The pencil and sudoku book fall to the ground. I tell Violet everything, every message, every snippet of news. She listens and asks questions, and I answer the ones I can.
‘There’s more, isn’t there?’ She peers at me, her eyes narrowing.
‘Keller is dead,’ I tell her. ‘Wasps. Mateo and I found him, but it was too late.’
Violet’s gaze doesn’t falter for a moment – does she know I’m lying? But then she sighs.
‘Too bad,’ she said. ‘Kid was a dickhead, but he didn’t deserve to die. I’ll send David Bratton over to fetch up the body. Least we can do is give him a proper burial.’
We agree to hold a meeting later that afternoon, once everyone has had a chance to hear and digest the news. Then we’ll decide what our next steps are.
I head back into the centre of Jubilee, and consider going to find Mateo again, but I know I shouldn’t. I have to tell Grace the news.
As I step into the dim post office, Keller is everywhere. His jacket and bag hang neatly from a hook on the wall. The smell of him lingers in the air.
Grace is sitting at the counter, a pile of letters in front of her. She hasn’t been brushing her hair, and it’s clumped together in a fuzzy rat’s nest at the back of her neck. She’s wearing pyjamas that look like they haven’t been washed in weeks. Her face is sallow and expressionless. As I watch from the door, she picks up a long silver letter-opener with a mother-of-pearl handle, and holds it before her. For a moment I think she’s going to do something stupid, but before I can say anything she lifts up one of the envelopes and slices it open, reaching inside and pulling out the letter.
She holds it in her hand, but doesn’t open it to read what it says.
‘Grace,’ I say, keeping my voice gentle so as not to startle her. ‘Grace, I have news.’
She looks up, her gaze vacant.
‘There’s phone reception. We got messages.’
I repeat the story. Grace listens. There’s no joy, no relief. Not even surprise.
‘There’s more,’ I tell her. ‘I’m really sorry, but Keller died. Mateo and I found his body. He got stung by wasps and had an allergic reaction.’
I feel like I’ve been down this road before. Lying to protect myself. Placing myself in the role of hero, rescuer, instead of what I really am.
I see Grace swallow.
‘Gracie?’ I lean forward to touch her arm, and she flinches away. ‘Did you hear me?’
‘I heard you.’
‘Can you tell me how you’re feeling?’
She huffs out a cold breath. ‘I don’t feel anything. I’m not sure I can anymore.’
‘I really want to help you,’ I tell her. ‘But I don’t know how.’
‘I know,’ she says. ‘And I’m sorry. But I don’t…’ She closes her eyes for a moment before continuing. ‘I don’t know how to be in the world without her, Pru. It’s like my whole life is in glorious colour behind me, and ahead there’s nothing but fog.’
Grace drops the letter in her hand and it slips back onto the counter. She picks up the empty envelope.
‘What’s the point of an envelope with no letter, and no address on the front?’ she asks. ‘There’s nothing inside, and nowhere to send it.’
‘You’re acting like you’re alone, but you’re not. You have me.’
She lifts a shoulder in a shrug. ‘It’s not the same.’
I feel stung. I know the twins were close, but don’t I mean anything to her? I straighten up, ready to walk away, but she reaches out and clutches my forearm, her grip surprisingly strong.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, looking up at me for the first time. ‘I know I have you. And I’m grateful for that. I really am.’
Her nails dig into my skin, and I see a spark of the old Grace.
‘You need to come back, Grace,’ I tell her. ‘You need to let her go. Learn how to be you.’
Tears start in her eyes. ‘I can’t.’
‘Promise me you’ll try.’
She shakes her head, but she doesn’t relax her vicelike grip on my arm. Eventually her shoulders sag, and she closes her eyes.
‘Look,’ she says, and pushes the fallen letter across the desk to me. ‘I couldn’t read it by myself.’
I pick the letter up, and as soon as I see the handwriting, I know what it is.
It’s from Mum. A letter from Mum to us.
I read it out loud to Grace. It isn’t much, a letter wishing us a merry Christmas, and that she hopes we are well.
