As she dried his back with the towel, she noticed that fluids still leaked from his bottom. Ellie stared, chewing her bottom lip. How could she…?
She took some cotton wool from the cabinet in the bathroom. She rolled and squeezed the fine strands into a tight, white bullet, her jaw clenched.
‘Sorry, Daddy, but…’ The words hung in the air. Her voice had a strength that surprised her. She poked the wad into him, pushing until she was sure it wouldn’t fall out. ‘There, stopped.’
Ellie pulled the soiled bedspread out from underneath him, groaning when she saw that mess had soaked further down onto the blankets. Damn, damn, damn. Struggling, she repositioned his body so he was lying atop the sheets. She was grateful they appeared unstained. Making a bundle of his clothing and bedding, she made her way to the laundry. She shoved the bedspread into the machine, topped it off with extra detergent, and set it to run. Filling the laundry tub with water, she left his clothes in it to soak. She would deal with the blankets later.
Ellie returned to the bedroom to collect the basin of thick, foul water. Her father looked so vulnerable now, naked on the sheets. Was this dead? Cold and blue?
As she walked towards the bathroom to dispose of the water, Percival appeared, weaving his way between her legs with a low purr. As she steadied the purple basin against her stomach, the cat’s zig-zagging movement threatened to spill her load.
‘Careful, Perce.’
Ellie emptied the fetid contents of the bowl into the toilet and flushed. She flushed again. Gone. She rinsed and refilled the basin with warm water and grabbed a fresh face cloth from the linen closet. She returned to Daddy’s room and sat on the bed beside her father. Wetting the cloth, she lifted it to his face and started stroking his cheeks. Left side, right side. She wiped his forehead, his chin, his lips. How many times had he kissed her with those lips? Yelled at her?
She dipped the cloth into the water once more and moved to his neck, down his chest, torso, and arms. She hesitated then dabbed at his groin. Sorry, Daddy, but no more poo. Squeezing and shaking out the cloth, she ran it along his legs. How puny and pale they seemed. She shifted down the bed so she could wash his feet.
‘You haven’t cut your nails in a while…’ His toenails were long, thick, and yellowed. ‘Do you want me to?’ Ellie left the room and returned with nail clippers. Percival had jumped upon her father’s body whilst she had been out of the room and was now tapping him with curious paws. As she stepped closer to the bed, the cat arched his back and fluffed out his tail.
‘No, Perce, he’ll kill you…’ Her voice trailed off. He couldn’t though, could he? The cat jumped off the bed and landed close to the doorway. She smiled at his agility, seated herself at the foot of the bed, and placed one of her father’s calloused feet on her lap.
‘This little piggy went to market, this little piggy…’ Her fingers tightened on the clippers. What did it matter if he had ugly toenails? Dead. He was dead.
‘Dead is dead and gone is gone.’ He should have been annoyed at the sound of her voice, but he wasn’t. He would have been angry she was touching his feet, but he hadn’t reacted. There was no point to clipping these crusty old-man nails or hacking out those hardened patches of thickened skin. Ellie dropped the clippers on the bed and picked up the washcloth again.
‘Daddy, where have you gone?’
Her hands were clammy and cold. She had been perched on the end of his bed long enough for the water in the basin to have cooled, and a greasy slick filmed the surface. The mattress next to her felt damp. She didn’t know how long she had been sitting there. She touched his leg. His motionless body was colder now, his skin mottled and patchy. Her father had shrunk down to this weak shell in a dull room, confined to this lonely bed. Dead and gone. This empty pathetic body wasn’t Daddy. He had always been here; he had protected her, tormented her. He was her family, her father, her lover. Daddy had dropped away and left Ellie behind. Who was she now?
She lifted her eyes and watched the feathery dust motes sail through the papered light that entered the room. The motes ghosted his body. Ellie held out her hands. This moment was hers. Daddy was silent.
She stood, pins and needles tingling down her left leg. She surveyed his paltry wardrobe, aware of her father’s body behind her, accusing in its nakedness.
