by Karen Wyld
‘Nothing wrong with me.’
‘Who you trying to fool? I’ve got eyes, girl. You’ve let years of fear grow into rage. This inner unrest needs fixing, just as much as the tracks you’ve dug into your own skin. I know your mum’s dead and you don’t know where your father is; Maggie told me. That’s a lot of grief and loss you’re carrying, bub. It’s time you worked on healing, before you push everyone away. So you come and see me; I’ll help you.’
‘I don’t need any help. Especially not silly snake-oil cures.’
‘Would you just look at this?! No-culture kid thinks she knows it all.’
‘Don’t be rude.’
‘Rude? Look at you, on my Country, thinking you can get all mouthy at an Elder. You might not be from here, but you still need to show some respect.’
Tori looked away, and saw glimpses of river between gaps in the dispersing crowd. She suddenly thought of the river Gabriel had shown them. She remembered the many weeks they’d followed that river with him. He’d walked slower when he noticed they were tired. He showed them where to find food, and how to prepare it properly. Told Maggie and her stories at night. Taught them about stars. Always patiently teaching them, and keeping them safe. And then he was gone, and they’d kept following that river. This isn’t where we belong, Tori thought. Where is our place? Gloria noticed a shadow of sadness flit across Tori’s face.
‘Go on with you then,’ she said, softening her tone. We’ll yarn next week.’
As Tori walked back to Louis and Maggie, she flipped her hair down to cover her face. Louis noticed the change in her demeanour as she approached, and again had an urge to reach out.
‘Are you coming to the concert?’ called out Maggie, when she saw Gloria walking up the hill, towards the bus.
‘No. These old bones are much too weary. I’m heading home. Nukkan ya.’
‘Nukkan, Aunty,’ said Maggie.
‘Why’d you call her Aunty?’ asked Tori.
‘It’s a sign of respect.’
‘If you say so.’
‘Hey, don’t be like that,’ asserted Louis. ‘Aunty Gloria is an Elder, and it’s proper to show her respect.’
‘Says you,’ muttered Tori, walking away.
Maggie called out to her sister, ‘Come on, we’re going to that concert. You promised not to argue any more, remember?’
Tori shrugged, and walked back to them. ‘Let’s go then.’ Louis had been quiet as they made their way to the concert, and immediately disappeared once they got there. Tori had noticed his silence, and suspected he was annoyed with her. On reflection, Tori knew she’d been rude, even if she didn’t mean to. Perhaps Gloria was right; she had to deal with the past, to heal herself. She sat on the lawn listening to the bands, while Maggie went to talk with some friends. Tori glanced at her sister, wondering why she was always popular. She’d also been the popular one at the country schools they’d gone to. Tori had noticed at the centre today, and then the march, how accepting people were of Maggie. Tori remembered times strangers had sneered at her, ignored her or, worse, threw slurs her way. Growing up, she’d sometimes felt jealous of Maggie. Even if some people didn’t believe they were twins, Tori thought they were both attractive, in their own way. Despite that, her sister didn’t get treated the same way, made to feel like she didn’t belong. Even today, Tori felt like an outsider. She knew Gloria was right: she didn’t know enough about culture and being respectful. Or, thought Tori, perhaps she didn’t like being in her own skin.
Maggie sat down at the same time Louis appeared.
‘Seen Marcie over there?’ he said, pointing his chin to his left.
Tori shrugged. ‘I’ll see her tomorrow, at work.’
Louis frowned, and turned towards Maggie. They began to talk about the huge crowd at the protest, and the speeches they’d heard. Both claimed that this day was a turning point in history, the time for finally achieving Aboriginal rights. When the last band finished, Tori got up and headed towards home. Maggie said a quick goodbye to Louis, but he insisted on escorting them back to the treehouse. Once they got there, Maggie pulled down the rope ladder.
‘Can we walk for a bit more?’ Louis asked Tori. ‘I need to tell you something that’s been on my mind.’
She hesitated, then nodded. At the pond, they sat on a bench. Tori could hear ducks in nearby bushes, settling after their disturbed slumber. Louis picked up a pebble and threw it. In the dark, the series of ripples it made as it skimmed across the pond were hard to see.
