His clothes are all crumpled, and I realise that other than a missing jacket, they’re the same ones he had on at the funeral. I close my eyes as a block against the thoughts that come marching in. Dad takes that as a sign to leave my room. He whispers that he’ll check on me later, and tip-toes out.
‘Later’ turns out to be the next morning.
He comes into my room, freshly shaven, with his business suit on, smelling of Paco Rabanne, and I wonder for a moment if I saw the wrinkled clothes or if I dreamt it.
‘Morning, Libby.’
‘Hi, Dad.’
‘You look better.’
‘A little,’ I lie. I shuffle over a fraction and will him to sit down on my bed, but he stays standing.
‘I have to fly down to Wellington, but I’ll be home in the weekend. You can text me. Do you want anything brought back?’
I look at my portable DVD player, iPod and laptop sitting open on the desk. I don’t think there are any more gadgets he could possibly buy me.
‘No thanks. I don’t need anything.’
I see the rejection register on his face. Part of me thinks good job, and another part of me wants to beg him to stay.
‘All right then, I’ll see you soon.’
As he leans in to kiss me, I inhale his smell. I’ll hold on to whatever little piece of him I can.
Mum brushes past Dad in the doorway and neither of them say a word. The muscles in my stomach tense up.
‘Morning, Elizabeth.’ Mum gives me a smile that can only be described as perky. She places a tray of food beside my bed and whips back my curtains. Light from outside floods my room.
‘You need to eat.’
I look at the tray. A bowl of oatmeal porridge rests on it, alongside a plate of wholegrain toast with butter. For a while, after Mum read an article about how bad it was for you, we didn’t have any butter in our house. For six months she only bought margarine. Poppa protested the loudest, but unless he wanted to do the shopping, nothing was going to change. Luckily for him, Mum read a new study that said that margarine was way worse for you because of all the chemicals they added, and we all got switched back to butter.
I push myself up in the bed and take the piece of toast. I bite into it but it feels like I’m chewing on sandpaper. I put it back on the plate.
‘You need to eat, Elizabeth.’
‘I’m just not hungry.’
‘You know what?’ Mum says, striding over and placing the tray on my lap. ‘Hunger has nothing to do with this. You’ve had more than your share of attention. As from today, you need to get up and get on with things.’ She folds her arms across her chest and does this thing with her jaw that makes the bottom of it jut out.
I force the food into my mouth while she stands beside my bed. When I make noises like it’s stuck in my throat she passes me a glass of water.
‘You’ll feel better when you start moving. We can tape a plastic bag over your leg while you have a shower this afternoon. You’ll be left with a nasty scar along your shin bone, but we’ll rub vitamin E on it and hopefully it won’t be too obvious.’
‘I don’t care about a scar on my leg.’
‘You say that now, but you’ll care when you’re older.’ Mum waits beside my bed until she’s satisfied that I’ve eaten enough.
When she’s gone, I get out of bed and scan my bookshelves until I find what I’m looking for. I pull The Power of One down from the shelves and climb back in bed. It’s a story about a little boy whose mother has a breakdown and sends him away to boarding school. I’ve read it twice already, and both times it took me away to Northern Transvaal in South Africa, where I met a Zulu nanny who let a white baby suckle her breast and had nothing but love to give him. And to the Barberton mountain range, where I wandered among the volcanic rocks, where bright orange daisies grew wild. I got to meet ‘Euphorbia grandicornis,’ a shy little cactus. I’m hoping the book will weave its magical web again and transport me far away from here.
It works for a while. After a force-fed lunch, I shower and put on clean pyjamas. I sit in a chair by the window in my room.
‘Do you really need all these?’ Mum picks up one of my heart-shaped rocks as she dusts under it.
‘They’re part of a collection Mum; you keep adding to them.’
She looks at me as if about to speak, but gets distracted by the clean sheets sitting on the end of my bed. She shakes the folds out and I smell freesias.
‘I’ve invited a few of your friends over to cheer you up.’ She keeps her back to me as she pulls the bed away from the wall so she can tuck in the sheets.
