by Tabitha Bird
‘Oh. Goodness. Today is a sad day?’ If I could wish sad moments away I would. But moments don’t behave like dogs that will do what you say for a bikkie.
‘Frog Dog died,’ says little me, ‘and that means she isn’t coming back and there is no place I can go to find her.’
Middle Willa turns to the child and says, ‘You can always find her in the ocean-garden, where we will never forget her.’
‘She was the best frog that ever there was,’ I say.
Super Gumboots Willa hugs me.
Two little boys run out into the backyard with their own torches. One of them has a bunch of clover for his mum. She places the flowers gently on top of the little grave.
We stand together. Middle Willa tells the boys they have buried a well-loved dog who was much more than a dog.
Almost trancelike, I stare at the eldest boy. Those freckles. Apple-pie cheeks. Is it Eli?
Middle Willa eventually sees me staring at him. ‘The boys. Of course. How long has it been since you saw them? Time must have flown for you.’
‘Goodness! Time flies now, too?’ I ask.
Middle Willa keeps going with her own questions. ‘Do the boys live with you? Of course not, how silly. They’re all grown now. Are they okay? You know what? Come inside. It’s past dinnertime for the boys and I think the rest of us need a good cup of tea.’
‘Good for the soul,’ all three of us Willas say.
I trail after them to the back steps, where they all push and pull to help me up to the back deck. ‘Please put in a ramp, dear.’
Middle Willa apologises. ‘Yes, I guess I never thought my older self would come visiting. Silly of me, I know.’ She tries to smile, but only half her lip curls up and she wipes her eyes.
In the kitchen, Middle Willa makes toast and scrambled eggs for the children and then gets teacups. She’s not eating though, says she doesn’t feel hungry. Super Gumboots Willa hangs off her skirt. It’s not right that little people should be so sad.
A little boy clip-clops over to us in dress-up shoes. Peep-toe heels in a watermelon colour. Not gumboots, but I approve. He tumbles, catching himself against Middle Willa’s leg. A string of coloured beads dangles about his neck and his toenails are painted. What was his name again? I know he owns a whale-print blanket.
Middle Willa helps him sit up at the table for his eggy toast. Eli has spooned mouthfuls of his own already. Seb uses his hands to shovel food and, when the boys are done, they slip from the table altogether. No seat could ever hold the littlest for long, I know that much.
Oh, Seb – it’s Seb! Suddenly, I am full of wanting to cuddle him, rock him, and read that book. What was the name of that darn book? The one I thought I’d explode from reading.
‘What’s the name of the book?’ I ask as Middle Willa finishes making tea.
Before she can answer I say, ‘I divorced Sam.’
Her mouth drops.
‘It’s so sad, isn’t it, dear?’
Middle Willa narrows her eyes at me. ‘Why would I divorce Sam?’
‘Well, that’s exactly it. I think it happens before, um, after … Look, when you’re my age, time does a lot of funny things. You can’t buy it or borrow it and you said it flies now, too. We can fix it, though. Seb is hiding under the bed.’
She glances into the living room, where the boys are playing. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Yes. Quite lost.’ I muddle forwards on my walker to the living room so I can sit. The puppy is wiggling under the blanket in the basket. No one has noticed him yet.
Middle Willa takes the basket from me and when we all sit in the living room she pulls back the blanket. ‘I think you’re confused about Seb. He’s right here –’
Suddenly, she squeals. ‘What is this?’ She holds up the puppy.
Seb tries to take it from his mother. ‘Mine. Mine dog.’
But Middle Willa is lost in looking at the speck of a dog. Super Gumboots Willa says nothing.
‘Sorry, dear! Have I done the wrong thing?’ I say to the younger Willas, but no one can speak because of the water down their faces.
Middle Willa squeezes my hand, so I think perhaps they like the puppy.
Super Gumboots Willa wipes her cheek. ‘Maybe … maybe you should keep this one at your place, Middle Willa? I can come every day and help look after it, but here it will be safe.’
Middle Willa touches the tip of the little one’s nose. ‘And I want you to come as much as you like.’ They have puppy cuddles and then Middle Willa says to her boys, ‘I want to introduce you properly to someone. This is Silver Willa.’
