The Way Back

by Kylie Ladd

  ‘Why don’t you go and feed her, then?’ Charlie had asked. ‘She has to eat.’

  Her mother had looked sad. ‘I’m busy too,’ she’d said, not uncaringly. ‘I have to look after you and Dan and dad and go to work. The doctors make sure she still gets enough nutrients. There are drinks and pills and injections and the like. They won’t let her starve.’

  But Nan was starving, Charlie was sure of it. Starving for her perfume and her clothes, and for company for more than ten minutes once a week. She pushed open the door and went inside.

  At first it appeared that the room was empty. That was good. Charlie was a bit scared of Nan’s roommate, ever since she had told Charlie that she’d wet her pants, then pulled them down to show her. At least her nan had never done that. Not yet, anyway.

  ‘Nan?’ Charlie said. ‘Are you there? It’s me, Charlie. Charlize,’ she corrected, using the name she’d been christened with and that her nan had always preferred. Charlie was a boy’s name, she used to say, and her only granddaughter was too pretty for that.

  ‘Charlize?’ The voice came from under the bed. Charlie dropped to her knees and peered beneath it. Her nan was there, lying on her stomach, her face turned to the wall, holding something in her hand.

  ‘What are you doing, Nan?’ Charlie asked. ‘Do you want to come back out? I brought you some scones.’

  ‘No, thank you,’ her nan said politely, without altering her position. There was a faint scratching sound.

  ‘What are you doing, Nan?’ Charlie repeated, beginning to feel anxious. Was this normal? Should her grandmother be under the bed? She might bump her head, or get stuck.

  ‘Doing?’ she sniffed, as if it should be perfectly obvious. ‘I’m digging a tunnel. I’m going to get out.’

  ‘Oh, Nan,’ Charlie said. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom she realised that her grandmother was chipping at the wall with some sort of blunt implement, a spoon or a pen. She was making progress too, her hands and forearms coated with a light layer of plaster dust. ‘Nan, you have to stop,’ she said, gently reaching for her grandmother’s ankle. The kick that flew at her was sharp and furious.

  ‘Ow!’ Charlie exclaimed, shaking her hand. She sat back on her haunches. This wasn’t working. She couldn’t drag her nan out, but she couldn’t leave her either. Years ago, when she was little, if she got sick on a day that both her parents were working and couldn’t go to school or day-care, her mother would take her to her nan’s house. Nan never minded having whatever plans she’d made interrupted. She would take Charlie on one stout hip and cuddle her while her mother dropped a rushed kiss on her head and tore out the door to her office. Then, once it was just the two of them, she would tuck Charlie into her own broad bed and climb in beside her. What will it be? she’d ask and Charlie would reply Hansel and Gretel, or Rumpelstiltskin or The Little Match Girl, and it didn’t matter that her nan had told them to her already a hundred times before, she would settle herself against the pillows next to Charlie and start telling them again until Charlie either felt better or drifted off to sleep.

  Charlie sat for a minute remembering it all while her grandmother methodically scraped away under the bed. It had been good to get sick. It had meant time with Nan, time to curl up in sheets that smelled of lavender and with a hot water bottle if it was cold, whole hours spent just watching the light slowly inch across the ceiling. Time, too, for herself, no one to hurry her, no one to nag her or tell her to finish her homework or read a book or do something useful.

  She stood up and pressed the call button on the wall beside the bed once, twice, then a third time. Her mother had said the nurses were busy. They needed to know that this was serious. She looked around her and pulled a blanket from the back of a chair, an old crocheted rug that had once been her mother’s, then dropped to the floor and crawled under the bed. It was cramped and her hair caught on the springs above her, but somehow she managed to pull the blanket over both of them. ‘Alright, Nan,’ Charlie whispered, cradling the old woman, who didn’t acknowledge her. ‘What will it be?’ She wondered how long Britta would wait for her before she went home.

