by Cathryn Hein
‘About time.’
Matt’s mouth formed a grim line. ‘People never learn.’
‘They think they’re safe, that’s the problem. But we’re not.’ Tears threatened. Embarrassed, she braced against the Amarok’s tray and ducked her head to stare at her boots and the stubbled dry grass that surrounded them. ‘We’re not safe at all.’
‘Hey.’ Matt ran a hand over her back. ‘We’ll be all right. They’re still predicting a wind change. All we have to do is hold out.’
Ten minutes later, the radio announcer solemnly relayed the death of a volunteer firefighter. Others were missing, feared deceased. Callie walked away, unable to bear any more news. A truck stormed down the road, another following quickly behind. She clutched herself and rubbed, seeking comfort, only for a siren wail to strike splinters down her spine.
Matt brought over a bottle of water. She took it gratefully. The stinking air coated the inside of her mouth and throat and lingered no matter how many swigs of water she swallowed or how many times she washed her mouth out. The caustic flavour of smoke and fear.
With nothing else to do but monitor and wait, Callie paced. Matt regained his perch on Glenmore’s water tanker, watching for cinders and any hint of flame. In the darkness, all they could see was the fire’s hot glow. Occasionally, a freakish orange moon appeared before smoke obscured it once more. On the road, headlight glares that once pointed to the river moved toward town as emergency services ordered people from the area.
Matt tried to get her to rest several times but Callie wasn’t interested. Vigilance mattered. The thought of being asleep, even briefly, and missing a single cinder sent jitters through her legs. So she continued her nervous pacing.
Morning began to bleed into night. With it came a still dawn.
Callie halted, tuning her fatigue-dulled senses in to the day. A flutter launched in her chest. She turned to Matt. ‘Do you feel it?’
‘Feel what?’ Matt frowned, then his eyes widened. He held up his palm and twisted it around like a radar. ‘It’s gone.’ A grin broke. He slid off the tanker to join her on the grass, regarding her with bright eyes. ‘The wind’s dropped.’
She nodded, barely able to contain her relief, not wanting to celebrate too much in case she upset the wind gods. Matt took her hand and squeezed. With a smile she squeezed back, before turning to watch the sun leech strange streaks into the polluted sky.
The wind stayed low for nearly half an hour before rising again, this time from the south. The flames turned back on themselves, into the ruined, charcoaled land, and smouldered. Firebombers worked to extinguish hotspots to the north, where the river curled back on itself, but by midmorning, Callie began to breathe properly again. The worst was over. Glenmore was safe.
After a much-needed breakfast of more corned beef sandwiches and too-sweet tea, Matt returned to Amberton, leaving Callie with instructions to call if anything, anything, looked even remotely wrong.
‘You held it together,’ he said, kissing her forehead, lips lingering, palm cupped around her upper arm. ‘Be proud.’
‘I think I’m too tired to feel anything,’ she replied, but his words curled and warmed and left her wishing for more than one chaste kiss.
When he’d gone, she let Honk loose onto the soaked lawn before regarding the house’s roof. The gutters sagged with the weight of water trapped inside. Though fatigue sapped her muscles of strength, Callie fetched the ladder and climbed up to unblock the makeshift plugs. By the time she’d finished, she could barely hold her legs straight enough to stand in the shower. Bed beckoned. She slid onto its surface in just her knickers and called to sleep.
Only for it to answer with dreams of Matt, Glenmore and impossible futures.
*
Showered and dressed in her work clothes, Callie stood in the kitchen toying with her smartphone, scrolling backward and forward through her contacts, hovering between her father’s mobile and her parents’ home number. Names and digits she’d kept loaded but never dialled. The fire had stirred something within her, a need to reconnect. It had been eight years. She was different. They would be too. Yet that didn’t guarantee any change in their relationship.
She stepped outside, putting off her decision for a few minutes longer. Not that she had many to spare. Her shift began in just over forty minutes and though it was tempting to call in sick, rent was due on the Airlie apartment this week and she didn’t want to let Anna and Rowan down.
