by Tabitha Bird
He wants to hear more. Wants to hold me.
‘I think you’re in trauma. I don’t know about the house and the floors changing, but I do know your past was horrid and you’ve never really dealt with it. Maybe you did see a little girl. A vision or something. Maybe she has something to say and wants you to listen.’
‘I’m cutting. Shouldn’t I get over my sweet self? You know, suck it up and move on? There are heaps of other people out there who’ve been through way worse than me, and they’re coping.’
‘Are they? Perhaps they think you’re coping, too.’ He hands me a card. Seed Counselling Services.
‘Seed?’
‘Growing stuff. Hope? I don’t know, it’s the name of Solomon’s new practice. You remember Dr Williams, right?’ Sam’s words are soft.
I do remember Solomon, but last time I left his office I believed the ocean-garden was just a story.
Sam’s hands are open, wanting to offer something rather than to take. ‘I’ve been carrying that card around for days waiting for the right time and, well, this seems like a damn good time.’
I slip the card into my jacket pocket. ‘I don’t know if I can go.’
‘What do you want then, Willa? You say you don’t want to live in the past, but you don’t live with us in the present, not really. You lose yourself by bleaching bathrooms within an inch of their lives. And when I touch you, you’re not with me. You’re in a memory of what he did to you.’
I don’t want that to be true, but it is.
‘Do you want me, or is being married too painful? Because if it is …’ He lets his voice trail off.
I try to find my voice so I can offer Sam something. In the days after we were married, every time Sam reached for me I thought, ‘He is going to want me over and over again. How will I cope?’ My body recoiled into itself. Motherhood was traumatic, too, but in different ways. Babies sucking from my breasts when I’d only ever thought of my body as dirty. Then as they grew, two boys who played so effortlessly and wanted me to tell stories as if the made-up world was safe and fun.
I became an adult, but my body didn’t know it. Can I heal that?
Sam reaches for my hand. I reach too. Fingers entwined.
We stand in the garden long enough for the winter sun to light the sky and kookaburras to kiss the cold with a laugh. The fogs of Boonah begin to weave through our backyard. Sam goes inside to warm up and I say I’ll be there soon.
I stand there trying to imagine a version of myself who isn’t scared of the past, a woman who might put on some brave boots.
The first time I planted the ocean I had gumboots, but I don’t own any now. My boring tan loafers will have to do. Bending down, I unearth the jam jar and pour water into it from the garden hose. Then I dig a small hole under my mango tree.
I scribble on a piece of paper.
Dear Super Gumboots Willa,
Meet me in the garden?
From Middle Willa
Chapter Twenty-five
2050
Willa Waters, aged 93
It’s a nippy morning – some might say ‘chilly’, but that would be the wrong word. June mornings bring a cold that nips at every part of you, even through your gumboots. The sun is only a weak bulb in the sky, the fogs of Boonah backlit with the faintest glow. The rooster, Darren Bird-Feathers, is asleep; he must be. I jolly well should be, too. But I’ve woken up so sad I could wring myself out. I’m sure I have dropped someone.
Super Gumboots Willa hasn’t been into my garden or on the swings in days. I don’t know how many days because at my age days seem to drip into puddles that form right in front of you.
I heard waves crashing, and that sound has led me all the way out to the back deck. Eden is still asleep inside and I know I’m not supposed to be out here. But who died and made her the Supposed-To Police?
I take my walker and hobble down the back ramp. There’s a weird salty taste to the air, and I begin thinking that this is what tears taste like.
Then I remember a dream so clear.
Lottie and I are in the soot-coloured sky, only I am a boy now, with strong metal wings, thrashing through the air, upwards, away from the ground. Away from my father. Lottie is behind me, grabbing my ankles. I try to fly for both of us, but I’m slipping; the air is thin and villainous. My mother is already on the ground beside him, one wing lying at odd angles on the ground, the other tucked under her body.
My father’s arms grow long, with claws for fingers. He has Lottie’s leg in his dragon hands. I try to hold on to Lottie. But she’s slipping.
Breathe, breathe …
My knees grow weak. Eyes heavy. I’m falling. Or maybe it’s Lottie who is falling.