‘I don’t know if you’ve been getting my letters. I hope you don’t hate me for leaving. I miss you and love you.’ I look up at Grace. ‘Letters.’
‘Dad must have destroyed them,’ she says. ‘So we wouldn’t go looking for her.’
The letter was sent a week before the EMP. Who knows what’s happened since then, but suddenly I feel a little bit less alone. Our mum has been trying to get in touch. We could find her again.
I head back to the Heart to check the charging phones. Mateo has plugged them into the one working outlet he cobbled together from scavenged bits and pieces, attached via a lead that hangs out the window and connects to a solar battery and inverter.
I turn on the one with the working sim card, but there’s no reception in here. Jubilee never had good reception, and it’s not likely to be better now. Snob’s Knob might be the only place we can get a signal. I switch it off again. I’ll go back up the hill again later this afternoon.
I see David Bratton in the ute, almost certainly heading out to collect Keller’s body. The door to the Heart opens and Peter Wu comes in. He beams when he sees me.
‘Violet told me the news.’ He tilts his head up and addresses the ceiling. ‘I can no other answer make, but thanks, and thanks!’
For a moment, I consider confessing everything to him. Isn’t that what ministers are for? But he seems so happy, and I don’t want to spoil his good mood.
‘Terrible about Keller though,’ he says, as if he senses my thoughts. ‘He may not have been the greatest man, but nonetheless. What a way to go. And how awful for you to be the one to find him. I know he was very close to you and your sisters.’
If only he knew.
The afternoon town meeting turns out to be more like a party. It’s a glorious day, not too hot, with a delicious breeze coming from who even knows where. We drag tables and chairs out onto the main street and bring out our carefully saved treats. Simmone Bratton produces a massive punch-bowl, and pours in a jar of her home-made moonshine, and everyone adds something – soft drink, juice, tinned fruit. The end result is sticky, sweet and profoundly intoxicating. Simmone presses a plastic cup of it into my hand and plants a firm kiss on my cheek.
‘Thank you,’ she says, as if I did something extraordinary by walking to the top of a hill and turning on a phone.
David Bratton is barbecuing kangaroo steaks seasoned with wild garlic and pink peppercorns. There are bowls of chips and nuts that have been hoarded for precisely this kind of celebration. Clarita and Mateo appear with several platters of steaming hot food.
Everyone’s heard the news, but they want to hear it again, so Mateo and I stand up and tell the whole story from the beginning – leaving out the part where we kind of got back together, and the part where we were kind of responsible for Keller’s death.
Everyone cheers and claps and Mateo holds my hand. Grace emerges from the post office. She’s wearing cleanish clothes, and she may not have washed or brushed her hair, but at least she’s tied it up out of her face. She sits at the table with everyone else and smiles and makes quiet conversation.
Georgie stands up and bangs a fork on a metal pot to get everyone’s attention.
‘You lot all know I’ve been putting together some working cars,’ she says. ‘I haven’t been going as fast as usual, cos it turns out having a baby and breastfeeding and nappies takes up heaps of time. Especially these bloody cloth nappies I’ve got now we’re out of disposable ones.’
There’s
a ripple of laughter.
‘Anyway,’ Georgie continues, ‘I’m done. There’re four cars now that I reckon will make it out of here. There’s sixteen of us.’ She checks herself, remembering Keller. ‘Fifteen. We can talk later about who wants to go where, but what I’m saying is, whoever wants to leave can leave.’
There’s a pause while this information sinks in, and then Peter Wu stands up and starts to clap. We all follow suit, giving Georgie a solemn standing ovation. She gives us a giant grin, then waves a dismissive hand and sits down.
Mateo appears by my side. ‘Try this,’ he says, handing me a small green bundle tied with string.
The green wrapper looks like cooked pandanus leaves. I undo the string and unfold it. Inside is a golden parcel, which smells delicious. I break it open.
‘No peanuts,’ says Mateo with a grin, and that’s when I know for sure that we are definitely a thing again.
I grin back at him and we stare at each other for a moment like a pair of fools. Then I take a bite. It’s really good.
‘Pasteles,’ says Mateo proudly. ‘My abuela’s secret recipe.’
