by Paige Clark
‘You can bring Eli.’ She was desperate.
‘The last time I brought Eli, you called him a Chinaman.’ Her daughter had a habit of accusing Rosa of something sinister.
‘That’s a term of endearment. I’m fond of him.’
‘You’re too critical, and not just of him.’
‘Is it too critical to want the best for you?’
‘Do you think anybody wants to be picked apart through perspex, Mother?’
‘Well, no. That’s why I’d appreciate if you got me out of here.’
‘You’re not in prison. You’re free to go.’
‘To go where?’
Outside, the sky mottled and Rosa shivered beneath her flimsy sweater. From inside, she couldn’t remember if it was the end of summer or the start of winter. The days were all the same temperature. She couldn’t even remember the last time she broke out in a sweat.
When Stella hung up on her, she walked into the corridor, then past the dining room. The twins were eating microwaved sticky-date pudding from the establishment’s finest china. Rosa walked to reception, where the attendant had left their post. She tried to buzz herself out, but then Renee appeared.
Renee was bad cop to Lucy’s good cop. She believed in outstanding hygiene. Rumour had it that she took scalding hot showers before and after her shifts and that beneath her suit her skin was so dry that it cracked, bled, did not heal. ‘Lucy saw her in the prep room once,’ the twins had told her. ‘There was a crater of missing skin.’
The residents knew that Renee had been involved in an incident at her previous job. But, in their eyes, she was the most capable carer the centre had. Even from beneath her safety suit, you could tell she had a muscular build. She could do jobs by herself that normally took two carers and so she was particularly beloved by the high-care residents.
‘I’m off to get some sun,’ Rosa said.
‘Don’t play cute with me,’ Renee said. Her mask was slightly off-kilter and she seemed to notice it as she spoke. She worked to adjust it, but even she was clumsy with gloved fingers. Rosa looked at her dark eyes. They drooped at the sides.
Still fuming, Rosa reached out and snapped Renee’s mask back. Renee moved quickly then. She held Rosa at arm’s length.
‘Code brown,’ Renee said into her radio.
They descended on her, a ballet of astronauts. Rosa recognised Lucy, who winked at her knowingly.
Rosa was escorted into a room that appeared to be a sizeable industrial shower. She was stripped naked and scrubbed with a lurid soap that smelt like green jellybeans. The worst flavour, Rosa lamented. Next, they took her to the wash station where they flushed her eyes with a boric acid solution. They cleaned her ears out with hydrogen peroxide and made her gargle with a cinnamon rinse that burnt her gums. When she spat, there was blood in the sink.
Rosa had heard of the isolation room from the twins, but it wasn’t as sorry as described. It looked like all of the other rooms in the home except there were two sets of security doors that partitioned off anyone entering or exiting. There was a large window, and from her bed Rosa had a view of the staff parking lot. She spent her first hour alone gleefully spotting carers out of costume. Hannah, a favourite of the twins due to her habit of serving two biscuits with a cup of tea instead of one, arrived for her shift. Double-bikkie Hannah was a redhead! What juicy gossip she had for her friends.
Renee appeared in the parking lot next. She was thinner than Rosa had imagined, lean and sinewy. Her thick hair was fastened to her head and she wore heavy jewellery that made her seem more petite than she was. Renee got into her car. Rosa noted it was the same brand of car that her father had always driven.
Watching Renee behind the wheel, Rosa saw their likeness for the first time. Had her own eyes drooped at the sides like Renee’s eyes when she was young, or was their droopiness a product of her old age, of her relationship with her daughter, of her being locked away and kept safe for so many years? Of her not being touched and not touching? No, she could admit that that was how she’d looked since day dot—stern, serious, so serious it gave her the appearance of being glazed over, of being vacant.
Renee caught Rosa watching from her isolation bed and waved to her as she drove away. She mouthed something which Rosa took to be ‘I’m sorry.’ She doubted Renee was sorry for what she should be sorry for—putting Rosa through hygiene and into isolation. She was sorry like Rosa was. Sorry for all of the things that were out of her control and always would be.