Super Gumboots Willa crosses her legs on the floor, holding that puppy like it might disappear.
‘Silber Willa, ta-dah!’ Seb sings out.
Eli snorts. ‘That’s not a real name!’
Super Gumboots Willa pokes him. ‘Is too a real name! We call her that ’cause her hair is silver. My dog was called Frog Dog, but –’ She pauses. ‘We have to think of a different name for this one.’
Eli wags his finger. ‘Frog Dog? Silver Willa? You’re making this up. And what’s wrong with your hair? Are you a boy?’ Eli with all the questions.
Middle Willa sits on the floor beside the little girl and cups the puppy in her hands. ‘Some girls have brave Viking haircuts. And what’s wrong with making things up?’
Eli considers this. ‘Okay, I like Vikings. Seb and me build Viking forts under the table all the time. Want me to show you the sword I made?’
Super Gumboots Willa wipes her eyes with the tissue and says, ‘Middle Willa, do you think my old Frog would mind if I went with Eli?’
‘Oh, I think Frog is watching from heaven and would love you to keep playing. It’s okay to be sad and happy and angry all at the same time,’ she says.
Super Gumboots Willa grabs Eli’s hand. ‘Is it a cardboard sword? I feel like being a Viking.’
‘Of course I made cardboard swords. Those are the best ones. Let’s go smash some dragons!’ Eli says.
‘Thank you,’ Middle Willa says to me, holding the puppy to her cheek as the small ones race off. She sits next to me on the couch now. Grammy’s old recliner isn’t in Middle Willa’s living room yet. I guess she is still using it. Later, when it falls apart, I will have a replica made.
‘I have a confession. I brought eggs, jam and other things, but I’m not allowed to cook anymore. My oven is gone. Also I can’t remember how to bake jam drops.’ I wave towards the kitchen. ‘Do you bake?’
Middle Willa groans. ‘You mean that kitchen with colour combinations recommended by some sandal-wearing, bead-loving ’60s decorator who was ultimately blind? I always thought a kitchen should be wood with white doors.’ She pauses. ‘Who is Eden?’
‘She’s …’ There is nothing in my notebook of Things I Am Sure of to help me. ‘Oh, I have to warn you, Eden loves snails. One day when you’re hunting for where that smell is coming from, remember to look in the box under her bed. It’s her snail collection.’
Middle Willa puts her head to the side. ‘You sure have some quirky friends.’ She strokes the large bat-like ears on the furry thing on her lap. ‘You’re exactly what I want to be when I grow up. Have you thought about dyeing your hair blue? I always hoped I’d do that. Is getting old what they say it is?’
I notice all the lines that aren’t on Middle Willa’s face yet. All the creases around her eyes that time has yet to iron in. There will be a day she’ll rub her hands together, and marvel. She’ll think those hands belong to another woman. To her mother, perhaps.
‘What do they say?’ I ask.
‘That old is awful.’ She doesn’t make eye contact.
‘Ah. Well, you get all these fabulous wrinkles.’
‘Fabulous?’
‘Yes. Fabulous wrinkles from talking and laughing and crying. Wrinkles from trying to work your mother out. Wrinkles from watching Seb try to eat flower heads. Living and wrinkles, they go together.’
She searches my face. My lines are
all there on display. A life completely mapped out, if you know how to read it.
I pull out a piece of paper from my pocket and hand it to her.
An invitation:
Have you met Super Gumboots Willa?
Where: You decide
When: In your own time
Middle Willa stares. ‘That’s the note Solomon gave me in counselling! How do you have it?’
‘Someone sent it to me. It’s an important invitation.’ That’s all I can think to say.
‘Sent it to you? Like at the post office?’
‘Yes, that’s it – where we posted the two Very Important Boxes!’ I’m so happy about having said it that I clap and imagine the Australian anthem playing.
