by Nicole Hayes
‘I thought I was supposed to help.’
‘You can. You should. The script’s done and now we’re looking for locations, casting …’
‘Seriously?’ Tessa stopped cold. ‘You can? We were going to do that in summer. I said I’d help you.’
‘No, Tess, you said we’d do it over summer. I said I wanted to start before school finished. Before it got too hot.’
Tessa sighed. ‘That’s not how I remember it.’
‘Don’t sweat it, T. I know you were just doing it to humour me. You’re not interested.’ She lifted her shoulders. ‘No big.’
‘Stop saying that!’ Tessa snapped. ‘It is a “big”. I am interested. I mean, we had plans.’
‘Are we talking about summer or last night?’ Yuki adjusted the books in her arms and looked at the clock again.
Tessa shook her head, started walking, Yuki in step beside her. ‘Both. I mean …’ But she didn’t know how to finish that sentence. She wasn’t even remotely interested in the film and had put Yuki off twice already. She should’ve been grateful, really, that she’d been let off the hook.
Except.
Lara smiled at them from outside the classroom. ‘Hey.’
‘Hey,’ Yuki said, hugging her.
‘Ewww, sweat!’ Lara said, pulling back.
Yuki grinned, flicking her hand at Tessa, including her in the moment. ‘I’m sensing a theme here.’
Tessa stood perfectly still, waiting for the frustration to subside. Feeling too many complicated emotions to name. She made a show of realising the time. ‘I have to go,’ she said, waving at them both but fixing her gaze on Yuki. ‘You still want me to do your hair tomorrow?’
Yuki nodded and smiled. ‘Absolutely.’
Tessa tries to peer through the bush, but the foliage is too thick and stretches in every direction. She sniffs again, the barest trace. But there, undeniably there.
‘Smoke,’ she says, retracing their steps.
Nick hurries beside her. ‘It could be people. A campfire.’
‘In this weather? No one lights campfires when it’s this hot. No one with a clue.’
‘You’re assuming they aren’t idiots.’
‘Idiots or not, it’s more than a campfire.’
‘That’s not good.’
‘No.’ She tries to think. Panic flutters in her chest, she feels it move through her body. Focus! ‘Okay, um. We need to see. There was a wide ledge back there.’ She waves vaguely in the direction they’d come. ‘Should be a good vantage point up there.’
They weave through the bush, back to the ledge. It looks high and not as solid as Tessa would like, but it sticks out some way and there’s a collection of smaller boulders at its base they can climb up. She adjusts her sling, bites down the pain at this small movement, cringing visibly.
‘Are you going to be okay?’ Nick asks.
‘At least I’ve got one arm,’ she says. ‘I know this country better than you.’
‘I can make it.’
She nods and climbs the first rock, all of her weight and balance drawing on the use of her one good arm. It’s slow going and painful. Nick is struggling behind her, his limp more like a stagger, but his expression determined, a grimace the only acknowledgement of the pain in his hand. Buoyed by this, Tessa pushes on.
The crevices of the outcrop offer reasonable handholds but scrape at her palm and fingertips, and she manages to tear every fingernail on her one good hand. She clings to the rock while her foot searches for purchase. They reach the ledge but she can’t see beyond the bushes and jagged rocks.
‘We need higher ground.’ She pauses to catch her breath, pressing her cheek against the cool face of the boulder. She examines her raw fingers, shakes them as though to cast off the pain, then reaches above her yet again. She hoists herself over the lip of the rock, sees the space around her is clear and drags the lower half of her body behind her. She sprawls on the edge, too tired to move, before glancing over at Nick. ‘I think here.’ She laughs weakly, aware that she probably couldn’t make it any higher if she needed to.
Nick offers a weary nod as he lifts himself up and over. They face each other, both of them prostrate, sharing this momentary victory with quiet smiles.