‘What do you want to wear?’ She turned to face him. ‘I just don’t know.’ Her stomach rumbled, and she had an idea. Ellie grabbed a clean sheet from the linen closet and wafted it over his body, forming a simple shroud. She would dress him later.
‘Breakfast.’
Ellie closed the door to his room. Shut and dead and done and gone. With the door shut, she could concentrate on other things. She needed to wash and to make breakfast. She found Percival in the kitchen, sitting on his haunches, grooming himself, his roughened tongue repeatedly licking and cleaning, over and over. She smiled. She still had Perce.
She set the table for two, but made porridge for one. She wondered about food. Daddy drove; he bought the groceries they needed. There were tomatoes growing in the backyard. She knew because Daddy brought them in and sometimes he’d grumble about snails and possums and bugs. Ellie checked the cupboard. There was enough food to last a while. Daddy had always made sure there was enough. Lots of cans, some staples, flour and rice. There were bread and meat in the freezer. She wouldn’t starve. Not yet.
Percival jumped from the floor to the table on silent, padded paws. Ellie stroked his back with gentle movements before letting him lick her bowl clean.
‘Daddy would be so angry if he saw you now.’ She pictured her father in one of his rages, his mouth snarling, hands fisting. His face became hairier; the lips curled back revealing sharp, canine teeth.
A small furry head nudged her hand. Perce. She let out the breath she hadn’t known she had been holding. He jumped from the table and headed out of the kitchen towards the back door. She heard a muted thump. She pictured him butting the closed door with his head, wanting to be out. You’re stuck in here with me, she thought. It was locked. Daddy had locked it yesterday when he had come in. He always locked it. Ellie leaned back in her chair.
‘It’s an inside day for you today, Perce.’ She liked these days, when she had his company. She smiled. Now it was time to wash and dry the breakfast things and put them away before going to make the beds. The bed. Daddy’s bed. She tried to stand but swayed, grabbing the edge of the tabletop before sinking back into her seat. She felt weak and disoriented, despite having eaten. Perce wasn’t the only one inside with her. There was Daddy.
Daddy’s dead. The body, his body, the bed… Percy, me, and Daddy, all together, forever. ‘Oh, God.’ What was she going to do with Daddy? She gave a short hysterical laugh. I’ll take him a cup of tea, a fresh cup of tea. No—Ellie shook her head. No more cups of tea for Daddy. No more Daddy. No more old man whiskers in the sink either. She giggled. Slowly she stood, balancing her weight carefully on both feet.
‘Tea. A cup of tea will make it all better.’ Her words sounded hollow in the empty kitchen, but the sound reassured her. She was here and she had something to do. Make tea for Ellie. Alone. Then she would decide what to do with him. She refilled the kettle, lit the burner and sat the kettle on top. Its metallic surface looked dull in the gloomy kitchen. If there were light, would it shine? Ellie pushed aside the faux lace curtains that had yellowed with age. The paper beneath had faded and withered with the brief exposure to sunlight it received most afternoons. She toyed with the tape that fixed the paper to the frame. It peeled easily beneath her fingernail. She scratched, and a sliver fell into the sink. She scraped again. A section of dirty glass appeared and felt cool to touch. Could she? Maybe…
‘Get away from the window!’ Daddy’s voice sounded behind her, and she jumped. She turned to face him. He was standing there, not naked like she had left him on the bed, but dressed in the dirty blue overalls he wore in
the shed. ‘What have I told you, girl?’
‘But I want to see.’ She looked from him to the small fragment of window she had uncovered. There was no reply, and when she looked back, he was gone. The sweaty, unwashed smell of his overalls remained.
‘Daddy? Where are you?’ Her hands twitched at her sides. She should have known he hadn’t left her. Her father had always been here, was here still. He would always be watching. He would always be with her. There was no escape. There was only Ellie and Daddy in this world he had built for them.
‘It’s just us, Ellie. Just us. That’s all there has ever been. Just you and me, that’s all you need to know.’