Rosa remembered then putting her father’s car into drive. She had been hollowed out by adrenaline. Her eyes were wet behind her sunglasses and her hair was blown into a tangle. The windows were down and the hot breeze made her choke on her own breath. It was fire season. Everything was aglow. And she knew for certain then that everything that was alive was dying. She drove her father’s car away for good.
Her father had been angry about the car, but he had not filed a police report. He thought it was best to handle these types of affairs without getting the law involved. Like the second husband, her father was a businessman. His work involved boozing and driving goods across state lines. He had the blemished fingers of a chain-smoker, though he never lit a cigarette in Rosa’s presence. But his gums pulled away from his teeth, which were long and sharp and the colour of a worn-out rock. Rosa preferred her father when she had company. He let her friends drink his booze and let her boyfriend stay the night and sleep with Rosa in her childhood single bed. The bed had a metal frame and girly paisley sheets with lace trim. From her bedroom, Rosa could hear her father snore. On the nights the boyfriend who would become her first husband slept over, she stayed awake, humiliated by the noises that reached them from the other bedroom. Her first husband slept soundly, limp from too much drinking, skin wet with the sheen of alcohol.
Rosa woke with a start. She was surprised to find that her first husband was not sleeping beside her. Then she recalled the husband and that he too was dead.
While she was sleeping, essentials from her regular room had been moved in—a framed photo of Stella and the Chinaman, an almost complete book of word searches, a stuffed panda that doubled as a back pillow, and her phone. She got out of bed and moved the photo so she could see both Stella and Eli from her vantage point in the bed. He was handsome, she’d admit it. He had glossy hair that he kept in a mushroom cut, and even though he was in his fifties, he was muscular with radiant skin and a neat beard. He’d held down a respectable job in the non-profit sector, worked reasonable hours and stayed on top of the cooking and the dishes. He was not offended by Rosa, despite her digs. He even called himself the Chinaman sometimes, much to Stella’s despair.
Deep in reverie, Rosa did not notice Lucy approaching the window. She didn’t recognise her, for one thing. Lucy’s hair was stringy and dyed a garish shade of orange. She wore a sheer top that displayed her pointy nipples and a pair of hiked-up metallic bike shorts. Rosa had noticed that Lucy was thin but she was painfully so. A flaccid carrot that had been left in the crisper for too long came to mind. Lucy saw Rosa staring and smiled. She walked to the window of Rosa’s isolation bedroom and pressed her face hard to the glass. All of her features blurred. And slowly, Rosa saw her tongue emerge, wide and mossy, and lick the window. Then there it was from behind the wet glass—Lucy’s signature grin, the one Rosa was so beholden to. But in the parking-lot glare it was mocking, callous, vegetable. Rosa feigned a smile back.
Renee popped her head in to check on Rosa.
‘How’s our brave hostage?’ Renee asked.
‘Fine, but I’ve had better company,’ she said.
‘I’ve had worse,’ Renee said.
She put down a tray with a pot of tea, three biscuits individually wrapped in cellophane, a box of long-life milk, a teacup, a saucer and a silver spoon. The spoon looked like it had been polished. Rosa couldn’t wait to tell the twins that she had hit the biscuit jackpot.
‘Good news,’ Renee said. ‘Your daughter is coming to visit toda
y. She heard about your little rebellion.’
‘You dobbed me in to the big boss.’
‘She’s concerned.’
Stella’s concern was worse than her rage. Perhaps Eli would come too; Rosa could use him to incite her daughter. A misplaced reference to Pol Pot. Or a few mild jokes about the Vietnam War should do it. Eli wouldn’t mind. Nobody in his immediate family even lived in Asia, at least nobody that Rosa knew of. They’d all made it to Australia, right?
Rosa fantasised about Stella and Eli’s visit, Stella really hot about Rosa’s off-colour gibes, pounding her fists against the guardscreen. Rosa and Eli laughing. Stella took so much care to protect them. From what? It had always been like this. It would always be like this. She and Eli both knew it was better if you learnt how to say the jokes quicker than they—well, than anyone else could.
How her father would parade! He was one of the last of the ethnics to cling to his ability to assimilate, to eat a meat pie slathered in tomato sauce, to sing the second verse of the national anthem and to finish an entire slab of beer in a sitting. Rosa had that in her too, she supposed. That pride—or was it shame?
