Beneath the Distant Star

by Lisa Shambrook

  She drew a deep breath and flexed her fingers. She stared about her, glancing down the field and back. She was alone. “Okay,” she gazed into its branches. “Can you do what your daddy did? Without an electric shock…” she added.

  Jasmine chuckled again and dropped to her knees. She placed her hands steadily around the thin trunk and gripped it tight.

  “Come on, I’m ready—and you know I need answers!” When nothing happened she chuckled again. “Yeah, right, just what I expected… Whoah!” She hadn’t expected the tears that stung her eyes or the emotion that accompanied them. She tried to release her hands, but she was caught up within a flood of sensations.

  She rested her head against the trunk and closed her eyes. Emotions flew through her, sending shivers up her spine and lighting up her mind. There was nothing she could do but let them flow. There was no sense, no substance, and no comprehension as shapes and colours danced through her mind, until suddenly all went quiet.

  Muted colours arced across her mind, and then brightened into the lost memory of a rainbow. The memory glanced across her mind then settled and Jasmine was suddenly sitting on her father’s knee staring at the most glorious rainbow she’d ever seen arcing across the beach. The image burned into her soul. The rainbow hung in the sky with such beauty and clarity that neither she, nor her father, could take their eyes off it. Jasmine felt herself turn to her father and in the childish voice of a toddler spoke softly, while clutching at his shirt with her chubby hands, “You blue top, Daddy, like that rainbow, and green like mine t-shirt.” And her father’s voice answered with such depth she thought he sat beside her. “And purple like Freya’s teddy bear.” She could hear the smile in his voice. “And beautiful like Freya,”

  Jasmine felt tears running down her cheeks as she grasped the tree trunk. The toddler’s memory coursed back. She turned and settled into her father’s embrace. Tears fell from his eyes dropping into her hair, and she watched her mother stand, alone, down on the beach, beneath the rainbow.

  The vision faded as quickly as it had come, and the memory slid back into her head, and Jasmine let go of the tree. She opened her wet eyes and stared up into the canopy. She crawled backwards away from it and whispered, “I didn’t ask for Freya, I asked for me…”

  The memory still sat in her head, like a snapshot pinned to the notice board, and Jasmine couldn’t shake it. The colours of the rainbow lit up her mind and the blue and green t-shirts filled her memory. She vaguely recalled a green t-shirt, a soft-green t-shirt that she’d worn for years… Her mind whirled, trying to understand why she remembered it. There was a photograph of her in the garden as a small child, sitting amongst the bluebells beneath the apple tree, and she wore the green t-shirt. Did Mum still have it somewhere? Where was Dad’s favourite blue t-shirt? He’d worn it so much when she was a little girl it would always be associated with him, but she hadn’t seen it for years.

  Jasmine shook her head, finally ridding it of the hazy rainbow, and took off down the slope towards her house. Her legs raced through the grass, picking up speed, and she almost tripped over her heavy boots. Her heart thumped as she mounted the garden wall and hopped to the roof. She climbed up and through her window, landing heavily on the floor. She stood for a moment, listening, just in case Mum hadn’t gone to work, and heard nothing but her hammering heart.

  She stumbled into the hall and stared up at the attic door. She grabbed the attic pole from the spare room to release the door. The ladder folded down and she clambered up into the small loft space. A bare bulb lit up as she tugged the string.

  Rubbing her eyes, she blinked and sighed. Piles of old junk filled much of the planked floor space in front of lots of cardboard boxes stacked in the corner. A roll of carpet and some old baby equipment took up another corner. Behind her, several more large cardboard boxes sat atop each other.

  The big boxes stared at Jasmine. She knew they contained old clothes, blankets, bits and pieces, and things Mum couldn’t throw out, and she knew they wouldn’t be Freya’s belongings because her things still lived in the spare room. She pulled down the first box and lifted the lid.

  She unfolded rustling tissue paper and lifted out several items. She peeled back more tissue paper and revealed Mum’s silver filigree tiara decorated with tiny, sparkling peridot jewels. She laid it on the floor beside a small pile of cards, still tied with pale green, green like her t-shirt, velvet ribbon. She moved tissue paper apart and smiled at the veil, also decorated with peridot sparkles. She shook her head and left the wedding dress covered gently replacing the other items.

