by Jessica Bell
“There are no oranges left on the tree.” Ailish speaks like a ventriloquist. She takes a drag from her thick loosely-hand-rolled cigarette, and stares at the backyard.
“Sein picked them,” Kit says. “They were getting too ripe.”
“Oh.” Ailish briefly turns her head to acknowledge Kit’s presence. The corner of her mouth twitches. A one-quarter smile. Her head surrounded by a halo of moonlight, her face invisible when she turns around. “You want some?” Ailish asks, with a hint of shame in her voice. She holds the cigarette out in front of her, its burning orange tip a contrast against her dark silhouette. It dims as the clock ticks—a sewing needle tapping eggshell.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
“What is it?” Kit asks. Moonlight caresses her face as she walks closer to Ailish. She squints as it passes over her like headlights through bedroom blinds. As Ailish looks at her feet, light shines through her eyelashes. Remnants of tears are caught in them like drops of water in a web, creating prisms of light resembling flecks of silver glitter.
Ailish shifts the weight from her left foot to her right. “Weed,” she replies with a heave of satisfying disgust. She exhales the smoke. Her eyes shift intermittently over Kit’s face, as if gauging a reaction.
Kit leans against the kitchen counter half a meter away from Ailish and cracks her knuckles behind her back. She shakes her head, wants to cry, but her tears won’t obey. They’re trapped behind her nose like globules of phlegm. Ailish takes another drag. She exhales toward the ceiling. Thick breaths. Bitter secrets.
Kit slides against the edge of the counter toward Ailish. Closer. Closer. Until their thighs touch. Upper hands touch. They look at each other. Kit takes the spliff from Ailish’s hand. Ailish lets her. She watches as Kit extinguishes it under the tap.
Kit kisses Ailish’s cheek, hugs her, and gently rests her head on her shoulder. Ailish responds with a tight embrace instead of the usual loose gesture of affection she habitually yet reluctantly displays. She responds with warmth, with regret, a plea for forgiveness.
“Do you want me to fix you a cup of tea, Mum?” Kit whispers into her ear.
I love you. I wish I could say how much without you clamming up. Would you still do that? Would you believe me if I said I still loved you?
Ailish nods, her cheek brushing against Kit’s hair, and sniffs, “Yes.”
Ailish and Kit sip their tea on the verandah.
“‘If you reveal your secrets to the wind, you should not blame the wind for revealing them to the trees.’ Kahlil Gibran,” Ailish says, as a breeze blows through the spotted gum tree on the roadside. The crisp, firm eucalyptus leaves collide tenderly, like rice shifting in a plastic jar.
“Hmm.” Kit nods, wishing Ailish would just use her own words for once. Kit glances at the tree blowing in the wind too. Appreciation hits her like a falling twig. How does she keep all that knowledge so accessible? Ready, waiting to be plucked from her mind the instant some sort of logical association presents itself?
Ailish places her tea by the front right leg of her chair. Kit wonders why she doesn’t use the table.
“Mum, how do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Remember all those quotes at the very right moment?”
Ailish frowns and looks across the street.
“I don’t know. How do you do it?”
“Me? I don’t do it.”
“Most of the time you are finishing them off for me. Aren’t you?”
“Yeah, but, that’s because I’ve heard you say them over and over.”
“Well, it’s the same thing then. Isn’t it? I learn them. I recall them. Just like you.”
Ailish tilts her head back and looks into the sky. It’s the first summer night that isn’t heavy with humid, suffocating clouds. “Kit. Look at all those stars.”
Kit focuses on an ant navigating the edge of the table. Ailish brings her gaze back down to earth and puts her forefinger in front of the ant, cutting off its path. It climbs onto her finger. She lifts it to her nose to take a closer look, and then lowers it onto a lavender stalk.
