The United States of Us

by Kate Sundara

  With thoughts turned homeward, Mia reluctantly pulls up to Ruth’s computer to finally reply to those emails from friends and family. She stops typing after, How are you? Pauses. Having a great time. Will write more soon, I promise! xxxxx She owes them that much, even if it isn’t true. She can’t further lie to loved ones anymore than she can bear being on the computer. Since being spooled in by Zak’s amorous emails then discovering he’d been spinning out all those others to everyone else, her relationship with the PC has changed. From ally to enemy. It is now an entity to be distrusted, a two-faced digital deceiver.

  And so she slips around the valley like a shadow of the happiness she once expected to feel as a stream of cold air whistles down from the mountains and blows what’s left of her dust-heart away.

  * * *

  Mia stands in a field of white horses.

  It’s late afternoon, beneath a pink and violet sky. Swallows dive in the expanse above her, hazy in the melting light. Beyond the golden grass, the distant blue peaks encircling the valley. She has a love/hate relationship with the mountains: depending on her state of mind, they could make her feel on top of the world or deep down in the pit of it, reaching up her hands, being swallowed alive–

  It’s been two weeks since her Zak dream was shattered, wholly and irrevocably.

  Something good has to happen before I leave this place, she wrote in her travel-journal this morning. If this were a movie, she’d have an epiphany around now. Something or someone would come into her life and she’d see the light. But nothing’s happened for days. Uninspired, she’s stuck in a crater, a murky mist blanketing the springtime sun.

  Why do I think of my life as a stupid film?

  She pulls Ruth’s coat around her body. On the brink of summer, it’s still chilly with those alpine air-streams. She wonders why she’d not thought to pack a proper jacket of her own for America, then remembers Zak insisting she wouldn’t need one.

  How silly I was to believe anything he said…

  She looks for images in the clouds, a game we used to play as children. A lifetime ago. My lifetime. You can see anything if you want it badly enough, she decides: heroes in monsters, princes in toads. With her disenchantment comes a sense of growing up. From now, she’ll look at life how it is and not how it seems through her rose-tinted glasses.

  A real white horse plods over to Mia. She strokes it, startling off the flies. The horse turns its butt to her, raises its tail and releases a splurge of mustard-brown, just missing her feet. She watches then almost laughs, accepting that reality isn’t so pretty.

  Mia’s existence in River Valley has come to resemble that of a stray cat. She stays out whenever she wants to and seeks shelter whenever she needs it. Prizing open the window of Ruth’s living room like a cat-flap, Mia leaps down from the sill and onto her couch-come-bed.

  Pretty much since she moved in here, she’s been running errands to help lighten the load. Ruth’s taken on a day-job at the campus library for the summer and, since Mia vowed to make herself a useful house guest, she cycles to the store to buy groceries, re-stocks the cupboards, the freezer, the fridge, washes up after mealtimes, vacuums the house and prepares dinner for when Ruth returns from work. Having already experienced community living, Mia enjoys an arrangement of mutual benefit. Between working evening shifts at the homeless shelter they hang out on Ruth’s balcony, drinking wine, chatting, laughing, eating Hershey chocolates and watching the sun go down.

  ‘I like our girl-time,’ Ruth tells her. ‘I don’t really have any girl friends. I’ve always been a tomboy. ’Most all the friends that swing by the house are guys. Guess I find ’em easier to trust, but I trust you. Things feel natural. You’re easy to get along with.’

  ‘You too! I’m lucky to have you,’ agrees Mia.

  They smile in quiet appreciation of each other, then Ruth sighs and says she’d better get an early night, that she’s opening up the library in the morning, then downs the rest of her wine.

  Alone once more, Mia saddles Ruth’s bike and boomerangs back over to Dale Drive.

