by Nicole Hayes
Her mum was blushing now. ‘I’ll need to pick up my suit – it’s at the drycleaners in Beringal – and organise lunches. Maybe cook a few meals in advance?’ She grimaced at Tessa, realising she was waffling.
Tessa laughed, slightly forced perhaps, but enough for her mum’s face to break into a genuine grin. ‘Are you going to tell me about the job?’
Ellen looked sheepish. Nodded. ‘It’s a small firm in Beringal. I’m just clerking for now – admin, really. Me and a bunch of twelve-year-olds. Ha! But it’s a start. And everyone’s so nice … My boss is smart and capable. She has kids too – older, but she gets it. You know? Family.’ She stopped. Studied her feet.
Tessa felt the rise of a retort bitter in her mouth – What family? – but stayed quiet. She’d promised herself.
‘I’m getting carried away, aren’t I?’
‘A bit,’ Tessa said, but laughed again, truer this time, and pulled out a kitchen chair. ‘It sounds great.’
‘I start next week.’ The hint of a dimple in Ellen’s left cheek.
Yes, Tessa thought. She would find the thing that once drove her into her mum’s arms when she was hurt. The thing that used to make her feel safe and full and completely, entirely at home. It wasn’t dead, Tessa decided, pulling out the chair beside her for Ellen to sit. It was just missing.
The windscreen shatters, leaving a hole in the glass. But it’s small. Too small. Tessa finds a new angle and lines up to strike again, aiming higher this time. She closes her eyes and swings, and is rewarded with a sharp, satisfying crunch, almost loud enough to block the flood of pain.
‘Nice swing!’ Nick says, smiling.
‘Who’da thunk?’ She clears the last fragments from the frame, sweeping errant splinters off the bonnet as far as she can reach, their path open.
Nick waves his good hand awkwardly. ‘Ladies first.’
‘We’ve talked about that.’
‘I know. Trying to lighten the mood.’
She glances at his thigh, now wrapped in her T-shirt, blood already soaked through. ‘You’ll be okay?’
‘You’re not getting rid of me that easily,’ he says.
He’s joking, and she knows this, but she feels it in the caverns of her body, and it has nothing to do with her ruined arm.
She blinks back tears, refusing to look at him, and shoves her backpack through the windscreen to rest on the hood. Tucking herself into an awkward squat, she pulls herself up onto the dashboard, protecting her left arm on the way. She slips the backpack onto her good shoulder, and her mind swims at this sudden movement, the box shimmering to almost nothing. She holds her head perfectly still for a long minute before continuing.
Her hands find the bonnet, but she yanks them back, her fingers burning. As hot as it is in the car, the metal hood is like an oven. She sticks to the shady side; it’s only marginally cooler but even that bolsters her.
Carefully, she navigates the maze of glass shards as she inches through the windscreen, feeling the sting of the occasional splinter slice into her good hand and both knees. She curses the summer heat that dictated her decision to wear shorts and not jeans, pauses to pick out the shards, then wipes her hand against her shorts before continuing her crawl towards the front of the car. She glances back at Nick as he crawls in her wake, each of his movements as tenuous and shaky as hers. Another wave of panic threatens to topple her. She sucks in air, expels her breath heavily, imagining the fear being expelled too. She does it twice. Then twice more. It helps. The panic hasn’t gone but it’s contained for the moment.
There’s so much foliage and scrub blocking her way that she has to scan the surroundings and retrace the car’s path to find a way through. She spies a gap in the brush that she thinks will allow her passage, and turns back to check on Nick –
her sling catches on a protruding branch, yanking on her ruined arm –
and she screams. The pounding in her skull matching her burning shoulder in intensity. Tears stream down her face and her whole body is lost to convulsive sobs.
‘You’ll be fine,’ Nick says, close enough now that she can touch him.
She shakes her head. ‘I can’t …’ Her shoulder aches like death itself, but that’s not all of it. She knows this, just as certainly as she knows she won’t give it a name. But it’s deep inside her, and it’s nothing that a sling can fix. She feels the sting of tears. ‘It’s too much.’
‘I know,’ he says, fixing her in that steady gaze. ‘But you can do it anyway.’
