Nona and Me

by Clare Atkins

  I pad towards the lounge. Mum is there, passed out on the couch. I try to walk quietly into the kitchen, but she’s a light sleeper and wakes immediately.

  I ask, “Mum, what happened?”

  Her face is a mess of tired lines and dark eyes. She says, “It was your wäwa. The one who came here a few weeks ago.”

  Lomu.

  “What happened, Mum?”

  I can see her weighing up how much to tell me. She sighs, exhausted. Drained. “I guess you’ll find out sooner or later. He hung himself, Rosie. Hung himself from the banyan tree near the buŋgul ground.”

  She starts to cry. “Why would he do that? Why didn’t he come here? I told him our door was always open. He should’ve known that. Damn it. Nothing’s ever so bad … there’s never a reason to …”

  Her words dissolve into heavy, chest-wrenching sobs.

  She collapses into my arms and I hold her. Tight.

  *

  I don’t go to school. I stay home with Mum.

  She fields calls and makes arrangements. She goes out a few times, to see Rripipi and drop people places.

  I stay behind. I want to be alone.

  Nick texts:

  U sick or just still hungover, U bludger? ;-)

  And later:

  Hey, U OK?

  And later still:

  Rosie, where R U? What’s up? We good?

  But I know now that I can’t expect compassion from Nick. Not when it comes to Aboriginal people. I tell myself that’s okay. Just got to compartmentalise. Keep the worlds separate.

  I make myself reply. I keep it short.

  Sum1 in community died. Got 2 B here 4 Mum.

  I make a loaf-of-bread’s worth of sandwiches and Mum takes them to Momu’s house.

  I can’t get the image out of my mind. A lone body, swinging in the shadows of the banyan tree. I know that tree. We used to play there as kids. Its arcing trunk forms a natural hollow in the middle. Its branches are grand and sweeping, with thick roots trailing towards the ground, like long, gnarled fingers reaching down for the earth. Perfect for climbing. For swinging. For hanging.

  What was he thinking? Was he thinking at all?

  He was sitting in our lounge room, his tiny daughter curled on his lap. He was smiling. Proud. Unperturbed by death. Was he thinking about it even then?

  What was he thinking? Was he thinking at all?

  Eighteen. Not much older than me. Not much older than Nona. The same age as Nick.

  Lomu, with laughing eyes, handing me guku.

  What was he thinking? Was he thinking at all?

  *

  It’s late afternoon when Mum gets the call. I don’t need to be asked. I’m ready and waiting by the door. The body has to be taken from the hospital to Darwin for an autopsy.

  We stop at Momu’s house first. There’s a large crowd already gathered, sitting on blankets in the dirt yard. It’s like a morose picnic with no food.

  Mum jumps out and helps Momu to the troopie. She seems even frailer than when I last saw her. I clamber over the front seat, to the back. A swarm of relatives piles in with me. I recognise some of their faces. They are my ŋamalas, ŋapipis, wäwas and yapas. Some of them I haven’t seen in years.

  Last in is Nona. She slams the back door shut behind her. Mum starts to drive.

  I try not to stare. Nona’s belly has a distinct curve. She’s wearing a loose singlet to hide the bump. Her floral skirt sits low on her waist. She’s cut her hair short and her features look fuller. Her skin is healthy and glowing, but her eyes are dull with grief.

  I wonder how long it is until she has her baby. What month is it now? September? No, October. I try to catch her eye, but she either refuses to meet my gaze or doesn’t register that I’m there. She stares out the back window as the community disappears behind us. Bitumen wavers in the heat. The sides of the road are chalky pink dust. The bush is parched khaki, waiting for the rain.

  I look back at Nona. Her feet are stretched out in front of her, the soles dry and dusty, heels cracked. Along the edge of her left foot I can see a scar. A long black welt.

  We pull into the hospital grounds and park the car. Follow the drift of people around the back to the morgue. There’s got to be over a hundred people. Our passengers melt into the throng of mourners. I lose sight of Nona.