Louis shifted slightly. ‘Why do you have to be so unfriendly to people lately? And what’s with being rude to Aunty Gloria?’
‘I don’t know. Guess I just feel uncomfortable being around those people.’
‘ “Those people”? What’s that even mean? Are you ashamed to be black?’
Tori watched the moon’s reflection on the pond. ‘I hate how people treat me bad because of my skin. How they don’t accept me.’
‘Yeah, I hate that too, but this is our mob you were being rude to. Today was all about our people, our futures. You’re the one who’s not being accepting of others.’
‘It’s not that. I don’t know what’s going on in my head. Today made me think about people I miss. Sad thoughts, mostly. I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to take it out on anyone, truly.’
‘Do you mean your mother? Maggie told me what happened.’
‘That was supposed to be kept quiet,’ declared Tori, standing up. ‘I’m going to have words with her.’
‘Stop. Sit down. It’s her story too. You both lost your mum. Maggie has a right to grieve. Keeping loss a secret isn’t how you get through grief.’
‘Gloria said something similar to me today.
She thinks my sadness has become rage.’
‘Aunty is wise,’ said Louis. ‘She can help, if you let her.’
‘She offered. I’m not ready, though.’
Louis put his hand by his side, accidently brushing Tori’s hand. She quickly moved it.
‘Why do you do that?’ asked Louis.
‘What?’
‘React like you’ve been burnt whenever people get too close. It’s like touching repulses you, or something. Or is it just me that you do that to?’
‘I’m just not into touching.’
‘Have you always been like that? If you don’t mind me asking,’ Louis said softly.
Louis saw a single tear rolling down her cheek, the moonlight making it shimmer like quicksilver.
‘I’ve heard him yelling, seen the way he treats you. Has Andrés done anything else to you?’ Louis asked.
Tori scratched her left wrist. Louis had noticed her scratching before. His parents had sometimes scratched, and had marks on their arms. Louis was sure Tori was not like them. Then again, that Andrés, or some of the people who hung out at his gallery, could have introduced her to intravenous drugs. Louis became even more concerned, but knew from experience that prying was not how to help someone with addiction.
Tori said, ‘I know you care about Maggie and me, but I’m okay.’
‘Maggie told me some other things. Not much, just a bit. She mentioned you’d been living with an old guy, a photographer, and it was him who killed your mother. I got the feeling there was something else Maggie wasn’t sharing. Did that man hurt you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know. Like, did you touch you and…’
‘Did he molest me? Did he leave me broken? Is that what you’re wanting to hear?’
‘Something made you dislike physical closeness.’
Tori stood up. ‘There’s more than one way to break a girl.’
Louis shook his head as she stormed off. He was annoyed with himself. This was not how he envisaged the conversation going. As he walked back to Brother Eddie’s place, Louis decided to talk it over with him in the morning, to get some big brother advice. Being the friend Tori needed wasn’t easy.
Tori opened the jar of bush rub and noticed it was almost empty. She t
hought about how she could get more without the awkwardness of asking Maggie or Gloria, because it was obviously working. Shrugging, Tori smeared some on the side of her face and then her left wrist. Maggie yawned, so Tori quickly put the jar away.
‘Are you on morning shift?’ asked Maggie, from their bed. ‘A bit early, isn’t it?’
‘No, you slept in.’
Maggie got up. ‘Did you eat?’
Tori shook her head. ‘I can grab something on the way to work.’
‘See you later, then.’
Tori said goodbye and climbed down the tree. She noticed the black-and-white bird had returned. She had been wondering where that little bird had disappeared to. She’d hoped it had found love and was starting a family, and not fallen prey to a street cat. It followed her until she reached the edge of the park, and then flew off.
Hardly anyone had come into the gallery all morning. Tori watched the clock, willing it to speed up to the time Marcie was due to relieve her. Even though she’d expected Marcie’s arrival, Tori jumped when she walked through the door.
‘I’m here,’ Marcie called out.
‘Me too,’ declared Ana, following her.
Sybil and Angie then walked in, carrying large paper bags.
‘Not seen you for a while,’ Tori remarked to Angie.
