India was avoiding going back to Gingin – but she knew that she was going to have to head out there eventually. It was getting dark, and cold. And she really hadn’t been feeling all that well since she stepped off the plane. Probably just the jetlag she supposed. As she meandered around the streets of Perth, avoiding catching a bus back to her childhood home, she caught sight of a homeless couple, backs propped up against a building, a cardboard sign resting by their feet, an upside down hat waiting for coins from strangers. They were quite young and India couldn’t help but wonder how it was that they’d ended up in this situation. And then she saw the track marks on the girl’s arms and she felt a surge of anger. Drugs. That was what caused people to ruin their lives.
Was that what her parents had looked like? All those years ago, living on the streets of Perth. India knew so little about them, but now she realised just how much she wished she did know. What did her mum look like? Did she have any thoughts for the baby that was growing inside her as she continued to shoot up? Did she get to lay eyes on India before she died? Elyza. That was her mum’s name. And that was all she knew about her.
As India headed towards the bus station, she tried hard to picture her mother. Tried to imagine what she might have been like, the colour of her hair, the smell of her skin. When she reached the station and sat down on a bench seat to wait for her bus, she closed her eyes and imagined.
1987
Elyza rolled back her sleeve with shuddering fingers. Her lank, grimy hair hung in curtains around her face. It used to be blonde when she was a little girl; now it was dyed permanently black, but her pale roots showed the truth. Her eyes were dull and bloodshot. Used to be turquoise; she knew that because someone had told her once. A boy? A school friend? Her neighbour? Sparkly turquoise, like a stone from the bottom of the ocean, they’d said. Her mum once told her she had wild Irish eyes. ‘If a boy ever tells me that, I’ll marry him,’ she had declared, pleased. Later, a boyfriend told her she had ‘fuck me eyes’. It wasn’t nearly as romantic, but she fucked him anyway. She wore navy blue trousers and a cream dress shirt that she’d picked up at the Salvos. As she tugged at her sleeve, she considered the shirt. Who did it once belong to? Where did they wear it? A job interview? A baby’s christening? A funeral? What would they think if they knew who wore it now? Would they cry if they saw how it had been torn and stained? Grease. Blood. Dirt. Yellowed under the armpits.
She took the length of ragged material that had been clenched between her teeth and wound it around her arm, just above the elbow, where she tied it tight. Then she searched for the perfect vein with practised fingers, tapping, caressing. She squeezed her hand into a fist and pumped it a few times to get the blood moving.
There’s one, fat and pale blue, popping out from the translucent skin around it. Perfect.
Her other hand scrabbled in the dirt by her feet for the needle. Her fingers closed over smooth plastic and she lifted up the syringe to briefly examine its contents. She spat on it and used the saliva to clean some of the dirt off the needle’s point. Then just before she plunged it into her skin, she took a moment, one single second, to consider her swelling belly that strained against the pearl coloured buttons of the shirt.
I’ll make this the last time, I swear it.
An empty promise to make herself feel better.
Seconds later, euphoria was coursing through her body and the brief moment of guilt vanished. She fell back against the wall, allowed her eyes to roll up into fluttering lids, dropped her arms by her side and smiled a lurid, gaping grin of pure joy, her jaw slack.
An angry voice yelled out suddenly, interrupting her blissful solitude.
‘You took it all? ALL OF IT? What about ME?’
Dale materialised above her. Dirty blond hair flopping over his eyes. To strangers he looked thin, weedy, innocuous – but Elyza knew the clothes hanging off his small frame hid surprisingly powerful and muscular limbs. He was a good fighter; he looked after both of them. But you didn’t want to be on the receiving end of his ability to pound anything – an enemy’s face, a rich guy’s gut – into pulp and mush. And right now he looked furious as he frantically searched among their possessions for more, tossing aside empty syringe after empty syringe.
‘Bitch,’ he spat and backhanded her across the face, hard.
