The Making of Christina

by Meredith Jaffe

  ‘That’s not fair!’ said Bianca.

  The detective nodded. ‘Unfortunately bail is not about guilt or innocence. It’s about flight risk and the perceived danger to the community.’

  ‘He is a flight risk.’ Christina came to stand by Bianca’s side. ‘As soon as he’s free, he’ll be on the first plane to Vietnam.’

  ‘The magistrate takes all that into account.’ The detective continued, clearly used to victims’ indignation, ‘We’ll press for an AVO and daily reporting.’

  ‘Which means what?’

  ‘An Apprehended Violence Order and a Telephone Intervention Order are standard in these cases. In plain English, he’s not allowed anywhere near you, where you live or,’ she turned to Bianca, ‘where you go to school. He can’t even talk to you.’

  ‘He’s not going to care about some stupid orders,’ said Christina.

  ‘Forcing him to report to Kitchener police station three times a week, in person, will seriously curtail any plans he may have to do a runner.’

  Christina glanced at Bianca. Saw her daughter was thinking the same thing. ‘I’m sorry, DS Rushmore, but you don’t know him. Jackson thinks rules are for losers. He won’t turn up.’

  The detective seemed unperturbed. ‘Failing to report is a breach of bail conditions, for which he risks imprisonment. I’m sure his lawyer will make him see sense.’

  Bianca started crying. Christina folded her in her arms, relieved that for the first time since that night Bianca didn’t try to escape.

  DS Rushmore checked the time on her phone. ‘I need to get going. I’ll be interviewing Mr Plummer and laying formal charges. Then we go to court and convince the magistrate to impose the toughest bail conditions we can get. It will only buy you a few hours.’

  Christina released Bianca. The detective was right. They needed to focus on the practicalities. ‘I’ll pack our bags.’

  ‘More bad news. You’ll have to leave in pretty much what you’re wearing.’ DS Rushmore shrugged in apology. ‘And I’ll have to check your bags.’

  ‘What!’ said Bianca. Christina just shut her eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry. I was sure I’d told you.’

  Maybe the detective had, but with everything else going on, Christina had enough trouble just remembering what she was supposed to do each day. Sighing, she said, ‘Anyone would think we were the criminals.’

  The detective grimaced. ‘Think of it this way. You want to make sure his defence team can’t accuse you of concealing or destroying evidence.’

  ‘But it’s our stuff,’ Bianca protested.

  ‘Sure, but I want to shut down every avenue of objection possible. Trust me, you don’t want to give the defence team oxygen.’

  DS Rushmore checked through their toiletries, their handbags and the pockets of their clothes. She took both their laptops, their lifelines to the world, saying, ‘It’s evidence.’

  ‘Evidence of what?’ Christina wanted to ask but she knew the detective would not provide an answer.

  In the kitchen Christina went to grab her keys from the fruit bowl. Anne Rushmore shook her head and put out her hand, saying, ‘We’ll lock up when we’ve finished.’

  Christina watched the detective’s fingers close around the key ring and felt her life repossessed. DS Rushmore insisted on checking the car, popping the boot and inspecting the pockets in the back seat before she let Bianca climb in.

  Tapping on the driver’s side window, the detective motioned for Christina to wind it down. ‘I’ll call you as soon as I can. Is there a number for this place at Hoopers Bay?’

  When DS Rushmore had told Christina they’d need a safe house, she’d suggested her parents’ place. The detective had vetoed that option: it was too far away, too obvious and too easy for Jackson or his ‘representatives’ to track them down. It had to be somewhere Jackson had no idea about that was secure and well hidden from prying neighbours. Hoopers Bay, Della and Tony’s secluded nook on Pittwater. As Christina had described it to the detective, she had hoped Anne Rushmore would find something wrong with it but the detective had thought it an excellent option. It had left Christina with no choice but to reach out across the years and call Della.

  It was the hardest phone call of her life.

  When Della answered, Christina truly did feel her throat close over as if her body did not, would not, let the words come out. But she forced them out, one painful word at a time. To make matters worse, before she had properly explained the why of it, Della said, ‘Of course, darling.’ No questions, no accusations, just friendship. Christina was mortified.

