by Clare Atkins
My wäwa nods. “I miss it, eh?”
Mum has the jaffle iron out now. “We’re just having some toasted sandwiches – you want one?”
“No, thanks.”
“We saw dhaŋarra driving back here,” says Lomu.
I don’t know what he’s talking about. He says, “The flowers, you know? White ones. Stringybark.”
I start to remember. “Does that mean it’s guku season?” “Yo.”
His face broadens into a grin. “Maybe we can go out looking some time. With Momu. We can take this one too. My daughter, Kaneisha.”
He indicates the girl in his arms, so proud he could burst.
“How old is she?”
“Three.”
Mum looks at me, reproachful. “You should’ve come today.”
I force myself to ask, “Was Nona there?”
Lomu shakes his head. “She’s staying at Gikal now. Stretch’s homeland.”
“Her … husband?”
“Yo.”
I ask, “Is it nice there?”
“Beautiful. Small beach. White sand – like Bawaka. You remember Bawaka?”
How could I forget? So many childhood trips. I feel like I have to say something. “I’m sorry about … the guy who died. Mum said he was family?”
“He was my brother.”
I must look confused, because he explains, “My birth mother’s sister’s son.”
I remember Mum telling me Lomu and Jimmy aren’t actually Guḻwirri’s sons. They are Bolu’s children, born to another mother; she died just after Lomu was born. Guḻwirri raised them as her own.
I say, “Heard it was a car crash.”
“Black magic. No good.”
“You mean galka?”
I know the word from when I was small. Rripipi told all the kids galka stories to make them come home by dark. Stories designed to frighten, about bad spirits and ghosts.
“Yeah, people thinking bad things. Making bad things happen for our family. Momu’s sick …”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“Don’t know. Maybe flu. A lot of us lost our jobs. That one crashed his car.”
Mum eases two toasties onto a plate. She rests it on the arm of Lomu’s chair and he eats them one-handed, careful not to disturb Kaneisha. The toasties are gone in under a minute. He licks his fingers, then says, “My bäpa tried to kill himself last week. Extension cord. Tied himself to a streetlight.”
He acts it out for us, ending with the sound of someone strangled. “Crrch.”
My eyes widen. Mum looks shocked. Obviously no-one thought this was serious enough to mention today. “Did someone get him help? Was he okay?”
“Yeah, he’s okay. He’s in Darwin Hospital now.”
He’s so calm he could be talking about fishing. Or playing football. Or going to the shops.
24.
2000
I get off the school bus at Nona’s house. Guḻwirri and a group of ladies are sitting down the side of the house, playing cards.
I approach and ask, “amaḻa, is Nona here?”
She shakes her head. “Bäyŋu.”
“Mum said she was back from Bawaka …”
“Yo … she’s around …”
“Well, do you know where she is?”
Guḻwirri shrugs. Her eyes don’t move from her hand of cards. She’s changed since Bolu died. She’s quieter. More abrupt. Mum says she’s stopped going to work.
I say, “If she comes home, can you tell her I’m looking for her?”
“Ma’.” Okay.
I walk along the road and down the hill. I check our usual spots. The oval. The sport and rec shelter. The shop. No sign of Nona. I stop in at the art centre. Mum hasn’t seen her either. I grab my bike from home and do a lap of the community. I see the smalls and Nona’s friends from Top School outside the red house on Marrakulu Road. There’s a small crowd gathered. I gesture Yumalil to my side. She tells me someone found a pair of boxing gloves and everyone’s been taking turns for the last two days. It’s the type of thing Nona would usually love. She’s always been able to sniff out what’s happening in the community. But today she’s not here.
There’s only one other place I can think of where she might be. I ride to the boat ramp, park my bike in a hibiscus bush and walk down to the shore. I leap from rock to rock, making my way around the small headland. There’s a crocodile that lives here, so I keep well back from the water. I pass a few houses as I round the corner to a small, protected beach. We celebrated our joint eighth birthday here. The party had a pirate theme, and Mum hid chocolate coins in the rocks, like secret treasure. We slid on boogie boards down the sand dunes, and played pin the tail on the parrot.
