She hesitates. Her years of hiding still shadow her. ‘Who’s this?’
‘I’m sorry to call out of the blue,’ the woman says, the words coming in a rush, as if she is uncomfortable with what she is calling about. ‘I wasn’t sure I’d be able to find you. It’s about your mother, Claire Larkin?’
Kate feels a tremor pass through her. ‘Yes,’ she says.
‘I’ve got bad news, I’m afraid.’ Then a pause. ‘She died this morning.’
Kate doesn’t speak, just stares out across the empty grass towards the highway.
‘Doctor Larkin?’
‘Yes,’ Kate says.
‘Would you like to call me back?’
‘No.’
‘I really am sorry to have to tell you like this.’
‘It’s all right,’ Kate says. ‘I’m glad you did.’
‘We wondered whether you might like to make arrangements for the funeral. And to deal with her things.’
‘Yes,’ Kate says eventually. ‘Yes, of course. What do you need me to do?’
Back in the car, she grips the wheel and stares ahead. She is at once clear and outside herself. In some part of her she understands she is in shock. She has not seen her mother in nearly twenty years, and even before the last time they spoke the process of disentangling herself was almost complete, or at least as complete as it could ever be, but her death does not feel like a release. Instead she feels as if the world has shifted under her, and she is unmoored, adrift.
Later, she will realise it was a mistake to drive, that she cannot remember the trip home. Eve is in the front yard when she turns up the drive, playing one of the elaborate physical games she seems able to spend hours absorbed in. Kate smiles and greets her as she climbs out, forcing herself to keep her voice level so she seems bright and untroubled.
‘Did you get the jelly?’ Eve asks. Despite all the years of speech therapy her deep voice is still slightly slurred. Kate glances down at the bag over her shoulder. It is as if the person who left the house an hour before to visit the supermarket was a different individual to the one who has returned.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Come inside. I’ll open it for you.’
Eve runs ahead of her through the door. In the months since her twelfth birthday she has grown rapidly, so that at twelve-and-a-half she is almost as tall as Kate, and broader across the shoulders by half. Last time she was weighed she was almost ten kilograms heavier as well, testament to the powerful muscles that shift and flex beneath her skin.
Kate has found this transformation profoundly unsettling. For as Eve’s body has accelerated into puberty, it has become increasingly difficult to ignore the biological gulf between the two of them. She is no less beautiful – more, if anything, Kate often thinks – yet she is also obviously non-sapient, her face and body constructed on a different scale, out of different clay. These disparities are not the cartoonish ones of popular culture, nor even those Kate feared: her brow is lower and heavier than that of a sapient girl of her age, her nose and cheekbones wider, but not grotesquely so, especially not when seen as part of her face and body as a whole. Instead what strikes Kate is the strength and power of Eve, the way her fox-brown eyes and tawny hair give her the look of a forest creature, wild and sleek. Yet while her body and face have changed, she herself has not, or not in the ways one might expect of a human adolescent. Although her moods have grown more volatile, especially when she is tired, for the most part she remains childlike, gentle and playful and seemingly content to spend long periods absorbed in her own world.
‘What flavours did you get?’ she asks, pulling at the bag Kate unloads onto the kitchen bench. For weeks Eve has been obsessed with jelly, demanding Kate make it as often as possible.
‘Pineapple,’ Kate says. ‘And grape.’
Eve’s shoulders sag.
‘What?’ Kate asks, trying to keep the note of testiness out of her voice.
‘You said you’d get raspberry.’
‘They didn’t have raspberry.’
Eve stares at her with sudden petulant fury.
‘I’m not a magician,’ Kate says. ‘If they don’t have it, they don’t have it.’
Eve lets the box drop to the counter but as she backs away her elbow strikes the other bag and knocks it sideways. Vegetables and tins and packages spill out and clatter down, a bag of lentils splitting open and ricocheting across the floor.
‘Jesus, Eve!’ Kate snaps. ‘Be careful!’ Even before she has finished speaking Kate regrets her words. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I didn’t mean to snap. I’m just tired.’
But Eve is already backing away from her, tears welling in her eyes.
‘Eve . . .’ Kate begins, but Eve shoves past her. Kate calls after her, but the only reply is the sound of Eve’s door slamming.
Kate stares after her for a few seconds, then turns back to the kitchen and the wreckage strewn across the floor. She bends to pick up a tin of tomatoes and a bunch of celery, then stands up and places them on the bench. Through the window over the bench the sky is cloudless, its blue tinged with smoke. Reaching up, she touches her face and realises she is crying.