Kit looks up, surprised to be able to see the teapot shape in the stars again for the first time in years. Or perhaps it’s just been years since Kit looked up. Kit swallows, feeling guilty for dragging Ailish through this obsession of hers and not realizing how much it would affect the people she loves. The least she could have done is reassure Ailish that she wasn’t out to hurt her. Why did it not even occur to her to ask Ailish why she is so afraid? Now she’s not even sure she wants this. What if her instincts are right? Maybe he doesn’t want to be found and that’s why Ailish has been so secretive? What if she has put her mother in danger? Maybe I should stop this.
Ailish
“It’s a sign.” Ailish rests her head on the back of the chair, searching for identifiable patterns in the stars and wondering why it’s taken her so long to reach this point of utter clarity.
“What do you mean?” Kit’s nostrils flare.
“Well, maybe the sky has opened up … for us. Maybe it’s time to …” Why didn’t I ever think of this before? “Darling. I think I might have your sister’s number.”
“Mum. Seriously, we don’t have to do this now. I don’t even know if I can anymore.”
“It’s okay. We might as well do this together. I think we should do this together.” The surface of Ailish’s skin tingles with anticipation.
“Together?”
“Yes.”
Then I can control the information that gets to you.
I can make sure you never find out the whole truth.
I can make sure you won’t get hurt.
“Wow.”
“No need to say anything,” Ailish says. “This is long overdue. It’s the least I can do for keeping your father from you all these years.”
“You know, I can stop this whole thing. I should have waited until you were ready.” Kit crosses her arms.
Am I doing the right thing? Yes. You are protecting your child. Your only child.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I would never have been ready if you hadn’t pushed me, and you should find your father. He’s your father. Don’t you want to know the other half that made you you? I certainly would if I were you. And I have been so naïve in hoping you wouldn’t. I’ve long known this day was coming, but I denied it. I haven’t allowed myself to prepare for how it might make me feel.”
“Well,” Kit whispers with a hint of hesitation and a compassion Ailish hasn’t sensed since she was diagnosed with cancer. “How does it make you feel?”
Ailish looks at the slight wave and rich auburn colour of Kit’s hair and wants to bury her face in it, breathe in the scent of her daughter’s innocence.
You’re so beautiful. I’m so proud of you.
She thinks of yet another Mark Twain quote, and it summarizes the way she feels to a T: “It is a time when one’s spirit is subdued and sad, one knows not why; when the past seems a storm-swept desolation, life a vanity and a burden, and the future but a way to death.” She is tempted to say it, but her shoulders drop with a sigh, and she lets it float away with Kahlil Gibran’s breeze.
“Well.” Ailish sighs. “I feel sad. I don’t know how else to describe it. I know that sounds silly coming from me. But the truth is, there aren’t really any words to describe how I feel. My mind is so cluttered with other people’s perceptions, I can’t seem to measure my own anymore.” Ailish crosses her arms and pushes her fists into her armpits with a forced shiver. “You know, I’ve tried to forget Roger your whole life. I miss him. I’ve always missed him. I don’t think I’ve ever stopped loving him either. Bringing him back into my life is like putting salt on an open wound. He was the only man I’d ever loved, and if I could take him back, I would do so in a heartbeat. But I can’t have that. Not anymore.” Ailish pauses, picks up her tea from the ground, and screws up her mouth. “So, let’s get him back for you. I think that’s the next best thing.”
Ailis
h catches a tear escaping from the corner of her eye with a knuckle, turns her head, stands, and goes inside. She returns to the verandah with a ripped corner of a newspaper and hands it to Kit.
“I think this is your sister’s number, but you might still want to call Constance to confirm it.”
But Kit doesn’t take it. She looks up, her face reflecting a fear she is hiding from herself, a fear Ailish understands too well—the fear of getting to know someone new, when all you really want is your old life back, and the people you used to love back in it.
“Darling, would you like me to call for you?”
“Oh my God, would you really? I don’t think I have the nerve.” Kit stares at the piece of paper in Ailish’s hand as if it’s a weapon.
“Sure. First thing in the morning, then. Okay?”
Ailish is about to sit back down, when Kit grabs her hand.