‘Daddy?’ She couldn’t see him, but she had heard him. His voice was real, wasn’t it? Maybe she had imagined him. Perhaps he was a ghost. She tilted her head. If there was no Daddy, maybe there was no Ellie. Had she died? Was she the ghost? She wasn’t real. He had told her often enough she was nothing without him. He had been here in his work overalls and she was…nobody. No one. So tearing the paper wouldn’t matter, it wouldn’t be true. She could rip and tear and it wouldn’t be real. Nothing was real. Not without Daddy.
‘I really do want to see…’ She waited for a reaction, waited, almost hoping for his fist. That she knew. But when there was no voice, no accompanying blow, she reached out a hand and tore a tiny shred of paper, watching in awe as it became a strip, longer and longer before tapering off and falling in a curl on the bench. Ellie held her breath, but her father didn’t reappear. She tore another section and pulled it upwards again, eyes wide as another section of dirty glass appeared.
She remembered when he had covered this window up. It had been the last unpapered window in the house. Facing the backyard with no view of the driveway, she supposed he had thought it was safe. He had papered the bottom panes the night he had caught her at the kitchen sink, blinds pushed aside, head lolling as she had tried to talk to the strange face she had seen in the glass. The paper had stopped the visits by that funny, silent girl.
So many times she had opened the curtains and craned her head against the crinkling paper that had covered this bottom pane of glass, just to catch a glimpse of the sky through the top section he had left uncovered. She had never been allowed to clean that section, though she could look up at night when she was washing the dishes and marvel at the changing sky. She knew when the sun was setting somewhere far beyond the papered glass, beyond the trees that ringed their yard, beyond the bush, and far beyond the cliff face. She loved those times when the sky, brightened by broad stripes of pink and blue, cupped a sliver of moon. Sometimes the only star she could spy would turn out to be the lights of an incoming plane. Daddy always said that only rich bastards flew on planes. Ellie had always longed to join them.
Once she had heard a local radio announcer describe a rose-tinted dusk caused by the smog from the steel works down the coast. Ellie had tried to picture it. Could pink and orange touch the ocean? Did the sun? She had always wanted to find out, but Daddy would never have allowed it. He would have killed her rather than let her journey away from this home he had made for the two of them. It wasn’t safe out there. It had been safer to let her imagination travel to the shore, to picture a lemon sun in a blushing sky, sizzling where it met the sea.
No more imagining. No more wishing. I want to see. Her fingers itched to destroy the rest of the paper that had hidden the world from her. As she tore the aged, brown paper from the glass in joyous shreds and more tatters of paper fell into the sink and onto the bench, Ellie was struck by the warmth of the light entering the room. She giggled as she let her fingertips touch the unadorned glass. Even though the window remained closed, it was as if new air, new life, had found its way in.
‘I can see!’ She had to squint against the brightness, unaccustomed as she was to pure daylight. Let there be light, she thought, wilfully tearing more strips away, thoughts of mess and her father temporarily forgotten.
The breakfast dishes abandoned and the scraps of paper ignored, Ellie stood at the sink and stared into the backyard. From her new vantage point, she could see the clothesline, she could see the trees and bushes crowding the yard, she could see her father’s shed. She could just make out the dogs’ enclosure. She shuddered and looked back to the overgrown lawn. It was green, with sunlight playing in patches. She squinted once more and tried to focus her eyes on the distant trees. There were leaves on the trees, waving to her tantalisingly in a soft breeze. There was sky. There were clouds—wispy, perfect clouds.
‘Hello, yard. It’s nice to see you.’ She smiled and clapped her hands together. There was an outside, and she could see it!
Percival jumped up on the bench beside her and she was struck by how much lighter his coat seemed. He pawed at the scraps of paper. She laughed and leant towards him. He batted a paw at her approaching hand. She stroked him under the chin. He tolerated it for a few seconds, then bit, his teeth puncturing her skin.
‘Bad cat!’
His eyes, wide, were insolent, as if to say, What did you expect?