Early evening smeared the sky with gold and blue. The smoke had been pushed away thanks to a blissful southerly. Occasionally, on a fickle gust of wind, the taint of destruction puffed then faded. The drone of planes had gone, along with the sirens and strange low roar of fire that Callie hadn’t noticed through the night but was now conspicuous because of its loss, like cicadas in a tropical summer, suddenly stilled. Traffic on Thiedeke Road had picked up again: sightseers wanting a view of the blackened landscape; holiday shack and boat owners returning to summer normality.
After a lap of the house she stopped near the Hills Hoist and regarded her phone once more. Dad. It had to be him. Calling was hard enough and Callie still wasn’t sure how she felt about her mother. Lyndall’s passion for her Phantom had resurrected too many old grievances.
With a deep breath she pressed the dial button.
‘Michael Reynolds.’
She closed her eyes. Soothed by the sound of his voice and yet still anxious. What to say after all this time?
‘Hello?’
‘Hey, Dad.’
‘Callie?’
‘Yeah. It’s me.’
Her father didn’t respond immediately and Callie’s eyes began to smart with the thought that maybe he didn’t want to talk, that the damage she’d done was irreparable. Finally he shook a long breath out. ‘It’s really good to hear your voice, honey.’
Callie closed her eyes in relief. ‘And yours, Dad.’
‘You got my letter then?’
‘I did. It was delayed though. I moved to Airlie Beach a while back and it took a while to get to me.’ She paused. ‘I’m really sorry about Nanna.’
‘We all are. Me especially.’
‘Was the funeral nice?’ Callie winced at the term. How could a funeral be nice? Why couldn’t she talk to him properly? Say what she wanted.
‘I think so. A good turn out. Lots of praise for Mum. She was well liked around Dargate.’
‘She was.’
‘So you’re living at Airlie Beach now? That’s a nice place. Maybe your mother and I could come visit you one day?’ The hope in his voice made Callie’s heart stumble.
‘Actually, that’s what I was calling about. Right now I’m at Glenmore.’
‘You’re at the farm? Is everything all right? I saw about the fire. It didn’t occur to me that you’d be there. We assumed you were still in Alice.’
‘Everything’s fine, Dad.’ She glanced across the paddocks. Not fine, but Glenmore was what it was and soon it’d be something else. Something very different. Callie shook the thought away. ‘Look, I’m only here for a short while, just to clear things out. I thought maybe there’d be a few items from the house you might like. Photos, knick-knacks. There’s some of Hope’s things here too. Old clothes mainly . . .’ She bit her lip. Old or not, of course they’d want Hope’s things. They coveted everything of hers.
‘That’s really good of you, honey. Thanks. But what I’d like most – what we’d both like – is to come and see you. It’s been too long.’
‘Has it?’
‘You’re our daughter. Of course it’s been too long.’ His voice softened. ‘Please. Tomorrow? Around lunch time?’
Callie swallowed. ‘Sure. Okay. That’d be good.’
‘We’ll see you then. And Callie?’
‘What?
‘We never blamed you. Remember that.’
She pondered his assurance all the way into Dargate. They hadn’t blamed her, not in words, but the house she’d grown up in had become unbearabl
e all the same. At the start, lost in her grief and guilt, she tip-toed around her needy parents, barely making eye contact, avoiding the desperate way they looked at her, as if at any moment she might morph into Hope and give them all back their lives.
Callie remembered the loneliness: Dad in the lounge, television turned up to smother the noise of his sobs; Mum in Hope’s room, sitting on the edge of the bed, staring vacantly, a piece of Hope’s clothing clutched tight to her body. Nights when Callie would retreat to her room with her iPod plugged in, music painfully loud to block out the silence of her sister’s absence.
And then came the Hope Foundation, sucking everything they had left. Suddenly Hope began to dominate their lives even more in death than she had in life. The more Callie tried to keep her sister alive, the more she shrank inside, until the only option remaining was escape.
No, they hadn’t blamed her. But every second of Callie’s life overflowed with the memory of a sister she didn’t save, and could never replace.