‘And what about you?’ A sob catches in her throat.
‘I’m right here.’ He offers her a shaky smile. ‘Just don’t leave me.’
Her lungs squeeze in her ribs. ‘Except you’re leaving me.’
‘Not yet.’
‘No. Not yet.’ And although her body quivers and quakes, legs barely able to respond, she wipes her eyes with her one good hand, sets her teeth and pushes on.
‘There’s something else,’ her mum said, her voice high and thin.
Tessa swallowed a dollop of ganache, wiped the gooey chocolate from her lips. The cake sat heavy and thick in her belly. A moment ago it had been reassuring; now, suddenly, she felt sick. It was all so delicately balanced, so easy to ruin. ‘I’m really tired,’ Tessa said, without looking up from her plate.
‘Don’t you want to know?’ Her mum stood and tucked the chair under the table.
‘Sure.’
Ellen disappeared into her bedroom while Tessa busied herself with the dishes. Piece by piece, she disassembled the celebratory table made up of her grandmother’s antique china that came with the house they’d inherited. The beginning of the end, really.
She held a saucer up to the light. She’d have to handwash each piece. They were too old and fragile for a dishwasher, the delicate print fading from time and even the most careful of sponging. She sank her hands into the warm sudsy water, pressed the sponge against the first plate and began scrubbing.
‘This is for you.’
Tessa braced herself for what she might see. So often her mum had drawn her into the vortex of hope only to quash it. Occasions were the worst. Shaky from the start and generally commemorating something Tessa would rather forget: the day her father died, the anniversary of when Ellen met the arsehole – whether it was a month or a year, it didn’t matter. Any excuse for Ellen to drink on a Monday. Or a Tuesday. Or at lunchtime.
Tessa eyed the package: a large, smooth paper bag with reinforced handles, the kind they use in expensive shops. She recognised the logo of the arts supplies store in Beringal. ‘What …?’
‘Open it.’ Her mum held the bag out to her.
Tessa slowly wiped her hands on the burgundy gingham tea towel and reached for the package. She pulled out a chair and sat with the brown paper bag on her lap, preparing her face to take the right shape.
Her mum laughed. ‘It won’t bite.’
Holding her breath, Tessa peered inside the bag. She opened it and extracted a sketchbook and a large box. Her hand trembled as she set the box on the table, laying it out like some precious offering, the sketchbook beside it. She sat back, afraid of what the box would contain. It was heavy – bamboo, it said on the lid. She flipped the locks. Inside, in one half, was a set of oil paints with two fine brushes, a palette knife and a palette. In the other, two small bottles – low-odour solvent and linseed oil – sketching pencils, from soft to hard, and a graphite art stick with a putty-coloured eraser. Professional-looking and expensive. She counted the tubes of paint. There were eight of them, all vibrant and rich, with names to match: crimson alizarine, burnt sienna, ivory black. Her fingers glanced off each one. She blinked. And blinked again.
‘You used to love watching your dad paint. I remember that. And you drew all the time. Before …’ Ellen stopped, a flicker of something darkening her expression. ‘You’ll need canvas to paint on. I know they’re all different – for different paints – but I thought it’d be best for you to choose yourself. Hopefully, it’s a sta
rt?’
‘Thank you,’ Tessa whispered.
‘I didn’t know … But I should have …’ Ellen cleared her throat and tried again. ‘It was wrong –’ Her voice caught, she straightened. ‘He was wrong. I was wrong.’ She looked up at the ceiling, blinking back tears, then looked at Tessa. ‘I shouldn’t have let him ruin your work. Ruin everything. I’m sorry.’
Tessa stared at her mum, brimming over with all she held back.
‘It’ll be good to smell oils in this house again,’ Ellen said, her hands clasping and unclasping. ‘Even though I complained … I wish I hadn’t.’ She shrugged, her eyes bright and wet. ‘I wish a lot of things.’
Small pieces. That was all she could manage. Tessa focused on the gifts sprawled between them and steadied herself before looking up.
Her mum’s mouth curved into a smile. ‘So you like it?’