  The home number had not changed in six years but Della had corrected her when she’d checked the mobile number.

  ‘Oh that number’s years old, darling,’ she’d said without the slightest criticism, but Christina had blushed anyway.

  A week later and here they were, leaving Bartholomews Run forever. She gave the detective Della’s numbers. It was time to go. Christina looked across at Bianca who had wrapped her school scarf around her face and screwed herself up into a tight ball on the front seat. DS Rushmore mouthed, ‘It will be okay,’ and squeezed Christina’s arm. Stepping back from the car, she signalled they could leave.

  Contemplating this moment, Christina had promised herself that when they left Bartholomews Run she would not cry, she would not feel sorry for herself and she would not look back. Releasing the handbrake, she pulled down her sunglasses and eased the car down the driveway. Through the wrought-iron gates where the gnomic men hid, past the dormant field of Dutch irises and the scrappy grasses where the daffodils would soon poke up their heads to welcome spring. Was Anne Rushmore still standing in the driveway, waving them off, as those officers in white overalls trampled the house? Christina steeled herself against a glance in the rear-view mirror, gripped the steering wheel tight.

  ‘Bluey Baa-Baa!’ Bianca shouted. ‘I forgot Bluey Baa-Baa. Mum, we have to go back. Please Mum, turn around.’

  Christina shook her head, the tears pouring down her face. ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart.’

  Bianca’s wails filled the car.

  chapter twenty-six

  Three Days Till Christmas

  Christina layers the delicate serving platters in a sink full of soapy water. At the kitchen table, Rosa kneads flour, eggs and water into dough. Their traditional Christmas Eve dish is lobster ravioli in a champagne, saffron and chive butter sauce, but with money tight this year, Rosa’s is making spinach and ricotta agnolotti.

  Christina sets up the pasta machine for her mother. The table has a groove in it where the clamp has worn down the wood over decades of pasta making. Rosa wraps the ball of dough in cling wrap and puts it in the fridge.

  ‘Do we need so many platters, Mama,’ Christina asks as she soaps a platter and puts it on the draining board to dry.

  Rosa clicks her tongue to show she resents this incessant line of questioning. She refuses to say who she’s invited for dinner on Christmas Eve – or lunch the following day for that matter. This past week they have prepared enough food to feed a dozen or more people. Three days from Christmas, Christina is none the wiser but she knows Rosa is up to something – a smug dimple puckers her mother’s cheek.

  Rosa dismisses her with a flick of the wrist. ‘Why you keep asking, Tina? I don’t ask no one you don’t already know.’

  Christina pounces on the clue. ‘Yes, but who, Mama? I know you’re convinced Bianca is coming home and you’ve invited Mr Graukroger. But who else would we share Christmas with? You haven’t invited the Pucciarellis, have you?’

  Rosa barks with laughter, shaking her head.

  That’s all very well, but a constant worry nags Christina. What if Rosa has invited virtual strangers to avoid the strained silence of an unhappy family meal? ‘Please Mama, I don’t feel up to entertaining. I have no small talk any more.’

  Rosa ignor
es her. Running her hand along the bench, she finds a tea towel hanging on the oven door. Picking up a platter, she begins to dry. She puts it on the kitchen table and says, ‘You worried about yourself or Bianca?’

  Christina studies her mother for a moment. Rosa continues drying dishes so Christina turns her attention back to the washing up. She lifts out the large green platter with its thick pattern of cabbage leaves and lets the water drain into the sink. Rosa is right. Worried as she is about a houseful of strangers, there’s also the concern strangers may frighten Bianca away. As soon as the thought forms, she knows it is a less than honest response. Out loud Christina says, ‘I realise she has spent the better part of the last twelve months living in a foreign country where she doesn’t speak the language amongst people she doesn’t know, well except for Phoebe of course.’ Phoebe, whose idea it was to embark on this adventure in the first place.

  Rosa is absorbed in drying the platters.

  ‘But it’s not the same as inviting strangers into your home,’ Christina rushes out.

  Rosa offers half a shrug. ‘You want Bianca to yourself.’