I look up at the dunes. Sails of golden sand and blue sky. And then I see her, sitting on the highest peak, staring out at the ocean.
I call, “Nona …”
She sees me, but doesn’t smile. I climb up towards her, my feet sinking into the warm sand with each step. I plop down beside her. “I was looking for you everywhere.”
Nona shrugs. It’s obvious she doesn’t want to talk, so we sit there in silence. I scan the flat grey ocean, looking for dolphins. There aren’t any today.
The sky turns pale and milky. Heat starts to leach from the day. I smell campfires and the waft of people cooking dinner. Mum will be wondering where I am.
I say, “We should head back.”
She tucks her knees up to her chest. “Just a bit longer.”
There’s another long silence, then I hear her voice, barely a whisper. “What do you think happens when you die?”
I know she’s thinking of her dad.
I say, “I don’t know. What do you think?”
She picks up a small round rock and rolls it between her pale brown fingertips. “amaḻa says we sing for people and it guides them back to their homeland.”
I want to comfort her, so I say, “I can imagine your dad in Bawaka. He’d be fishing. Walking along the beach with his spear. Watching the water.”
She looks over at me, hopeful. “You think so?”
“Sure. Why not?”
Her eyes cloud over. “Momu says we go to heaven or hell.”
“Maybe you can go to both?”
“Heaven and hell?”
“No, heaven and your homeland, I mean.”
“But how?”
I struggle to find an answer, but come up blank.
Nona is close to tears. “I don’t want him to get lost.”
I reach out and put my arm around her shoulders. “He won’t. He’s your dad. He won’t.”
25.
2007
Someone has left a light on.
I slip out of bed, and walk towards the kitchen. I see Mum at the sink, staring out the window into the night. She’s lost in thought.
I say softly, “Can’t you sleep?”
She turns, startled. “Rosie … come here …”
I walk over and hug her. She holds me close.
I ask, “What are you doing?”
“Just thinking.”
“What about?”
She shrugs, but her eyes look sad. I take a guess. “Are you missing Graham?”
“Sort of. I mean, yeah, of course I am. But that’s not …” She stops, then says, “I was thinking about Lomu and Kaneisha.”
I look at her in confusion.
She continues. “What did you see this afternoon? I mean, when you looked at them together?”
I shake my head. I have no idea what she’s getting at.
Her voice is raw as she says, “I saw a loving dad. But if someone in mainstream Australia saw that, an Aboriginal man and a little girl, with what’s going on politically …” She breaks off, getting teary. “Sorry, I’m just a bit emotional.”
“It’s okay.”
“You should go to bed. You’ve got school tomorrow.”
She walks me to my bedroom and watches as I climb into bed. Then, maybe by impulse or old habit, she
sits beside me. She pulls the doona up to my chin and tucks it in around my shoulders. She kisses my forehead, like she used to when I was small.
She whispers, “Goodnight, Rosie.”
“Goodnight, Mum.”
I watch as she walks out of the room, closing my door behind her.
A small part of me wishes she’d left it open.
*
Nick drops me home at six thirty, just before dark. I enter a house of grey shadows. Mum is in the lounge room, on the phone. She’s so engrossed in conversation that she’s forgotten to turn the lights on. I flick the switch. She glances up at me in surprise, but keeps talking. “I wish I could’ve been there. Frank says the look on their faces was priceless.”
My stomach is growling. I head to the kitchen. From the odd ingredients on the bench, it looks like Mum has made a start on dinner. There’s a tray of semi-charred capsicum and a pot of stock left forgotten, boiling away to nothing on the stove. A recipe book I’ve never seen before is open at a page that says “Chicken and Roast Vegetable Risotto”. Mum’s laughing now. “I know. I know.”