‘Lottie!’ I call. ‘Lottie, I am so sorry.’
My back is cold. Why am I cold? There is sand between my fingers. Bits of me hurt that I don’t think have ever hurt before. Someone is beside me, kneeling down under the mango tree.
‘Eden?’ Her touch is so gentle that the dragons crawl away, tails between their legs. The last thing I remember was thinking about Lottie. I had to be a boy. But Lottie fell. I let her fall.
‘I am a boy now,’ I whisper.
The morning ambles casually now into every part of the ocean-garden. The fog is heavy, but no longer sad.
Eden is staring down at me, eyes the colour of sepia-toned afternoons. Lottie’s were the colour of the cornflowers we planted after the winter rain.
My hand reaches out for Eden. The mango tree peers down, its trunk knotted and snarling. Eden wipes my face with a tissue pulled from her coat.
‘Are you okay? Mum, answer me!’ Her face is puffy again. Something is wrong. ‘It’s me, Eden. I’m your daughter, remember? You’ve had a fall.’
‘I think I cut all my hair off. Oh, I think I dropped her.’
‘Thank God you’re talking.’
‘I dropped her, Eden!’
‘Dropped who? Mum, you’ve got to get up. Can you get up? Does it hurt anywhere? Come on, let me help you. How long have you been outside for? Look at you, all wet, and this cold morning air …’
Something, she’s saying something else. About this being her fault because she slept right through my early morning wanderings. About it being time to admit reality. What if something happens? Her words are spoken in the language of worry.
The wind bites. Even under the blanket, it bites.
‘Why are you rubbing my legs?’
‘I’m checking you over. Does it hurt anywhere? Can you stand? Here. Take my arm.’
My body unfolds itself in slow creaks. Legs with rust.
Eden huddles me inside, lowers me into my chair. She wipes sand off me, turns on the indoor heating, makes tea, calls people on her wristphone thing.
‘Are you calling Eli?’
She’s talking to someone and waves at me to be quiet.
I’m worrying Eden, I know. My thoughts are out of focus, and yet more in focus than they’ve ever been. All I can think is that Eden’s cardboard boxes will march me out of my house. I’ll be another old lady wondering which hallway she walked down that led her to a nursing home.
Eden smells of mint when she returns with a cup of tea in her hands.
‘It’s okay now,’ she says.
‘Where are my clocks, dear? They belonged to Grammy. And my piles of newspapers?’
The tea is meant to be a friend, but I push it away.
Eden pats me. ‘Mum, those newspapers were all from the winter of 1990. You don’t need them.’
What was I keeping them for? ‘They were important! Did you say 1990?’
‘Exactly. They’re old.’
‘How old?’
‘Come on, drink your tea. The doctor will be here shortly.’ She tries to hand the cup to me, but I knock it to the floor.
‘How old was I in 1990?’ I shout.
Eden puts her hand to her mouth, then says, ‘Okay, okay. No tea then.’ She starts picking up broken pieces of the crockery.
&nbs
p; Gentler, I ask, ‘Eden, please. How old was I?’
‘Mum, don’t do this right now.’
‘But I have to understand.’ I bang the side table.
Eden stands to her feet, pieces of teacup in her hand. ‘Please don’t get upset. You were thirty-three. I know because that’s the year Seb …’ She stops.
I throw my arms out to her and she drops the broken cup and we hold each other.
‘Have you thrown the newspapers away?’ I squeeze her tighter.
‘No,’ she says into my hair, not letting me go. ‘But I can’t look at those papers, Mum. How about later? I’m not up for it right now.’
‘But you can never be too careful about later. If scientists are counting the stars, God is surely counting how many laters we have left.’ I try to take my weight and push myself up, forgetting my age. My body betrays me, and I fall back.
Eden helps as my legs give way. She eases me back into my chair then pulls a tissue from her bra strap and dabs at her eyes. ‘I know why you kept those papers from 1990, but it’s time to let go.’
‘I can’t let go. Something happened that year and I have to help myself.’