Gathering herself, in spirit as much as in body, Tessa surveys the landscape. It slopes off in every direction, mountain after mountain, dense with bush and tall, imposing trees. Directly below them, the mountain evens then drops off abruptly. She has no idea what lies beyond. She shields her eyes against the blistering sun and scans the landscape towards the east, most of it an echo of its immediate neighbour. A flock of galahs shriek in the background, startling her, sending her pulse racing. The pink-and-grey birds fill the sky, blocking the sun for just a moment and then they’re gone. An eerie quiet settles. She can’t smell smoke anymore, but she tells herself that could be a consequence of the still air.
Tessa looks towards the west, blinking away the dots the bright sky imprints on her eyes. Her view is partly restricted by the corner of the cliff face to her left, and she inches her way to the edge in the hope of finding a clearer view.
‘Careful,’ Nick says.
She’s tempted to cling to the overhanging scrub to steady herself, but the crumbling dirt doesn’t offer much reassurance that the roots will hold firm. She glances below to the rocky outcrops that cut a short path for some metres before they’re swallowed by the tangle of eucalypts and wattle. One slip and she’s done. She considers this, the thought a shimmering, tantalising possibility. Her aching arm would no longer ache, the horror of returning to the mess at home would no longer eat at her. All of it would disappear in a split second, and there would be nothing but eclipsing darkness and the uncertain world of what might or might not await her on the other side. Her dad maybe? Is there even a ‘there’ to wonder about?
Tessa breathes in loudly, forcing a calm to her pounding heart. Not the time to have an existential crisis. She would laugh if she could catch her breath. Stupid.
She finds more secure footing, clutching at the branches and roots as she twists as far as she can to view the vast expanse due west, protecting her eyes from the sun’s glare. Searching for a break in the wilderness or a path through the bush, the slimmest chance of a way to get out.
Tessa stood in the kitchen and breathed in a deep, clear breath, enjoying the release of knowing he wasn’t there. Her mum was out – said something about meeting Keiko for coffee, something they hadn’t done for a long time. The arsehole hadn’t liked her mum having friends. Plus, Tessa suspected, there had come a point when Ellen became too ashamed to see anyone from before.
She grabbed a handful of crackers from the cupboard, ate them with some spinach dip, washed it all down with water, then headed to the back of the house. She used to hate the sunroom, the arsehole’s favourite hangout when he drank and partied. He’d spend big each time he returned from the mines, but only on alcohol, never extending to Tessa’s schoolbooks or food from any identifiable food group – Ellen and Tessa would have to scrounge for that – and yet his generosity knew no bounds when it came to getting other people wasted. It kept them quiet. Doug had worked that out early on, the first time Tessa’s mum had ended up in hospital and he’d tried to question witnesses. Everyone, Ellen included, would be suddenly overcome with amnesia, or happened to have gone to the loo just at the moment Ellen got hurt.
Tessa stood at the doorway of her new studio, refusing to allow those images to cloud her excitement as her eyes travelled over the set-up. The furniture crowded into one corner, the space cleared around the square double window. She would put the easel there, when she had one, already knew the angle at which it would sit, the direction it would face to make the most of the natural light. There was a three-legged table, more like a stool, really, except it looked like it would collapse under the weight of anything more than a tray of biscuits. Tessa had set her box of pencils there, the eraser and different-sized sharpeners. Cube shelves against the wall now h
oused empty paint pots and brush holders, which were actually repurposed mason jars and old biscuit tins that her gran had kept for buttons and other sewing knick-knacks. Ellen had tipped them all into an ice-cream container, letting the bits and pieces blend into a chaotic mix of colour and textures, running her fingers through them and shaking her head as she mused aloud about how many years her mum had been collecting them. Beside the shelves was Gran’s old chaise longue, which had been in the sunroom as long as Tessa could remember – and looked it. But now it was draped with a worn bedsheet, standing in a puddle of sunlight, seeming to dominate the space like some enormous sleeping ghost.
Tessa picked up the sketchbook and propped herself on the chaise. She stretched out her legs, crossed them, then uncrossed them before resting the pad on her bent knees, leaning against the pillow tucked into the small of her back. She chose a 2H pencil, touched the tip to her lips without thinking – recognising this gesture as one her dad used to do – and pressed the pencil to the paper, then …
Nothing.