The next afternoon she is on a plane to Sydney. The aisle seats were taken, so she is seated by the window, watching the ground below. Once this landscape was hers, but it is more than a decade since she has been to the mainland, and as the dark hills of the Great Dividing Range spool by beneath she cannot help but be struck by the silence of this spine, the long curve of the Earth.
Jay has agreed to mind Eve until Kate returns. For the past two years he and Cassie have been living a few kilometres from Kate and Eve in a house they bought not long before they got married. Despite their new domestic arrangements and the fact Eve now sees tutors as part of a home-schooling program, both have remained a part of Eve’s life.
When Kate rang Jay he was solicitous. Even after all these years the two of them still fall into the habits of intimacy with surprising ease.
‘How did they find you?’ he asked.
‘Apparently she gave them my name and details.’
‘So, she knew where you were?’
‘It seems so.’
‘Oh, Kate, I’m so sorry.’
‘I think I have to go up there, sort out her things.’
‘Would you like to leave Eve with us? We’d be happy to have her.’
‘Could you stay here instead?’ she asked. ‘I think she needs the continuity.’
Jay was silent for a moment, no doubt thinking through Cassie’s reaction.
‘Of course,’ he said at last. ‘Whatever you need.’
After she hung up she knocked on Eve’s bedroom door, then went in and sat down on her bed. After convincing Eve to put down the game she was playing she told her she had to go away for a while, and explained why, keeping her words clear and simple. To her surprise Eve burst into tears. Startled, Kate leaned closer and put an arm around Eve’s powerful shoulders.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘Are you sad?’ Eve had asked. Kate had opened her mouth to speak and then found she had nothing to say.
‘I suppose,’ she said at last. ‘I mean yes, of course. But I haven’t seen her for a long time and . . .’
‘And you didn’t like her?’
Kate stiffened, suddenly uncomfortable. Eve has asked about her mother before, and she has always been careful not to tell her too much. ‘As she got older I found her very difficult to be around. Eventually I decided not to see her anymore.’
Eve stared at her, clearly unsettled.
‘But she knew where you were?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Because they found you.’
Kate nodded. ‘Yes. I suppose.’
Eve hesitated. Kate can tell she was thinking, worrying. ‘Was it because of me?’
Kate leaned back to look at Eve, startled. ‘What?’
‘Were you were ashamed of me? Is that why you stopped seeing her?’
Kate stared, shocked Ev
e might think of herself in this way. ‘No! Of course not. This all happened long before you were born.’
Eve nodded, sniffing. ‘Was she sad?’
Kate swallowed. ‘I don’t know. I suppose so.’
Eve didn’t reply. Not knowing what else to do, Kate leaned in and hugged her, pressing her close, grateful for the warmth and solidity of her, hanging on as if she might fall.
The airport is busy when she disembarks, the press of people surprising her. But as she hurries down the hall towards baggage collection she cannot help notice how down at heel it seems, its seats worn, the shops crowded with unsold things or – in two cases – seemingly unattended, the security grilles half-lowered, the spaces behind them unlit. After so long largely confined to the space of the facility and the outskirts of the city, it is a shock, but other travellers seem not to notice, hurrying by, heads bent over devices or eyes distant behind glasses. When did this happen? Is the unravelling this disrepair suggests so slow people do not notice it? Or do they just try to ignore it, losing themselves in the virtual world of their screens? On the wall, screens show footage of flooded streets, people huddled on rooftops. It could be Mozambique or Myanmar or any one of a dozen places. Kate stares at one, watching the faces of the people wading hollow-eyed through chest-deep water; they look exhausted, alone.
Outside in the car park she calls a car, and, climbing in, stares out the window in an effort to forestall conversation with the driver. As they wind northward she stares at the passing buildings, struck by the changes to the city. In Rosebery and Zetland, apartment blocks line the road. Yet despite their profusion many are unfinished, their shells open to the elements and covered with torn sheets of orange plastic, a legacy perhaps of the most recent economic crisis, while here and there other spaces stand empty, long grass poking through the broken concrete of empty blocks adorned by fading signs advertising abandoned developments.
The sun is setting by the time she reaches the hospital, the light fading. To the west the sky glows deep red, a legacy of the recent fires in Malaysia and Indonesia. At the front desk she explains she is here to collect property, surprised to hear herself stumble over the words ‘my mother’, and the receptionist directs her to the ward, where a distracted-looking nurse opens a drawer cabinet and produces a plastic bag, its side decorated with the logo of a department store.
Kate takes it without opening it.
‘How did you find me?’ she asks.
The nurse looks blank. ‘I assume she had you down as next of kin.’