Tessa couldn’t trust her voice to remain steady. Instead, she pressed the sketchbook to her chest, clutching it as though to hold her up, and nodded.
She lands heavily, sharp sticks and branches tearing at her skin and clothes. She crouches there for some minutes, her heart pounding in her chest.
‘You all right?’ Nick hovers over her, his gammy leg propped awkwardly to the side. He holds out his hand to help her, but she ignores him, gripping a branch to heave herself to her feet.
‘I’m fine,’ she says, unhooking her shorts from brambles.
‘Are you sure you never studied ballet?’ he says, his grin lopsided.
She wants to yell at him, to tell him how much it hurts. How hard it is to take a single step. But when she opens her mouth, a small, broken sob escapes.
Again he reaches out.
Again she pulls away.
‘I’m sorry –’
‘No! Don’t start.’ She scans the brush. It’s impenetrable below and not much better above. She glances up at the sky, shielding her eyes. No planes. No helicopters. Not even a cloud. She twists around, and the cliff face yawns above her. They must’ve fallen twenty metres. More. ‘Jesus,’ she whispers.
The bluff is covered in scrubby bush, much like what’s below them, and the wide, chalky earth of the overhang makes it impossible to climb, with or without two working arms.
‘That’s pretty high,’ Nick says, almost with admiration.
‘Too high. We have to find another way.’ She runs her hand through her curls and studies the bush around them. No gaps or obvious paths. ‘We have to go down – towards the valley, where the road cuts through.’
‘We have no idea how far the road is,’ Nick says.
She glances back up at the cliff face. ‘It’s a risk but we don’t have any choice.’
‘We always have a choice,’ Nick says, mimicking Principal Prentice. A favourite saying of his that Tessa has encountered more times than she cares to remember.
‘Right, but they’re both crap ones.’
‘Good point.’
She slides the backpack onto her working shoulder and faces Nick. ‘You ready?’
‘Are you?’ He offers a tight smile, the dull pallor of his skin stark against the bloodied mess across his forehead.
Tessa wonders what she looks like. ‘Let’s go,’ she says quickly, before she can answer no.
Tessa woke early, feeling the sun against her eyes, the distant sound of her mum awake and moving around the house. She could hear the occasional clatter of a pan, the clanging of a dish. Tessa pulled on a pair of shorts and an old T-shirt and headed outside, calling out that she’d get breakfast later.
She wished she’d grabbed her sandals as she picked her way across the lawn, the grass hard underfoot. The shed door was rusted and stiff and, despite tugging and pulling at it, wouldn’t budge. She moved to the smeary glass window and looked inside, but it was dark and cluttered with so much junk that she wondered if it was worth it. Some of it was their old stuff, some of it she suspected belonged to the arsehole. The idea of him coming back to reclaim it sent a flutter of panic through her. She shook it off. Doug had told them he was working on a mine somewhere, miles from Carrima, not even in the same state.
Tessa turned to go back in but stopped when she saw her mum hovering by the back door.
‘Hey,’ Ellen said, her hand shading her eyes.
‘Thought I might set up my studio in here. So I can make a mess and not worry.’
‘It’s already pretty messy,’ Ellen said, a crooked smile on her lips. ‘Why don’t you use the sunroom instead? Better light too.’
Tessa frowned. Her mum used to wig out whenever her dad brought his mess inside. ‘Are you sure?’ She stood beside her mum, realising with a start that she was taller now. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d compared heights, but was sure they were dead level last time she’d noticed.
Ellen held open the back door. ‘I don’t mind. Really. It’ll be too hot under the tin for you to work.’
‘Okay,’ Tessa said, following her mum inside.
They stood at the sunroom entrance, the tired old furniture fading in the sunlight. It was a full step down from the rest of the house and seemed to list to one side. Tessa vaguely recalled it being a porch once, but her gran had paid someone to close it in to give her more room for when Tessa and her parents visited. They hardly used it anymore – the air conditioner in the living room not strong enough to reach the back of the house, and the heating not much better.
‘We’ll have to clear some space,’ Tessa said.