“I love you, Mum.” Kit brings Ailish’s hand to her cheek and hugs her around the waist. Ailish strokes her hair and brings her long thick auburn locks to her nose, and breathes in the unconditional love.
“I love you too, Kit.”
And now I can keep you safe.
Eleanor
At the very back of Eleanor’s garage, behind her mint ’72 plum Valiant Charger, she dusts off a tiny cardboard box, full of memories she had intended to burn, but when the time came couldn’t bear to destroy. They are photographs of Roger which she thought Ivy might one day want to see. She thought, as Ivy grew up, she might learn to forgive him, even though there is nothing really to forgive.
Roger loved Ivy. He’d sent her gifts and money, and little poems on the backs of postcards from all the different places of the world he’d visited—about the children he had saved and given an education, about how he wished she would come and share his unique experiences together. And Eleanor had condoned it, encouraged it, even. She was even willing to pull Ivy out of school to spend time with him, to learn more about the world—his world.
When Ivy decided she’d like to become an archaeologist, Eleanor had assumed she’d finally given in, that she was trying to find some sort of connection to her father, and an excuse to travel. But despite the promising signs, Ivy kept saying no to seeing him again.
Where did all Ivy’s bitterness come from? Didn’t Eleanor try? Didn’t she conceal it well enough? What did Ivy see? Her sobbing in the bath at night? Did Ivy recognize the put-on brave face while tucking her into bed?
“I hate him, Mum. I hate what he did to us,” Ivy would say.
“Just because he left, doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you,” Eleanor would reply, over and over, stroking her hair, trying to make her believe everything was fine without him, that they had a good life and should no longer feel sad.
“Yeah, but he left because he doesn’t love you, and that’s a good enough reason for me not to love him.”
Eleanor couldn’t argue with that. And although she felt guilty about it, she was honoured that her daughter loved her so much to voluntarily sacrifice her father for it. So, as a way to respect her daughter’s feelings, from the moment she’d uttered those words, she stopped hassling her to see him.
But now she regrets it. Because now he’s in no shape to start afresh.
She should have kept pushing. She should have forced Ivy to visit him before it was too late. To see for herself, that deep down he is a good man. A loving and generous man. Despite his inability to commit, despite his adulterous nature, he would have done anything in his power to be a good father, even if it meant being one from a distance. But she can’t encourage Ivy to see him now. Not after what has happened to him. It wouldn’t be fair.
Eleanor returns the box of photos to the shelf without opening it and decides to take a drive. She listens to Gold FM all the way to Sorrento, priding herself for being able to refurbish a car like a man, a passion she has kept secret all these years, a symbolism of independence from her life-sucking profession. The only one who ever knew she fixed cars was Roger. She never even told Ivy in fear of tarnishing the discipline she spent so long trying to establish with her. Disclosing this would make her seem human, vulnerable, likeable. Ivy didn’t need a friend. She needed a mother. A provider. A rock.
In Sorrento, Eleanor sits on the end of the pier, where it all began—when she was a first-year intern, newly married and in love. She watches seagulls glide and squawk above the sea surface, hunting for fish, and wishes she too could have lived the simple life. Be a hunter and gatherer. But she’s too old to change her habits now. In another life perhaps, a life she isn’t supposed to believe in, being a woman of science and all.
But lately the certainties of science aren’t enough to cure her woes. Cutting into a mother’s womb and fixing embryonic deformities doesn’t give her the thrill it used to. Now she has an overwhelming desire to find something spiritual to believe in. Perhaps having a little faith in the unknown might give her some hope, some happiness in this life. Perhaps she could then figure out where it all went wrong, and make it all right again.
Ivy
Ivy and Brian stand outside the Seattle Asian Art Museum in Volunteer Park. Ivy is smoking to kill her nerves. Brian stands in front of her with one side of his coat open to block people’s view of the forbidden cigarette. After every drag Ivy waves her free hand about trying to direct the smoke away from her clothes. The last thing she needs is to reek like smoke when she walks into the interview. The whole situation reminds her of high school when she’d hide behind the canteen, snagging cigs off boys in return for flashing her boobs.
