Borrowed Light
Page 19
It’s strange how often, in books, they don’t dwell on the happy bits. Maybe writers think no one wants to read about people having a good time, especially if their own life is a compost heap. Or maybe happiness is harder to write. Even if there is a happy ending in a book, it’s often just one line. That’s never enough for me. In fairy tales, it’s ‘And they lived happily ever after.’ But I always wanted to know—how did they live? Was she an early riser? Did he bring her coffee in bed? Who did the vacuuming? Did they have lots of children? They never give you any details of the ‘happily ever after’. They never tell you the recipe.
It’s a shame, because we all need this information, don’t we?
The good bits in my life so far seem to last about as long as a lit candle. Those little breathy mouths of flame are so easily swamped. Winds of misfortune howl all around. At least, that’s how it seems to me. But maybe that’s just the Line Up Here, Disasters Only section in my memory box. Do you find the painful bits go on a lot longer than happy ones? Pain is full of grim detail, of hours and minutes and splinters in the vital organs. You can hold them there in your lap, all those separate pieces, and no matter how many times you turn them over, they won’t fit together. But a happy moment—well, it’s just one whoosh of feeling, isn’t it—it comes whole, like a primary colour or the take-off of a bird into the sky.
That’s how I felt with Richard. For a couple of candlelengths, or maybe even more. I felt different after that weekend. I had something to look forward to.
Our art teacher, Mr Hanrahan, is fond of candlelight. He’s always going on about the source of light in a painting. He likes the huge shadows that candlelight makes—it adds drama, he says. Whenever we begin a painting of our own, he makes us put down our pencils and notice where the light is coming from. ‘A painting without light is flat, dead, formless!’ he cries. He raises his arms on the last syllable and even on winter days we can see round circles of sweat in his armpits. He is very passionate and he makes me feel protective. I want to tell him to keep his arms down so everyone isn’t knowing how he’s feeling all the time. He doesn’t understand anything about ‘cool’. Miranda and her gang laugh at him. I don’t think he cares.
Anyway, I was sitting there in Art on Tuesday, and old Hanrahan was raving on about the light. Before starting a painting, he was saying, an artist decides on the light he’s going to use—moonlight, sunlight—and where it’s coming from. Perhaps it falls on a face in profile, it sharpens a chin, discovers the fine bones in a hand. The moon picks out details from the dark. It makes one thing more important than another.
And suddenly I knew what he meant. Richard was like that for me. I was holding him up like a light source—he was my kero lamp in the night, my star in all that dark matter roiling round the universe. I remembered how he’d put his arm around me on Sunday, and I’d fitted under his shoulder. The thought of Richard made my heart leap, and the bleakness lifted. There was something else after Thursday.
I tried to draw his face. There was the chin thrust out, the green eyes and the shadows under them. I rubbed it out. It’s funny how the more you try to remember, the more blurred it becomes. His image in my mind was growing shimmery and faint. I tried to hear the tone of his voice, the smile in it. He hadn’t rung me since Sunday. I could only get Elvis and the teddy bear song.
Maybe Richard was more of an idea than a real person. Maybe I was making him up.
I took a new sheet of paper. I was starting to sweat. I tried to loosen up, doing quick sketches with charcoal. Maybe I’d just selected Richard arbitrarily—sunlight or candlelight?—because he was there. He was handsome, clever, he didn’t bully kids or pull wings off flies. He was a good choice, wasn’t he, for a girl to pin her hopes on?
It was just that I couldn’t keep his outline straight in my mind.
I tried to see his face when he told me about the stealing, but I could only remember my surprise, and how eager I’d been to see him as brave. Just for a moment, I glimpsed rounded shoulders and a shrinking back. His chin looked weak. I shivered. It’s hard to tell what’s real when you’re gazing into the glare of your chosen light source. It’s blinding, and you get spots in front of your eyes.