But Elyza just laughed. That would sting tomorrow, and a shiny purple bruise would blossom. But right now, it didn’t matter. Right now, nothing mattered. Not the freezing cold of the night that had been numbing her toes. And not the strange warm sensation between her legs, sliding down her inner thighs, making them feel sticky, causing the material of her pants to cling to her skin. Not even the weird cramps she was feeling in her lower back, had been feeling for the last few hours now.
And not the metallic smell of blood that seemed to be surrounding her tonight.
When Elyza came round, it was to the sound of loud, urgent voices.
‘Jesus, what have we got here?’
‘Junkies. Sal’s trying to get the father to talk, tell us what she’s taken. I’d say she’s been in labour a good few hours, maybe even all day. Obviously she had no clue. Don’t know how long she’s been haemorrhaging though.’
‘Thanks, we’ll take her from here.’
Elyza’s eyes rolled around wildly. Bright lights flashed past above her, making her blink rapidly. Minutes went by. She was being rolled down a corridor. She was being transferred to a different bed. Her clothing was being snipped away by flashing scissors, sterile silver. She was surrounded by brisk, efficient people with masks covering their mouths and noses. Just their eyes were visible. Judging eyes. She could only hear clipped, half sentences:
‘. . . Nope, too late for a Caesar. Take a look, it’s crowning.’
‘Jesus, you think she’s going to be able to push? Look at her, she doesn’t even know . . .’
‘Forceps, now.’
A coaxing voice: ‘All right, honey, can you hear me? On the next wave you’re going to have to give us a big push. Ready . . .’
Now more impatient, snappy: ‘Come on, Elyza, help us out here, for Christ’s sake, kid, your baby needs you . . .’
For the next few minutes, all that Elyza was aware of was intense pain and immense pressure bearing down on her pelvis. Then eventually a slippery sensation between her legs, as though a slithering squid had just materialised between her thighs. A moment of silence followed. Then all hell broke loose.
‘She’s not breathing. Let’s get her on the table . . .’
The crowd of people that had been surrounding her moved away to surround her baby girl instead.
As Elyza felt the world start to slip away, she quietly begged God not to let her daughter die too. A final act of compassion for her baby – even if it was just with her thoughts.
The last thing she heard was the sound of her baby crying. As the relief cascaded through her body, she tried to call out one last request, but the words died in her mouth.
Name her India, please.
The ironic thing was that even if one of the doctors or nurses had heard these words, they probably would have ignored the request, perhaps pretended not to have understood. They weren’t all that forgiving of drug addicted mothers who were still shooting up when they were in labour.
India’s eyes opened with a flutter. She hadn’t realised she’d fallen asleep while waiting for the bus. She sat up groggily and then looked up at the clock to check the time. Good, at least she hadn’t missed her bus. Still ten more minutes until it left. She could feel wisps of a dream, tugging at the edges of her mind. What had she just been dreaming about? A girl in an alleyway? A hospital? But as she tried to remember, the pictures became more and more blurred and after a few seconds, they’d vanished altogether.
On the bus she wondered what it would be like to be back in Gingin. She supposed she was going to have to take on her old nam
e again and that made her feel a little sad. She would miss India.
Changing her name had been a spur of the moment decision. It wasn’t that she had anything against the name her grandmother had given her. Lily. It was a nice enough name. But something inside her had wanted to become someone new. Almost as if she could hide from the person she used to be, that person who had just battled with cancer. She wanted to start fresh. Her first thought was that she would change her name once a month, constantly reinvent herself – new name, new personality, new hair colour! But as it turned out, the first name she chose stuck.
India. It was pretty and it suited her and it felt right. She had picked it by spinning a globe, closing her eyes and jabbing her finger at one of the countries. She was meant to be choosing which country she would fly to first. But when her finger landed on the tiny letters in the middle of the diamond shaped mass of land, she looked at it and thought, You know what? I actually really wanted to start my travels in Brazil, but how about we compromise and I’ll take it as a new name instead.
