Versace Sisters

by Cate Kendall

  She had decided to start with some small changes. She'd start with taking today off and surprising Sally by picking her up at Babyface to spend the afternoon with her. And she might even speak to the roster manager about cutting back on some of her shifts; she was a killer budgeter, she'd just have to pull the reins in tighter.

  Now she was putting her plan into action, she felt like a naughty schoolgirl wagging classes. She smiled happily at the crèche director and strode confidently into the kinder room with a huge grin.

  Nancy gave her a confused look. 'Did Sally forget something yesterday, Chantrea?' she asked.

  'What?' Chantrea shook her head. 'No, I've come to pick her . . .' her words trailed away as she realised her daughter was not among the group sitting cross-legged on the carpet. 'Where is she?' she asked, her heart beating hard and colour draining from her face as a hundred terrifying scenarios flashed through her mind.

  Nancy was quickly at her side, patting her hand. 'Oh, no, Chantrea, everything's fine, don't panic. She's just having one of her home days. I'm so sorry, I assumed you knew.'

  'A home day?' Chantrea tried not to shout.

  'Well, yes, that's what your mother calls them.'

  'But Mother works. Who's looking after Sally?' Chantrea demanded.

  'I'm sorry, Chantrea, I don't know. Oh dear, I hope we've done the right thing,' Nancy said.

  Chantrea was back home within ten minutes. Her mind was boiling over. Surely Sally wasn't sick: her mother would have called if she was. And she couldn't be home alone, could she? With Chantrea's crazy mother, anything was possible.

  She pulled her car to a screeching halt in front of the block of three units. The heels of her boots clicked angrily along the path as she rushed past the first two tiny homes until she reached her own even smaller place at the rear.

  Squeals of laughter and strains of music filled the air, and part of her relaxed as she knew that at least Sally was safe. She peered in the skinny glass window that flanked the front door and was astounded to see her mother and her daughter leaping around the room like a couple of deranged primates. Her immediate relief was quickly replaced with a new flare of anger.

  She burst through the front door. Sally, perched atop the couch about to leap into the air, froze at the sight of her mother. Her grandmother, squatting on all fours, did the same.

  'What the hell is going on?' Chantrea demanded, catching sight of the dining room table, which was covered in monkey face-masks, paintings and sketches done in a suspiciously Cambodian style. 'What's going on here?' she repeated, her voice dangerously icy.

  'No mind you,' her mother was shrill with the indignation of being caught. 'Just some fun for a little girl.' And she rushed towards the table to start clearing the craft away. 'We're having fun, aren't we, Sally?'

  'Yeah!' Sally sprang back to life. 'So much fun, look we made Hanuman the Monkey God pictures and now we're doing the Hanuman monkey dance.' She demonstrated some elaborate dance steps, complete with well-practised hand movements.

  Chantrea noticed a slender tube in her daughter's hand. 'What's that, Sally? Is that the god-awful noise I heard when I came in?'

  'Yeah, Mum, it's Granny Yay's Khmer flute. I'm getting really good.' To illustrate, she raised it to her lips. Brittle, haunting notes came from the instrument.

  Chantrea's hands flew to her ears. 'Stop it, stop it at once, that's a terrible noise. Give that to me!'

  'But Mum!' Sally stared at her mother with an injured look.

  'How do you say this to such a talented child?' Dara Kim scolded. For a little woman she could be quite fearsome when antagonised. 'This is a wonderful gift she has, wonderful talent.' Raising herself to every bit of her four-foot-ten-inch frame, she said proudly, 'She takes after her grandmother.'

  'Yes, she does – by going behind my back and doing things expressly forbidden in this house,' Chantrea spat. 'Sally, go to your room.'

  'Mum!' Sally protested.

  'Now, Sally. Go to your room.'

  'Not fair, you stink!' The five-year-old sulked off, stamping her little feet down the hall until the slamming of the door brought silence over the house.

  'You can't do this, Mother,' Chantrea began. 'You can't make her into a Cambodian girl.'

  Dara Kim was livid. The knuckles on her clenched fists went white. 'And you can't deny two thousand years of culture from my country. Who are you? The Khmer Rouge?'