  Christian drops the washcloth, splashing them both. ‘That’s not what I meant, Mama.’

  ‘Sharing her will be like watering down fine wine,’ Rosa continues without a single note of recrimination.

  Christina soaps a platter. As each day passes, her yearning for Bianca grows. As much as her brain keeps telling her that Bianca would be here by now if she were coming home, her heart longs for her daughter with an unreasonable clamour. It refuses not to hope.

  ‘But you know, Tina,’ Rosa takes the platter from her, ‘maybe Bianca will feel safer with more people to share the conversation.’

  Rosa’s words sting. Drawing breath, she says, ‘Is talking to me so hard, Mama?’

  The shrug again. ‘You want so much from her. More people might help you both relax.’

  Christina scrubs at the carcass of a dead cockroach glued to the plate. ‘What if a table of strangers overwhelms her?’

  ‘Not Bianca,’ Rosa says, discarding the damp tea towel on the bench and reaching for a fresh one.

  ‘You always think you’re right, don’t you?’ Christina snaps and as she does, the platter slips from her hands and cracks on the draining board. It has split across the words eseguito a mano. Christina realises she is shaking. This platter was a wedding gift, one of the few treasures her parents brought with them from Italy all those years ago. Her carelessness has destroyed it. ‘Oh Mama, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘It’s only a platter, Tina.’ Rosa picks up the broken halves, wraps them in a thick layer of newspaper and puts them in the bin. She fetches a bottle of cold water from the fridge and pours them both a glass.

  ‘Della and Tony,’ Rosa says, sitting down. ‘They’re bringing Isabella and Thomas. Mary-Lou and the girls are coming but she says her husband is working Christmas Day so maybe he’ll come down later. She don’t know for sure.’

  Christina sinks into the chair opposite her mother and marvels at Rosa’s duplicity. Della, Mary-Lou, people who once filled her days. Her friends, her true friends, who she dropped to run away with Jackson. Abandoned for a rundown old house and the man she loved. Not realising that he was separating her from her closest friends to isolate her and Bianca and make them dependent upon him. He didn’t have to worry about her parents. Distance meant they were effectively already out of the picture.

  Christina hasn’t seen Della or Mary-Lou since the days immediately following the sentencing. Once Jackson was locked up, she couldn’t wait to escape Sydney. In that sense she understands Bianca’s reasons for picking Costa Rica, but for herself, she needed to come home.

  Christina gives her mother a look intended to remind Rosa that she’s noted her underhand tactics and does not entirely approve. ‘When will they be here?’

  Rosa blots the ring of water from her glass with the tea towel. ‘Della tomorrow. Mary-Lou the day after. It’s too much to have everyone arriving together.’

  And then it dawns on Christina. ‘That’s why you’re certain Bianca will be home for Christmas. Della’s bringing her, isn’t she? Bianca’s back in Australia.’ She cannot believe that Bianca is this close, that within days she will be able to hold her, to feel the warmth of her pressed to her chest. To be able to look into her eyes and judge for herself if the year has healed any wounds.

  Rosa sips her water. ‘I don’t know. Maybe, maybe not.’

  An Indian mynah bird hops onto the windowsill, tilts its head and flaps to the floor. Christina snaps a tea towel at the cocky pest shouting, ‘Shoo! Shoo!’ It hops across the boards, ignoring her threats, snatches a cicada from a crevice then flies back out to the garden. Christina checks it has not left a message on the timber floor before returning to her seat.

  ‘So did you organise this?’

  ‘Si.’

  Christina rubs a thumb through the condensation on her glass. Rosa might be right to invite Bianca’s friends. The house will ring with youthful laughter, a reminder of the old days.

  ‘Bianca knows about this then?’

  ‘No. It’s s’posed to be a surprise for her too.’

  Christina swallows the wrong way and water fizzes through her nose. For a few seconds she splutters and coughs. ‘Then why did you invite them? The kids will be expecting to see Bianca. Why else do you think they are making such an effort? Oh, Mama, if Bianca doesn’t come, it will be unbearable.’ She blinks against the sudden tears.

  ‘No, Tina, it won’t.’ Rosa lays her palm facing upwards on the table and motions for Christina to place her hand in hers.