And that was how Elyza got her dying wish and India got her new name – one small connection between mother and daughter that India would never even know about.
Simon was sitting on the beach, glaring at the happy couples around him, sharing picnics, feeding the seagulls (which really was just stupid, those birds were a damn menace), and in the case of one particularly expressive couple, kissing in an excessively passionate way.
‘Get a room, guys,’ he muttered in agitation as he lifted the hood of his jumper to protect against the wind and pulled the drawstrings tight.
‘How’s it going?’ The voice came from behind him and he looked up to see Riley standing, shielding her eyes from the sun.
‘Shit,’ he replied shortly. Riley sat down beside him and he stared out at the ocean. ‘I have absolutely no way of tracking her down. I’ll probably never see her again. Almost wish I’d never seen that damn letter.’
‘Sorry,’ said Riley, and Simon realised that she sounded a bit hurt.
‘Not your fault,’ he said with a sigh. ‘It’s okay, I don’t really mean that. I just wish I could talk to her, that’s all.’
‘You staying in Sydney for good now?’
‘I guess.’
‘Well, look, I know you’re probably not in the mood for it, but Dad wants us to have a family get-together. And we probably should go – after all, we are actually all here in the one country for a change. Saturday night at Sails Restaurant in Manly. You’ll be there?’
‘Sure, whatever.’
Riley gave her brother’s neck a quick affectionate squeeze. ‘You’ll be all right,’ she said.
‘It’s not me I’m worried about,’ he replied, and his voice sounded like it had been shredded by a steel grater.
Simon almost didn’t go to the dinner – but Riley turned up at Dean’s place and forced him out the door and into a taxi. ‘What’s the deal with Hannah again?’ Simon hissed at Riley as they headed into the restaurant. ‘She sick or something?’
‘Postnatal depression,’ Riley whispered back. ‘She ran away from her family for a couple of months I think. Now shut up about it,’ she added as they reached the table.
Once they were seated, Carol seemed to feel the need to introduce the two of them as though they were international stars or something. ‘So,’ she announced, cutting across the conversation, ‘Simon’s just spent two years working in the Greek Islands and Riley’s been travelling around the UK.’
Liam politely turned to Simon and Riley. ‘Wow, guys, sounds great. Bet you’ve got some wonderful travel stories.’
Simon shrugged and turned to his sister. ‘I guess,’ he said.
Riley smiled at Liam and Hannah. ‘Don’t mind him,’ she said, flicking back her hair. ‘He’s just wallowing in self-pity over a broken heart. I practically had to drag him here tonight. Let’s order and then we’ll tell you the whole story. It’s like a romantic movie, you’ll probably all cry,’ she assured them.
‘A love story with a crap ending,’ Simon moaned.
Amy stretched an arm around her brother. ‘There, there, sweetie, you’ll be all right.’
They ordered their meals and Hannah looked across at Simon. ‘Simon,’ she said, her voice shaking slightly, ‘tell us about this amazing love story.’
He sighed dramatically and leaned back in his chair. ‘I met this girl,’ he began. ‘She was the epitome of a free spirit. Literally moving from one country to the next on a whim. Gorgeous. Absolutely stunning, in an “I don’t give a fuck what anyone else thinks” sort of way.’ Carol interrupted here to huff disapprovingly at her son’s language. Simon ignored her and continued. ‘Never met anyone so comfortable in their own skin, so easy-going. We kind of just hit it off, you know what I mean? Spent every minute together for three weeks straight. I thought, fuck me, this is the girl I want to marry. And I know that seems fast, but trust me, I just knew.