  Chantrea had had enough, she'd been fighting to escape her Cambodian background most of her life, but everywhere she turned, someone, something would remind her that she was different, an outsider. And now this: the ultimate betrayal. Her little Sally was turning into someone from that godforsaken country of torture and suffering. It was too much to bear.

  'Mother, that's it! I will not tolerate it for one more moment. If you can't drop this stupid Cambodian stunt and embrace our new life, I will leave.' The look on Dara's face spurred her on. 'I will. I'll take Sally and we'll move to another city and you won't be able to find us.'

  'You would not dare take my little Sally away,' Dara whispered. Chantrea could tell that the older woman knew she'd lost.

  'Don't tempt me, Mother.'

  She headed for the door and was just about to slam it angrily behind her when her mother hissed: 'Pol Pot's regime killed one point seven million of our people. Ninety percent of our artists and musicians are dead and gone. Who is going to pass on our culture to our young if I don't?'

  Chantrea shut the door quietly and returned to her car.

  ~ 20 ~

  Chantrea sat on the edge of Tingara Reserve, staring out through her tears at Rose Bay.

  She swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. How dare her mother do this?

  Just look at this magnificent place they called home. Why couldn't she just move on? Chantrea wondered, kicking at tufts of grass at her feet.

  She took some deep breaths to quell her sobbing and as her tears subsided she sat back to take in the landscape around her. It was such a special place. Some boats drifted peace - fully along the water, while others bobbed merrily at their moorings; the glorious sandy beaches stretched wide and inviting beside the glittering harbour; rugged cliff faces rose above the golden sands and beyond all this was the beauty of the bushland.

  Pictures from her Cambodian childhood flashed into her mind – at first the horror and the loss – but then some smaller, happier memories; tiny fractured images of her father and her great-aunt's village; her mother's gentle laugh and a sense of home and family and warmth. Her eyes filled with tears again. She thought about her mother and all she had been through and lost. To her mother, Cambodia still held some joyful and significant memories, but she wished Dara Kim would let them move forward into the bright, happy future that beckoned. She knew her mother loved Australia, and was often the first one to suggest weekend family nature walks or museum visits. But what she couldn't know – couldn't see – was how persecuted Sally would become if she took on her Asian culture.

  Chantrea decided to wander along the spectacular Harbour Walk. The breeze wasn't cool enough to make her regret her bare arms and the sun warmed her back, soothing her into a calmer state of mind.

  The Rose Bay café and promise of a double espresso beckoned her over and she stood waiting to be seated.

  'Table for two?' the waitress enquired, glancing at someone behind Chantrea.

  Confused, Chantrea turned to see Jacqueline standing a foot away chatting on the mobile. 'Yes darling,' she was saying. 'I'll pick that up for you after I drop off the boys at soccer.'

  A slight shadow of disappointment slid over Jacqueline's face as she registered Chantrea, but she replaced it with a bright smile almost instantly. And although Chantrea would have preferred to fly economy than have coffee with Jacqueline, she nodded to the waitress and steeled herself to endure the faux enthusiastic greeting that women from Rose Bay to Sandy Bay and back to Bay Street employ daily.

  'Darling! So wonderful to see you!' exclaimed Jacquel
ine with all the excitement of a socialite who's just discovered fat-free crème brulée.

  'Jacqueline, what a lovely surprise,' Chantrea replied, leaning in for the double-cheek European kiss.

  They weren't the best of friends. They had completely opposite views on mothering and childcare, with Chantrea believing women needed to maintain a life outside home and children, and Jacqueline feeling that an effective mother was at home, on call, all day. And while Chantrea suspected Jacqueline of deep-seated racism, Jacqueline simply had deep-seated bag-ism and hated Chantrea's biker-chick taste in handbags.

  But here they were, enemies trapped in the cage of social nicety. They sat down at a table, ordered coffee and pretended to be delighted to have run into each other. Jacqueline twittered about her shopping morning, her silly boys and their forgetful ways, and her darling husband who was so busy he'd forgotten their anniversary, not that she minded, of course.

  Chantrea smiled weakly, while inwardly shrieking, 'Please, God, just kill me now.'

