by Tabitha Bird
I squeeze her hand. ‘We should get Mummy and show her how it works.’
Lottie squeezes my hand back. ‘Tell me a story first, please?’
But before I can, a picnic basket floats down from the mango tree, and inside is a picnic blanket with plastic on the back so our bottoms don’t get wet. How amaze-a-loo is that? I’ve never seen a blanket like that before. There are rolled-up paper packets with hot chips and slices of lemon.
‘Thank you very much, Ocean.’ I even do a little bow. ‘Come on, Lottie. I’ll tell you a story while we eat the hot chips. Then we show Mummy the garden and pack our bags.’ We squeeze the lemon over the chips and blow on them until they’re cool enough for us to gobble up. Frog Dog flops beside us.
‘You sure Mummy will come?’
I try not to worry about Mummy and instead take out my Glittery-Best-Storytelling-Glasses. Cheap junk that doesn’t work, Mummy says. Grammy found my glasses in the charity store in town. She tells me she believes in tatty books with musty smells and blankets washed to soft crinkles. And glittery glasses. Now I believe, too, even though Mummy said to throw them out.
‘They don’t work. As if we need any more rubbish,’ she said.
I stood at the breakfast table because someone had to stand up for things that matter. ‘Guess that depends what you want them to work for. They work real great for telling stories!’
‘Sit down and eat your toast. Are you being smart with me? Because I’m your mother and you will show me respect. Do you understand that? Even when you’re grown, I will still be your mother and you will still show me respect.’
I sat, but inside I was still standing up.
From then on, I’ve kept the glasses with me at all times in case Mummy throws them out.
I squeeze Lottie’s hand again and think real hard. ‘Okay. Got it!’
The paper sailboats sit around us on the ground. No more popping. Even the seagulls fluff their wings and wait. The crabs gather in groups to listen. The cloud-waves lick our feet. Then I put on my best story voice.
‘Once, up there’ – I point to the sky – ‘was a bird that no one else could see, and all the other birds kept crashing into him. One day he fell out of the sky and broke his leg. And he was happy ever after.’
‘Why?’ Lottie pushes up on her elbows beside me and I poke her pouty lip back in.
‘Because he discovered that he wanted to be a ballerina, not a flying machine.’
‘What’s the point of that? He’s a bird.’ Lottie giggles.
‘The point is, you’re laughing.’
She sticks out her tongue and blows a raspberry.
It’s not very funny, but we laugh until we hiccup. Even Frog Dog snorts with us. Sometimes the funniest things are not really very funny at all.
For a moment that’s all we can hear.
Then Lottie grabs my arm. ‘Is Mummy crying?’
We listen.
Fat sobs.
‘It’s time to get her. You wait here. Promise?’
She nods, lip wobbling.
‘Pinkie promise?’
We link fingers. ’Cause a pinkie promise means we’re together. Even if we’re not. ‘Hold on to Frog Dog, Lottie. She’ll follow me otherwise.’ And I tiptoe to the rocky edge of the garden.
‘I just need to stay in my own backyard to get Mummy, Ocean,’ I whisper. When I step past the rocky edge of my garden I am still in my backyard. Phew!
I check Lottie isn’t following. Check again. No.
At my back door, I brush the sand from my gumboots. Can’t take them off, though; I need brave boots. I get my paper crown off the kitchen table, put it on my head and march down the hallway to the bathroom.
‘Mummy?’ My hands try to open the door carefully, so it won’t talk. It talks anyway. Creak. Creak. Close me.
My paper crown slips and I stand on gumboot tiptoes to straighten it in the mirror. It would be better if it had a peacock feather.
Then I see Mummy on the towel pile, her red heels sticking out. Her face is puffy and dripping. I twist my hands this way and that. How to tell her about our ocean-garden?
‘Want me to tell you a story?’ The green sea tiles are the water and I am a fisherman sitting on a bath stool. Hook, hook, hook a fish. How to get her to listen?