‘I’ve been busy,’ replied Angie.
Sybil put down the bags she’d been carrying. ‘Go on, show her. I know you just can’t wait to show that rock off to yet another person.’
‘You’re just jealous,’ Angie claimed.
Tori asked, ‘Show me what?’
‘My engagement ring. Isn’t it just the dreamiest diamond ever,’ Angie said, holding out her hand.
‘Who’s pouring the drinks?’ asked Marcie.
Glasses appeared, as did a bottle of champagne.
Marcie looked at Tori. ‘Where’s sour puss?’
‘Andrés? He’s gone out. Won’t be back until tomorrow.’
‘Great,’ said Sybil, as she shut the front door and turned the sign to closed.
‘Hey, wouldn’t it be fun to play dress-ups? Andrés has a trunk full of props in the studio,’ said Angie.
They picked up the bags and walked towards the studio, leaving behind a trail of spilt champagne. They quickly rummaged through the large trunk, trying on different items. Angie sampled every hat, before settling on a pink one with white bows. Marcie found a fake moustache and teamed it with a top hat. Sybil, wearing a glittering gown that she couldn’t zip up all the way, bowed to Marcie before sweeping her away in a waltz.
Ana asked, ‘Do you mind if I take a few photos?’
Everyone nodded, except for Tori. She took off the purple boa she’d put on, and put it back in the trunk.
As she walked towards the door, Marcie said, ‘You don’t have to be in any photos. Just hang out with us.’
Tori nodded. She then smiled as Angie and Sybil made silly faces in front of Ana and the camera. Marcie refilled Tori’s glass.
‘I’ve been wondering about the name of this place,’ Tori remarked.
‘Galería de rebelde?’ asked Ana.
‘Yes. What’s it actually mean?’
Ana responded, ‘Rebel Gallery.’
‘Why not just write that on the sign?’
‘Because Andrés is a phoney,’ offered Marcie.
‘He has some talent, though,’ remarked Ana. ‘As a photographer myself, I can say that about his work.’
Marcie commented, ‘Sure, but he’s still ridiculous.’
Sybil asked, ‘Tori, do you know his name isn’t even Andrés Califa?’
‘It isn’t?’
‘No, it’s Andrew King. He thinks Andrés sounds artier, or something,’ said Sybil.
‘I told you,’ said Marcie. ‘A huge pretender.’
‘Hey, I changed my name too,’ declared Ana.
Angie countered, ‘You shortened it, that’s not the same thing.’
Tori asked Ana, ‘What is your name?’
‘Anastasia.’
‘I like that. It’s pretty,’ said Tori. ‘I shortened mine too.’
‘What’s yours?’ asked Angie.
‘Victoria. I was named after my grandfather’s mother. I never got to meet him, but I was born the same place he was. Same place my mum was born.’
‘Where’s that?’ asked Sybil.
‘In the desert, somewhere north-west. Don’t remember much. I was just a baby when we left there.’
‘Why don’t you ask your mum?’ suggested Angie.
Marcie noticed the look on Tori’s face, and swept in with more champagne. ‘Who’s hungry? This bubbly needs something to go with it.’
Sybil helped Marcie get cheeses, dips and crackers out of the bags, and set it all up on the benches in the studio.
Ana grinned. ‘Annndreeew would be livid if he saw all this mess.’
Marcie laughed. ‘He won’t find out. We can easily get rid of all signs of this little party before we leave.’
‘Tori, be in a photo with me,’ pleaded Angie. ‘It will be fun. Pretty please.’
‘I’m not sure,’ Tori replied, feeling slightly inebriated.
Angie handed her a bright-red wig. ‘Come on, just for a laugh.’
Tori put the wig on. It was long and straight. She then picked up a gold dress and put it on over her clothes.
‘Straight hair suits you,’ remarked Angie.
Marcie picked up a cracker and cube of cheese. ‘So does Tori’s natural hair.’
‘Sure,’ said Angie. ‘I didn’t mean anything rude or, you know…’
Marcie smiled. ‘Don’t sweat it, Angie.’
‘Tori, stand a bit closer to Angie. Now smile. That’s it,’ said Ana, from behind the camera.
