Beneath the Mother Tree

by D. M. Cameron

  ‘She lives in her own version of the truth. Doesn’t even know when she’s lying half the time because she does it that often she believes her own lies. She’s incredibly convincing. I’ve seen her make people doubt their sanity. Ayla thinks if we’re honest, she’ll be honest back. But Ayla has no idea what she’s dealing with when it comes to my mother.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s not the worst of it.’

  ‘What’s the worst?’ Grappa almost wet himself in eagerness.

  ‘She gets these bouts of…I don’t know what you’d call it… depression? Doesn’t get out of bed for days, stops eating. It’s like all the life goes out of her. David always referred to it as her illness.’

  ‘Illness?’

  ‘Like sometimes she can be really unpredictable, get mad over nothing – and I mean really mad. David would always say ‘Don’t worry mate, that’s just her illness.’

  ‘Fascinating.’

  ‘As suddenly as it started, she’s back to normal. I wouldn’t even call it normal, more like obsessing about something, usually her mosquitoes.’ He laughed a bitter laugh for someone so young and finished off his scotch. Grappa poured him another. It was starting to loosen the boy’s tongue.

  ‘What country’s your Mum from, son?’

  A long pause as uncertainty swept over the boy. ‘I was born in America but she’s not from there. My grandmother came from –’

  ‘Ireland?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Had a feeling your mother was Irish.’ Grappa almost burst into a leprechaun’s jig but restrained himself. Didn’t want the boy thinking he was daft. ‘What part of Ireland, do you know?’

  ‘My grandmother, she lived with us in America. She looked after me because Mum would tour and give lectures. She was like a young prodigy. We were always moving. I remember my grandmother talking about home, and how she was going to take me there one day and how cold it was. She spoke funny. There were words she said that I couldn’t understand. She had a strong accent.’

  ‘Can you contact her? Do you have an address for her in Ireland?’

  ‘No. She and Mum had a big fight. I was about seven by then. A year later Mum met David and we moved to Australia. Mum calls herself Australian now. Scotch does warm you up, doesn’t it?’

  ‘So, your grandmother never rings? Never sends birthday cards? Christmas presents?’

  ‘Not that I know of. When we first got to Australia, I kept asking Mum if she was going to visit, and Mum said she was dead. But I don’t believe that.’ The boy’s mahogany eyes were all turmoil. ‘I don’t believe anything she says since I found this.’ He painstakingly wrapped the photo back up then took another swig. ‘Wouldn’t be surprised if I never see her again.’

  ‘Who? Your mother?’

  ‘No. Ayla.’

  Now the words were pouring out of the boy’s mouth so fast, he couldn’t keep up.

  ‘Oh God, I hope I haven’t blown it with her.’

  ‘Who? Ayla? Or your mother?’

  The boy began to cry like an inconsolable child. Bewildered, Grappa patted him on the back and poured them both another drink.

  Riley couldn’t remember ever feeling so horrendous. It even hurt to turn his head. He sat at the kitchen table, sipping on his glass of water, wondering if he had more vomit left in him. The constant drops of rain hitting the tin roof were like hot needles piercing his skull.

  His mother still hadn’t surfaced. If David were here, he would say, ‘Hope she hasn’t gone into one of her spirals.’ That was always the first sign, not getting out of bed. David had always spoken in terms of her ‘illness’ secretly to Riley, never in front of her. She would eventually materialise, happily refreshed, full of manic energy, and no one would mention the fact she had been bedridden.

  There was something disturbing Ayla’s grandfather had said about his mother last night. Riley couldn’t quite remember. It was a nasty misgiving sitting in the back of his mind. There was a lot of last night he couldn’t remember. He had a vague recollection of falling overboard and almost drowning while the old man sat in the row boat, cackling.

  He thought he heard a car door slam over the sound of the rain. A loud knock on the front wall of the house confirmed it. Head pounding, he crept downstairs and opened the door.

  ‘Hi, love. Mum home?’

  ‘Hey, Till.’

  ‘Still pissing down. You may never work again.’ She took her dripping raincoat off, smiling at the look on his face. ‘You do know I’m having you on. Once the sun comes out after all this rain, you’ll be mowing your cute arse off. Mum home?’