  Men are singing, thrusting spears at the morgue entrance. The women stand back. Clapsticks pound like the thump of a wooden heart brought to life. An old man plays the yiḏaki to one side. He looks like the old man from the Arnhem Club, but I might be imagining it.

  Mum moves to stand in the shade of a nearby shrub, and I follow. Behind us, some preschool-aged kids are playing, climbing trees. They seem oblivious to the ceremony in front of them. A little boy laughs loudly.

  I search the crowd with my eyes. Aiden is standing slightly to one side with a few of the guys from his band. His eyes meet mine, then quickly drop away. I can’t see his parents or Mattie anywhere. I wonder who his adopted Yolŋu family is. I realise I’ve never asked him.

  The huddle of women moves forward. Their hands are in loose fists above their heads. Elbows bent, they shake their hands back and forth as if rattling a cage. One of Nona’s aunties leans into Mum and whispers, “They are the rock. It’s a dance of water. The tide comes in and gets the body. The tide goes out and takes it back into the ocean, the car.”

  The morgue doors open and the men flood in. An orderly appears. He doesn’t seem at all perturbed by the spears around him. I suppose he’s seen all this before. He looks almost bored as he latches the door open and disappears again.

  The women start crying-singing, soft and mournful, as the men move in to get the body. I can see Nona now, pounding on the wall as the men reappear. They are carrying a stretcher. The body is strapped to it, bound in a white bandage like a mummy. I’m relieved we can’t see the actual body. It is just the shape of Lomu, laid out, small and thin. A frail sliver of human life.

  The men lift the body into a waiting troopie loaded with colourful blankets and plastic flowers. The clapping and wailing continue as the car inches down the side driveway. Then, suddenly, by some silent agreement, the singing stops. People start to walk to their cars, or wait for a lift in the shade of nearby trees.

  Rripipi and her relatives materialise from the crowd. I see Nona and Guḻwirri go past in another vehicle with some aunties as we climb back into the troopie. Mum pulls out of the car park, just one in a long line of snaking white four-wheel-drives. The vehicles drive slowly, one behind the other, hazard lights flashing.

  We arrive at the airstrip as they’re carrying the body from the troopie to one of two small planes parked on the tarmac. The swell of singing, bilma and yiḏaki surrounds us. Rripipi leaves Mum’s side, making her way to the front of the crowd. She starts to wail, letting the tears run freely down her face. Guḻwirri and the smalls are beside her. I catch sight of Nona again. She is holding a little girl in her arms, trying to restrain her. It’s Lomu’s daughter, Kaneisha. She lunges forward, breaking from Nona’s grasp, running towards the body. She’s screaming as she paws at the bandages.

  I have to know. I ask Mum, “What’s she doing? What’s she saying?”

  “My daddy can’t breathe … Let my daddy out …” Mum’s words melt into sobs. She clutches my arm, holding me close.

  A young man hurries forward and grabs Kaneisha. She buries her face in his shoulder, still crying. He looks too young to be Nona’s husband. His clothes are shabby, his face gaunt but familiar. I see a glimmer of a boy I once knew, proud and strutting. “Is that Jimmy?”

  Mum nods.

  The body is on the plane now.

  The pilot closes his cockpit door, preparing for take-off. He starts the engine and taxis down the runway.

  I see Nona and Guḻwirri climb into the second plane with the smalls.

  32.

  2001

  I watch from the chain-link fence.

  Nona pushes her Aunty Tina aside so she
can sit next to the window, closer to me.

  She’s leaving. Leaving Yirrkala. Our shared bedroom. Me.

  And she’s not planning on coming back.

  What will life be like without her?

  I feel a sob rise in my chest.

  The pilot starts the engine.

  Mum puts a gentle hand on my shoulder and says, “I’m going to miss her too.”

  33.

  2007

  I can see Nona’s tear-stained face through the plane window.

  But she doesn’t look at us.

  She doesn’t look at anything. Not her mother and sisters in the cabin. Not the crowds outside. Not the plane holding the body, disappearing into the clear blue sky.

  She just stares blankly ahead.

  She looks empty.

  Despairing.