*
The following morning, after three cups of coffee, breakfast, some serious perusal of news websites, a text conversation with Anna, a fielded courtesy call from Tony Graney to check all was okay, another from his wife asking the same, two loads of washing, a bout of Honk dodging, and no success at all in settling the thrumming nerves that had arisen over her parents’ impending visit, Callie finally braced herself enough to tackle the china cabinet.
She sat cross-legged in front of the first door and scratched her arm. Beside her, retrieved from the newsagency before her shift yesterday, lay a wad of butchers paper. Several flattened wine boxes, which she’d snaffled from the Royal’s bottle shop, leaned against the wall along with a roll of packing tape and a pair of Nanna’s sewing scissors.
Callie gave up scratching her unitchy skin and sighed. She had to do this. It was part of the process and at least the china cabinet was better than the spare room cupboard. That, her mum and dad could deal with.
She opened the frosted glass door. A black china horse stood frozen in a prance, mane flying, nostrils flared, but where it should have had a curling near foreleg, only a snapped-off eggshell edge of china showed. The damaged leg rested on a wad of folded tissue beneath the horse’s belly. Pressing her lips hard together, Callie reached out a shaky hand, picked up the horse and brought it to her lap.
‘Beauty,’ she whispered.
The statuette had stood on the dresser in the spare room, picked up by Nanna at a bric-a-brac sale years before. Not specifically for Callie, but because she liked it. Callie, though, had taken one look and fallen in love, naming the horse Beauty and playing horsey games around the lounge room floor when the weather was too inclement for outdoor play.
She’d forgotten about Beauty, too distracted by emotions and everything else to register his absence, but she felt it now. Nanna must have knocked him while dusting and placed him in the cabinet for safekeeping until she got around to having the break repaired.
It wasn’t the first time Beauty had been injured. A fine, blistered line split his left hock where Poppy’s glue had oozed from the repair, paint shiny where it didn’t quite match the original glaze. Hope had accidentally kicked the horse when Callie left him on the floor to answer Nanna’s summons to the kitchen. The ensuing fight was furious. Callie screaming at Hope, her sister blaming Callie for her carelessness. They barely spoke for days afterwards. Like most of their fights, the crisis eventually passed, although it took a stern talking to from Nanna and Poppy to thaw the ice.
Callie gathered up the broken leg and fitted it into the break. The local Mitre 10 would have the right glue. Perhaps even specialist paint she could apply to cover the spot where a scab of glaze had broken away and been lost. She placed the horse and broken leg on the butchers paper and stared at it. It was a china horse, damn it. Just ash and clay and glaze. And yet . . .
Stupid sentiment. She couldn’t keep everything. Where would she put it anyway? Her room in Airlie was tiny and what if she moved again? More boxes of stuff to drag her down. Callie picked at the paper edge, preparing to wrap, then stopped as Honk released one of his trademark guard dog trumpets.
Matt, no doubt. She glanced at Beauty and bent to retrieve him from the floor. Maybe she’d have a shot at repairing him before donating him to the Salvos. Some little horse-mad girl might get as much pleasure from the horse as she once had. With an indulgent smile, she placed him next to Nanna’s haughty china toreador and wiped her sweaty hands on the back of her shorts. She breathed in and headed to the kitchen door.
The man standing at the door with his fist raised, ready to knock, wasn’t Matt.
‘Dad!’
He smiled. ‘We’re a bit early. Blame your mother.’
Jacqueline Reynolds stepped to his side, tentative smile fixed on her face. ‘Hello, darling.’
Callie’s heartbeat hammered as a tornado of emotions swept through her. The urge to burst through the door and fall into her parents’ arms fought with uncertainty and years of distance. She glanced at the microwave clock. It wasn’t even ten o’clock – they must have left Melbourne around five am, perhaps earlier. Callie hadn’t showered or done her hair or changed into decent clothes. She wasn’t ready for this. How could she be? They’d barely communicated since she was eighteen.
‘Can we come in?’ her dad asked when Callie made no move to open the door.
She took another quick glance around the kitchen, strewn with her possessions: the coffee things left out, laptop on the table; her box of precious memories, first blue ribbon laced through, half-spilled from her nostalgic rummages.