  The kitchen in the evenings is always the hive of activity in the Dale house, that honey coloured home. It’s warm, sweet and comforting, the closest place Mia gets to feeling fine, where everyone congregates after their summer day-jobs to chat and let their hair down. When she arrives tonight, Georgia’s scrap-booking on the kitchen table, Heather has the giggles, Megan’s hen-pecking Eric and Tess, Wil’s childhood best friend – and honorary housemate – visiting the valley for graduation, is making a hemp bracelet. The guys are in the lounge, drinking beer, eating peanuts, watching the game, cheering and yelling whenever their team scores.

  The idea of work actually appeals to Mia, since she doesn’t know what she’s doing here anymore or where this misadventure’s taking her. But after the interrogation she suffered at customs she’s not willing to risk working illegally in America, other than volunteering at the shelter as often as needed. She certainly has more time to catch-up on writing her journal, if only for her own sanity. Mia enjoys listen- ing to the Dale crowds’ stories, all the funny or frustrating things that have happened in their working days. It’s not all simplicity and sunshine at the Dale House though: now Brent’s completed his summer school project, he’s back here, wanting to hook up with Mia again.

  She pulls away. In her darkest hour, a couple of weeks ago, she’d kissed him – her flattened ego momentarily lifted by Brent’s boyish affections. A mistake she won’t be repeating. Yes, he makes her feel desirable and, tempting as it is with moral fibre wearing thin, Mia’s better self tells her not to give into him.

  ‘You and me,’ she tells Brent. ‘It was just a bit of snogging.’

  ‘Snogging?’

  ‘We made out one time, but it was a one-time thing. I’m sorry, I just don’t feel that way.’

  Brent takes it well. Too well. ‘Sure,’ he says, ‘I get it.’ Then he stares at her with a glint in his eye and Mia knows it means he’s not quitting. Brent, unaware how self-controlled she can be, that she’s made of stronger stuff, is wasting his time. She’s untouchable now, like the other-wordly women her imagination latched onto in that mythologies book – her mermaid body, sealed from the waist down. A mummified being, wrapped in invisible bandages; no man could unravel her bindings of self-preservation, not now. Locked inside herself Mia’s learning how not to love, how not to hurt, how not to feel. Nothing can break through to her, not even the force of Brent’s aftershave, nor his soft wet tongue entering her mouth, as it had. Never again.

  During the mornings in Dale Drive, Wil’s the only person at home. Unlike the others with their day jobs, Wil’s freshman orientation, which involves showing the influx of new students around campus – part of his mentoring role – doesn’t start until next week, meaning Mia gets to enjoy some company. There’s something about that light at the Dale house that always compels her to its warmth, how it streams into that pine-panelled place like it has a good deal going with the sun.

  Mia loves these mornings when she and Wil hang out. They talk about everything – well, not everything – she promised she’d never ask about Zak’s trauma, even though a part of her is still desperate to know. She can’t tell him about Ruth’s love for him either. And she never speaks to anyone about me. Silently she’s dying to talk with him about all these things. One topic she can’t resist is letting Wil know that her frisson with Brent was a one-off. She’s keen to clarify that.

  Wil gives his little smile that always endears him to her. ‘Hey, Mia, I don’t judge.’

  ‘C’mon, Dutch, I saw the way you looked at me the other morning. I just want you to know – it’s not like… I’m no bed-hopper, okay? I never even went there with Zak.’

  ‘You didn’t?’

  ‘No. I’ve never… with anyone.’ She starts to blush. ‘I don’t usually tell people that. I don’t know why I’m telling you! It’s as if you bring out my ultra-honest self or something…’

  He laughs slightly,
focus fixed on her, attentively.

  ‘I know your counselling role is connected to the church. I sensed you were about to give me an unnecessary lecture on the virtues of chastity.’

  Wil laughs out loud and for real. ‘Mia, seriously! I can’t believe you thought I’d criticise you! And never in my wildest dreams would I consider myself in a position to lecture!’

  ‘That’s good. Okay then…’

  Wil looks at her, wide-eyed and earnest. Silence between them…

  ‘Because I respect you, Wil. I feel like you respect me.’