  The second box appeared to be piled high with knitted and crocheted blankets. The third was full of old clothes. She rifled through then replaced the lid and pushed it away.

  She pulled the next box close, yanking off the lid. Staring inside, her hands trembled as she snatched up Blue Ted, hurt that he’d been discarded to an attic box. She sat him beside her and peered into the box.

  She lifted out an ivory, crocheted blanket, small enough to hold a doll, and put it reverently on the floor. A fragile, white lace dress sat below on top of two tiny baby sleepsuits that she recognised from Freya’s baby photos. She picked up a teeny pair of white leather shoes, barely worn and tiny straps all buckled up. She moved the baby clothes aside revealing a lilac fleece, the same shade as Purple Ted.

  Her hands shook as she moved the blanket aside. Beneath were two more sleepsuits; both white, one with an embroidered puppy and the other without. Jasmine smiled, as she recognised the baby clothes as her own. She pulled out a tiny pair of powder-blue leather boots, which sat upon a pale-blue fleece, the same shade as Blue Ted. Her heart leaped as she picked up the blue fleece and held it to her face, it was musty, but it was hers. Jasmine grinned. Her baby clothes held the same respect as her sister’s.

  She gently replaced the fleece and patted the baby clothes down as she put the lid back on. She turned to the last box, carefully removing the lid. On top of everything was an old-fashioned, brown leather suitcase. She recognised it as having belonged to her great-grandfather, and she knew her mother loved the old vintage case. She cautiously picked it up and placed it on the floor beside her.

  She scowled as she leaned over the cardboard box and saw pages covering the contents. A plethora of rainbow paintings sat in the box; pages and pages, of watercolour, of acrylic and coloured pastel drawings of rainbows. She lifted them out, shaking her head, glancing only briefly at the bright colours and beautiful bows.

  She set them aside and smiled as she suddenly saw the green t-shirt. She seized it and hugged it close. It had holes in it, holes from wear and tear, but again it was hers and she held it to her chest. She shivered as the rainbow shimmered in her mind again, and the greens merged in her head. She glanced down and pulled out Dad’s blue t-shirt. She grinned and opened it out. Yes, this was the one, his favourite top. She brought it to her face and breathed in. She coughed and pulled back, the smell was no longer of her father, but musty and strange, and not pleasant at all. She gazed back into the box.

  It held more clothes that she did not recognise.

  She pulled out a little denim jacket. Underneath was another denim garment and suddenly her heart began to beat against her ribcage and she swallowed hard. The jeans were small, and torn, and bloodied. She removed a red t-shirt and gulped, it had been cut, raggedly, right down the centre. It smelled stale and metallic and she retched. A small pair of stained trainers lay beneath the clothes, dirty laces still tied.

  Jasmine’s heart shattered as she saw her sister’s preserved outfit. She stared with Freya’s red t-shirt still crumpled in her trembling hands. She very carefully folded the t-shirt and laid it back in the box. She replaced Dad’s blue t-shirt and her green one, and quickly lifted the vintage suitcase.

  The catch sprang open and its contents spilled out, and Jasmine burst into tears.

  Stacks of sketches scattered across the floor. A box of pencils and a carton of chalky pastels fell by her side. An
old tin of watercolours fell open and slid noisily across the floor. She hurriedly picked up the tiny, dried cakes of colour and put them back in the tin, closing it and placing it back inside the suitcase. She picked up the chalks and pencils and stuffed them back into their cartons then she hastily tried to gather all the pieces of paper.

  She sniffed and wiped her tears on her arm and noticed the pictures. She knew they were Mum’s paintings and drawings, sketches and portraits that she had done when she was young. She tried to put the pictures back into some kind of order.

  She placed the pictures of cats and dogs, pencil sketches of horses and birds together then collected scenic paintings. Pale watercolours and pencil outlines of local beaches and hillsides. She quickly placed the pictures on top of the pile of rainbows on the floor. Then she picked up family sketches, she recognised drawings of Freya and of herself from photos, a sketch of Dad, portraits and a couple of rough self-portraits. None of her mother’s self-portraits were finished, or if they were they’d been left as harsh studies. The only one coloured was washed out and radiated sadness. Next came more scenery, lots of washed out watercolour and rough drafts. She hurriedly flicked through the pictures, not giving them much thought in her present state of distress, until she came to a pencil drawing of a young girl then her fingers stopped.