Eden speaks softly. ‘But I’m here. I’m helping you.’ She rubs my back. ‘You’ve had a fright is all. We both had a fright. I thought I’d lost you this morning. When I saw your body crumpled there I thought … Well, I don’t know what I thought.’ Her voice fades. ‘Let’s just sit together until the doctor comes.’
For a while Eden and I sip tea without talking.
But I can’t sit together anymore. I mean, I want to be with this tea-drinking Eden, but I’m afraid of time. A thing that flies and runs away from you. A thing you can altogether lose track of. And now there are boxes and tape and piles and piles.
‘Please, tell me: was there something in the papers about Seb?’ I ask.
Eden sighs. Crumbles, really.
Then I have another thought. Sharp. Take-my-breath-from-my-ribs sharp. ‘Oh, don’t you see?’
I pull out my notebook. ‘That’s why I have to find Middle Willa. It’s something about Seb. Write that down. Please? Oh, Eden. Sweet, sweet girl.’
She seems so small when she reaches for my notebook. ‘You think this is going to help, don’t you? Oh, you poor thing. You’re trying to fix this like you can somehow go back in time.’
24. Find Middle Willa and tell her about Seb.
Chapter Twenty-six
1965
Willa Waters, aged 8
Hostibal.
That’s what Lottie calls it. But the word is hospital. Saint Joseph’s Hospital, and it smells like cleaning day at our house when Mummy is whipping up a storm of bleach and Ajax. It’s been three days since Lottie fell, and I haven’t gone to school since. Grammy tells me my teacher called yesterday and wanted to know where I was.
‘What did you say?’ I balance on the lines of the white lino floors as we walk along the hallways. If I don’t fall off, maybe everything will be okay.
We stop outside door number 81. ‘I said Lottie broke her leg in a bad fall and you were taking some time off.’
Lottie didn’t just break her leg. Adults think kids don’t listen from doorways and behind walls, but I know Lottie had bleeds-internals, whatever that means. And she had to have a big operation to fix the bones in her leg. Today is the first time I’ve been allowed to see her.
Grammy puts her hand on the door to Lottie’s room and says, ‘Maybe stay outside, poppet. If Lottie’s not up to a visit I’ll give her the picture book you made and we’ll leave.’
But I push past her and burst into the room. I have to see that Lottie is okay.
I rip back the curtains and there she is. Eyes opened, but not looking at me. I rush up to the bed and try to climb in with her.
‘Willa, step back.’ Mummy tries to move me, but Grammy takes her arm.
‘Let her be.’
‘Lottie?’ She won’t move her eyes from the window. The room is white. Dead white. Tiles. Floor. And it smells like our house, Dettol, lemons. Some sharper smells that make my eyes water.
Beside Lottie’s bed are all these tubes. Something beeps. But Lottie says nothing. Her leg is in a cast and she has bumps and bruises all over. Mummy tries to get her to sip from a cup with a straw in it. Lottie lets the straw fall from her lips.
Grammy says we should leave. I put the picture book on Lottie’s lap and fold my arms, not moving. Lottie needs me to watch her every minute of every day forever. I am a boy now. Or whatever I am with my chopped-off hair.
Mummy didn’t yell at me about it when she found out about it the next morning. She rubbed her hand over my head and looked out the window, but I didn’t think she was looking out the window at anything. She was far away out there. Away from me. ’Cause I’m just a little girl and what would I know.
Grammy cried when she came over with her jam drop bikkies and I felt bad for making Grammy cry. Daddy didn’t cry, didn’t look at me. He said he was going away for a few days and took down his leather bag from the top of the wardrobe and packed some stuff in there.
A policeman came over. I had to tell him that Lottie fell. It was very important to tell him that it was an accident, Mummy said, otherwise he would take Lottie away after she got better at the hospital and I wouldn’t ever see her again. I did drop Lottie, so I told the man that she fell. That part was true. He ruffled my chopped hair and took Mummy out onto our front deck. ‘You stay inside, Willa.’
He said lots of things that I couldn’t hear. But I did hear Mummy say that everything was fine.
Mummy stands beside Lottie’s hospital bed. She won’t look at me. ‘I don’t think Lottie wants visitors. Take Willa home.’