  ‘I do respect you, Mia. I have enormous respect for you.’ When he says it, it rings true.

  Wil smiles at her and she smiles back at him. And in their smiles he feels like her best friend.

  * * *

  They talk for hours at the kitchen table, in the living-room or out in the yard. Mia’s amazed by Wil’s listening skills, his ability to repeat what’d been said minutes, days, weeks before, how he could remind her of what she was talking about should the phone ring mid-conversation, how he excavates information from her with all the gentleness associated with his archaeological background. He asks the sort of questions that make her feel fascinating:

  ‘What inspires your artwork? Are you close to your sisters? Do you like being a middle-child? Why did you take your mother’s maiden name instead of your paternal Italian one?’

  ‘Because would you know how to pronounce this?’ She writes out her full name on a scrap of paper.

  Wil looks at it, ‘I see your point.’

  They laugh together, eyes dancing.

  ‘You ask a lot of questions, Wil.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. It’s nice that you care.’

  ‘Of course I care. Why wouldn’t I?’

  ‘Some people consider it rude to ask questions,’ she tells him, trying not to think of Zak.

  ‘Do they?’

  ‘Touché.’ She smiles. ‘Though not you, obviously. Like in the Australian Aboriginal culture: you don’t ask questions, you wait for them to offer info… if they want to. It can take years to know things.’ (That reminds Mia of how surprised she was that Rosa had been so forthcoming about sharing her native legends. Incidentally, Mia’s due another visit to see her at Chokecherry Shack – they bumped into each other earlier today and Rosa was emphatic that they spend more time together. Mia, gladdened by her invite and insistence, promised to make it over there soon. She figures Rosa must be lonely.)

  ‘Have you visited those communities?’ asks Wil. ‘In Australia?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve been to some of the sacred sites. They were other-worldly.’

  ‘Yeah? How so?’

  Mia smiles. ‘I had you down as the scientific type,’ she says. Then, ‘What am I saying? You work for the church. You have your faith.’

  ‘“It is entirely possible that behind the perception of our senses, worlds are hidden of which we are unaware”. Albert Einstein. The spiritual and scientific elements… one isn’t necessarily exclusive of the other. Archaeology often requires us to take both into account.’

  Prompted by his unbounded curiosity, Mia answers his questions then asks, laughingly, ‘Now can we talk about you?’ She appreciates him taking a healthy interest in her life, her thoughts and opinions, and has no doubt he makes an excellent peer counsellor. She finds him easy to confide in and comes away from every conversation feeling thoroughly fortified, rebalanced, heard and – most of all – known. She begins to understand what Ruth sees in him, and it’s not just his noble qualities that make him agreeable. Wil’s good looking – exceptionally so; funny how she never noticed before, what with that great bushy beard he’d grown for a dare, and those hideous jam-jar glasses (which he’s since replaced with smaller, cooler, rectangular frames). Mia wonders if that makes her horribly superficial. I know she’s not, her inner artist just loves beauty.

  Those topics that are off the table feel bigger the more time they spend together, a couple of proverbial elephants in the room. She’s struggling not to ask Wil about Zak. Has he seen him around, has he asked after her, and what are they both keeping from her and why?

  Honouring Wil’s request, his pastoral duty, and mostly his friendship, she restrains her curiosity. Besides, she’s too proud to show she cares. The other sore point is Ruth; Mia’s beginning to wonder if it’s an unspoken rule born of a shared loyalty to their mutual friend and if Wil, in fact, is already well aware of Ruth’s love for him. These riddles remain in Mia’s mind like knots that need unpicking.

  Nevertheless, she feels a hundred times better for being around Wil, so when his mentoring at school commences she finds herself more alone in the valley than ever. She longs for the evenings, for everyone to return to the honey house, for the kitchen to fill with hubbub, hugs and friendly faces. She won’t be anyone’s lost luggage, nobody’s victim, nobody’s fool, but with the daylight hours eking out so slowly, she has too much time to fill. Between those lively evening reunions, her body aches with a shadow-coloured pain.