I scan the recipe and grab butter from the fridge, rice and more stock from the pantry. I turn the radio on. ABC Radio blares out at me. Mum indicates for me to turn it down. I do, changing the station to Gove FM. I’m starting to rescue dinner as Mum says goodbye. She hangs up and sees I’ve taken over cooking. “I wanted to make us something special. Is it salvageable?”
“I think so.”
She starts peeling blackened skin off the capsicums, a playful smile on her lips. “So … you’ll never guess what happened today.”
I humour her. “You bought a recipe book?”
She looks sheepish. “Actually, it’s Sadie’s.”
“You decided to get us an air-conditioning unit?”
Mum laughs. It’s an ongoing joke between us. At least, she always assumes I’m joking, but I’m actually not. We must be the only Ŋäpaki family in the community whose house only has ceiling fans.
She’s beaming as she says, “We kicked the Intervention Task Force out of Yirrkala.”
Not exactly what I was expecting. “Okay … and that means what?”
“People from the government came here and the community asked them to leave. Told them not to come back ’til they send the head honcho. You know, the army guy, David Chalmers?”
She does a funny little jig towards the fridge. “I told your dad I’d have a celebratory wine for him, seeing as he can’t drink in Yilpara.”
She’s got my attention now. “That was Dad?”
She nods and pours herself a generous glug of white. She grins. “Do you want a tiny glass? A first taste of alcohol?”
She’s never offered before. She’s in a very strange mood. On a high. Elated. But her offer just reminds me of warm beer and scrambled egg. I shake my head. I stir the buttery rice around the pan, check the recipe and add more stock. “Since when do you and Dad talk?”
“What do you mean? We never stopped talking.”
“Yeah, but you don’t talk much. And you never sounded friendly to him on the phone. You never laughed.”
“Didn’t I?”
“No.”
Mum considers this before responding. “I guess we didn’t have much to talk about, except you. And that was always a minefield because we never agreed about how you should be raised.”
“I think you’ve done an okay job.”
She smiles, amused. “Thank you, Rosie. Me too.”
I’m still struggling to make sense of this new world order. “So now … you and Dad … you’re what? Friends?”
“Comrades, I guess. Comrades, against the Intervention.”
I can’t tell if she’s serious or joking.
*
We’re at the Latram River, just a short drive through the bush from Yirrkala. You can swim here, as long as you check for crocs first. The water is shallow, fresh and crystal clear. We used to come here with Nona’s family after long mornings looking for guku. We’d pile out of Mum’s troopie, a squash of sticky bodies. There was lots of splashing and jumping, giggles and squeals.
Today, it’s quiet. Just me and Nick and the soft hum of the bush. He is lying on a Quiksilver towel, dozing on his stomach in the dappled sun. His board shorts hang low and I can see all five stars of the Southern Cross. I trace them with my index finger, drawing a circle around each one and linking them up. He shivers at my touch. His skin prickles into goosebumps.
I ask, “When did you get this?”
“Ages ago.”
“Like when?”
“You’re not going to let me sleep, are you?”
A cheeky smile. “Nope.”
He props himself up on his elbows, thinking. “A few years ago? We were in Bali. Mum let me get it. Just before we moved up here. 2005?”
“Why’d you choose the Southern Cross?”
“’Cause I’m a star?”
I hit him lightly. “In your dreams.”
“Are you saying I’m not?”
“Be serious for once.”
“I just thought it was cool.”
I don’t buy his flippant responses. “Come on. It’s gotta mean something.”
He uses his fingertip to draw stars in the damp riverbank sand. I’m reminded of an old story Nona told me about how the Milky Way is made up of the spirits of children, who fall down into the water when they’re ready to be born. I can almost see one falling from the sky now. It floats like a feather, drifting side to side, then comes to rest on the river’s surface, gliding downstream … to who?
Nick has found his voice again. “There’s no big story behind it. I just like the symbol. And I love this country.”
