Mothers and Daughters

by Kylie Ladd

  ‘Have you seen a doctor?’ Amira asked. ‘Have you had a scan? Do you know how far along you are?’

  Tia shrugged, her hands dark against the white linen.

  ‘It’s Jago’s baby, isn’t it?’ Amira persisted. ‘Have you told him? You need to tell him. He’ll have to be part of it, whatever you decide to do.’

  ‘I told him the day you were all at Wajarrgi,’ Tia replied sullenly, her back still to Amira. ‘And there’s nothing to decide. I think it’s too late now anyway.’

  ‘Oh, Tia.’ Amira exhaled. ‘You could have gone to university in another few years.’

  ‘Still can.’ Tia grunted, hauling a faded yellow blanket over the Hills hoist.

  ‘How?’ Amira said, her voice sharper than she intended. ‘Leave the child back here, with your mum, who already has enough of her own to care for? Or take it with you and hope you can juggle work and study and looking after a toddler? That’ll be fun.’

  The basket was finally empty. Tia swung around, scowling.

  ‘I’ll manage. Who said I wanted to go to uni anyway? That was your idea, not mine. I like it here.’

  ‘Oh, Tia,’ Amira sighed again. She wasn’t handling this well. ‘What do your parents think? Your mum, Mason?’

  ‘I haven’t told them yet.’ Tia wiped her palms down the front of her t-shirt, almost as if she was trying to smooth down her stomach, make it flat again. ‘Mum had me young. She’ll be fine.’

  Maybe so, Amira thought, but Mason? Surely he’d be disappointed. Tia was a bright girl. She was one of the few her age who had what it took to make a life away from Kalangalla . . . but then Mason did too, and he was still here. Amira felt a headache rumbling into gear behind her temples. For all her love of it, she still didn’t understand this place. Was the baby even an accident, as she had immediately assumed, or was it Tia’s means of releasing herself from her own bright promise, ensuring she stayed with her people and on her land?

  ‘Don’t you tell them, anyway,’ Tia said, walking away—Tia, who had always been so polite, so open, so giggly and uncomplicated. ‘It’s none of your business. You won’t even be here by the time it’s born.’

  Amira watched her go until she disappeared into her home, then turned back herself. It wasn’t until she reached her own front door that she realised she’d forgotten to get her bathers.

  Bronte sat at the table where they’d had all their meals, toying with the food in front of her. She wasn’t full, but she couldn’t bring herself to eat any more. She was a bit over fish . . . fish for dinner, fish for lunch—there probably would have been fish for breakfast if she’d asked, sardines crumbled across her cornflakes or a side order of groper with her toast. Ugh. Every piece of fish she’d eaten had been freshly caught, expertly filleted, marinated in an ever-changing assortment of local herbs—but now all she wanted was a lamb chop or some carbonara. Funny how you could get so sick of something you liked if that was all that was offered every day. She wondered if it worked with people too. Did Tess ever get fed up of hanging out just with Tia and yearn for some variety, a whole noisy, heaving gang like she’d been part of in Melbourne? Against that, having one really close friend would be amazing. Someone who knew you and accepted you, who you could just relax and be yourself with rather than worrying if you’d said the wrong thing or were wearing the right clothes. She’d hoped it would happen when she moved to St Anne’s, but she was still waiting . . .

  ‘Bronte, it’s not a bloody pet. Stop playing with it. Just hurry up and finish your lunch, can you—we still need to pack.’ Her mother’s voice cut through her thoughts. Bronte blushed, lifted a morsel of white flesh to her mouth and made herself swallow. She’d already packed, but her mum obviously hadn’t realised that yet, their room was so littered with her own debris. Bronte would go and help her get it under control, then maybe there’d be time for one last quick look at the gallery before they left . . .

  She pushed her plate away and stood up from the table. Something trickled down her leg—sweat, she thought—and she reached behind her to brush it off. Her hand came away red. Bronte thumped quickly back down into her seat. Tentatively, she examined her fingers in her lap. Blood, it looked like blood. She sat there, heart pounding, and felt a second trickle rolling down the other thigh. Under cover of the table she moved her hand into her shorts and found that her undies were wet to the touch, sticky and warm. Her mind raced. She wasn’t hurt—she’d been fine all week, apart from those cramps yesterday . . . cramps. Oh God. What awful timing. She’d been dying for her period to finally start—she must be the last girl in her year at St Anne’s to get it—but why here, and why now?