  'So what brings you to Rose Bay, Chantrea?' Jacqueline asked, putting on her best listening face. 'You're usually such a busy little thing, flying all over the place. It's rare to see you out and about, having some time off.'

  Chantrea brushed the question away. 'Oh, I just had a day off, so I thought I'd take a walk, it's gorgeous down here.'

  Jacqueline, who had a talent for saying the wrong thing at the worst time, added, 'But why aren't you with your little girl? Such a rare opportunity.'

  'My mother has her today. They're busy doing, well, stuff together and I just get in the way.'

  'But how can you get in the way? It's such a little family, you should be together,' Jacqueline insisted.

  'Look, Jacqueline, it's complicated. They're doing stuff that I'm just not into, okay?' Chantrea leaned forward and grabbed her glass of water, slopping some over the side in anger.

  'What's got you so upset?' Jacqueline was suddenly genuinely concerned.

  'It's nothing, it's stupid really. It's just that my mother has been teaching Sally about her Cambodian culture. I don't like it at all.'

  'Ahhh,' Jacqueline said knowingly. 'Mothers, grandmothers and daughters, always a tricky business. So what is she doing? Letting her eat Asian sweets or letting her stay up all night watching TV? I was very miffed with my mother in the early days when she'd spoil the boys rotten.'

  'No, it's not that. It's . . . well, it's really difficult to explain,' Chantrea began, but in her eagerness to set Jacqueline straight she had launched into her fears of Sally not growing up as a complete Australian, her concern that she might get bullied because of her heritage, and her shock that her mother had gone behind her back.

  Jacqueline listened carefully and sympathetically. Chantrea finally finished her story and sat flushed with embarrassment at having spilled everything to Jacqueline, of all people.

  'You'd be amazed, Chantrea, but I completely understand where Dara Kim is coming from,' Jacqueline said.

  Chantrea found it hard to avoid sarcasm. 'Yes, you're right, I am amazed, Jacqueline. How could you understand? You are worlds apart from my mother.'

  'She's a mum, I'm a mum, and she's just trying to do the right thing by you; she loves you.'

  Chantrea was hot with rage. 'If she wanted to do the right thing by me, she'd do what I want her to do and stop this nonsense.'

  'No, that would be indulging you,' Jacqueline said gently. 'She obviously feels strongly that your heritage is crucial to your family. Like every mum, she wants to do what's good for you, not necessarily what you want her to do.'

  'Well, I guess that makes sense,' Chantrea said slowly, her anger cooling. 'But why can't she see how important it is for me to leave all that behind?'

  'You're rebelling. You don't see it yet, but when she's gone, you will wish that you'd asked her more about her family and your country's past. You're very lucky to be from such a beautiful country, Chantrea, I've been to Angkor Wat with my International Art Appreciation Group. The artwork and history of that place is quite remarkable. What do we have here for history? A few boatloads of criminals? If an Australian wants to delve further than a few generations we all have to go back to our motherland, be it Poland, Germany, Vietnam or England.'

  Chantrea was stunned to find that Jacqueline was starting to make a lot of sense. Jacqueline laughed, 'Of course, the Cambodian music is a bit harsh; there's no rhyme or reason to it.'

  'Hang on a minute.' Chantrea flared up. 'My mother was a famous musician before we left Phnom Penh. She played the Khmer flute and it has a very beautiful sound. Sally's quite talented at it too.'

  'Oh, well, each to his own.' Jacqueline said. 'If your girl has got any musical appreciation whatsoever she should hear my boys play violin. You should consider it for Sally, a beautiful sound and an incredibly versatile instrument. And always such fun at a party.'

  ~ 21 ~

  Sera took a deep breath, trying not to panic. 'Bella, you run down to Macquarie Street,' she ordered. 'Maddy, stay at the picnic and watch the lake. I'm going to the public toilets.'

  Sera raced to the public toilets. She burst into the men's, startling a businessman who was just zipping up. 'Harry, are you in here?' she called. She ran to the ladies' but found no sign of him.

  Outside the toilets she whirled around, looking in every direction. A mounted policeman was in the distance. She called out and ran down to the horse and officer.