  ‘She’s still in bed.’

  ‘At this time of day? What, she sick?’

  ‘I’m fine. I was just resting,’ Ghost-like, Marlise stood at the top of the stairs, her skin paler than her nightie.

  ‘Shit, you look like death warmed up, love.’

  ‘Haven’t been sleeping well, that’s all.’

  ‘Came to tell you the goss on the council decision about the mozzie spraying,’ Tilly waddled upstairs, reaching the top, out of breath.

  ‘Riley, fetch Tilly a glass of water.’ Her voice sounded as pinched as her face. She sat at the kitchen table, waiting for Tilly’s coughing to subside. He had the urge to touch his Mum on the hand, to check if she was alright, like David would. As usual, he couldn’t bring himself to. He knew she craved more shows of physical affection, but something always held him back. The umbilical cord between them was no longer soft and malleable, it had stiffened and dried-out with the blood of distrust. He fetched the water quietly like an obedient child in the hope this would suffice.

  ‘Your findings sure put the wind up them. Their initial decision was not to resume spraying, even though it was obvious most of the community wanted it. When Maria Boccabella found out though… far out, you should have seen her. Talk about a crazed woman. You know Maria, the Italian who lives in the monstrosity near the barge ramp?’

  ‘Yes.’ The sharp tone of impatience made him study her. She was too still, extremely agitated, ready to snap.

  Tilly was oblivious. ‘She stormed into the council chambers and disrupted a meeting, threw things around. Had to restrain her, I heard. Anyway, cut a long story short, she got the decision overturned.’

  ‘How?’ His mother was sitting on the edge of her chair, ready to attack.

  ‘Maria had a big hand in the Mayor’s last election campaign, basically funded it. She owns five houses on this island and half of Rocky Point. That’s an exaggeration but you get what I mean, she’s loaded. Claimed if they didn’t resume spraying, the return on her rental portfolio would be so poor she would have no choice but to pull the plug on all future cash donations, including the Mayor’s next electoral campaign. Threatened to fund a smear campaign instead.’ Tilly pulled her cigarettes out. ‘Thought I’d let you know the whole story so you don’t feel too bad. Your report almost worked. But money talks in the end, as always.’

  His mother was gazing into the linoleum as if the secret of the universe was hidden in the pattern. ‘Doesn’t that Boccabella woman have a heart? Is money all she cares about?’ Her eyes flashed, wet and black.

  ‘Nah, Maria’s a good stick. Loves that horse, and she’s very generous with her cash. Just came back from Bali and bought me a fancy jewel encrusted ashtray. Personally, I’m not upset about the decision. Holiday rentals and house sales have dropped since they stopped spraying. All got to make a living somehow.’ Tilly pulled her lighter out.

  ‘Bali? There are all sorts of killer mosquito-borne diseases rampant in Bali. Let’s hope she hasn’t brought one back with her.’ His mother emptied her face of emotion.

  He had no rational reason to feel frightened for that old lady he had seen on the horse the other morning, but he did.

  Tilly gave his mother a tentative look. ‘Mind if I smoke in here, love?’

  ‘Yes.’ The seething was evident in her voice.

  Tilly widened her eyes at Riley.
He knew she wanted to ask: ‘What’s up her bum?’ It made him smile.

  She scrutinised Marlise. ‘Sure you’re okay, love?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ One of her hands was gripping the edge of the kitchen table so hard the fingernails bent back.

  Tilly unpeeled herself from the small wooden chair, releasing it from her vastness. ‘Better get going. Got a funeral to organize. Poor Harley Mangleson’s gone and killed himself. Knew he was upset about his dog but didn’t know things were that bad with him. Never can tell with people, can you?’

  At the name Harley Mangleson and the mention of the dog, what Grappa had said about his mother last night came back to him: ‘His dog Jip was poisoned just after you moved in. Harley swears it was your mother. Know anything about that, son?’