I decided to do something else. I painted a white bird in a blue sky. I’d call it ‘Hope’. It wouldn’t be realistic (I can’t draw birds), it would be more of an impression, really. As I splashed a little grey into the feathers, I thought about hope and anticipation, and how often they were much better than the real event. But at least they carried you to it. Hope was a kind of transport, I decided. When you do it at school—you know, air, sea and road transport—you should also do Hope. Because when it disappears, you don’t go anywhere. You just lie on your bed and pick lint out of your pockets.
BEFORE THURSDAY THERE was Art, English and Maths. There were avocado sandwiches and history assignments and a salad with pine nuts. Mr Corrigan, the gym teacher, fell over and broke his ankle. Miranda Blair was first on the scene and she was supposed to go and ring the ambulance. She didn’t, you know. She went down to the toilet block for a smoke. Then she went to hang out at the mall.
On Wednesday Mum changed the fridge decoration. She put up a newspaper clipping about the stolen children, with a photo of an old Aboriginal man hugging a toddler. It was his grandson. They’d only just met. ‘Read that article, Cally. It’ll give you goosepimples.’ I was rushing out the door. The last thing I needed was goosepimples. But Mum’s face made me stop.
In the afternoon there was Grandma Ruth. I’d forgotten about Sam Underwood, damn it. I felt dreadful. I could hardly hear what Grandma was saying, I was so miserable with guilt. Jeremy just sat there like a lump of petrified wood. Hope had the shape of something flat under his shoe. Poor old Jem.
Tim rang that night. I sat there twisting the phone cord, and Jeremy didn’t even bother to nag. He just glanced at me and his expression didn’t change, as if he were looking at an empty chair. Tim said that he and the guys were going to stay up at Byron Bay for the rest of the week. They’d cook up some excuse for school. ‘The surf at Wattigo is unreal,’ he enthused. ‘It’s too good to miss.’ Did I mind?
On Wednesday I saw Mr West coming out of the science block. He waved at me, and grinned. I waved back. I hesitated for a second, and nearly fell over my shoelace. I’d have liked to talk to him, but I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to show him my bird picture. Mr Hanrahan had exclaimed all over it—he’d waved his arms about and sweated profusely. He even pinned it up on the art-room wall. It was the first time he’d put anything of mine up there. When Miranda saw it, she sniggered. She said it looked like seagull shit.
When I woke up on Thursday, it was raining. The curtains were pulled and it was still dark, but I could hear the drops falling like bullets on the awning outside. Jeremy had left one of his tin trucks out on the porch and the water was running down the drainpipe straight into the dumper with a loud ping! ping! ping!
I pulled the pillow over my head. I didn’t want to wake up.
I lay there for a while, my heart pounding. I can never wake up gently—I’m just suddenly there, or I’m not. It makes the nausea worse, all this suddenness. As soon as I was awake, even under the pillow, I started picturing the afternoon, the rain and the traffic, whether I’d get there late, what the doctors would be like, and whether it would hurt. You know the kind of thing.
All day, through lunch and Maths and History, I kept wishing you could fast-forward life, like you do with a video. The nasty bits could be like ads, just events you have to get through, but quickly. The day dragged interminably. I don’t remember much of it. The world inside was louder than anything else.
At 3.30 I flung out the gate and raced home. It was still raining. My hair was sopping by the time I reached our house. I could lick the drops as they ran off my nose.
Jeremy was sitting out on the porch. ‘What are you doing out here?’ I asked.
‘Watching the stupid rain,’ he said.
Hi
s schoolbag leant against his leg. He hadn’t even been inside. I took his hand and a centipede wriggled out. His jumper was quite damp. I could see little beads of rain on the grey wool. He smelled of wet dog. ‘You’re all wet, Jem. Come in and change.’ Honestly, who was the mother in this family? If it weren’t for me, Jeremy would sit out here all night, catching bugs and pneumonia. ‘Where’s Mum?’
Jeremy shrugged. He watched the centipede crawl onto the grass.
I looked at my watch. I had ten minutes to change and catch the bus into the city. There was the run up to the bus stop in the rain. A tide of anxiety began to rise in my chest. It made my voice sharp. ‘Come on, then, I said let’s get changed.’