“So do I, but I wouldn’t get it burnt into my bum crack.”
“It’s not in my bum crack.”
“It’s pretty low.”
“What are you looking down there for, anyway?”
“I’m looking at the tattoo!”
“Sure you are!”
I shove him, grinning.
“Admit it. You think I’m hot.” He pulls me closer, tickling my sides.
“Stop. Stop!”
“Admit it.”
My laughter glances across the water, ricocheting off the bank on the other side.
“Okay! You’re hot. Gorgeous. Can’t get enough of you.”
“That’s more like it.”
He holds me. Kisses my neck. A cockatoo rustles in the trees above us, foraging for food.
I hear Nick’s voice, soft and low in my ear. “I love you, Rosie.”
“I love you too.”
And suddenly the place feels like it used to. Alive. Full. Bursting.
26.
2001
We are hugging and grinning, in the middle of the playground. I haven’t seen Nona in weeks, then she shows up here, at my school. Her T-shirt and shorts are smeared with charcoal and dirt. I ask, “Where’ve you been, Yapa?”
“Gapuwiyak.”
“With who?”
“Tina. Mum’s sister. You know her?”
I nod. “Why didn’t you tell me? I could’ve come with you, could’ve visited Dad.”
She shrugs. “I was just at BP, and Tina and Sheree were there getting petrol. They said to get in, so I did.”
“Momo was worried. She’s been sick, you know.”
“Mum could’ve told her.”
“Don’t think she’s been home.”
Nona scowls. Guḻwirri’s been drinking, disappearing into town for days at a time. I’ve heard Mum and Momo talking about it.
Nona says, “You got any food? I’m starving.”
I start to lead her towards my school friends, Lily and Dana. I notice she’s limping. “What happened to your foot?”
“Hurt it.”
“How?”
“Walked over a fire.”
“A campfire?”
She nods. For someone with a burnt foot she’s setting a cracking pace.
Miss
Emmerton approaches. She’s on playground duty. “Hi, Rosie. Who’s your friend?”
“Um, this is Nona.”
“Do you go to school here?”
I’m worried we’ll get in trouble, so I say, “She goes to school in Yirrkala … but she’s hurt her foot. I think she needs a bandage.”
Miss Emmerton lifts Nona’s bare left foot gently. I catch my breath. The sole is deep red and purple-black, oozing pus and something that looks like tree sap. Part of the flesh is almost falling off. Miss Emmerton’s face pales. “Hooley dooley. You need more than a bandage. Is that painful? Sore?”
Nona shrugs.
“You should probably go to hospital. Is there someone I can call? Maybe your mum?”
Nona stares at the ground, silent.
“Or your dad? A grandparent?”
No response.
I speak for her. “You can call my mum.”
27.
2007
I meet Mum in Woolworths to do our weekly shop. It is cool and air-conditioned inside. I’m guessing it must be pay day because the whole supermarket is crowded with Yolŋu.
Mum sees my hair, still wet from the pool. “Water warming up yet?”
“Yeah. It is.”
“How’s Nick?”
“He’s good.”
I never elaborate much more than that. I know she’s not really interested in the answer. She only asks in the hope that one day I’ll say things are rocky, that we might be breaking up. And that’s not going to happen any time soon. We’re in love. We’ve even said it. A few times now.
We make our way up and down the aisles. The barge is late this week; the meat fridges and the fruit and vege section are almost empty. There’s only long-life milk. We fill our trolley as best we can, and wheel it towards the checkout.
I hear Mum’s pleasantly surprised voice say, “Yapa. Hello. And nice to see you, Waku.”
I look up and see Guḻwirri and Nona in the line in front of us. They’re unloading their trolley, stacking the conveyor belt with two-minute noodles, powdered milk, frozen bread. Chips and soft drink.
Mum smiles at Nona. “Rripipi said you’re staying out at Gikal now.”
She nods. “Had to do some shopping.”
“How often do you come in?”