  Watching her reaction to the news of Harley’s death, Riley’s stomach turned over. He reached the toilet in time to find his vomit still tasted of scotch, which made him start all over again. He could hear his mother seeing Tilly out. He remembered her mentioning the dog several times the day they arrived, how its barking irritated her. She had all sorts of chemicals and poisons in her laboratory. It wouldn’t be hard, with her scientific knowledge, to concoct something. An image rushed at him, his childhood friend Kelvin, sitting with his dead dog, Buddy, Kelvin’s tear stained face confused and full of rage. ‘My Mum reckons your Mum killed him. Why would she do that? I’m not allowed to play with you anymore.’

  He was dry retching now. Surely, he had nothing left in his stomach. ‘Are you ill?’

  He hadn’t heard her come back upstairs. She was so pale, even her lips looked bloodless.

  ‘Self-inflicted.’ It hurt his throat to speak.

  She teemed with disappointment. He couldn’t hold her gaze. When he looked up again, the question forming on his lips left him. She had gone. Only the slam of her bedroom door indicated where.

  So, he was dead.

  Marlise sank onto her bed and cried from relief. She might be able to sleep tonight without waking at the slightest sound, imagining the sunglass-clad, drugged-out psycho slinking down the hall, machete in hand.

  Last night, when she did manage to fall asleep, she dreamt she was a mosquito captured in a jar and he proceeded to pull her wings off, one by one. She shuddered at the memory and stood up.

  The view through her rain soaked window defeated her today. The mangroves looked forlorn standing bedraggled in the muddy water, the mess of their root systems as twisted as her emotions.

  He was dead.

  Why didn’t she feel elated? It was disheartening that Riley was ruining himself with liquor over some flaky girl he scarcely knew, but the genocide about to be inflicted on the poor mosquito population was intolerable. Of course she would fight the decision. This was what incapacitated her. There was always something here in their newly found paradise she had to battle with. All too exhausting. She lay on her bed and realised she hadn’t eaten all day. No wonder she was feeling so tired. But the thought of food was repulsive. She turned over and willed herself to sleep.

  She didn’t know what time it was when she entered her laboratory but through the glass door, she could see the wet swamp glittering in the bright moonlight.

  Too perfect a night not to work.

  In the insectary, the putridity of the dead rodent hit her at once. She pulled a latex glove from the packet and peered into the cage full of fat well-fed mosquitoes, congratulating herself on her timing. The rotting mouse lying on the floor of their cage was pale and bloodless. Six days ago, she had taken a syringe and extracted the frozen pathogens from a cryotube plucked from her canister of liquid nitrogen. Then, selecting the plumpest of the baby mice, she had injected its brain with the live pathogen. Two days later, when the mouse was showing visible signs of infection, she had placed it in the cage for her darlings to feed on. They had done a wonderful job sucking every last drop from the creature. She tried to pick it up but it stuck slightly so she had to scrape at it, leaving a stain on the cage floor. This displeased her. Usually, she would remove the dead mouse after a few hours but with all the Harley trouble and lack of sleep, she had forgotten. Revolted, she threw it into the swamp for the crows to feed on. Taking a jar from the shelf, she undid the lid, then pricked her thumb and let a drop of blood fall into the bottom of the vessel. She undid the knotted fabric covering the opening in the cage, and placed the jar in the hole. The cloth opening had been cut so the jar fitted exactly.

  ‘Starving…poor darlings.’ They swarmed to her blood at the base of the jar and drank, not enough to fill them up but to give them a taste. She screwed the lid on and admired her hard-working vectors, one ear always tuned to Riley’s steady breathing. The gutters outside were dripping. The rain had finally stopped so she crept downstairs, leaving the heavy front door ajar.

  The full moon hovered above the house like an old friend waiting in the dark. She looked up for too long and became dizzy. Feeling faint, she staggered to the bench under the house at the edge of the swamp to lay down. Unsure if she fell asleep or passed out, when she woke up she was exhilarated, as light as a shadow flying into the night, burning with hunger, directly to Maria Boccabella’s house.

  The night smelt deliciously dank and mildewed after the rain. She gulped as she almost flew under a dripping branch. One drop of water on her wings could ground her. She relaxed into it. This was her favourite part, the flying. She soared and dipped, somersaulting around the sparkling drops of salt hanging in the moonlit air. Burrawang lacked these crystal salt particles, was her last thought before the human world fell away to only the sound of her wings as she flew through the diamonds in the night.