‘Your father doesn’t understand. I’ve tried talking with him. What do you think? You live here, have an opinion.’ She waves her hands about. She does that a lot. It means she’s trying to breathe, cry and talk all at the same time.
‘Mummy, I have a garden. A really special garden,’ I say.
‘I called the pastor and after I told him everything, you know what he said? He said to pray more. If I was a good wife, your father wouldn’t get so angry. He said I should be more submissive. What does that even mean? He said I should come to church this Sunday and then he hung up. Like I’m worth nothing.’
I pick at the stool legs because I don’t know what to say.
‘Are you listening? It’s always my fault. All I ever wanted was to be a good wife and mother. That’s. All. I ever wanted,’ she says, still sobbing.
I hand her a face washer. She blows her nose on it. I want to give her jam drops.
Her sobs are rolling things that make her shoulders go up and down.
I take her hand, try pulling her up off the floor. ‘Come outside, Mummy. I need to show you something before Daddy gets home.’
‘What are you doing? Leave me alone.’
I pull out my Glittery-Best-Storytelling-Glasses and take a big breath. ‘Once there was a girl whose skin was green. Imagine that, Mummy!’
‘Tell me what to do, Willa. I can’t keep living this way. All this arguing. Do you know what that’s like? Of course you don’t. I shouldn’t be telling you all this.’
‘Do you like green, Mummy? It’s Grammy’s favourite. The girl’s skin was green like these tiles. Like the sea!’
‘Your father says I’m too emotional. You know what he calls us? “Bloody emotional females”. It’s hard for him, Willa. It’s not his fault there are so many girls in this family. Your father provides well, and there are good times. And I don’t want to be alone. What would I do alone?’ She blows her nose again.
‘Even though she had beautiful green skin the girl was sad because all the kids were mean. They called her “freak” and “alien girl”. Her mother tried to hide her in the house all day. Her father was the meanest of all. And then one night a box came –’
‘What are you talking about? You’re not even listening to me.’ Mummy pushes me back off the stool.
I thud on the floor, but I keep talking. ‘The soggy box, Mummy. Listen! There was a – a jar and –’
‘You’re just like your father. You never listen. Can’t you see I’m crying? I can’t … come outside.’
‘But the jar. I smashed it. Well, I planted it. There was an …’ My words are getting upside down.
‘Get out! You hear me? Leave me alone. No one ever thinks about me or how this makes. Me. Feel.’
‘There was an ocean – we can escape, Mummy, please!’
She throws a towel at me and it knocks the paper crown off. Crumpled and scrunched.
‘Get out!’ She throws her shoe and the heel hits my cheek. I grab my face. My crown.
Run. Quick. Down the hallway, out the back door, down the steps. Back to the mango tree.
Lottie throws herself at me and I fall. The mango tree catches us both against her trunk. Good tree. I pat her. Frog licks my legs.
‘Is Mummy coming?’ Lottie says. ‘What happened to your face?’
I’m sucking in air. In. Out. ‘A flying shoe.’ I link my thumbs and flap my hands so Lottie stops worrying and looking at my face.
It’s late afternoon now. Dandelion seeds float around us in the last light.
‘Snow flowers!’ Lottie points.
‘Climb up here,’ I say, moving up to a branch. ‘Pretend it’s snowing.’ I tuck Frog up inside my jacket, her apple-shaped h
ead sticking out the top. Lottie scrambles up next to me.
We hold hands as dandelions nest in our hair.
A cold breeze blows. The sand below us dries, but I’m not watering the garden again today.
‘Are we going through the garden? Do we pack our bags now?’
‘Nah,’ I say, like it’s no big thing. ‘We’ll go another day, okay?’
Then we hear something else. The truck roars up the hill.
Daddy is home from work.
Yelling.
We hear Mummy’s scream. We listen ’cause we don’t know what else to do.
Chapter Seventeen
2050
Willa Waters, aged 93
Several clocks on the wall in the living room leak useless hours. More on shelves and tables, but they don’t work. I can’t read the numbers and, besides, they don’t work. My eyes sting and there’s a strange smoky taste in my mouth.