I made a mess. I brought in the light. I made a mess. She didn’t know whether to be happy or afraid. Ellie looked down at the bench top and sink, now littered with torn paper. She had to clean. She had already broken two rules—tearing the paper and looking out the window. It wouldn’t do to break a third and be dirty. She removed the scraps of paper and washed the breakfast dishes. It took longer than usual, awed as she was by the newfound light. She used the dishcloth to wipe the glass, and the streaky blurs of life outside delighted her. Clambering up on the bench, she reached the top of the window where she could catch a glimpse between the trees and into the neighbour’s yard. She gasped. Maisie’s yard. Maisie, my friend. She slipped and fell awkwardly to the floor, the impact jarring her knees. Ellie stood, the aches ignored. She had seen Maisie’s backyard. She had been in that backyard, so very, very long ago. Maisie, her very best friend in all the world, had turned five and there had a been a party in her backyard with balloons and games and cake. Maisie had let Ellie play with all of her brand-new toys. Ellie had been the last one to go home.
‘Oh, Maisie.’
The smell of shit kept washing over her. She looked down at her clothes, expecting to see stains, but there weren’t any. Her hands, her shirt, the kitchen were all clean, yet she still felt dirty and soiled, and the scent lingered. Ellie realised she could no longer hear the thuds of the washing machine as it spun its load. Daddy’s bedspread. She hoped the stains and that smell were gone, but how was she going to get the bedspread dry? The airing racks were already full. Stupid girl. Stupid girl.
‘What do I do?’ she asked no one. ‘Tell me. Help me.’ Daddy would have known. Grandmother Clements would have known. She had shown Ellie how to be a washing machine with your hands, so you could wash quietly so no one outside the house would hear a machine, so you could still be clean even when there was a blackout and no power. Wash and rinse and wring and hang out. Daddy would have been able to hang it on the line. Grandmother would have. But not Ellie. She wasn’t allowed to go to the clothesline. So she would have to think of something else.
The bedspread was heavy, but she managed to pull it out of the machine. She looked around her at the airing racks. Useless. She carried her wet bundle into the kitchen and dumped her load on the table. She tried to spread it out, across the table and over the backs of the chairs, but it kept sinking towards the tabletop.
‘Damn.’ She thought she could still see the stain in the middle of the bedspread. What was she going to do with it? With his blankets? The clothes would have to stay soaking; he would never let her throw them out. Ellie reached under the kitchen sink and grabbed a couple of large garbage bags. She would bag up the bed linens at least until she could wash and dry them properly. Later, okay Daddy? I’ll deal with them later.
Ellie tied off the bags, but she could still smell shit. She looked at the clothes soaking in the tub.
Maybe if she transferred them to the washing machine? Dirty water dripped over the floor and over her shirt. She could feel it drenching her top and the foul smell hit her anew. She pulled off her shirt and threw it in with her father’s clothes. Bare-breasted, Ellie measured a lid full of bleach, tipped it in, and then added another, then tipped the bottle up once more, not bothering to measure, wincing as the fumes hit her. She would ruin the fabric, but she needed it to be clean. Everything had to be clean.
Ellie redressed, then refilled the plastic basin. She could start the day again, follow the rules. If she cleaned, cleaned everything properly, those smells—the smell of Daddy’s overalls, of Daddy’s ‘accident’—those smells would fade and this morning might become a normal morning. There were still routines to be followed. The house had to be clean. She’d broken enough rules already. If she cleaned, she could scour away the remains that years of tobacco smoke had left on the walls, clear away all the tarnished patches of memory that had gathered dust, like cobwebs in the corners of the rooms. Life would be as it should.
Where to begin? The hallway. It was as good a place to start as anywhere. Ellie was sure there had been a rug here once, but it was long gone, and the carpet was worn and discoloured in the centre where they walked. She couldn’t vacuum, not during the day—it made noise. But she could clean the walls. Bunching a rag within her fist, she knelt and started to scrub the skirting boards, wondering how far along she could go before she’d be wringing the cloth out into dirty water. She imagined the interior of the house, from floor to ceiling, coated in layers of pain. Just like Daddy, just like me. These humble walls had leeched the air from her lungs, the moisture from her skin and her life. She had felt herself slowly die. She had only wanted to feel the air, to feel alive. Grandmother Clements had told her years ago: “Cleanse your body and you might just cleanse your soul.” It had been a lie. But if she cleaned the house, then maybe, just maybe, she could clear away some of the pain.
Path to the Night Sea Page 6