  Tears filled her eyes as she gazed at a portrait of Freya. A five or six-year-old child gazed back, with wide green eyes and messy, light-brown hair framing delicate childish features. Her mum had pencilled in a halo of tiny white flowers threaded through her hair and coloured the narrow leaves with pastels. The beauty entranced her and broke her. It was more beautiful than any photograph she’d seen, and more delicate than any image she could ever remember.

  She couldn’t tear herself away from the image caught by her mother, and she didn’t hear the click of keys in the front door as she studied the drawing. She glanced at the next sketch, the charcoal portrait of a young teen. A girl with a frown and an angry glare stared at her. Every nuance was there, even the way her black fringe and her choppy hair framed her face was right. She stared into her own eyes, her own green, angry eyes and a tear dropped onto the page.

  “It’s okay…” Her mother’s voice startled her.

  Jasmine swung round guilt flushing her cheeks crimson even in the dim attic light.

  “I think we should have shared these a while ago.” Her mother stood upon the ladder leaning into the attic. “Bring them down with you…” She smiled and her head bobbed down and away as she descended the steps.

  Jasmine hesitated, but then scrambled onto her knees and followed her mother down the ladder. The bright daylight made her screw up her eyes and she shaded them as she moved into Mum’s bedroom.

  “The school called, you weren’t there. So I told them I was giving you one more day to come to terms with a death in the family.” She chuckled wryly. “If I say a death in the family they’ll fall over themselves to help!”

  Jasmine stared at her mum with leaves of paper clutched to her chest. “I’ve never seen these…” she said.

  Her mum nodded. “I know, and maybe that’s what’s wrong. Maybe you need to see those.”

  Jasmine put them in her lap and sat beside her mother on the bed. She picked up the picture of the little girl with the wreath of white flowers. “Is this Freya?” she asked.

  Mum shook her head and smiled. “It’s you, not Freya.”

  “It could be Freya though…”

  “It’s not, it’s definitely you.”

  “How do I know it’s me and not Freya, we both had brown hair and green eyes?”

  “Look at the flowers…” Mum gently touched the page. “They’re jasmine, sweet, fragrant jasmine, they’re you…”

  Jasmine smiled and traced the delicate, starry flowers in the picture. “It’s me? It’s beautiful.”

  “You’re beautiful.”

  “So was Freya.”

  “You’re both beautiful.” Mum picked up the charcoal drawing. “Even here, you’re beautiful.”

  Jasmine shook her head. “Yeah right, with a scowl and everything…”

  “Even angry, you’re beautiful.”

  “I ruined it.”

  “How?” asked Mum.

  Jasmine pointed at the teardrop on the page, diluting the black charcoal.

  “Makes it more authentic,” said Mum. “Look at the rest of the pictures.”

  Jasmine began to flick through the pages. There were drawings of Freya, several versions of the fairy wings photograph and one or two others, but there were more pictures of Jasmine. Drawings of an innocent toddler and a mischievous child, and a troubled teen, but the last picture surprised her. It was her, definitely her, at the age of about ten being hugged by an older girl.

  The picture was a pencil sketch painted with watercolours, light and ethereal. Jasmine sat on a rock, dressed in a blue dress that she recognised and behind her stood a girl with her arms around Jasmine’s neck.

  “Who’s that?” she asked and glanced up at her mother.

  “Freya,” replied her mother with glistening eyes.

  Jasmine shook her head. “But…” She gazed at the picture and at the green-eyed young woman in the delicate white dress behind her. “But, how?”

  “I saw her…” whispered her mum. “I saw her, just once.”

  “When?” Jasmine could barely hear her own voice.

  Mum fidgeted with her fingers, and turned her wedding ring round and grief tinged her words. “Just once…” She sniffed. “I saw her, just once, beneath the rainbow.”