  34.

  2001

  Nona presses her hand against the plane window.

  I see the pale brown of her palm, five fingers outstretched.

  I hold up my hand in a mirror of hers, wide open against the fence.

  My tears are flowing now.

  I can’t hold them back.

  I feel a huge, gaping emptiness. A void.

  35.

  2007

  Kaneisha is still sobbing in her uncle’s arms, her small body heaving, arms flailing, cheeks wet.

  The engines grow louder, building to an urgent hum.

  I look back at Nona, framed by the plane window.

  My breath is shallow, hardly there.

  I keep my eyes on her face as it shrinks into a small dot then disappears.

  The plane shuttles down the runway.

  The wheels lift.

  And then they’re gone.

  36.

  2007

  I make my way to the mango tree at recess. Miniature green fruit has started to appear, tiny and taut at the end of red-brown stems.

  Selena and Nick are already there, with Benny, Reggie and Matt. The boys are getting ready to play basketball, changing into runners as they talk.

  “Did you hear? They’re talking about banning us from the lookout.”

  “Who – you specifically, Benny? I wouldn’t blame them,” quips Nick.

  I sling my school bag onto the grass as Reggie and Matt laugh.

  Benny blushes. “Us as in everyone. As in white guys.”

  “Why?” asks Matt.

  “Too much graffiti up there, they reckon.”

  Selena is sarcastic. “Gee, whose fault is that?”

  Reggie scoffs, “It’s a joke. They can’t tell us where we can and can’t go. Dad said all those permit things have been scrapped for months now. We can go wherever we want.”

  I’ve never liked Reggie. He’s the kind of guy who pushes in at the front of the canteen line just because he’s in Year 12.

  “It’s traditional land. It’s sacred.” I hear the voice loud in my ears. It takes a second before I realise it’s mine. The guys are all looking at me now, surprised.

  Reggie laughs. “Everything that sticks out of the ground here is sacred, isn’t it?”

  I keep my voice calm and strong. “It’s Yolŋu land. They’re letting us be here. It’s not that hard to show respect.”

  “The mine signed a deal. They’re leasing this place.”

  Reggie nods, backing Matt up. “Yeah, it’s like if I rent a house from you and then you tell me, ‘Oh, but now you can’t use the dunny.’”

  A hee-haw of laughter. A slap on the back.

  Nick looks uneasy, caught in the middle. He stays quiet.

  I’m fuming inside. I can’t do this now. Not with Mum teary every hour. Not with Lomu waiting to be buried. Not with Nona in Darwin, and that voice still whispering, What was he thinking? I pick up my bag. “I’m going to the library.”

  Reggie makes a face at Nick, as if to say, What’s up with her?

  Nick hurries to catch up as I start to walk away. “Hey, you alright? Sorry about your mum’s friend.”

  I say it blunt and to his face, like a test. “It wasn’t her friend. It was my wäwa. My brother.”

  “That’s rough.”

  “He was your age. Eighteen.”

  I think of Aiden. Another One Bites the Dust.

  I can’t do this now.

  But Nick isn’t giving up. “Are you mad at me for some reason?”

  I keep walking.

  “I know Reggie can be a dickhead but he’s harmless. He was just joking.”

  “I don’t find it funny.”

  “Maybe you just took it the wrong way. You’re upset about this death. I get that. It’s full on.” He reaches out and grabs my shoulder. “Rosie. Stop.” His bright blue eyes search my face. “Do you want to talk about this?”

  I can’t do this now.

  I shake my head. “I really do have to go to the library. I’ll catch you later.”

  “Okay.” He lets go of my shoulder.

  I keep walking.

  *

  Dad calls and I start crying. I’m sobbing into the phone.

  I hear his voice from the other end, strong and firm. “Just let yourself feel it, blossom. I know it hurts. It should hurt. He shouldn’t be dead.”

  I blow my nose. It’s loud, wet and messy.

  He says, “I wish I was there to give you a hug.”

  “Me too.”

  “I’ll come up for the funeral, once they know when it will be.”