Clarita leans over. ‘Of course we had to make some small adjustments. Mami doesn’t use kangaroo meat in hers.’
He shows me the other dishes he and Clarita have prepared: little pastries called empanadillas stuffed with wild yams, onion weed and goanna meat; and arroz con gandules – red-coloured rice studded with what Mateo assures me are pigeon peas but I recognise as green bush plums. There’s also a spicy sauce Mateo calls mayuketchu, which I’m pretty sure is a mix of mayonnaise and tomato sauce.
It’s all delicious, and I don’t hesitate to tell Mateo and Clarita so.
The sun is growing low and golden in the sky, and if feels like we’ve gone back in time and are having one of those postwar celebrations that I’ve seen on period English TV dramas. Everyone is laughing and happy, and the feeling of relief is so strong it makes me giddy.
Baby Natia is passed around and greatly admired, big brother Paddy hovering around nervously making sure we don’t drop her.
Somebody drags out an ancient turntable, made long before microprocessors existed, and Mateo runs an extension lead from the Heart. Keith appoints himself the party’s DJ, and digs through an old crate of vinyl, playing the Rolling Stones and Led Zeppelin. It’s the first time any of us have heard recorded music for months, and we all go a little wild. Chairs are pushed back and we dance and jump and hoot with joyful recognition as each song begins.
I glance over at Grace. She isn’t dancing, but she’s sitting with Keith and helping him to pick out records. That’s a start. Keith is looking better, but his cheeks are still hollow, and I can see he isn’t eating much.
‘Wild Horses’ comes on and Mateo pulls me in close, wrapping his arms around me. I slide up against him, leaning my head on his shoulder, my own hands resting on the small of his back. We sway gently, not speaking, and I remember that first night we spent together, under the shimmering halo of the aurora.
I tilt my face up to his. ‘I missed you,’ I whisper.
‘I missed you too.’
‘I’m sorry I lied to you.’
‘I’m sorry I was a dick about it.’
When we kiss, the music and the party fade away. I can taste the punch on Mateo’s lips, and feel his body pressed against mine.
‘Get a room!’ yells Clarita. Her voice is high and loud from alcohol and mirth.
‘Mami!’ Mateo’s cheeks flare red. We break apart and guiltily slink away back to the table, where we make a show of refilling our cups and munching on handfuls of salt and vinegar chips.
I don’t taste the punch, or the chips. My body is lit up with desire.
‘Do you think we can slip away for a bit?’ Mateo whispers, his breath hot against my neck.
‘Well, your mum did kind of tell us to,’ I say.
‘My abuela always told me to obey my mother.’
I grab his hand and we sneak away from the party.
‘Wear a condom!’ Keith calls after us, and I hear Clarita laugh, her voice loose and relaxed.
We head into the hotel, up the stairs and into Mateo’s room. The window’s open, and I can hear laughter and music drifting in. We tumble onto the bed, giggling and tugging at each other’s clothes. For a brief moment I feel a twinge of awkwardness in front of him – I haven’t shaved my legs or underarms in months, and we all ran out of deodorant long ago. But the look in his eyes tells me that none of that stuff matters, and I wonder why it ever mattered in the first place. I feel strong and beautiful and vulnerable and brave. I’m giddy from the punch and from Mateo’s kisses. We tangle together and it’s such a relief to feel his weight on me once more, to taste the salt on his skin, to feel his breath against my chest.
After the heat of desire has faded, we lie together skin to skin, talking in drowsy, contented murmurs.
‘What are you going to do?’ asks Mateo.
Tendrils of unease wrap around my heart and start to squeeze. ‘I don’t know.’
We can’t stay in Jubilee. It’s not good for Grace. She needs to get out. There’s too much here to remind us of what we’ve lost.
Of what we’ve done.
Mateo senses my unease, and starts to tell me about Puerto Rico, about his abuela’s house, his primary school, his favourite beaches.