‘Am I old?’ I ask the clocks, coughing.
The years have peeled the paint from the walls of this house and marked the floorboards. This house and I are bumps, dints and wrinkles. We are old ladies together.
I cough again. What’s that smell in the air?
Eden pushes through the front door and I notice there are lots of shadows and someone should turn on a light. She must have returned to run my shower. It must be an urgent shower.
I don’t like that loud sound. Why is there a loud beeping?
‘Oh gosh, I told you no cooking – you promised!’
‘Can we get a peacock feather?’
She’s opening windows and flapping. Young people are too flappy these days. I am glad the air is beginning to smell better, though. She squirts something all around the kitchen and throws a wet blanket over the stove. I force myself up on my walker and straggle after her. White foam covers the sides of the oven in clumps and drips down. Eden throws open every window and door, despite the cool of the evening, and then stands there shaking.
‘Tut-tut. What a mess, dear,’ I say.
Eden scrunches her face, worry lines upon worry lines. ‘Mum, are you hurt? Can you breathe? Yes, you’re breathing. Okay, okay.’
She fusses, marching me out, past the yellow door, to the front deck. Well, as much marching as you can do with an old lady.
‘Don’t move. Take a seat.’
I slop onto one of the wicker chairs. ‘I agree, dear. Take a seat. Let’s have tea. That’s a crackerjack idea.’
Eden wipes my face and keeps offering me water. Who wants water when you can drink tea? I take a sip anyway. My throat is a bit sore.
She paces back and forth. ‘We have to talk. Later. But we have to talk. Do you have any idea what you nearly did? This whole place could have gone up in flames.’
There’s so much I want to talk with Eden about. I take my notebook out of my pocket. Number seven. What happened to Sebastian?
Before I can ask, Eden looms before me, lines embedded in her forehead, saying staccato words. Things about the smoke alarm: why didn’t I hear it? And why was I cooking? I told her I wouldn’t.
‘Oh, the jam drops! Can we buy some more jam?’
Her face is red and blotchy now. Her tongue clicks and her foot taps. She has purple boots on. I like them.
‘I like your boots,’ I say.
But Eden isn’t finished huffing and puffing and blotching.
‘Use your words, dear.’
She throws her hands in the air. I wonder what I did. Maybe I’ll cook her something. She’ll like that. I almost ask if she’s hungry for jam drops, but she’s up again, gathering a blanket from inside, tucking it around my knees.
‘Don’t do that. It makes me feel old.’ I splutter, then cough again.
‘Yes, I know. You’re never going to be old. You can’t imagine it. Problem is someone damn well has to!’ She makes me take another sip of water.
‘Damn? That’s not a nice word, dear. Don’t say damn. You look upset – why don’t you come here and tell me all about it.’
There are things to say. Very important things. Was it about the swings? Was it about a platypus? My mouth is chock-full of words and so few are making it out alive.
Sirens wail in the distance.
Eden’s talking again. Something about letting the nice ambulance man take a look at me.
I stand up. ‘Stop!’ I cover my ears to block out the sirens, which are so close now.
Men in black gumboots file up the steps and through the house. Someone wants to put a mask on my face and something around my arm.
‘Go away. Eden, make them all go away!’
She leads me back to the chair. ‘Okay now, calm down. Everything is going to be all right.’
‘No, you don’t understand. Where is Eli? Where is Sebastian?’
Eden stares at me, then drapes another blanket around my shoulders. When I search the patchwork fabric I see the whale print. I hold it out to Eden. ‘Oh, please, please. What’s going on?’
‘We’ll fix it all, okay? Everything will be okay.’
Wrapped around myself, I can’t stop rocking. ‘It won’t be okay! It won’t be okay! It won’t be okay!’ When I cough again I let them place the mask over my nose.
Eden directs here and points there, answering questions. Yes, she understands. No, I won’t be left alone again. She’s found more suitable accommodation. It’s under control.
‘What’s under control, Eden?’ I push at people, pull the mask off and get up and walk after her, up and down, back and forth on my walker, until she sits with me.