  I’m heartened by the thought of him being close, present, here.

  I wipe my tear-stained face and blow my nose again. “I can’t wait to see you.”

  *

  I make Mum an Earl Grey tea and sit with her on the lounge. I haven’t let myself cry in front of her: she cries enough for both of us. She talks about how Nona’s family are coping and the likely funeral arrangements. They think it will be held in Yirrkala, but they’ll have to wait until the body comes back from Darwin. I listen in silence, nodding every now and then.

  She says, “You’re quiet.”

  I shrug.

  “I heard you on the phone to your dad before.”

  Usually, if one of us has the phone in our bedroom, the other at least pretends they can’t hear. I wonder why Mum has broken this unspoken rule. “Yeah? And?”

  “I wish you’d talk to me, Rosie.”

  Silence.

  She tries again. “I do understand you, know.”

  “Understand what?”

  My tone is deliberately harsh. I’m hoping she’ll drop it, but she’s determined. “I know you think I see life in black and white …”

  We’ve never talked about what I said in the car that day.

  “Mum, please, can we not get into this now?”

  She is starting to get teary again. “Of course. I just … I know you talk to your dad more than me … and I don’t really understand why that is … what I’ve done wrong …”

  I feel a wall go up inside me. I snap, “Not everyone feels the need to discuss every little detail of their lives.”

  “You really think I do that?”

  It’s such an understatement that I laugh.

  Mum looks devastated. “I just try to be open. Honest. I’m human, Rosie. If I’m hurting or worried I say so. I treat you like an adult. But maybe you’d prefer it if I was like your dad. If I never told you anything at all.”

  “He tells me stuff.”

  She shakes her head, disbelieving.

  I arc up. “He does. And he listens, too. Which is more than you do.”

  “I see.” I can tell it’s taking every fibre of Mum’s being to stay calm and under control.

  She picks up her mug of tea and takes it to her bedroom.

  I feel even worse than before.

  *

  I start spending lunchtimes in the art room. Ms Naylor gives me special permission.

  Nick tries to be understanding but can’t help grumbling that he feels like a third wheel when it’s just him, Benny and Selena. I tell him I’m behind with my major
artwork, which is true. He makes two-on-two basketball with Reggie and Matt an every-lunchtime event to fill the Rosie-sized hole. Selena is relegated to playing cheerleader and watching from the sidelines. She moans to me about it in class.

  I say, “Come and hang out in the art room if you’re so bored.” Sometimes she does.

  Nick sends me short but sweet texts.

  Missing U. Draw faster.

  My triptych starts to take shape.

  I sketch a shadowy background of trees. Hidden amongst them are ghostly, partly obscured versions of Lomu. Lomu in the bush, holding guku. Lomu sitting at our kitchen bench. Lomu in his old job, collecting garbage.

  Selena asks, “Is that meant to be the guy who died? It’s kind of creepy.”

  I ignore her. I smudge the charcoal together, blurring the lines.

  I draw Lomu not in black, but grey.

  He is a ghost, a memory. He is a spirit.

  I feel a bit better knowing he isn’t forgotten.

  *

  Nick is teaching lessons four afternoons a week now. The build-up has started and the pool is crowded with little kids and their parents trying to escape the relentless humidity.

  I go back to catching the bus. I don’t mind.

  I get on, say hi to Tony and make my way down the airconditioned aisle. Most days I pass Aiden with a polite nod. We haven’t sat together since his outburst about Nick. But today he looks up at me and pats the seat beside him.

  I hesitate, then sit.

  He doesn’t say anything, just scrolls through his iPod and chooses a song. He holds out an earbud. “This was one of your wäwa’s favourites.”

  He doesn’t have to tell me who he’s talking about.

  I put the earbud in my ear.

  Aiden pumps up the volume and Yothu Yindi’s “Treaty” swells into life. It fills the bus with raw emotion, optimism and hope.

  This land was never given up

  This land was never bought and sold

  The planting of the union jack

  Never changed our law at all

  Now two rivers run their course

  Separated for so long

  I’m dreaming of a brighter day