  ‘Mum,’ she called out, but Fiona was already walking away.

  ‘Hurry up,’ she repeated over her shoulder.

  Bronte looked around. Only Janey and Macy were left at the table, the latter chewing slowly as she listened to her iPod, the former simply staring into space, uncharacteristically still with no phone to fiddle with. They hadn’t spoken since Bronte had thrown it into the lagoon. Janey was probably avoiding her mother, Bronte supposed, but the thought gave her no pleasure. How could she get out of this? There was no way she was going to reveal her predicament to Janey and Macy, suffer their condescending sniggers—or, worse, stand up and have them gawp or laugh. Tess would know what to do, but she was nowhere in sight. Everyone else was preparing for their departure; Bronte had only lingered at the table herself because, unlike them, she was ready to go.

  ‘Mum!’ she cried again, voice wavering.

  ‘I’m busy, Bronte!’ her mother shouted back from their room thirty metres away. ‘You should be too. Hurry up.’

  Tears pricked at Bronte’s eyes. The seat beneath her felt uncomfortably slick. How much blood was she losing? Was this normal? A sudden rage seized her. Her mother should be here for her now. Her mother should be reassuring her and taking care of her, but her mother—as usual—was too preoccupied with her own agenda. Bronte felt her skin grow hot, but with fury, for once, not embarrassment. She pushed back the chair, got to her feet and strode towards their room. Let everyone see, let them all laugh, what did it matter? She didn’t care anymore.

  ‘Bronte!’ Janey exclaimed behind her. ‘Your shorts . . . your legs . . .’

  ‘I know,’ Bronte snarled without looking back. ‘Want to take a photo? You’ll be able to post it tonight, once we’re in Broome.’

  Her mother had handed her a box of tampons. Bronte sat on the toilet holding one in her hand, the instruction leaflet in the other. She studied it closely, then tried again to insert the tampon, but it was hopeless. She didn’t have a clue what she was doing, and everything was so messed with blood. She needed more than a tiny diagram to find the right spot. She needed a GPS.

  There was a knock on the door.

  ‘Bronte? It’s Caro. Janey told me what happened.’

  Bronte rolled her eyes. Of course she did.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ Caro went on, ‘but I came over to see if I could help. I’ve got some wipes if you like, just in case you want to . . . clean up a bit. And I brought some pads. Your mum said she just had Meds.’ The door opened a crack.

  ‘Don’t come in!’ Bronte cried.

  ‘I’m not going to,’ Caro said. ‘I just wanted to give you these.’ A yellow packet fell to the floor. Bronte stared at it. Sure and Natural. She sniffed. Nothing about this felt particularly natural. ‘And the wipes too,’ Caro went on, pushing something else through the gap. ‘Keep them both. I can get more in Broome if I need them. Hand me out your shorts and your undies. I’ll rinse them and put them in a plastic bag. Your mum will pass in some clean ones. Now, do you know how to use the pads?’

  ‘I’m sure I can work it out,’ said Bronte.

  Caro was still there when she emerged clean and changed, but somewhat awkwardly ten minutes later. How did women get used to this? She felt as if she had a mattress between her legs.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Caro asked. Behind her, Fiona leaned
over the bed, struggling to do up her suitcase.

  ‘I’m fine, thank you,’ Bronte said stiffly. ‘You can go now if you like.’ Caro must still be feeling bad about yesterday, she thought, hanging around and washing her shorts. Still, she was glad that someone had. She couldn’t have faced it.

  ‘I wanted to see you,’ Caro said. ‘I wanted to say congratulations. You’re a woman now.’

  Fiona snorted, then pretended she’d coughed.

  ‘It’s a big deal,’ Caro continued, ignoring Fiona. ‘It really is, Bronte. Don’t feel embarrassed. You should be proud.’ Before Bronte realised what she was doing, Caro had wrapped her arms around her and pulled her close. ‘Don’t let anyone tell you differently.’

  For the second time that hour, Bronte blinked away tears. A woman. She wondered if Ms Drummond would be able to tell when she went back to school, if she would notice immediately that Bronte had finally grown up. And then, because Caro had been so kind and was holding her so closely, she hugged her back.

