadays oncologists tell us cancer is a word not a sentence. Back then it was a sentence and usually a pretty short one. Anya defied the odds and lingered, though I’m not sure it did either of them any good. Mack began drinking heavily as he watched his wife slowly waste away. Once a week one of the neighbours would sit with Anya so Mack could go fishing. Anya loved the snapper they’d lived on all their married lifeon the Barrier and Mack made sure there was always fish for her.
    When I first met Mack he was a customer in the shop. He wanted some cotton so he could sew up a shirt he’d torn, because his wife was no longer up to it. Mum knew his situation and told him to bring the shirt or whatever over and she’d fix it for him. After that he always brought over his sewing or darning. His way of thanking Mum was to bring us