‘Then one day, I wake up and she’s gone. Leaves me a letter saying she’s sorry but she has to keep moving, she has her reasons. Over the next few weeks, I hear from her once – this weird drunken phone call – and then out of the blue, I get a letter from her, telling me she has this secret that she’s dying to share, but she doesn’t know how to tell me. And then she calls again and apparently she’s written me another letter, telling me the secret. Here’s the catch though, she hasn’t actually posted the letter. She’s just given it to some random traveller and asked them to keep passing it on until it reaches me.’
He mistook the look of bewilderment on Hannah’s face for shock at the concept rather than surprise at just how familiar this whole story was beginning to sound to her. ‘I know, insane, right?’ he said, shaking his head.
Riley interrupted then. ‘All right, this is where I come in,’ she said, waving at Simon to be quiet and leaning into the table. ‘That letter – the one with the secret? I got hold of it. Someone published part of it on Facebook, looking for the recipient. So I went to Spain, met the guy who had it – actually, at this stage I thought that I was going to become a part of the love story myself; you know, end up with the guy who had the letter, right? Uh, no. Turns out he was gay. But seriously, how epic would that have been? Totally poetic. Anyway, I got the letter, and I start chasing Simon. Long story short, missed him at the Greek Islands by a few hours, finally caught up with him back here in Sydney and gave him the letter.’
‘But that’s where the story turns to crap. I don’t know where she is now. So it’s all for nothing.’ And Simon rapped his knuckle against the side of his head in irritation.
‘And the letter?’ Carol asked breathlessly. ‘What did it say? What was the big secret?’
Simon opened his mouth to respond.
‘The Atlantic Salmon with risotto?’ said a waitress brightly.
‘Oh really?’ exclaimed Carol in disgust. ‘What a time for the mains to come out.’
The waitress’s smile became a little fixed as she placed the oversized plate down in front of Luke.
‘And the chilli prawn linguini?’ she asked, a little more tersely.
‘Mine,’ said Hannah, offering the waitress an apologetic smile. They waited until the rest of the meals were distributed and then the cracked pepper was offered, which Carol declined on behalf of the entire table, despite the fact that Riley and Liam had both already started to nod yes. The waitress shrugged at them as she left.
‘And,’ said Carol, as soon as she was gone. ‘What did the letter say?’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Dear Simon,
So here it is. The letter that holds my secret. The one that needed to be shared but that I’m too afraid to speak out loud. It’s a confession really. You see, I’ve been lying to you, and I’ve been lying to each and every person that I meet on my travels. And worst of all, I lied to my grandmother, just before she died.
> When we first met, I told you about my battle with cancer. I generally tell most people that I meet about it, because I like to feel empowered and I like to remind people that they can do anything, that they can do extraordinary things, if they put their mind to it. I like to inspire people with my success. And I like the way they look at me when I tell them that I fought cancer and I won. They give me a look of admiration, and it somehow makes me stronger, tougher, taller even! It gives me a buzz that courses through my veins.
But it’s all bullshit, because Simon . . . I didn’t win.
Cancer beat me. I had stage IV lymphoma. Most people respond well to treatment, but there are a few who just don’t. I guess I was one of the unlucky ones. When I found out that the chemo hadn’t worked, I couldn’t bear to tell my grandmother the bad news, and so I lied to her. Told her it was all a big success and that I was getting better and that everything was going to be okay. I knew that she wasn’t well and I had the idea that she was hanging on, waiting to see that I was going to be all right before she could let go. I was right, you know. She died just days later. But it was peaceful and I knew she was happy.
I hated lying to her though. I mean, I didn’t feel bad about the actual lie, because it was a good lie, right? But it was the deception in general that felt wrong, you know, sort of evil in a way.
As I began to meet people, I didn’t feel like I could admit the truth to anyone, because why would some stranger deserve to know the truth about me if my own grandmother, the woman who raised me, didn’t know? And what’s the point in telling people the truth anyway? Because then all I would get would be looks of sympathy instead of admiration. Do you know what those looks of sympathy do to you, Simon? They eat away at you. They make you feel weak and powerless. They make me feel sick, sicker than I already am.
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