‘No. I’m tired.’
She turns and glares at me.
‘Elizabeth, I’ve had enough. The world doesn’t just stop because someone died. Stop feeling sorry for yourself.’
Her words are like a slap in the face. I try to absorb them but they’re too big and cruel. My brain struggles to work out how to break them down into smaller pieces so I can digest them.
‘They’re not coming until tomorrow morning, so get a good night’s sleep and then you won’t be tired.’
Mum has a special gift for being able to deliver blows that you don’t see coming. I pick up my book as a way to block her out, but my vision blurs and the words won’t come into focus.
I wake up twice in the night from the same dream. I’m in a dark pine forest. The smell from the pine needles accompanies me as I walk along a narrow path towards a small glow of light. The full moon shines down from high above me. All of a sudden the forest goes silent. The frogs stop their shrill mating call, and the warm breeze on my face turns cold. The trees shake off their leaves, and as soon as they hit the ground they start rotting. Up above me the moon goes behind a cloud, sinking everything into darkness. I run towards the glow of light but just before I reach it, it disappears.
I wake up sweating, and even with my eyes wide open I’m still trapped in the forest. I turn on my side lamp and the trees disappear, but the feeling of being alone and in a dangerous place stays with me. I sit up in bed and wait for morning.
I’m grateful when it comes. Mum pokes her head around the door.
‘Come on, Elizabeth. Your guests will be here at ten.’
In all my years on this planet, I have never known Mum to change her mind, and I know that no amount of moaning will get her to start now. I reluctantly slide my feet out of the bed and sit on the edge of my mattress.
Mum shoots me a sharp look. She knows what I’m up to. ‘Elizabeth,’ she says, with a warning note in her voice, ‘I’m doing this for your own good.’
Yeah right.
I trudge to the bathroom and lock the door behind me. I can’t be bothered taking a shower. I turn the taps on and sit on the side of the bathtub. The water rains down on the shower curtain and the steam fogs up the mirror above the basin. My murky reflection symbolises the way I feel.
‘Where are you?’ I ask the steamed-up mirror. ‘I know you’re in there somewhere.’ I put my hand up to wipe the fog away but stop myself. I don’t want to see my face. I don’t want to see false friends, and I really don’t care if I don’t see tomorrow.
The knock on the door reminds me that what I want has nothing to do with Mum’s plans for me today.
She comes into my bedroom as I’m pulling the last of my clothes on.
‘Turquoise is a good colour for you.’
‘Thanks.’
‘It’s a pity you didn’t wash your hair, but I should be able to brush most of the knots out.’ She goes to my tallboy and takes my hairbrush and ties from the top.
There is something about the way that she grabs my shoulders and turns me away from her that makes me snap. Like there’s a rubber band inside of me that can’t take any more tension.
‘I’m thirteen. I can brush my own hair.’
Her head bobs for a moment and her eyebrows dive down her nose, but she recovers from the shock quickly.
‘I’m not in the mood for arguments. I’ll see you down
stairs in thirty minutes.’
She throws the hairbrush on my bed. I feel like I’ve won a small victory, but it’s short-lived. After she’s gone I just feel lonely.
I recognise the voices in the kitchen before I see them. If you had asked me to write down the names of people it would most torture me to be with, I would write the names of the people sitting in the kitchen right now. Lucy’s high-pitched tone is unmistakable, and Ebony’s laughter too false to belong to anyone else.
My heart bangs in my chest. I’d rather jump in a lake with piranhas than push the door open. As luck would have it, Mum chooses this second to come and find me.
‘There you are, dear! I was just coming to get you.’ Her sickly sweet tone is so different to the voice she used in the bedroom that I wonder if I still might be a bit delirious.
The whiteness of the kitchen is like a blow, and I have to keep blinking my eyes until they get used to it. Around the table sit Lucy, her mother, Ebony and Jaime, who’s not too bad, just stupid.