Visiting time was 2.15 pm. Rosa finished a word search and put on the news. She watched as the time lurched forward. You weren’t supposed to watch the time, a lesson she had learnt and forgotten. Stella would be combing her hair, putting on makeup, pulling her body into the drab clothes that she wore. Her daughter was embarrassed to be seen without makeup, even by her mother, or maybe especially by her mother. She wondered if Stella let Eli see her fresh-faced. Though could you use that word to describe a woman so far past her prime?
At some point, Rosa must have fallen asleep. She woke when Hannah came to get her. Big-hearted, redheaded Hannah, what a prize! On Hannah’s suit there were teddy bears with different professions—there was a sports teddy, a teacher teddy, a firefighter teddy. Of all the carers, Hannah had the touch. Even with gloves on, she could soothe a sore neck or an achy back. Rosa leant against her as they shuffled out of the isolation bedroom, through both sets of security doors, past the disinfection station and back through the industrial shower. Instead of heading into the central corridor—where Rosa had hoped to get a glimpse of the twins—they made their way to an elevator that descended and took them directly to the visiting room. Through all of the protective gear, Rosa could feel the warmth of Hannah’s body and the folds of her flesh.
‘Will you come back for me?’ Rosa asked.
‘I promise I will,’ Hannah said. Then she added, ‘These rules are in place for a reason. Anybody that breaks them isn’t looking out for you. Be careful for me, Rosa, okay?’ And Rosa knew that she should be more cautious. How could she disobey this woman who was so generous with Scotch Fingers? Who gave her affection so freely? Who had lived her whole life as a redhead and still had tenderness to spare?
A guard escorted Stella in. She was by herself. Rosa could see right away that she was furious. Even the guard in his apocalyptic dress-ups appeared to be frightened of her. She all but elbowed him out of her way.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, Mother? Not only are you putting your life at risk, but you’re putting the lives of your friends at risk. What about those twins? Did you know one of them has gone to hospital?’
‘Which one?’
‘Why would you ask a question like that? I know you’ve never taken the time to tell them apart.’
If one of the twins carked it, she would have to remember specifics about the one that hadn’t. The thought of it exhausted her. Rosa gave a half-hearted reply.
‘What’s that, Mother?’ Stella’s voice was shrill enough to cut through any transparent barrier, Rosa thought, no matter the thickness. Rosa raised her hand to the screen and ran her fingertips across the plastic, as if to caress her daughter’s face.
‘There’s no time for that now! I’m begging you.’
Her daughter did seem desperate. Perhaps she was right. Rosa felt the time draining out of her as they spoke. She wondered where Hannah was. Fleshy, human Hannah.
Or her otherworldly Lucy. The tongue had startled her, sure. She thought of Lucy’s underdeveloped breasts, her sharp nipples, her smile made up of kid teeth.
‘Eli and I will be back to visit in exactly a week. Get Renee to mark it on your calendar for you. And I don’t want any Chinaman antics. I won’t tolerate it.’
‘The Chinaman!’ Rosa said. ‘How is my dear Chinaman?’
‘One week. And don’t fucking call him that.’
Rosa’s fingertips were still pressed to the barrier when Hannah came to collect her. Stella had long ago ascended in the elevator. As if on a loop, Rosa saw her daughter stepping out into the world, again and again, grateful for the heat on her face, her hand already anxiously on her phone, texting god knows who, thinking about god knows what—dinner, perhaps, or maybe dessert.
Tonight, soft meats were on the menu. Lucy brought in the tray and perched on the side of Rosa’s bed. She took off her mask, exposing the entirety of her face. Her earlobes drooped with the weight of her earrings. They looked familiar.
‘Who would have thought it was more relaxed in iso, hey? Nobody will interrupt us.’
Rosa had no appetite. She prodded her meats with her fork, making a pattern of dots in the recessed flesh.
‘Don’t waste that perfectly good grub,’ Lucy said. She ungloved her hand and reached for Rosa’s mashed potatoes, eating with her fingers, swirling them in the silver boat of gravy on Rosa’s tray. The tops of Lucy’s fingernails had been gnawed away until pits and ridges had formed on their surface.
‘C’mon, eat.’ Lucy licked her lips.