People in uniforms file out and the day grows foggy and sour.
The people with the mask leave, saying something about the damage being confined to a small area in the kitchen. They want to take me to the hospital for a check, but I won’t go.
I cling to Eden’s side like a wet, clingy sister.
She starts talking about boxes. She’s adamant about them, saying things I don’t understand. Then she gathers her bag from by the front door. I almost throw myself on her and she catches me mid-fall. Her bag has fringe bits that remind me of cowboy pants.
‘Mum? Stop this. Look, Mrs Jane, the next-door neighbour, is going to stay with you for a short while this evening till I get back. I have to go home and get some clothes so I can sleep over tonight.’
‘But what if I’m not here when you get back? What if I’m swinging on the swings?’
‘What? See, these are the sorts of things that are starting to worry me. Earlier you wanted jam drop biscuits for breakfast and told me the stars were missing, and now it’s swinging on swings and you wanting peacock feathers.’
I settle a bit. Because I remember. ‘Oh, good girl, Eden. Peacock feathers. Let’s go feather-collecting. I’ll wear my orange dress.’
Eden interrupts, saying something, and I begin to flip-flop inside. An internal seasickness. I catch the part about Care Life, or Elderly Life Care. Moving. This is about moving.
I push her away. ‘No. I can’t. There’s this … Super Gumboots Willa. I have to find her because she’s going to help me. Eden? Don’t go. Why are you always going?’
Just when I think she’s going to be grumpy at me till kingdom come, Eden hugs me impossibly tight. ‘It’s all going to be okay.’ Her voice is calm.
I knit my brow, confused. ‘You’re not supposed to say that to me.’
‘Oh. What am I supposed to say?’
‘That there aren’t really monsters under my little boy’s bed, and that I’m just being silly.’
She squeezes me again. ‘Oh, Mum. Eli was always afraid of monsters under the bed, wasn’t he?’
I try to wipe my nose on my sleeve.
Mrs Jane says we have to stay out of the kitchen, and she brings me tea in a paper cup from her house. I wave it away. Tea is very sad if you drink it out of paper cups.
As Eden leaves she opens the rest of the windows at the front of the house. She says it’s to air out that odd smell. She says this is serious. Important. Dangerous, ev
en. Who knew jam drops could be dangerous? And tomorrow the oven is going, she says. That has me stumped. Ovens go places? Goodness.
‘Where’s the oven going?’
‘Away.’ She turns to me and sighs. ‘Just away.’
Perhaps that’s a fair swap. The oven goes, but I stay.
‘Is the fridge staying? What about the clocks? I don’t like the clocks anymore.’
Eden gives me a little wave on the way out the door.
‘You’re going,’ I tell the clocks. ‘But I am staying.’
Chapter Eighteen
1990
Willa Waters, aged 33
Outside my windows the afternoon light peeps through the gum trees. Almost beautiful in the way that maybe war is when the dawn rises to meet silent artillery and tired, worn-to-the-bone warriors. But I am one of those worn-to-the-bone people, and for the last few days my world has split right down the middle. My brick house in the city gone, and in its place this Queenslander in the country. A house I know, but don’t want to. I look around my parents’ old room from where I sit on the bed: there’s the disorientation of my furniture, with a silver metal bed and a white chest of drawers. The walls are a burnt-orange wallpaper one side and green on the other, a nightmare coloured by the 1960s.
Sam called a doctor last week who prescribed some sleeping pills. I am letting them all believe that I had a flashback to my past, when I saw the two little girls in the garden, that triggered a panic attack. The doctor said to rest and I’ve done little else since, only leaving this room to go to the bathroom or sometimes to the kitchen. I couldn’t bear to properly inspect the house.
Eli creeps into the bedroom. He holds photos, eager to show me. ‘Daddy said this was your home when you were little, Mummy.’ He bounces on the bed. ‘I like it better than our old brick house, and it’s got a sandpit!’
In the pictures Super Gumboots Willa wears a paper crown by the yellow front door.