‘Let’s do it now – you’ve got time before school,’ Ellen said. ‘I’d rather get organised before I’m back at work. I’ll probably be a basket case for the first few weeks,’ she said, laughing. ‘Until I get used to it.’
Tessa smiled.
‘Grab an end,’ Ellen said, positioning herself by the arm of the floral couch. ‘Ready?’
Tessa stood at the opposite end and gripped the arm where it curled under. ‘Ready.’
Her legs are shaky and the bush is so unforgiving that it takes all her effort to travel just a few metres at a time, but they’re moving away from the car, towards the bottom of the cliff, towards civilisation, and that has to be good.
If she’s right.
The sun is high overhead, as hot and prickly as it gets. They’ve been moving for more than an hour but have covered little ground. She doesn’t want to know how little. They find a spot out of the sun, hidden by dense foliage, Tessa hunts around her backpack, hoping to find what they need …
The bottle is warm and half empty. She’d thought the only water they had had been crushed in the boot of Nick’s car. But then she remembered the bottle of water she’d bought at lunchtime, in those seconds before his words had registered, the reality of what her future would look like exposed, emptied suddenly of the things she’d begun to count on.
No. She can’t get lost in it. Not now.
She touches the bottle to her lips, takes a tiny mouthful then hands it to Nick. She has no idea how long they’ll be stuck out here but knows there isn’t enough water to sustain even one person for more than a day or so in this heat, let alone two.
‘One thing at a time,’ Nick had said, and he was right.
They rest for a while, too exhausted to speak, the shade barely offering respite from the pounding heat, but when Tessa stands to resume, her legs feel steadier and her vision doesn’t waver.
‘We need to find water,’ she says, recapping the bottle. ‘This won’t last.’
Nick squints up at her. ‘No, it won’t.’
Tessa tucks the bottle deep in her backpack. ‘How long do you think …?’ She’s not sure she wants to know the answer. She isn’t even sure of the question. How long will it take? How long has it been? How long can they last?
He tilts his head and offers a small shrug. ‘Whatever it takes.’
The dollop of red paint sat thick and shiny on the palette, glistening under the fluorescent lights. Waiting.
‘Think about the depth. The shades too,’ Ms Alessandro said
, as she moved from easel to easel. ‘It’s not all about the primaries.’
Despite Tessa’s cynicism about Head Start, the extra art classes were a dream. She was learning so much. How to carefully blend paint to transform simple and clean colours into more complex, layered variations. Add white to create a pastel, black for a darker shade, or a combination of both to alter the tone. Even the language appealed to her – all the possibilities captured in their evocative names: avocado green, wattle yellow, zinc white, battleship grey, blood red … The endless list of words to represent the endless list of colours, and yet, somehow, finding agreement, so that we recognise the ocean as aqua, the sky as azure, a banana as yellow.
‘Don’t rush to the canvas,’ Ms Alessandro continued. ‘Consider your choices, then play with them. Be open. Be ready.’
Tessa knew colour was all about wavelengths and light, both working together to help us ‘see’ the same thing. Or almost the same, because, ultimately, it was relative and unstable. Unique to us all. How Tessa saw colour was different to Yuki or Nick or even her mum. It worked differently across cultures too. She’d read somewhere that certain languages didn’t distinguish between blue and green, or orange and yellow. And there was that meme about the dress that was either blue and black or gold and white, depending on who was looking at it. Everyone who saw it as sure as the next that it was one, or the other.
Tessa added white to red, swirled the paint together, her brush leaving a spiral trail of red and white until she’d blended them into a luscious pink.
‘Feel the colour,’ Ms Alessandro said. ‘Don’t just look at it.’
A few boys sniggered.
Typical, Tessa thought, mixing in more white to cool the pink, a touch of black to darken the shade. She studied the paint, trying to measure what she was feeling, but the hot, airless studio and the classroom hum made it hard to concentrate, and it wasn’t long before Nick’s face drifted into her thoughts. The way he smiled at her as though they shared a secret. The light flare of his nostrils when he laughed. How the smooth olive of his skin stood stark against the freckled white of hers. And those lips. There wasn’t a word for their colour or how they felt against hers. Or maybe there were a hundred words or a thousand but in a language she didn’t speak.