Jeremy shook his head. He didn’t look at me.
I pushed past him and went inside. I couldn’t worry about him now. I threw off my uniform and pulled on jeans. I hunted for a raincoat and found it bunched up with my shoes. It hadn’t been worn for years. Didn’t matter, I wasn’t going there to impress anyone, was I. An umbrella would have been better, but there were never any in the house, because everyone except Dad always lost them. There were May umbrellas all over the place, in cinemas, libraries, cafes, supermarkets. Dad kept his elegant black one with men playing golf along the rim in his cupboard. There was penalty of eternal disapproval if you borrowed it. No one ever did.
Quickly I tried my raincoat on. It had three long tears down the front. The sleeves came almost up to my elbows. I crept into Dad’s room and looked in his cupboard. The umbrella was standing upright next to his shoe rack like a sentinel. I grabbed it.
I was ready. Seven minutes to go. I went into the kitchen to find Mum. She’d be there buttering pikelets. Or in the living room arranging cushions.
The kitchen was empty. Not even a whiff of melting butter. In the living room, Jeremy’s toys were still strewn all over the carpet. I stared at his Lego men with a terrible sinking of the heart.
‘Mum!’ I called.
‘What?’ the answer drifted back.
I found her in her bedroom. She was darting around, searching out shoes and a skirt and putting on her lipstick. She picked up her bag and checked her wallet.
‘What are you doing?’
She swung around. ‘Oh Cally, thank heavens you’re home. I’ve got to go out.’ She looked at her watch. ‘God, they’ll have started already.’
‘What?’ I could hardly speak. ‘Aren’t you having the meditation here?’
Mum frowned. ‘No, Cally, Beth rang to say she’s really not up to going out, but she can have the meditation at her place. It does her a lot of good. It’s all arranged with the others. Now, I’ve got to rush.’
‘But Mum, I told you already that I have to go out this afternoon. I’ll be out till late. You can’t go, you just can’t. Christ, don’t you remember anything? Who’s going to look after your son? You know, the boy called Jeremy out there?’
‘Don’t speak to me like that, Callisto!’
There was a loud sniff and we both swung round. In the door of the hallway stood Jeremy. ‘Where are you going, Cally?’ he said. ‘Why can’t I come? Why doesn’t anyone ever want me to come?’
‘Of course Cally wants you to come, darling.’
‘He can’t come with me. Children aren’t allowed.’
‘You shut me out, man, you treat me like a kid!’
‘Oh shut up, Robin!’
‘Don’t speak like that to your brother. What is this place where children aren’t allowed?’
‘Oh, it’s just a place. It’s, ah, it’s a film we have to see for school. It’s rated M. He’d never get in.’
‘Well, that’s a shame, blossom, but I didn’t realise you had something on—did you tell me? Anyway, you know Thursdays are Meditation. I can’t cancel all those poor women, they depend on me.’ She picked up her handbag and keys. ‘For afternoon tea you can give Jeremy those pikelets from last week. They’re in the fridge. Now don’t fight. Bye now.’
I stared at her, streaking out the door. ‘What about Dad? When’s the plane due in?’
‘Not till seven tonight, darling,’ she called over her shoulder. She pinched Jeremy’s cheek. ‘Be good!’
We both gazed at the flash of cream skirt that was Mum, disappearing out the door. I looked at my watch. Three minutes to go.
‘Right. Go into your room and take off your jumper. Get a dry one, find your raincoat and let’s go.’
‘Can I wear my Batman outfit? Or should I wear the Robin one? Only I don’t like the green mask. Why didn’t they make a black one, like the one Robin wears on TV?’
‘I don’t bloody well care what the fuck you wear. Just get it on now, because I’m leaving!’
Jeremy vanished. I banged the wall with rage. I wanted to go on banging, beating my fist against the wall till it fell down. The stupid uncaring bloody bitch.