Grammy nods her head.
‘No, I’m staying to watch her!’
Mummy sighs, hair escaping from her ponytail. ‘There’s nothing you can do.’
Grammy pulls me to the car screaming and then drives home.
I bang the window at the trees going past and the powerlines and the buildings. At everything, because I am leaving Lottie. I hold the letters that arrived in my tree ’cause I want to hold something. One letter is from Middle Willa and that one I think I might cut into tiny little bits. The other one is from Silver Willa. I have better plans for that one. It says to make carrots that taste like ice cream.
‘Can you write letters to yourself?’ I ask.
Grammy keeps driving. I think she’s sniffly.
‘Yourself is a great person to write to. Yourself never leaves,’ I say out the window.
When we get home Grammy says I have to eat. She’ll make lunch.
‘Can you be a boy if you chop your hair?’ I ask Grammy while she’s buttering bread for a sandwich I am not going to eat.
‘Oh, my poppet.’ She pats my cheek with the back of her hand. I feel how soft it is. ‘Why would you want to be a boy? You are my most special girl.’
‘No!’ I yell. I kick. ‘And I am not eating again till Lottie gets home!’
I’ve made Grammy sniffle again. She calls me poppet over and over. ‘Calm down, poppet. Tell Grammy what happened, poppet. Did Lottie really fall, poppet?’
I run out of the kitchen with the letters and Frog Dog in my jumper.
‘I’m gonna be big!’ I yell from the hallway.
Grammy follows, but I slam the bedroom door. Mummy and Daddy’s bedroom door, with the orange-stripe throw-up-yuck wallpaper. Grammy taps on the door outside. ‘It’s not your fault. I only want to know if something happened with Daddy and –’
But I yell and yell. ‘Go away!’ Then there are no more words in me ’cause I yanked them all out and threw them everywhere, and now my throat hurts. I jump on Mummy and Daddy’s bed with Frog Dog. Because I can. Daddy’s staying on a farm for a few days, he told Mummy on the phone. Farms don’t farm themselves, he said.
The room is empty and I shouldn’t be in here.
I put my letters on top of Mummy’s dresser. And I pick up Daddy’s drawing of a baby.
I know that face, but her eyes are open in this picture. Daddy has written on the back, To Ebony. My love.
My love? Who loves? What does he love? I tiptoe to the wardrobe and yank the doors open.
‘So, clothes, where is my daddy? The Daddy who paints and watches stars.’ I’m gonna make these clothes tell me how to dress like a big person and make Daddy be nice.
His wardrobe smells like the powder Mummy uses to do our washing. Surf, it says on the box. I run my fingers over his clothes, making the checked shirts on hangers swing.
His work boots aren’t in here, they live out by the front door. Sometimes I think that’s where Daddy lives, too. He’s not really allowed in Mummy’s washed and ironed house.
If I were a real boy, I would take his hand and say, ‘It’s okay. I’m not allowed in her house either.’ But right now I think Daddy should jolly well stay outside. Forever.
Mummy’s clothes are up the other end. Her clothes smell like sheets of white paper or new books. Mummy doesn’t smell the same as her clothes, though. On good days she is hairspray, or ‘Estée Lauder if I’m going out,’ she says. It’s her only bottle of perfume, and I’m not allowed to touch it. On bad days she smells of Mr Sheen polish or bleach.
I see Mummy’s bluey-gold dress that Grammy made for her ages ago. I pull the dress over my head and it scrunches up where it hits the floor.
‘What do ya think, Frog?’ She looks at me, her head to the side.
On Mummy’s dressing table is a small glass bowl with lipsticks in it. She told me they have names like Frosted Apple, Peach Meringue and Toffee Warm. Lipsticks good enough to eat. I open this one and that one, but I shouldn’t. I make pouty fish faces and press the lipstick onto my own lips. Then snap! Half falls to the floor, half on the table. Mummy will be mad. But I don’t care. It smudges the carpet as I kick it under the table. Too late now.
Twisting a bit of hair around my finger, I stare at my face in the mirror. Wave, frown, and wag my finger in my face. ‘You’re not pretty. Lottie is the pretty one.’