  Caro looked at her watch. It was the first time she’d checked it in days. She’d been a while with Bronte in the bathroom, but she still had time, as long as she was quick. Heavens knows, after the way Janey had behaved it was the least she could do, but she would have wanted to help out anyway. She genuinely liked Bronte. Loved her, maybe. The children that grew up alongside yours made their own place in your heart.

  She’d send him something, Caro decided as she negotiated the track to the beach for the final time. She wanted to thank Mason somehow for all he’d done for her—for taking her out fishing and looking after her when she got stung; for helping her with that dreadful Facebook situation without asking any questions—but there was nothing here she wanted to buy for him. The store only seemed to stock junk food, and the beautiful crafts for sale at the gallery were nothing new to him. His wife Aki probably knocked them up between changing nappies. She felt a prickle of derision. They had so many children. Too many children. Maybe she could send him a gift voucher for a vasectomy clinic.

  The water appeared between the trees, flashing blue and silver in the morning light. In the distance Caro could see Mason sitting out on the point, his legs dangling in the water, and was immediately ashamed of her bitchy thoughts. What did it matter to her how many kids he had? She’d never see him again after today; she’d get back to Melbourne and put something in the mail for him and that would be it. But what? Alcohol was out of the question, of course—a shame, when that was always the easiest option. Often she sent people hampers of the lovely foodstuffs Alex imported—stuffed olives, piquant cheeses, tiny biscuits as delicately and intricately constructed as the handmade lace he’d once brought back for her from the island of Burano—but she couldn’t imagine Mason eating biscuits. They’d probably get broken in the post, anyway. She trudged on through the sand. A book? Clothes? A CD? She wasn’t sure if he even listened to music . . . Western music, that was, not that funereal tune from last night.

  Last night. Oh, that had been awkward. She could barely look at Fiona or Bronte—or her own daughter, for that matter. She probably shouldn’t have slapped Janey—but God, she’d been furious. And scared, she admitted to herself. Mostly scared. Scared of what her own flesh and blood was capable of, scared of the gulf opening up between them and of the years that lay ahead. It would be a terrible thing to lose a child to cancer or an unfenced pool, but sometimes she wondered if it wasn’t almost as bad losing them bit by bit, watching them turn their back on you and stride into the world. April still loved her forcefully, unconditionally, with a devotion that made Caro’s heart contract. In April’s eyes, her mother could do no wrong, was beautiful and competent and always, always right. Just the night before she’d come up here, Caro had gone into her youngest daughter’s room to check that she hadn’t kicked off her doona, and April had heard her, roused briefly, and mumbled, ‘I love you, Mummy. You’re so perfect for me,’ before falling back to sleep. Tears welled in Caro’s eyes as she remembered that moment. She missed April—but she missed Janey too, the Janey who used to happily chatter to her in the car as Caro drove her to and from squad, not hook herself up to her iPod and stare unseeingly out the window; the Janey who asked Caro’s opinion on her outfits or told her what was happening with her friends. Children were a cruel trick. They shouldn’t be allowed to grow up.

  ‘Hello!’ Mason waved as she picked her way over the rocks towards him. ‘Headin’ for the big smoke today?’

  ‘No, Melbourne’s tomorrow,’ Caro replied, then caught herself. ‘Oh—you mean Broome, don’t you?’

  ‘Broome’s the big smoke to us.’ He grinned.

  Caro cleared a space among his fishing gear and sat down next to him. Barnacles bit into her thighs and bottom but she didn’t get up. She didn’t want him thinking she was soft. ‘We’re leaving soon,’ she said. ‘Amira’s taking us somewhere to see a staircase, I think she called it, then the flight goes at eleven tomorrow.’

  ‘The staircase to the moon,’ Mason said. ‘That must be the last one for the year. It never appears durin’ the wet, you know. You’re lucky you’re around for it.’

  Caro nodded dutifully. She didn’t know, she had no idea. She didn’t really care, to be honest. Amira had said that it was something to do with the mudflats, but she’d had her fill of mudflats after crabbing yesterday. ‘Tess told me you’d be here. I came to thank you before we went.’

  ‘Thank me? For what?’

  ‘Your help yesterday with picking up the internet.’ She felt sick at the memory of it, of standing on these very rocks silently praying for a signal, Janey glowering beside her, one cheek still stained red. ‘And for when I got stung while we were fishing—for taking me back in again.’

  Mason chuckled. ‘I wasn’t goin’ to toss you overboard.’