‘There’s a mangrove island off the coast of Guánica that we call Gilligan’s Island,’ he says. ‘The water there is the most amazing clear turquoise colour. You can find these spots where the island meets the water where the mangroves twist all up and around you, like a perfect private tree house. You can park your beach chair right in the water, it’s so shallow and warm. You can order fried fish and rice from the mainland, and they bring it over on a boat. Last year we went there on summer vacation, on Noche de San Juan. There were firecrackers and music, and at midnight everyone walked backwards into the ocean and fell into the water seven times, to wash away bad luck from the previous year.’
‘It sounds amazing,’ I say.
I haven’t seen the ocean for years. Mateo’s words start an ache inside me, a longing for that feeling of sand between toes, staring out at an endless watery horizon.
‘I’d love to show you, one day.’
I smile into his shoulder. It seems unimaginable, the idea of getting a taxi to an airport. Baggage check-in and vending machines and inflight movies.
It’s not going to happen straight away, but maybe someday.
There’s been a part of me that has resented that phone. The contact with the rest of the world, the promise of an eventual return to normality. Because I knew it would mean the end of whatever Mateo and I are. We’ve only just found one another again, and now he’s almost certainly going to leave.
But…maybe it doesn’t have to be the end. Maybe we can have a future together.
I trace the words on his arm with my finger. Nada contra la corriente. Swim against the current.
Maybe.
Outside, I can hear David Bratton drunkenly singing ‘Stairway to Heaven’, while the others cheer him on. I relax into Mateo and let my eyes grow heavy, and we slip into sleep.
I wake suddenly before dawn. The air is cold and still. Mateo is awake too, his body tense beside mine.
‘Do you hear that?’ he says.
I listen.
It’s a rumbling sound. At first I think it’s thunder. Maybe it’s David Bratton heading out to hunt. Or Georgie, working on one of the cars. But it’s too early. It’s not light yet.
Someone shouts, and I hear pounding feet.
Mateo and I roll out of bed and fumble for our clothes in the darkness, stagger down the stairs and emerge into the street. I can make out dim shapes sprinting down Main Street, all heading towards what at first I think is the bright light of dawn, but then quickly realise is a single headlight.
An engine roars, and the headlight illuminates a huge cloud of red dust. I think it must be a motorcycle, but as it approaches
I can see it’s a car, the other headlight long gone. It’s barely a car. It’s missing all the windows and doors – a rusted skeleton bumping along on ragged mismatched wheels.
It pulls up in front of the crowd, and a figure gets out. It stands for a moment, silhouetted against the headlight.
It’s a man.
He reaches in and switches off the engine. The light fades to black, and for a moment I can’t see anything. But dawn is coming, and as my eyes adjust, I see the man step forward.
I see a bronzed bare chest and torn jeans. Scars and muscles. A grizzled beard and grimy skin, carved in deep furrows. Thinning grey hair pulled into a ponytail. The man has a shotgun slung over his shoulder, and I can’t stop staring because part of my brain is telling me that I’m dreaming, that Simmone Bratton’s moonshine has gotten to me and I’m hallucinating a scene from Mad Max or Rambo. We’re not the heroes of this story, so why is there a real-life action hero standing before us?
But the other part of my brain recognises this man.
He’s no stranger.
Against all odds, against all logic, my brain knows him.
This man is my father.
17
Grace flies past me, hurling herself into Dad’s arms. I take a deep, shuddering breath, and wonder if this is what relief is supposed to feel like.
Dad’s back.
Dad’s back, and I don’t have to be in charge anymore. Dad can look after Grace now. Dad can look after me. He can make the hard decisions, and he can deal with the guilt if he makes the wrong one.
Grace is sobbing, clutching at Dad, her face buried in his shoulder. He puts his arm around her and leads her over to me. He reaches out and we have an awkward three-person hug. He smells like sweat and dust and cloves.
He nods at David Bratton. ‘You in charge here?’
David huffs out a laugh. ‘Nah, mate.’ He tilts his head towards Violet.
Dad’s eyebrows twitch with the faintest hint of scorn. ‘Didn’t realise we’d let the women take over.’
Violet’s expression doesn’t change. ‘Welcome back, Rick.’
Dad pauses for a moment. ‘It’s good to be back.’
After the Lights Go Out Page 23