‘Sorry. Of course.’
The screen door released a testy squawk as Callie pushed it open. She stepped back, letting them pass, her mother wafting expensive perfume, that strange brittle smile still cemented on her face.
Her parents stood awkwardly together in a space that now seemed too small. Her father’s gaze swept over Callie, before lingering on her right wrist and its vibrant tattoo. His blue eyes lifted, overloaded with sorrow. Callie breathed in hard, wishing the horrible creepy feeling puckering her skin would stop, but the more she stared, the worse it became.
Her dad had aged, badly. His hair, once dark blond, now held streaks of grey. He was fifty-two years old, yet his eyes had the sunken, landslide appearance of a man much older, as though the muscles were too weak to hold his skin in place. Lines had developed deep ruts around his mouth, dragging his flesh down into the start of a double chin.
In contrast, her mother appeared as perfectly coiffed as she always had, diamond-ringed fingers clawed around a leather handbag held at her waist. Though the day was hot, she wore tailored fawn slacks and a silky white long-sleeved shirt, and loafers the same tan as her bag. Heavy gold jewellery circled her wrists and neck. Yet, like her husband, age and loss hadn’t left her unscathed. Tiredness raked lines around that fixed, fragile smile and even expertly applied make-up couldn’t veil the blue-grey tinge under her eyes.
Even now her parents’ grief still defined them.
‘You look so grown up,’ Michael said finally.
‘Just like your sister.’
Callie threw her mum a sharp look before looking down, ashamed at the tremble she’d caused in her mother’s lips.
‘Honey,’ said her dad, moving close. ‘I’m so glad to see you.’ He placed a moist hand on her upper arm before brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear like he used to when she was little.
The longing for her father’s love was too much. Callie raised her eyes and looked at him, so old now. So missed. His eyes pooled with tears, setting off a flood in her own. With a sob she collapsed into his fold.
When they parted her mother took over, stroking Callie’s messy, unwashed hair, pressing her daughter against her pristine shirt. Callie breathed in her mum smell, the combination of perfume and body lotion and make-up instantly familiar.
Clearing her throat, Callie brushed at her eyes and indicated the fridge. ‘Would y
ou like a drink? I’ve cold water. Or I could make some tea.’
‘Tea would be good.’
‘Sure. Just give me a minute and I’ll clear some space for you. I’ve been packing. Things are a bit untidy.’
Jacqueline reached for the box containing the blue ribbon, but Callie beat her to it. Her mum stepped back, and Callie’s stomach clenched again. She hadn’t meant it as a rebuke, but Phan remained a raw subject between them.
She retreated into the comfort of ritual. A pot of tea left to brew on a trivet. A plate of date slice Callie doubted any of them would eat. Mismatched china teacups and saucers fetched from the cabinet, rinsed and dried before being reunited on the table. Sugar bowl, spoons and a jug of milk prepared and set on a placemat. Activities to cover her nerves until there was nothing else to do but sit and talk.
Despite their best efforts, awkwardness lingered. Wariness coloured Callie’s conversation. The sting from her mother’s remark about her resemblance to Hope lingered. It was as though, even now, Jacqueline Reynolds could see no further than the daughter she’d lost. Nor did Callie want to talk more than superficially about the foundation or her years of wandering. Both would lead to a confrontation she wasn’t ready for. They had made a connection, albeit fragile. Only time would see if it would strengthen.
Each time conversation faltered, Callie filled the lapse with unnecessary industry, rising to fetch more water or tea. Finally, when they’d all run out of things to say, Callie suggested her parents check Hope’s things.
Her mum’s eagerness hurt, but Callie was used to hiding her feelings. Expression detached, she left them in spare room, Jacqueline tenderly touching her daughter’s clothes, while a ball of thorns scraped Callie’s throat and caused her feet to thud on the hall floor.
Heat seared her skin as she stepped outside. A part of her wished she’d had the courage to sort Hope’s things herself. Handing them over, ready wrapped in a garbage bag, would have been so much easier than this.
The screen door screeched. She turned around to find her father walking toward her.