  A few days of solitude pass before she calls in to see Rosa at Chokecherry Shack. She would’ve called by sooner, but when they connected the other day, Rosa mentioned something about undergoing a medical procedure the first part of the week. Mia didn’t want to pry, but asked if she’d like any help; Rosa replied she’d just like the company. Mia drops in for a visit just as soon as Rosa is up to it, and soon learns that the last thing she wants to discuss is her health.

  ‘Found your story yet?’ she asks Mia, diverting the topic and lighting up her pipe in the doorway.

  ‘No, but I found my totem. Or rather, my totem found me. A wolf found me in the wild one night,’ shares Mia, knowing she doesn’t have to be of a particular creed to feel an affinity with an animal; different peoples had been doing it for aeons. ‘The lone wolf.’

  Rosa smiles. ‘Wolf is pathfinder. Uses intuition to find its way through the wilds.’

  ‘Then I hope it finds its way soon,’ says Mia. ‘I’ve no idea which direction I’m headed.’

  Rosa looks at the talisman around Mia’s neck. Mia hasn’t taken it off since the night they met and she tied it onto her.

  ‘As for a story… I didn’t get the one I came for.’

  Rosa lowers her eyes. ‘Maybe there’s still one here for you yet.’

  ‘I’ve got to find one on my travels.’

  ‘You will. Besides, it’s important to travel when you’re young. It’s important we give our children roots and wings.’

  ‘Do you have children?’ asks Mia – it seems the obvious response. Only, as soon as she says it something tells her she shouldn’t have, the intuition that’s made her hesitate asking before.

  Rosa holds her head still, holds the smoke inside her for longer than normal. Eventually she releases it in a tight stream that looks like it burns her insides. ‘One,’ she says, eyes averted. ‘Once.’ She taps the pipe ash into the bowl on the window ledge. ‘I was young. Barely sixteen.’ Rosa pauses. ‘My baby wasn’t with me for long.’

  Their words echo as if the space between them is a canyon.

  ‘Oh… I’m so sorry,’ says Mia. ‘I’m sorry I asked you that…’

  Rosa drops her head, smoke spirits swirling skyward, her cinched lips indicating that the subject’s not open for discussion, that her life is not an open book like Mia thought. Not this chapter, anyway. Rosa appears to her in a shifting light as she turns to conceal the sadness, loneliness and loss that Mia just glimpsed in her face. And it occurs to Mia that maybe one of the reasons Rosa shares her native stories is to avoid sharing her own. Rosa’s translucency just another illusion in this Wonderland.

  But this is life and life is bitter-sweet, Rosa had said so. It’s symbolised by those dried chokecherries hanging above her own front door.

  Standing on the bridge that divides east from west, Mia stares endlessly into rushing water, lamenting how she jarred Rosa. Seemingly, from out of nowhere, a gentle hand pats her on the back a
nd she turns around into the scene of another Dale house party, Wil passes Mia her favourite drink.

  ‘Hey, Miss Mia!’ he beams. ‘Where you been these past few days? I’ve been meaning to ask you, we’re taking a roadtrip. You want in? Everyone pre-booked the same week off work before accepting their jobs, so we could all have one final adventure together. I finish up orientation on Friday, we could go after that?’

  Without asking him where to, she tells him, ‘Sure.’

  She’s already at a cross-roads in her life. Why not take up the offer of a road-trip?

  JUNE, 2006

  Ruth runs down the wooden steps of her house, clutching the sleeping bag Mia left behind in her living room.

  ‘Ah, thanks, Ruthie! You sure you won’t come?’ tries Mia, one last attempt. ‘I heard Tess’s mum keeps chickens – you love chickens!’ Ruth loves all creatures, but it’s still not enough to persuade her. Mia’s been trying all day; she won’t budge. Ruth claimed that, unlike the others, she couldn’t get the time off work.