Middle Willa carefully refolds the invitation and hands it back. ‘Ah, so it was you who posted the box with the jar of ocean. But how would it get to me in 1990?’ She twirls her hair a moment. ‘You know, I think we have another time slip here in Boonah. That cheeky little post office! The box was addressed to 21 Graves Place, Brisbane North, where I lived before the ocean changed my house back into my childhood home and brought me back to Boonah. The postcode was 1990. Only, that wasn’t Brisbane North’s postcode. The numbers referred to the year.’ She stops. ‘Let me have a look at your notebook.’
I pull it out and hand it to Middle Willa, who looks like she might fly out of her chair when she reads the first entry.
‘Who wrote “Post two Very Important Boxes on 1 June 2050”?’
I screw my face up. ‘Don’t know. That was there right from the start, dear, with the word “catawampus” inside the front cover.’
Middle Willa closes the notebook, opens it, flips it upside down. I wonder if she’s lost something. I lose things all the time.
She says, ‘This looks so much like my handwriting, but I don’t understand how it could be. It’s so old. Look at how faded the cover is. And look at this. See, here on the front? “Exercise book, sixty-four pages. Name: Willa.” How long have you had this?’
‘Since before, dear.’
‘And the word of the day was catawampus? It must have been sent to you before 1 June 2050 …’ She considers me and chuckles. ‘I’ll work it out, don’t worry. I wonder what happened in the past so you knew to post those boxes. Imagine if that didn’t happen, and I never met you.’
‘That’s a lot of thinking, dear. A lot of questions.’
She agrees and hands the notebook back to me. ‘Let’s have another cup of tea, then.’
Middle Willa helps me up and I follow her into the kitchen. Super Gumboots Willa and Eli run past, Viking swords out. Sebastian has part of a flower in his mouth and Middle Willa pops him up on the bench and tries to wrestle it out. He squirms and giggles.
‘You know, too soon he’s grown up and you miss looking at headless flowers.’
She promptly puts him back on the floor. ‘What else will I miss?’
I stir my tea and she carries both my cup and hers back to the living room as I plod behind her. Watching Seb run by, it comes to me. ‘You’ll miss being his mother!’
She sits beside me on the couch and settles the teacups on the coffee table. ‘Why would I miss that? Seb’s right here.’
‘Because he’s dead,’ I say.
Middle Willa shakes her head. ‘Not for a long time, though. In old age, perhaps?’
I twist my hands together. ‘I saw his grave.’
My notebook! Everything I need to say is in there. I take it out of my pocket and read each point aloud.
Things I Am Sure of:
1. Post two Very Important Boxes on 1 June 2050.
2. Stay out of the nursing home.
3. Find Super Gumboots Willa. Ask her to help me find Middle Willa. Something happened to Sebastian.
4. Katie has been here today.
5. I divorced Sam.
6. Eli doesn’t talk to me.
7. What happened to Sebastian?
8. I am Super Gumboots Willa and …
9. I am Middle Willa, too. I left Sam. It happened at night.
10. I saw Super Gumboots Willa in town.
11. Plant the ocean.
12. Find something. Find someone.
13. Find something.
14. Find something.
15. Find something.
16. Find something.
17. Find something.
18. Find something.
19. I am sorry, Seb.
20. I am sorry, Seb.
21. I am sorry, Seb.
22. Your daughter’s name is Eden.
23. It’s time to talk to Eli about Seb.
24. Find Middle Willa and tell her about Seb.
25. There’s an ocean-garden that links the three Willas. Super Gumboots Willa is eight. Silver Willa is old. Middle Willa is a bit of a problem. We have to help her.
26. Find Middle Willa in the garden.
27. Seb will forever be in our hearts. We visited his grave in October 2050.
28. Willa goes into the nursing home on 18 October. Give Middle Willa a chi … a chuw … a dog.
‘No!’ I poke a finger at the penultimate note on the list. ‘Number twenty-seven is written all wrong!’ I try to gather my flibbertigibbet thoughts.
Middle Willa places an arm around me. ‘It’s okay, I understand. Seb was old, and in your world he’s passed away.’
‘No …’ But then I think about that. ‘Yes, he is dead, but … he’s dead by accident. You didn’t know, dear. But now you know, you can buy the time. Or you can borrow it? Change it! You can change time.’