Lucy props herself up on a barstool and runs her fingers through her long straight hair. I’m sure she checks her reflection in the stainless steel door of the fridge. I’m tempted to give her the heads up that her ridiculous padded yellow jacket, with black fur around the sleeves and the hood, makes her look like a festering sore.
I steady myself by putting my hand on the back of a chair, but my knees won’t stop wobbling. I’m forced to sit. Lady Mayor swoops in and plants herself right in front of me.
‘You poor thing.’ Her face is all twisted with pity.
She’s a stupid woman, with stupid words that don’t deserve a reply.
Lucy and I have as much in common as a fart and a handshake, and should never be put together, but for some reason both our mothers keep insisting we be friends. Mum likes to attach herself to people that have loads of money or an important surname, but I’m not sure what the deal is for Lady Mayor.
As I look around the kitchen, I feel like I’ve been away on holiday instead of sick in an upstairs bedroom. I notice Nan’s rooster collection has gone from the sideboard.
‘Where are the roosters, Mum?’
‘They’re all covered in dust, so I’ve taken them away to clean.’
‘What do you mean, you’ve taken them away to clean?’
All eyes look my way.
‘I put them in the laundry and I’ll clean them when I have more time. Anyway,’ Mum smiles around the table, ‘perhaps you girls would like to see the barn?’
I’m still trying to process the fact that the roosters have been removed, but the mention of the barn makes my heart skip a beat. Why the hell would she want me to show the girls the barn now? She must be up to something.
An image of Poppa in his overalls, with a smile on his face as he leans over a crate of this year’s cider, flashes in my mind. I shut it down. The thought of taking anyone over to the barn, pushing open those big wide doors and finding crates of cider and silence is too sad for me to even think about.
‘I’d love to see the barn,’ Lucy says.
I put my head in my hand as the other girls agree.
‘The fresh air will do you good.’ Mum reaches out and pulls me up by my hands.
The floor seems to shift under my feet as I make my way to the door. Jaime appears beside me, and takes my elbow. I sway into her when I notice that someone has removed Poppa’s gumboots from the row at our back door.
It’s the first time I’ve been outside since the day of the funeral. I’m stunned to find it unchanged. I take the path that leads away from the barn and head towards the river. The girls follow in a gaggle behind. Up above, the sky is an amazing shade of cornflower blue – the kind of blue that would normally make me stop and marvel. Right now it just all seems wrong. The only colour it should be is black. I slow down and see a little speckled sparrow, balancing on a thin branch. Through the leaves, he twitters to his friend below.
Anger wells up inside me. It starts in my belly and then pushes its way up to thump in my chest, and then to my forehead. I lean down and pick up a rock. The sharp edges cut into my hand as I squeeze it into a fist. How dare those birds carry on like nothing has happened? Don’t they know that the world can never be the same? That a piece is missing? It seems everyone wants to pretend that nothing has changed. That we can just pick up the pieces and carry on like normal. But how can anything be normal again?
‘Libby, what are you doing?’ Jaime’s frightened look makes me drop the rock.
‘Nothing.’ I march off as fast as I can, hoping to lose my pretend friends. I hear their footsteps quicken as I weave in and out of a row of poplars.
Ebony appears beside me, red-faced and panting.
‘Slow down, Libby.’
Ebony has the most perfect rosebud lips I’ve ever seen on a real person. Her long black hair looks like someone has painted just the right amount of gloss on it so it can sparkle in the sunshine. The rest of her is made up of meanness. I’ve seen her at school with the younger kids. Cruel words tumble out of her mouth like an avalanche, and they don’t stop until her victims are crying in the rubble. Then, with a flick of her gorgeous hair, she’s off looking for her next target.
I ignore her.
‘Look, I know how sad you must be, Libby.’
She stands right in my way.
‘You’ve got no bloody idea.’
‘Actually, I do. My guinea pig died last year and I felt awful for days, but it does get better.’
‘You can’t compare your guinea pig to – Oh God, it doesn’t matter.’
‘Libby, you’re not listening to me.’ She runs in front of me and stands on the track with her hands on her hips. ‘I’m telling you, it will get better.’