  “A rainbow?” Jasmine drew in a breath. “A rainbow.”

  “It was just once…”

  “Where?”

  “On the beach, a long time ago…” began Mum.

  “Yes, I remember…”

  “How can you remember, you were only tiny?” Mum asked in surprise.

  “I remember. I wore a green t-shirt and Dad wore his blue one—the ones in the box.” She indicated the attic above. “I saw you, down by the rainbow.”

  “She was there—Freya was there—and I saw her,” said Mum. “But she wasn’t a child, not seven like she was when she died, she was like this…” Mum gently tapped the picture. “She was grown, beautiful, like this.”

  “So, this is her? This is what she’d look like now?” said Jasmine.

  “Maybe,” said her mum.

  “So, she appeared to you beneath the rainbow?”

  “She did.” Mum nodded.

  “And that didn’t give you closure?”

  Mum’s brow furrowed. “Closure?”

  “Yes. Freya appearing to you didn’t give you closure, resolution, whatever you want to call it?” asked Jasmine.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, up there…” She pointed to the attic. “You still have the clothes she died in and the spare room is still Freya’s. You still mention her all the time, and it’s been fourteen years…” Jasmine stared at her mum.

  “I’ll never forget her…”

  “I’m not asking you to forget her, I’m not even asking you to get rid of the clothes, but you haven’t stopped grieving, you still search for her…”

  “Search for her?” Mum frowned again.

  “Beneath rainbows! Mum, you still look for her beneath rainbows!” Jasmine’s voice rose.

  “But, but…” began Mum. “Maybe she’ll appear again…”

  “Mum!” Jasmine shook her head. She gazed at the picture of Freya and herself and then looked straight at her mother. “Mum, when will you get tired of chasing rainbows? Can’t you see that you’re already there? When will you stop searching and find what you already have?” Jasmine’s voice caught in her throat. “You have me…”

  Tears slipped down Mum’s face and she stroked Freya’s face in the picture. “I can’t forget Freya…”

  “It’s Freya or me, Mum.” Jasmine searched her mother’s face. “Freya or me, and I’m here, you already have me…”

 
Jasmine’s eyes pleaded with her mother, but her mum couldn’t tear her gaze away from the drawing on her lap.

  “Don’t lose both of us…” Jasmine whispered.

  Jasmine’s heart splintered as her mother sat silent, as impenetrable as the emotions that whirled within Jasmine herself. She stared at Mum, willing her to respond, to react, but there was nothing, just tears that slipped down her face.

  Jasmine stood, swallowed a sob and bolted out of the room. She veered into her bedroom and hurried to the window, slung her legs over the sill and slid out. Her wobbly legs gave way and she landed on her rear on the extension roof. She sat for a moment, tears stinging and hands shaking then she scrambled to her feet and darted down the wall, leaping into the field.

  She ran, ignoring the searing heartbreak and ploughed through the long grass. The invigorating breeze danced in her hair and the clouds parted as the sun glimpsed through. As tears escaped, big fat raindrops dropped from the sky. Grey clouds roiled and churned as the sun fought to shine, and Jasmine stopped halfway up the hill.

  Her cries caught on the wind, wild, desperate cries of loss and abandonment, and the stormy sky mirrored her devastation. Jasmine stood on trembling legs and threw her arms up into the wind as the rain fell. Water splashed her arms and her upturned face and she had no idea where her tears stopped and the raindrops began.

  The sun battled behind the clouds, burning and blazing through, and the wind finally drove the clouds aside.

  Jasmine opened her eyes and stared. Down at her house a figure climbed through her bedroom window, and Jasmine watched her mother balance precariously on the roof. Fear filled Jasmine’s heart as her mum moved to the lip of the extension, where she stood, on the edge, staring out across the field. Her mother stared open-mouthed, and brought her hands to her face. She lifted her head and gazed up into the sky and Jasmine watched in confusion.

  Mum’s face lit up in wonder and awe and Jasmine was mystified.

  Puddles on the roof shone in the sun and little washed out rainbows reflected off the glassy surface. Jasmine spun round and tilted her head back, as her mother had done on the roof. She fell to her knees as she stared at the glorious arc of colour that curved above her.