  Her mother’s grip is warm and dry. Like the skin of a dam in drought, a network of lines covers her arms. Rosa’s thick dark hair was once salted with renegade white hairs; now black hairs pepper the white. The heavy lines of a smoker crease her top lip, even though the days when her mother smoked have almost passed from memory. It was always Massimo who had a cigarette paper dangling from his lip. Massimo who paid the price, rolling the strands of his own demise. She misses her father and his easy camaraderie but Rosa is the parent who is left. Rosa, who has found a way to comfort her whether Bianca returns or not.

  She squeezes her mother’s hand. ‘Thank you, Mama. It was a good thing to do.’

  Returning to the sink, she finishes washing the platters and tries to remember if they have enough spare bed linen to go around. It’s been a long time since the good crystal’s seen daylight. Best she washes that too.

  Rosa finishes her water and smiles.

  chapter twenty-seven

  Taking one turn then another, they wound their way down the narrow road from the ridge of Ku-ring-gai Chase to the bay. Designed to disappear amongst the treetops, the house was easy to drive past; she almost did.

  As soon as they arrived, Bianca disappeared into the bedroom she’d always shared with Izzy, slamming the door behind her. Christina let her go. Nothing she could say would make this better. If Bianca had had her way, she would have stayed at school amongst friends. Anne Rushmore had flat out vetoed the idea, saying that, riled up, Jackson might be stupid enough to go there. She was safer with her mother for now.

  Christina dumped her bag on the bed in the upstairs room. She opened the wardrobe door, setting the row of wire coat hangers tinkling against each other. She dumped her loafers and her sneakers in the bottom. The chest of drawers had ample space for a change of clothes. In the bathroom, she unpacked a hairbrush, shampoo and moisturiser. She had forgotten conditioner and not bothered with makeup. What was the point?

  Her mobile rang and she rushed to answer it, pausing when saw who it was.

  ‘Hey, chick.’

  ‘Hey, Della.’ Christina lay on the bed. The sheets smelled fresh.

  ‘Are you there yet?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Do you need anything? I’ve put some basics in the fridge
but I can duck down to the shops for you if you like.’

  ‘Not for now.’

  ‘Oh, okay. Um, have you heard . . .’

  ‘No, not a thing. I was hoping you were her.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. It’s too early yet but the waiting’s killing me.’

  She picked up a glass jar of seashells from the bedside table. Beneath the window was a cane chair with lemon-striped cushions, the same yellow matched in the gingham blinds. Little touches that made the holiday house homely. ‘I can’t stop thinking about what he’s doing. I’m really hoping he is, I don’t know, confessing, for Bianca’s sake.’

  Christina heard running water, the clink of a glass, and imagined Della in her showroom kitchen, every bench immaculate, drinking her filtered water. Physically, this was as close to Della as she had been in years. But she was wary of Della’s blanket acceptance. The details she had given Della so far were sparse. Seeing Della, telling her everything – what would her old friend think of her then?

  ‘How’s Bee holding up?’

  ‘Not great. She forgot to pack Bluey Baa-Baa and it was all downhill from there.’

  ‘Oh God.’

  ‘She knows our life is about to explode but neither of us knows the timing.’

  ‘I can only imagine. Let me know as soon as anything happens. Call me if you want me to come over, okay?’

  ‘Yeah, Della, I will, thanks,’ grateful that Della did not insist on being here. Christina wasn’t ready and she doubted Bianca was either.

  She wasn’t hungry but they needed to eat. Breakfast had been a chocolate bar when they’d stopped for fuel. Christina heated up a tin of chunky vegetable soup and made a plate of toasted ham, cheese and tomato sandwiches. At her urging, Bianca came upstairs, picked at lunch, all angles in her misery. The second hand of the kitchen clock marked the passing of time. The not knowing, the waiting, tick, tock, tick.

  Leaving a half-eaten triangle, Bianca said she was going for a run. Christina was too surprised to question when Bianca had taken up running. She forced down the rest of her sandwich, hating to waste what little food they had. She scraped the crumbs into the bin, wiped down the benches and washed up two plates, two glasses and the bread knife.