Jeremy crept out. He looked strangely bulky. I saw bits of black Batman sleeve poking out from under the Robin outfit. The cloak was rucked up underneath. He looked like a super-hero who’d had too many desserts.
‘You said the “f” word,’ he whispered. He had tears in his eyes.
‘Let’s go,’ I muttered.
I ran fast as lightning up the road. Jeremy hung onto my hand and I hauled him up the hill like a dead body.
‘I’m too sad to run,’ he said.
‘Fucking move!’ I shouted at him.
The bus was there at the top of the hill. There were two people still climbing on. ‘Wait!’ I yelled. We panted along the path, hurtling past a woman with shopping. Something fell out of her bag as Jeremy brushed past. I didn’t look back. The doors of the bus were closing.
I shoved my shoe between the doors. Through the crack I saw the bus driver making up his mind. He was looking at my shoe as if it were a squashed cockroach. ‘Please,’ I said.
We sat down near the back. I didn’t want to be near enough to catch the eye of the driver in the rear view mirror. What a desperado, he was probably thinking. And her lumpy little brother, the super-hero.
I stared out the window. Rain spattered the glass like a million spitballs. When I could breathe deeply again, I began thinking what to do with Jeremy. It was true that children weren’t allowed into abortion clinics. Well, it’s understandable, isn’t it? Who wants to look at some happy kid running around in the waiting room when you’re not going to have yours? What the hell was I going to do with him?
The lady on the phone had told me about the children thing. ‘Bring someone with you, if you can,’ she’d said kindly. (She’d meant somebody who’d had their peripheral vision for at least ten years, of course.)
I glanced at Jeremy. He did look bigger with two outfits on, that was for sure. And his vocabulary was larger than that of some adults I knew. He certainly wasn’t happy, either. Would a depressed lumpy super-hero with a spectacular vocabulary look better in the waiting room? But he was sniffing again. Now he was picking his nose. I sighed. No one over twelve does that in public.
‘Where’s your hankie?’
He shrugged. ‘Where are we going, anyway?’
‘Oh, you’ll see. Just somewhere,’ I said vaguely.
‘Don’t shut me out, Batman, don’t treat me like a kid!’
‘Robin, this mission is far too dangerous for you. It’s just something I have to do alone.’
We played the game and it passed the time while the bus sat in traffic and the rain caused havoc. There’s nothing I can do about it, I told myself. Now I felt too sad to run. I felt too sad to do anything. Robin let me hold his hand from Cremome to North Sydney. His hand was very warm and a bit moist, due to all the layers he had on. The windows in the bus were shut on account of the rain. I tried to open ours just a crack but the woman behind me made a tsk tsking noise, so I left it. There was a strong smell of salami.
At 4.25 we drew into the city. My appointment was for 4.30. We’d cross King George, turn left into St Paul’s and right into Burke. If we caught the lights, I’d be on time.
The bus driver shook his head at us as we clambered off. ‘Batman out,’ said Jeremy.
The street we turned into was lined with plane trees. Jeremy roared in and out of them as if he were a car in one of those driver training courses. He didn’t notice the people on the steps until we were right there.
I grabbed Jeremy’s hand and pulled him back. The people turned to look at us. One of them whispered something to her neighbour. Those people weren’t waiting to have an operation. Some of them were men. They were holding up big signs and placards on wooden poles. There were pictures of dead babies. One poster said, ‘Don’t Kill Your Baby’. It was written in red paint, and next to it was the face of a dead child.
Jeremy was staring at the pictures. ‘Are these people from South Africa?’ he asked. ‘Do we have to help them?’
A woman was coming down the steps toward us. I couldn’t see her face. She held the big square sign in front of her. A hand grasped my arm. ‘Don’t kill your baby, girlie,’ the woman said. ‘You’ll burn in hell.’
She was panting hard. The sign must have been heavy.
I wrenched myself away. My knees were shaking so much I could hardly stand up. Jeremy was staring in bewilderment. A man in a grey jumper shook his finger at me. ‘It’s wicked, you’re a murderer if you go in there.’