I can’t believe I’m hearing this crap. Then it clicks. ‘Shit … I get it. Mum told you what to say, didn’t she? God, you’ve probably been waiting all morning to get it out.’ I glare at her as she blocks my path. I get the same feeling that I got when I heard the sparrow. Anger wells up in my belly, and rocks within my reach glisten.
‘I thought you were taking us to the barn,’ Lucy yells out from behind.
The urge to throw rocks at Ebony is replaced by an urge to get away from these girls.
Lucy looks as mad as a rattle snake, and there are perspiration beads all over her face. ‘I want to see the barn.’
‘I don’t feel that well.’ I spin around and head towards the house. ‘Why don’t you take your jacket off, Lucy? You look like you’re overheating.’
‘I’m fine.’
I hear the three of them whisper behind me, but I couldn’t care less what they think.
On the porch, I kick my boots off.
‘Excuse me.’ Ebony pushes past me into the kitchen.
Lucy sidles up to her mum and whispers in her ear.
‘Well, it seems that Libby needs a bit of a rest, so we’d better get going.’ Lady Mayor says.
Mum whips her head around in my direction. I’m hoping to see sympathy in her eyes, but what I see looks more like blame. She arranges a smile on her face and turns back to our guests. ‘But I’ve only just put some muffins in – you’ll have to wait for them!’
Lucy stiffens her body and folds her arms across her chest. We all see the look she gives her mum. Lady Mayor hunts for her handbag and loops the strap over her forearm.
‘Thank you, but we really have to go.’
‘Another day, then?’ Mum must realise how pathetic and desperate she sounds.
‘Yes, we’ll be in touch.’
They can’t get out quick enough. ‘See ya,’ I say as they jostle to get out the doorway at the same time. Mum glares at me but then follows them out. I know she’ll stand on the porch, a smile fixed on her face, as she waves them off down the driveway.
The front door slams shut.
‘What on earth’s gotten into you? I don’t know what you said to those girls, but you obviously offended them!’ Mum’s red face makes it look like she’s about to bl
ow a valve.
I turn my back to piss her off more. ‘I don’t know how, unless being sick is offensive.’
‘Young lady, if being sick is making you rude, you’d better get well quick!’
‘I’m going to bed.’ I rush out of the kitchen before I get another lecture on how to behave.
I walk down the hallway and poke my head around Nan’s door. She looks peaceful as her head rests on a pillow. Long strands of her white hair cascade around her face. She doesn’t stir as I sneak in and tuck her frail arm under the blanket. I turn the oil heater up a notch and tip-toe out.
*
My body feels like it can’t go another minute without rest, but when I lie down and try to sleep there seems to be a malfunction in my brain. I stare at the ceiling. Thoughts of Mum, Dad and Nan race through my mind like clouds on a stormy day. Just when I think I might be sorting something out, the thought is whisked away and another one comes barging in.
Tonight, the air is humid and makes me more restless. I flip from one side of my mattress to the other. If I can just find a cool spot, I’m sure I’ll sleep. As my eyelids start to droop, the wind decides to get aggressive. Something taps on my window. I throw my covers off. I press my face against the pane of glass and stare out into the blackness. I can’t see what’s making the noise, but it stops. Then as I crawl back into bed it starts up again. I give up any hope of sleep.
I slide my fingers down my hair. It’s soothing, like I’m petting a cat. I start at the roots and work my fingers slowly down to the tip. One little strand doesn’t seem quite right. The more times I slide my fingers down, the more obvious it becomes. It’s coarser than the rest. I separate it from the other strands and twist it around my finger. I yank and it comes out.
I study the white bobbly bit which clings to one end of the hair, before squashing it between my thumb and forefinger. My other hand glides along the strand, taking note of all the twists and turns. I close my eyes and drape the hair over my lips and then run it along my tongue. I can still feel the kinks, but as it softens a gentle feeling washes over me. Like lying on the edge of the ocean as the waves lap the shore. Pushing you first one way and then coaxing you back.
The Scent of Apples Page 4