She frowned. She was always sketching, always finding things to capture with the lead of her pencils. Why was it suddenly so difficult? Tessa held the sketchbook aloft, smoothed its white page. Placed it on her knees again and closed her eyes.
Still nothing.
She stared out the window, her eyes finding the shed. Her mum had been doing some gardening the past few days and had propped a rake and a shovel against the corrugated-iron wall. Tessa set down the sketchbook and went outside, her sandals crunching on the stalky lawn.
The shed door was as resistant as before, so she grabbed the shovel and pushed it into the narrow gap at the bottom of the door, where it had warped away from the frame, a sharp, triangle-shaped fold, like a dog-eared page. She leant against the shovel, using her body weight to dig in. The door groaned in protest, the metal shrieking as the shovel slid against it. On the third try, the door scraped open enough for Tessa to use her hands to pull it all the way.
She stood there, the sunlight streaming in, puddling around the various pieces of junk that cluttered the cement floor. Dust and bugs floated before her eyes in a jerky, silent dance, and she was hit by a powerful sense of deja vu – that this moment was familiar and shocking all at once. The air felt as if it was closing in, the roof seemed to press down on her, and the boxes and shelves, the broken furniture, the endless crap ready to topple from where it stood. Before she knew it, she was running out of the shed, across the yard, into the house, finding her way to the studio. She stood by the chaise longue, clutching its arm for support while she caught her breath. Confusing images flooded her mind, clamouring for her attention. She closed her eyes until they began to clear and slow, with smaller, containable images coming into focus, the beginnings of ideas forming like buds opening to the sun …
She stared at the page, felt the tug of something from deep inside her, and then the pencil was moving across the paper. Shapes emerged, blurred at first, then sharpening around the edges. It was one of those old-fashioned chairs with a round, high back, glossy wooden seat and spindly legs. The kind she’d seen in cafes in the cool parts of Melbourne. It was on its side, fallen or pushed –
Her hand jerked, leaving an ugly, jagged mark. She reached for the eraser, felt its smooth, putty form in her fingers, a small gesture helping her heart rate to ease. She placed pencil to paper and continued the fine, even strokes, line upon line, feather-like, giving the chair definition, creating the effect of its sheen. Remembering her dad’s instructions – Steady, Tess. Feel the page, the bumps, the dips – and the light touch of his hand cupping hers, the cool of the pencil against her skin. She returned to her sketch, rubbed the edges that needed blending.
Her phone vibrated, and she glanced at the message from Yuki: Soz T.
Tessa shook her head, smiling. Thought for a moment before replying. Me too. x
She put down her phone and continued to work on her picture, looking up only when Ellen popped her head in before disappearing to the kitchen with promises of dinner. The sketch was coming to life before her, and Tessa drew such a rush from the process, as though absorbing power through her pores, the weight of the days – weeks, months – lifting from her shoulders with each stroke. Lost in the image, the tang of lead in the air, the feeling that anything was possible if she could just capture it on the page. To tame it, somehow, whatever it was that bothered her. Give it the shape it demanded or no shape at all.
It had been too long.
A muscle tightened in her neck. She sat up, no longer used to sitting in that position for hours. She arched her back, stretched her fingers out wide like stars. Her eyes fell to the spread of paints and brushes she’d laid out on the table. Later, she decided. She didn’t know what time it was, but it was late.
She heard Ellen then, calling her name, announcing dinner; the thrill it still gave Tessa. She studied her fingers, smudged with grey, and rubbed the tips together. Then went to have dinner with her mum.
Tessa sees it then. The smoke. Thin and spindly, distant too. She scans for something that might offer refuge. It’s a still day and the smoke is a whole mountain over, but Tessa knows how fast these things travel. The distance and breadth they can cover, how erratic and unpredictable they can be.
‘It’s pretty far.’
‘Not far enough.’
She knows this could be the decision that determines whether they make it. Or not. Some thing catches her eye – a quick flash. She blinks, squints.