  Rachael took a sip of her wine and held it in her mouth before swallowing, revelling in the taste and the silence and the faint prickle of the backyard lawn against her bare feet. Slowly she exhaled, then lowered herself to the grass. Friday night, and she was all alone. Almost alone, anyway—Charlie was in her room, sorting out her grooming kit in preparation for pony club tomorrow, but Matt and Dan were an hour away, at Dan’s basketball game, and wouldn’t be back for ages. She thought she should feel bad about that—with a new exhibition opening soon, it had been a long week of meetings and getting home late and having to open her computer again straight after dinner. She should feel sorry that now she had finally clocked off, none of them were actually around. But she was too busy feeling relieved. Relieved not to have to talk to anyone after days of constant negotiations; relieved to be able to just sit quietly in the slanting evening sun with a cold glass of wine, pulling herself back together.

  The chickens pecked under the hedges on the periphery of the garden, always within a wingspan of one another. She loved that about them, that wherever one was, the other two would be nearby. If Tikka wandered off to the laying box, Parma and Kiev would trot straight after her, settling themselves outside the coop until she emerged again, a warm brown egg lying on the sawdust. In the months after Matt had first brought them home, Kiev would squeeze herself into the laying box whenever Parma or Tikka had entered it and sit half on top of them, so desperate was she that they not be parted. Matt had had to go and shoo her out until she grew too big to even attempt it, and the memory still made Rachael smile. The chickens were not overly blessed with brains, but they had big hearts.

  The neighbours’ screen door creaked; a small plane far above her droned like an insect. She should start dinner. She should go for a run. Neither prospect was appealing. Matt was the one who liked to cook, and the running was purely to maintain some semblance of fitness and because she had read somewhere that it helped ward off osteoporosis, which her mother had. She didn’t actually enjoy it: it was something she did—like so much of her life, it often seemed—because she had to, not because she wanted to. Anyway, Charlie might fret if she went out now, she told herself. Like the chickens, she didn’t like being left alone.

  Rachael drained her glass and put it down on the lawn, then stretched her arms out behind her, pulling back her shoulders. Too many hours at the laptop had left her with tension right through her neck and upper body. If she wasn’t careful she’d develop a stoop like her mother, though a stoop was the least of her mother’s problems now. She held the position, feeling her muscles protest, then slowly released it. Everything immediately sagged forward. God, she’d never make it through a yoga class anymore. That was OK, though, because she couldn’t fit one in. There was just no time. She loved her work, it nourished her, but it took its toll. The endless meetings, the million decisions, the tightrope she was always walking between the budget and her vision. Still, she was lucky to walk it, she told herself, plucking at a weed. Senior curator. The title gave her a thrill whenever she glimpsed it on her office door or her business card. There were so few positions at that level, and she had one of them just half an hour from home, at one of Australia’s most progressive museums.

  She lay back on the grass, shielding her eyes against the setting sun. She had so much else besides: this garden, her house, two beautiful children, a supportive husband. Her success owed almost as much to Matt as it did to her own efforts. She’d certainly put in the hours, but it was the flexibility of his job that made it all work. Four days on, then four days off. The four days on were a pain, particularly as two of them stretched for fourteen hours overnight, and longer if there was an incident, but the four days off, plus his ten weeks’ annual leave, meant she could have it all: a job and a family. A proper job, that was, none of this skiving off at three for school pick-up, or having to miss an import
ant presentation to attend a recorder concert. Matt had done all of that, and still did—there were no more recorder concerts, but he made the lunches and signed the notes, he drove Dan to basketball and checked that Charlie had done her homework, he cooked and cleaned and shopped. She smiled to herself. He was a great wife, though she’d never dare say that to him. Matt was a traditionalist at heart. He’d been brought up in a family where the father earned the money and the mother made the beds, and even after all these years she knew that some part of him still struggled with the role reversal in their own relationship. Rachael closed her eyes. Tough luck. They all liked their lifestyle—their comfortable house, the holidays, Matt’s imported beers, Dan’s Fender, Charlie’s leased pony—and none of that would be possible if they relied solely on Matt’s salary. She’d be bored at home, anyway, and that wouldn’t be good for anyone.

  ‘Hey, I’m hungry,’ Charlie said, looming over her, blocking the light. ‘What are we having for dinner?’