  The Italian woman’s house was in darkness but for the fluorescent blue lights hanging from the balcony, zapping moths by the hundreds and many poor mosquitoes that strayed too close. The sound and sight of those electrified lights killing her kind, filled Marlise with venom, venom full of deadly live pathogens. She swished the saliva around in her mouth and felt them brewing. How convenient the woman had been to Bali recently. The authorities wouldn’t suspect a thing.

  On her fourth lap, she realised there was no way in. The house was a fortress, every door and window screened, all potential gaps sealed. She screamed angrily into the night, which emerged as an unsatisfying faint buzz.

  Flying toward the horse asleep under a Jacaranda tree, she marvelled at the talent of the pathogen carrying mosquito, harbouring the ability to kill so many different species.

  The glowing whiteness of the horse made it look carved from the moon, but its skin was soft and easily penetrated. Even though she was starving, she tried not to over feed, which wasn’t difficult – horse was her least favourite blood. She knew if she over-fed she would lose the excess later in human form through abdominal cramping, which she loathed.

  The horse slept until she pulled out, when it swished its tail, flinging her into the coming dawn. She regained her balance, changed direction and flew west toward the swamp and home to Riley, who she guessed was sleeping with a sore head and bruised heart.

  It was midday when Marlise woke from the sun pouring in through the window of her room. Her first proper sleep in weeks and her appetite had returned.

  ‘I could eat a horse.’ She remembered her vivid dream and laughed. The nightmares had been replaced with such delicious wonder.

  She stretched languidly on the bed. Hopefully now the rain had stopped, Riley would return to work instead of moping around looking like he wanted to skin her alive and feed her to the murder of crows frequenting the back deck.

  His new job was a terrific development, she realised yesterday when she heard him relating to Tilly, how natural he was, how at ease. Maybe a new life here was possible? She had even made a friend. June seemed full of potential.

  ‘All you need in life is one good friend,’ her mother always said when Marlise came home from school crying, claiming no one liked her.

  But best of all, that nasty dog owner was no longer a threat. She ti
cked off all the blessings in her head, her grateful list.

  Energized after such a good sleep, she rolled over and fantasised she was covered in ice-cream and Josh was licking her clean. She knew if she went down to the pool for her swimming lesson, they would end up fucking hard and fast on the dirty cement floor of his ice-cream booth, hidden like rats. If no one ever found out, what harm could there be?

  She groaned in frustration and felt between her legs. Disturbed at how wet she was, she pulled the sheet back and saw blood.

  Then the cramping began. She raced and sat on the toilet, shocked, as the dark syrupy liquid dripped from between her legs. She hadn’t bled since the arrival of the hot flushes. The subtle vile odour wafted up in clumps. She caught her reflection in the mirror and all thoughts of visiting Josh vanished as she watched herself shrivelling, drying up. The voluptuousness she had been feeling disappeared. She looked old and spent, and smelt like a dead animal.

  16.

  Once the rain clouds dispersed, Grappa spent a day on the boat cleaning, whistling as he worked. At least the two small tanks he’d rigged to catch runoff from the roof were full.

  The following morning, he rowed to the island and heard the news that Harley Mangleson had overdosed the night of the Banshee wail. He was saddened by Harley’s death, but the timing with the Banshee was food for his soul. How had the boy put it? ‘There’s more to life than meets the eye.’

  So much more son, you have no idea. Only a matter of watching for the signs, then all is revealed.

  Grappa was so excited by the confirmation that the Banshee’s wail had been real and not the imaginings of a ‘crazy old drunk,’ he spent the day on the island stretching his cabin cramped legs, chatting to anyone who’d listen.

  It was late afternoon when he noticed Toto – the magnificent horse belonging to Maria Boccabella – trying to walk up the beach near the barge ramp. It staggered and shook its head. As Grappa drew closer, he saw the neck muscles twitching.

  ‘Hey there, Toto.’ Usually the horse would approach him, but it skittered in the opposite direction. He followed Toto into Maria’s yard, concerned by the fact that its front legs were starting to give way. The horse pressed its head against the jacaranda tree. When it collapsed into a kneeling position, Grappa raced to the house and dragged Maria from her plasma screen.