Middle Willa closes my notebook and wipes my face with a tissue. ‘Come on, now. It’s going to be okay. I’ll bake us jam drops. There’s been too many sad things tonight.’
Chapter Forty-one
1990
Willa Waters, aged 33
Silver Willa leaves and so does Super Gumboots Willa. After they’ve gone, I put the boys to bed, kissing Seb and lingering over his bed. I try to imagine him in old age and dying in his sixties in some accident. I’m still not sure how Silver Willa thinks I can change that, but she seemed so confused and upset by the shock of it all. ‘My sweet boy.’ I stroke his hair.
In the living room, the pup and I consider each other as I hold her to my face. I recall the memory of that night when Frog Dog died. I dry my eyes on these new soft leathery ears and the pup licks my face. Silver Willa is quite right: this dog has no tail. Her head lolls to one side. Those huge, poppy-out eyes seem to say, ‘Yeah, I know I don’t have a tail. Is this going to be a problem?’
I think about problems and not having things. In my head I tell this tiny pup all the things that I don’t have. Like the courage to confront my father. All the overwhelming words I can’t say to my mother, all the words she would not be able to hear anyway because this is all too much for her. All the things I haven’t told myself.
I touch my stomach, which is cramping. Maybe I’m getting my period? I need to take pause from the stress of my life, listen to my body.
I am lost, I tell this little dog without saying a word. Do you think you could stay with me anyway?
She seems to be thinking.
We think on things together. And then we confirm. We will stay with each other anyway.
‘What’s that?’ Sam points at the couch when he gets home from work later that night.
‘Washing. I’m folding washing.’
‘The dog, Willa. Or perhaps I should say the lack of dog. Why is it on my couch?’
Sam has been distant lately and I feel myself pulling away too.
I don’t look at Sam. ‘Your couch now, is it? And she’s plenty enough dog, thank you very much. She … arrived this evening.’
He is trying to decide if I’m joking. I’m trying to decide why the socks don’t make pairs when I’m folding them. I swear they all went into the wash together.
‘So … now we own a Chihuahua?’
I fold Eli’s sports shorts and try to figure out what to say. This
is where I make up some fantastical answer about how I am still seeing my younger and older selves. Instead I mumble, ‘I need her is all.’
Sam picks her up and cups her in his hands. ‘And you thought this tiny not-a-dog was a need?’ But his voice is soft.
‘I want her, then. Consider her an early birthday present.’
‘I want a Maserati, but you’ll find I manage to resist.’ He’s eyeballing the tiny thing.
‘I’m trying to listen to me and the things I need,’ I say.
There was Super Gumboots Willa, holding Frog Dog under the blankets. Carrying Frog Dog out to the garden. Putting Frog Dog in the basket of her bike as she raced the other children down the hill. Chihuahuas made you go faster; everyone knew this was true.
Sam interrupts my thoughts. ‘What do you need?’
He goes to brush my cheek with his hand, but pulls back. I want to reach out to him in this moment, but I don’t know how to say all the things inside me.
He turns the pup this way and that in his hands. ‘It’s got ears like satellite dishes – have you considered that?’
‘Yes.’ I fold washing with vigour.
‘So I’m assuming you noticed that its eyes stick out of its head like marbles?’ Sam holds her gently.
‘Yes, that too.’
‘And the distinct lack of tail?’
I fold another T-shirt, but I’m smiling now. ‘She isn’t worried about her lack of tail. Neither am I.’
He puts the dog on the couch. She makes herself into a tiny ball, blinking those large eyes at us.
‘I suppose a golden retriever wouldn’t do? Trevor was lovely,’ he says, mostly straight-faced.
‘Trevor thought she could bury ice.’
‘She was selectively intelligent.’ He’s playing hurt now, arms crossed.
‘Sam, that dog was dumb.’ We both know it’s true. Sam’s parents gave him the golden retriever on his eighteenth birthday. Some basketball player with the last name Trevor had died that week, and Sam, being the basketball fan to end all basketball fans, named the dog accordingly. He should have called her Basketball. It would have suited her bouncy, air-headed nature.