  Rachael sat up with a start and checked her watch, surprised to see that it was almost eight. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I was in my own little world.’ She pushed herself to her feet and brushed grass off her pants. ‘Do you want to get pizza? Or there might be some spaghetti sauce left in the fridge from the other night, that your dad made.’

  ‘Yeah, that was good,’ Charlie said. ‘Let’s have that. I’ll cook some more pasta, so there’s some for the boys when they get home.’

  Rachael hadn’t even thought of Matt and Dan. ‘I can actually manage to cook pasta,’ she said, stung. ‘I’m not completely useless.’

  Charlie wrapped her arms around her. ‘I know you’re not, Mum. You’re amazing.’

  Rachael hugged her back. If Dan had said that she would have looked for the smirk, the wink, but Charlie was still guileless. High school hadn’t corrupted her yet. ‘Come on,’ she said, giving her daughter’s slender body a final squeeze. ‘Let’s go in. Maybe we can watch a movie afterwards?’

  ‘Or Glee!’ Charlie said. ‘Britta burned me a disk of the final season. It’s in my bag.’

  ‘I’m not even going to ask if that’s legal.’ Rachael ushered her daughter back inside. The house was cool and welcoming, one light burning above the island bench.

  ‘Can we watch it in your bed? We haven’t done that in ages. We can use my laptop.’

  ‘I suppose so, but only one episode, OK? You’ve got a pretty full day tomorrow, if you still want to fit in that ride with Ivy after pony club. You need your sleep.’ Rachael fetched the kettle and filled it with water for the pasta, stifling a yawn against the back of her hand. That wine had made her drowsy.

  ‘So do you, Mum,’ said Charlie. ‘I’ll try not to keep you up.’

  Glee was surprisingly fun, Rachael thought as the cast broke into yet another musical number. Utterly unrealistic, true—as if students could afford those apartments or outfits—and she couldn’t keep up with who was dating or dumping whom, but full of energy and life. Charlie snuggled closer against her and Rachael dropped a kiss on the top of her head. Maybe she was only enjoying it because of this, a whole hour with her daughter warm and still beside her, no drop-offs to race to or homework to negotiate. Charlie, she noticed, had brought one of her old stuffed toys into bed with her, a faded green sea turtle, the plush worn thin across the shell. It was such an in-between age. She was a teenager now, she had started both her period and high school, but in many ways she was still a child. The turtle, for example, which she hid in her wardrobe when friends came round; the way she was positioned at the moment, angled under Rachael’s arm so Rachael could stroke her hair. Some of Rachael’s friends had complained to her of their own adolescent daughters becoming moody, surly, disparaging of their parents and siblings, but Charlie—thankfully—hadn’t yet changed. She was scatterbrained and untidy and her room was a tip, but she was calm and kind and loving, she hummed little made-up tunes as she wandered through the house, she could tease Dan into a smile in a way that neither she nor Matt could. Rachael hoped it continued. She wished she could somehow freeze her daughter in time; she wished she could cast a spell that would keep her like this forever.

  A key turned in the front door and there was a clatter of feet in the hallway, a ball being bounced. She heard Matt looking for them, turning on lights, and then his head appeared around the bedroom door.

  ‘That looks cozy,’ he said. ‘Mind if I get in?’

  Before she could protest he’d pulled off his sneakers and dived under the covers on his side of the bed, sandwiching Charlie between them.

  ‘Hey,’ she complained. ‘That’s my spot!’

  ‘Not anymore,’ he said, tickling her. She shrieked and doubled over, giggling.

  ‘Did you win?’ Rachael asked.

  Dan entered the room, his own shoes already removed and probably tucked side by side under his bed. He was as orderly as Charlie was messy.

  ‘Only just,’ he said. ‘On the siren, in fact.’

  ‘That’s great!’ Rachael said, searching his face. Had he enjoyed it? Was he happy? She worried that he only played basketball because Matt loved the sport, because that was what sons did and Dan didn’t want to disappoint them. His smile tonight seemed genuine, though, and she allowed herself to relax. She patted the spot next to her. ‘Sit down and tell me about it.’