  'My little boy,' she blurted out breathlessly, 'he's only three. Have you seen him?'

  'Hair colour?' The police officer cut directly to the facts. 'Dark brown,' she replied. This felt sickeningly surreal.

  'Last seen wearing?'

  'Red shirt and blue and white striped pants, no, white jeans . . . oh God,' she said, crumbling with fear for her little boy.

  The policeman radioed in the information and told Sera to stay put as he headed off at a trot.

  Sera raced back to the picnic to see if there was any news, but she could tell from Bella and Maddy's faces that Harry hadn't been found.

  'Maddy darling, think!' she begged her daughter. 'When did you last see Harry?'

  'Well, we were drawing pictures,' Maddy started.

  'Yes, go on,' Sera prompted desperately.

  'And then he saw a duck and told me to look at it, and I said I couldn't cos I was too busy.'

  'Then what?'

  'That's it,' Maddy shrugged her shoulders.

  'I bet he's followed the duck. Maddy, stay with Bella.' Sera rushed off towards the lake, panic thrumming in her ears. She scanned the calm water. No ducks. Sera willed herself to sense Harry's location; to tap into some maternal psychic connection. Nothing.

  The last thing she'd said to her son was that she was going to kill him. Her hand flew to her mouth to stop herself from vomiting. What if he was . . . she stopped helplessly on the pathway and looked around, wildly. He'd now been missing over twenty minutes. That was just too long. Bella and Maddy were questioning passers-by.

  Where were the ducks? She looked down the hill. The mounted police officer had been joined by another and they were in conversation, gesturing back at Sera. Where was that gardener from earlier? If anyone knew where the bloody ducks were, it would be him.

  Suddenly she caught sight of the gardener, digging up a dahlia bed.

  'The ducks, where are the ducks?!' she screeched, bolting towards him. She forced herself to draw a breath. 'My three year old is missing. He was last seen following the ducks.'

  'I just saw a family of ducks,' he said. He spoke slowly and clearly in a voice he obviously reserved for the slightly touched or maternally panicked. 'They're under the Moreton Bay Fig, over there, ' he said, pointing.

  'Thank you,' she cried, hope flooding her mind as she fled down the massive lawn towards the fig tree.

  She could see the waddling ducks, but no Harry. She ran closer, her leggings riding up but she barely cared.

  'Harry?!' The cry came out as a muffled sob. She tried again. 'Harry!' She
stopped running and listened. The ducks stopped moving and looked. He had to be here. There was nowhere else to look after this.

  Then she saw a little foot protruding from behind the tree's enormous root. It was followed by a shoulder and then by a face that broke into a smile. 'Mum, look, ducks.'

  Sera's knees failed. She dropped. Her face fell into her hands. When she looked up her little guy was toddling towards her with a pinecone in his outstretched hand and a worried look on his face. 'Don't cry, Mummy, you're a beautiful mummy.' She embraced him and burst into body-racking sobs.

  *

  As she waited with Maddy near the picnic, Bella wasn't panicked. She knew kids; on the farm the boys would roam for hours without anybody worrying them. She was sure Harry would be found soon. But as the minutes ticked past, she began to grow a little more concerned. Honestly, who'd have children? They were such hard work. Sera was more snappy and tense than ever, the adults never got to complete a sentence and now this ridiculous mad panic. Thank goodness she'd never had any, she thought smugly.

  Finally Sera reappeared with Harry in her arms, the relief on her face obvious. Unexpectedly, Bella felt tears in her eyes. This was a picture of motherhood that she had never known. All the years she had spent corralling, chasing, yelling, feeding and cleaning her siblings hadn't been motherhood at all. That had simply been work, thankless work with little reward or emotion. She could see that this was different, and she was shocked.

  Maddy started to wail. 'What is it, darling?' asked Bella. 'Harry's fine, see?'

  'No, look,' the little girl sobbed. In her hand lay the precious Swarovski swan with one very broken neck.

  ~ 22 ~

  Sam was looking for a man; any man. Since he'd been widowed, school pick-up had become a scary plunge into a tangled jungle of female desire and unwanted attention.