There it is. About midway down the mountain, roughly in the direction she thinks they might find the road, there’s a thickening of scrub that’s distinctly more lush than the area around it. There’s a glimmer amid the greenery. A sliver of silver and black catching in the sun. Hope swells in her chest – the first good thing.
‘Can you see that?’ she says, pointing now. ‘See where it’s greener?’
Nick stares in the direction, nodding. ‘Is that …?’
‘It’s a river, isn’t it? Or a stream?’ Tessa nods. ‘Yes. Definitely water.’ She tries to work out its trajectory. ‘How far do you think?’
‘Two or three kays maybe.’ Nick shrugs. ‘More? Rough going too.’
‘We can do it,’ she says, not entirely convinced. ‘If we follow the river, we’ll find the road.’
Nick offers a shaky smile. ‘Are you sure?’ He holds her gaze for longer than she’d like. She can’t deal with what’s behind that look. Not yet.
She finds the silvery glimmer, focuses on that. ‘We head for the water first and fill up.’
‘What about the fire?’
She notes the distant smoke, only just visible now. Feels the calm air. ‘I don’t think it’s an immediate threat, but if the wind picks up –’ she looks at Nick – ‘or changes …’
They both glance at the stretches of charcoal landscape; kilometres of devastated bush, burnt to cinders. Even if they’re able to manage the distance, it’s a huge risk.
‘If the river is wide enough, big enough, we can hide there.’
‘Whatever you think,’ Nick says, his hand still hovering above his eyes. He drops it and faces her, his eyes asking the question Tessa refuses to say out loud.
Can we make it?
Tessa looks to the river, distant, bright, promising. ‘We have to.’
The pancake was thick and a little rubbery, but Tessa ripped through it, watching as her mum’s expression shifted from nervous to relieved. And then, as if released, her mum turned her attention to her own plate. It felt so good and right, so natural, that Tessa wanted the moment to last.
‘I could barely remember the recipe,’ Ellen said, a short laugh clipping her words. She took a mouthful, chewed thoughtfully, a lopsided grin on her face. ‘Hmmm. They’re missing something.’
Tessa shook her head and reached for another. ‘They’re good.’ She squeezed extra lemon juice onto a pancake and sprinkled it with sugar. ‘Really good,’ she said through a mouthful.
Ellen nodded, pleas
ed with herself. ‘They could be worse.’ She took another bite and grinned. ‘Oh well, an excuse to practise.’
They ate in steady silence, interrupted by the occasional clink of cutlery or a clearing throat. Each of them careful around the other, but not so careful that they couldn’t meet each other’s eyes, or smile and nod when something requested was passed. A fork. The lemon juicer. Coffee. The tiny things that, only months before, had frightened her for how terribly they could go wrong. Chicken fillets when he’d asked for steak. His shirt still on the floor where he’d left it. Not enough milk or the wrong kind of bread. Anything – any single thing – had the potential to provoke him. Every question, every answer loaded with the many ways they could be wrong. The many ways he’d make them pay.
The contrast between that and this – breathtaking.
When they were done, Tessa offered to do the dishes, not even stopping when her phone beeped with a message from Nick. She cleared the table, savouring the morning, her stomach full, the sweet taste of pancake fresh on her lips, the hum of her mum’s quiet singing as she took the rubbish out to the backyard.
She finished the dishes, dried her hands and called Nick.
‘Hey,’ he said, picking up so fast it had barely rung.
Her heart quickened at the sound of his voice. ‘It’s me,’ she said unnecessarily, stretching out on the couch, propping one foot on the ottoman.
‘I know.’
She could almost hear his smile. ‘No surprises, hey?’
‘You surprise me. You constantly surprise me.’
She laughed, feeling giddy and powerful.
‘So, are we good for this afternoon?’
‘Yes.’ She hugged herself and smiled into the phone. ‘God. You must be so excited. How good to be done! I can’t wait.’
‘Yeah.’ She heard a scratching noise, as though he had put down the phone or knocked it against something. ‘It’s fabulous.’ Dry as dust.