  ‘No, I know, but I interrupted your fishing,’ said Caro, all too aware she was doing it again. ‘I’d like to send you something from Melbourne, to show my gratitude. Maybe something that you can’t get here. Is there anything you want?’

  Mason slowly shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. I’ve got everythin’ I need.’ He adjusted his reel, then asked, ‘Is it healin’ OK?’

  ‘I haven’t looked,’ Caro admitted. ‘I’m not good with that sort of thing, but it feels fine. It’s stopped throbbing. I’ll have it checked by my GP when I get back to Melbourne, just to be sure.’

  ‘Show me.’ Mason gestured for her to give him her arm.

  ‘It’s fine,’ Caro repeated. ‘There’s really no need . . .’

  But Mason wasn’t listening. Slowly, with infinite care, he had taken her forearm into his lap and released the silver clasp on the bandage. Then, starting at her wrist, he gently unwound it. It felt, Caro thought, like being undressed. She looked out to the horizon to try to distract herself; then she stared at her toenails, the varnish all chipped. Mason was peeling back the last layer now, his fingers deft and somehow tender. For a moment his dark skin rested against her pale flesh, and she had a sudden vision of the two of them in bed together, naked, black against white, curled around each other like a yin-yang symbol.

  ‘Sorry—did that hurt?’ asked Mason. ‘You’ve got goosebumps.’ He bent over her arm. ‘It’s lookin’ good. Healin’ well. You’re going to have a scar though.’ Softly, he traced the raised red welt with one rough fingertip. Caro closed her eyes. She was being ridiculous, pathetic. She loved Alex; she would never dream of straying. ‘A souvenir,’ Mason went on. ‘Somethin’ to remind you of Kalangalla. Like a tattoo, only more original.’

  Caro’s head swum. It was the heat that was making her dizzy, surely, and the sleepless night fretting about Janey.

  Mason looked up, stared into her eyes. ‘You were lucky,’ he pronounced. ‘It could have been Irukandji—we’re comin’ up to their time of year. You could be dead right now. Remember that next time you get worried about somethin’, it still beats bein’ dead.’

  Later, as she sat in the troop carrier bouncing along the road to
wards Broome, Caro turned the words over in her mind. Did Mason know how crippled she was by anxiety at times? Had he sensed that she was uptight when they were trying to access that Facebook picture? Perhaps Amira had told him about the panic attack she’d had beforehand. Caro knew she wouldn’t have, though; Amira wasn’t like that. He must just have guessed . . . or maybe he was speaking generally.

  Caro smiled wryly to herself. She was doing exactly what he’d told her not to: worrying. But she wasn’t going to worry anymore, she decided. Mason was right. She could be dead, yet she wasn’t, and surely that outweighed everything else. A shot of pure happiness went through her, effervescent and fleeting, but intoxicating nonetheless. She wanted to laugh; she wanted to celebrate these final moments of the trip. As she loosened her seatbelt and leaned across the aisle to talk to Morag she realised something else: she had wanted to give Mason a gift, but he had handed her one instead.

  Tess lay on her back, looking up through the palm trees and into the night sky. More stars were coming out, shyly poking their faces through the indigo shawl draped above her. Could she remember their names? The bright one was Venus—a planet, not a star, she corrected herself. Back at the end of the last wet, when the nights were warm enough to sleep outside with just a blanket, she’d camped out once or twice with Tia and her family on the beach at Kalangalla, and Mason had pointed out the constellations for them. Tess had no idea how he remembered them all—the sky up here was full of stars, bursting with them—but he’d shown them the Dreaming stars, as he called them, the emu and the serpent. They were different, he’d told her, from the ones she might have learned about at school. What the whitefella called Orion was actually Julpan, a canoe. Could she see it? There was the bow, and there was the stern, and the bright stars between them were two brothers who’d gone fishing, but one had eaten a fish that was forbidden by their law and so the sun had dragged the two boys and their canoe into the sky and beached them there . . . She’d wanted to ask him why the fish was forbidden, but she must have fallen asleep, lulled by the dance of his dark arms against the Milky Way. As soon as she was back she would do so, she resolved. And it was nearly the wet again. They could have another sleepout, lots of them, her and Tia and Mason and Aki and the tumbling little boys. Maybe her mother would come this time. She’d be interested in the canoe.