At first, Tori felt self-conscious as Ana took her photo. She soon relaxed, though, and tried to copy Angie’s poses. After a while, Ana put down her camera and filled up her glass. They sat on props in the studio, talking all at once. Tori’s head started to spin, as much from the noise as the alcohol. Tori went over to the counter, thinking food might sober her up a little.
‘Tori,’ said Sybil, taking a small zipped bag out of her large handbag, ‘I can show you how to cover that redness on your face.’
Unsure at first, Tori agreed. After Sybil covered the inflamed skin, she applied make up to Tori’s eyes, lips and cheeks. Once done, Sybil handed Tori a mirror. Ana picked up her camera and took a few photos. Tori didn’t even notice, she was too busy looking in the mirror.
‘You’re glowing,’ smiled Ana.
Tori smiled. ‘I can’t believe this is still me.’
‘It’s you, honey. Radiantly beautiful. You shine all the time, you just haven’t noticed before,’ said Marcie.
‘What the hell is going on!’
They all jumped. Andrés stood in the doorway, scowling at the mess. Angie and Sybil scurried about, picking up the clothing scattered around the room. Andrés didn’t even notice, as he was glaring at Tori. She took off the red wig, hoping he’d stop staring.
‘Modelling is not my thing,’ Andrés said mockingly to Tori.
Marcie said, ‘Leave her be.’
‘You stay out of this,’ Andrés bellowed.
‘No, I won’t.’
‘And I’m not staying out of this, either,’ claimed Ana, hands on hips.
Andrés turned towards Ana, his upper lip curling in a sneer.
Ana lifted her chin. ‘You act as if you’ve made it, but you’re still that boy in patched hand-me-down pants, watching from afar, hoping we’ll let you play with us. It wasn’t because your mother cleaned our houses that we didn’t invite you to join us. You were cruel and selfish then, just like now.’
‘Shut up.’
‘I won’t, Andrew. If it wasn’t for me telling my father how good your photos were, you’d be working for a picture-framer or something less artistic. It was his generosity that allowed you go to art school. It was my family that opened a door for you into t
he arts circle, and helped you set up your career.’
‘It was my hard work and skills that got me here.’
‘And where is here, Andrew? My father owns this building. One word from me, and he’d evict you.’
‘You wouldn’t dare.’
‘Wouldn’t I? Managing my own gallery might be a bit of fun. Plus, the studio space and darkroom are bigger than what I have at home,’ observed Ana, putting the lens cap back on her camera. ‘I know a few people who’d help me get started.’
‘Count me in,’ said Angie. ‘That’s if I’m not too busy being a blissful newlywed.’
Sybil suggested, ‘Maybe you could give Andrew a job, Ana. Cleaner, perhaps? His mother probably taught him the trade.’
‘Or a model,’ said Angie, picking up a boa and draping it around his shoulders.
They all started laughing. Andrés pulled off the boa and threw it across the room. It knocked over an open bottle of champagne, which spilt onto the ground, making them laugh even harder.
‘You stupid trollops,’ shouted Andrés.
‘Trollops?’ said Ana. ‘This isn’t the nineteenth century, Andrew. I think you mean divine divas.’
‘Or sumptuous sirens,’ declared Sybil.
Angie added, ‘I quite like beautiful belles.’
Andrés opened his mouth to speak, but turned around and left instead. The sound of the front door slamming set them off into uncontrollable laughter.
The wind whispered through the bloodwood tree, bringing story after story. A warm breeze gently teased the old woman’s hair: Tell this one; don’t forget this one; they need to know this. She lifted the blanket, tucking it under the chins of the sleeping toddlers. Victoria wriggled, an arm reaching out from the cocoon her great-grandmother had made, fist clenched. And then she settled back to sleep.
Nana Vic leant back against the trunk of the tree. Lines of deep red ran down the trunk, dried sap holding the memory of past wounds. Scattered at the base were remnants of desert apples, the tasty grub inside having been eaten by others who’d sat here recently. Someone had once told her these grubs didn’t taste like coconuts, but Nana Vic wouldn’t know if this was true, as she’d never seen or eaten a coconut. Having never left Country, there were a lot of things that she’d not seen.