“Calm down. They already know you’re brilliant.” Brian smirks, closing his coat and rubbing Ivy’s upper back.
“Hey. Keep it open. I’m not finished.” Ivy takes such a heavy drag that she can hear the crackle of the tobacco as it burns. “And how is that exactly? That they know I’m brilliant, I mean.” Ivy accidentally blows smoke into Brian’s face. He cringes, but hardly moves. In an attempt to waft the lingering smoke away from his face, she blows more directly into it, “Sorry. Sorry!”
“They’ve got your résumé.”
“What? How?”
“I bumped into Gabriel the other day outside the café, and he dropped it off to me at my office.” Brian’s expression turns from cheeky to triumphant. A bit like when he announced he wasn’t really a fan of the New Pornographers.
What a cheek.
“How? Oh, he’s still got my keys.” Ivy play-punches Brian on shoulder. “Brian!”
“What? I thought you’d be happy.” He laughs, rubbing his shoulder.
“I am, but, you know.”
“No, I don’t know. What?”
“Well, I feel like I’m going to get the job because I’m your friend, instead of for my expertise.” Ivy tugs on a hair that’s tickling her nose, and pulls it out. “Shit. Is that grey?” she asks, mortified, holding it up to Brian’s face.
Brian squints. “No, it’s blonde. I’m just your friend?” Brian puts his hands into his pockets and gazes at the museum entrance.
“No.” Ivy butts her cigarette out on the ground and hides it with her left foot. “I didn’t mean that. You know what I mean.”
Brian jogs on the spot and pokes his chin toward Ivy’s left foot. “You really should put that in the trash.”
Ignoring the comment, she nudges Brian’s chin to look her in the eyes. She kisses him, lightly brushing her tongue against his lips. She slips her arms into his coat and around his waist, pulling him close so her body touches his. Brian goes a little limp and wavers as if losing balance.
“You’re not just a friend, okay? You’re more than a friend,” Ivy whispers, and bites Brian’s earlobe.
Brian nods as if to say he’s heard it all before. Ivy pulls back and looks him up and down, wondering why he has become so sulky. All she wants right now is to snuggle up in bed with him and make him warm, to show him he is a lot more than a friend. But is he? Has she started pretending again, or does she really feel something for him? The main t
hing now is to get this job. Regain a sense of purpose, of power, and then she can figure out her feelings. She’s too far in. Once that act of good will is taken advantage of, there’s no turning back, is there? She’s got to follow through, otherwise what will she look like? Horrible and selfish don’t even begin to describe her.
“You should go in.” Brian cups Ivy’s cheek with his right hand, and brushes fly-away remnants of ash from below her eye with his thumb. The fingers of his left hand comb through her hair at the base of her neck. She leans into them and closes her eyes.
“I should?”
Brian lowers his arms. Cold air washes his warmth from Ivy’s cheek. He taps his boutique watch. “It’s time.”
“It is?” Ivy folds her arms below her breasts and props herself up on her tiptoes, taking a look at the watch without really looking at the time.
“You’re stalling.”
“I know.”
Brian hugs her, locking her arms vertically by her side. It’s like stepping into a warm house after being caught in the wintry rain. Ivy shuts her eyes and remembers how Roger used to hug her like that, wrapping her in his firm hold, as if packing her away for safekeeping. The last time Roger hugged her, he’d said, “I have to leave for a while, but I’ll be back soon. You’ll wish my return every night before you sleep, won’t you? For me?”
For years she recited what she thought was a “prayer” for him to come home. Then one day, without realizing it, she stopped, void of transition. Roger’s face had become a mere skin-coloured blur with an indistinct male body attached to it. The body of this thing eventually disappeared too, until all that Ivy knew anymore was that he existed, having no trace of emotion with which to track him down.
Thank God for boys and cigs.
“I should go in,” Ivy says, psychologically removing herself from reverie.
Brian
Ivy squishes Brian’s cheeks between her icy-cold hands, forcing his mouth into a fish pout.