  ‘There’s no room,’ Dan said, and climbed onto the end of the bed instead, carefully moving Charlie’s laptop out of the way. He had big hands, Rachael noticed. That must help him play guitar. Big hands, pale skin, and those dark, dark eyes. Her own eyes were blue, like Charlie’s and her mother’s; Matt’s were hazel. She had no idea where Dan’s eyes had come from, just something else about him she couldn’t quite understand. ‘Who’d you play?’ she asked.

  ‘Geelong,’ Matt said. ‘They were premiers last year. We’ve never beaten them before.’

  ‘Ssssh,’ she chided. ‘I want to hear it from Dan.’

  ‘Geelong,’ Dan confirmed. ‘They’re really good.’

  ‘He’s being modest,’ Matt said. ‘They weren’t good enough to beat us. And Dan was the one who scored the winning goal!’ He lunged for his son exultantly, pulling him into a headlock.

  ‘Ow,’ Dan complained, pushing him away, but smiling.

  ‘Did you really?’ Rachael leaned over to hug him, delighted.

  ‘A three-pointer,’ Matt said proudly. ‘About two seconds before the siren. Geelong were sure they were going to win. You should have seen their faces.’

  ‘Group hug!’ Charlie exclaimed, launching herself on top of them all.

  ‘Get off, you nutcase,’ Dan laughed, fighting to extricate himself. ‘You smell like metal polish.’

  ‘And you smell like fish and chips,’ Charlie said. ‘I bet you had some on the way home. Lucky ducks. You could have got me a dim sim.’

  ‘He did, but I ate it,’ said Matt. Charlie punched him. ‘Ouch. It was a long drive!’

  ‘Are you still hungry?’ Rachael asked, sitting up and smoothing back her hair. ‘We had spaghetti. There’s plenty left.’

  ‘Not me. I’m going to have a shower.’ Dan rolled off the bed. ‘Thanks for dinner, Dad.’

  ‘Great job tonight,’ Matt called as he left the room.

  ‘Don’t forget to put your clothes in the wash,’ added Rachael.

  ‘What have you two been watching?’ asked Matt.

  ‘Glee,’ Charlie said. ‘It’s the final season, and I still want to finish this episode.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Rachael to Matt. ‘I’m guessing Dan ate most of the fish and chips. I’ll get you some of that spaghetti. We’ll leave her to it.’ Charlie reached for the laptop and settled herself back against the pillows, eyes glued to the screen.

  Matt pulled her to him before they even made it to the kitchen.

  ‘You looked very sexy in that bed tonight, all sleepy-eyed and rumpled,’ he murmured into her neck.

  ‘You probably just got turned on because I was in bed and awake. That’s pret
ty rare.’ She began to move away, but he held her closer, manoeuvring her against a door.

  ‘You look sexy asleep too.’ One hand slid from her waist up to her breast.

  ‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘The kids … they’ll hear.’

  Matt pressed against her, his erection hard along her thigh. ‘Dan’s in the shower,’ he said, kissing her. ‘Charlie’s lost in Glee-land. We can be quick. In here.’ He pushed the door open.

  ‘Charlie’s bedroom?’ She suddenly felt the urge to giggle. ‘We can’t do it here!’

  ‘On the floor,’ he said, drawing her down next to him, and she gave in and kissed him back because it was quicker than talking him out of it and because Dan had scored the winning goal and because she loved him and because some small, rare fire had been kindled between her thighs. Afterwards, the first thing she saw when she opened her eyes was moonlight glinting off the lettering on Charlie’s pony club ribbons.

  ‘You do it,’ Ivy said. ‘I’ll get it on the way back.’

  Charlie kicked her feet out of the stirrups and obediently dismounted, looping Tic Tac’s reins over one arm while she opened the gate that separated pony club from the Kinglake National Park. A breeze sprang up as Ivy rode through and Charlie hesitated before remounting. Maybe she should have brought her jacket after all, instead of leaving it in the tack shed with the rest of her gear. She paused, wondering if she should go back and get it.

  ‘Hurry up, dreamer,’ Ivy said, kicking Duchess into a trot. ‘We have to be back by six. Are you just going to stand there until then?’