Rosa closed her eyes. When had she started taking meals in bed? When did food become bland? She thought back to a time when she’d gone out for dinners—when she’d eaten roast pork with crackling you could hear, drunk wine that was more expensive than the meal itself and wolfed down delicate desserts that oozed surprising sauces.
‘They’re not even instant potatoes,’ Lucy said. She guzzled the after-dinner digestif Rosa had requested.
Rosa did not open her eyes. She could feel Lucy’s bony knee dig into her calf as she rose from the bed. She could smell Lucy’s breath of sugary alcohol and packet gravy. Lucy—her pet.
‘Now, be a good girl,’ Lucy said. She turned off the lights in the room but forgot to take away Rosa’s tray. Rosa vowed not to open her eyes until the chemical smell of mashed potato mixed with sweet vermouth was gone.
‘You shouldn’t play with your food.’
Rosa woke up to find Renee clearing her dinner. She could see the impressions left behind in the potatoes where Lucy’s fingers had been.
‘You think you’re the Vincent van Gogh of instant mashed potato or something?’
‘I was told it was real potato,’ Rosa said.
‘I hate to break it to you,’ Renee said, ‘but you’ve been deceived. I can smell packet potato from a mile away.’
‘Well, what does a girl have to do to get some real potato around here?’
‘Are you Catholic?’ Renee asked.
Rosa nodded her head.
‘Then I’d pray,’ Renee said.
Renee took away the dinner, then came back and took Rosa’s temperature. This was mandatory for all residents and, typically, when Renee did the evening rounds, she wrinkled her forehead, noted down the temperature, murmured, ‘Good,’ and left the room. Today she said, ‘You’re thriving,’ and pinched Rosa through the blankets on her big toe as she exited.
All of the holiness dissipated when Renee left the room. Rosa wasn’t really Catholic anymore, was she? And if she was, she had much to repent before she dared pray for a tuber. The last time she took communion was at her father’s funeral. By then, the church’s pageantry had gone digital. Hymns were played on electric keyboards programmed to mimic an organ, with computer-generated string sections and tinny tracked drums. The lyrics were typed out in bubble fonts, put into PowerPoint slideshows with
jocular clipart and then projected onto enormous drop-down screens. How dissatisfied she had been that day! She’d pictured a casket decorated with pale garden roses, inconsolable weather and a hearse in the car brand her father favoured. Instead, her father’s existence was beamed up in low-quality jpegs. The florist used daisies in their arrangements and the undertaker took her father away in a modified Commodore. What she remembered most about him was this: a years-old disappointment, beginning when she was a child waiting eagerly for him to come home. Eventually come home he did—doughy and drunk, all hands, no good to anyone, especially to himself. Especially to her. She felt that disappointment again now, remembering his corpse, remembering his preserved face set to an expression he’d never once made in life, remembering his remains being carted away in an oversized, souped-up station wagon. The day had been cloudless and balmy with no chance of rain for relief. She hadn’t got away scot-free, had she?
When a week passed and the day Renee had circled on Rosa’s calendar arrived, Rosa asked to have her jewellery, her Trésor perfume and her embroidered velvet caftan delivered from her normal room. She got permission for the resident hairdresser to visit her in isolation. As she got dressed before the mirror, she did her best impersonation of Pol Pot—baring her dentures then hastily closing her lips and setting her mouth to her best dictatorial scowl. Lucy’s car turned into the staff parking lot and Rosa stopped her play-acting to wave hello. She was pleased to see Lucy, truly. She had even grown fond of Lucy’s loud hair, which made her look like a friendly chicken. Lucy kissed the window affectionately as she passed by, and one of her earrings hit the glass with a clink. Rosa returned to herself in the mirror. She wore a delicate string of freshwater pearls around her neck and noted with pride that her décolletage looked the same as it had when she was in her sixties. Well, she hadn’t spent too much time outdoors, she supposed. She dug around in her jewellery box for her wedding rings—she put them on to play the part of the widow for her daughter—but she couldn’t find them. They must have been put somewhere for safekeeping when she’d been moved to isolation. And, anyway, here was Hannah, telling Rosa that she smelt like wedding almonds and scurrying her away, Hannah’s body emitting heat like the beach on a fine day.