‘Did she say how she had my number?’
The nurse shakes her head. ‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Was there someone here? At the end?’
‘I’m not sure,’ she says kindly. ‘I can ask the others if you like.’
Kate shakes her head. She is not sure she wants to know. ‘No,’ she says. ‘It’s all right.’ Kate hesitates before asking: ‘Do you know where she was living?’
The nurse glances at a screen. ‘We have an address. That’s all.’
‘Can you give it to me?’
The nurse looks at Kate. Finally, she nods. ‘Yes, I suppose so.’
Outside the hospital Kate sits down on a seat in the garden and opens the plastic bag, recoiling from the stink of piss and stale cigarette smoke. It contains a handbag, a phone, what looks like an old tracksuit. Taking out the handbag she opens it. Inside is a jumble of junk – a pen, a broken lipstick, its base scratched and worn, a couple of receipts – as well as a red snakeskin purse and a set of keys. Opening the purse she finds a five dollar note and a couple of cards. Putting the keys to one side she places everything else back in the plastic bag and heads towards the street in search of a taxi.
The address the nurse gave her is in one of the old tower blocks in Waterloo. As the taxi pulls up Kate looks up at it. In the years after she left for California this entire area was redeveloped, the old public housing swept away and replaced with new buildings and a Metro station. Yet its facelift is already sagging, its garden beds dry and dead, the facades faded and peeling.
The lifts are out of order, so she has to use the stairs; by the time she is halfway up she is grateful the flat is on one of the middle levels, and not at the top. Pausing by the door, she takes out the keys. Choosing the one that looks most like a house key, she lifts it to the lock, but before she can slip it in the door to the flat next door opens and a woman appears. She is small, her black hair cut short and her compact body squeezed into a green floral dress.
‘Oh!’ she says. ‘I thought you must be Claire.’
Kate shakes her head. ‘No, sorry. I’m her . . . her daughter.’
The woman narrows her eyes. She has an alert, intelligent face. ‘Kate?’
Kate nods, surprised. ‘That’s right.’
‘Has something happened? Is Claire all right?’
Kate pauses. ‘No, I’m afraid not. She died yesterday morning.’
The woman blinks twice. ‘Oh,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry.’ She takes a step forward. ‘I’m Kina,’ she says.
‘You knew her?’
‘A little. What happened?’
‘She had a heart attack. They said she never regained consciousness.’
‘That must have been a shock for you,’ Kina says.
‘Yes,’ Kate replies. ‘It was.’
The smell hits Kate as soon as she opens the door. Covering her face with her hand, she goes through to the kitchen. The room is small, bare, the sink cluttered with dirty glasses and used mugs; half a dozen empty vodka bottles stand on the draining rack, and empty wine bottles crowd the small table against the wall. Seeking the source of the stink Kate opens the bin and almost gags. Glimpsing a greasy takeaway box still filled with chicken amidst the mess of papers she yanks the bag free and, tying it shut, carries it out to the landing.
Back inside she opens the bedroom door. The room is almost empty, the only furnishings an old mattress on the floor, a chair under the window and a white metal clothes rack in the corner with a jumble of dirty garments beside it. Beside the mattress an overflowing ashtray sits alongside a pair of vodka bottles; under the chair another bottle lies on its side. At some point her mother has made an attempt to liven up the space by pinning an old scarf to the window, but the drooping fabric only emphasises the poverty of the whole.
Stepping back she glances behind herself at the living area, a wave of despair washing over her as she takes in the miserable furnishings and disarray. On the stained sofa against the far wall a quilt is bunched at one end; opposite it a television stands on a chest of drawers. Bottles and ashtrays cluster on every surface. She takes a breath, trying to steady herself, but before she can she hears a sound from the landing, and races back to the front door to find Kina holding the bag she left outside a few moments before.
‘Can I help you?’ she demands.
Kina backs away in surprise. ‘I thought I would take this down to the waste room for you,’ she says.
Kate stares at her, and Kina places the bag back down. ‘I’m sorry. I was just trying to help.’
‘Please, don’t apologise,’ Kate says, already regretting her outburst. ‘It’s not your fault. It’s just been a long couple of days. I just . . . The apartment . . . have you been in here?’
Kina looks past her down the hall. ‘Yes. Once or twice.’ She pauses, as if considering what to say next. ‘I had to call the police a few times,’ she says at last.
Kate closes her eyes. She wants to leave, but knows she cannot. ‘I’m sorry about that.’
Kina smiles. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time the police have been here.’
Kate takes a breath, grateful for the other woman’s kindness. ‘Still, I know what she could be like. It can’t have been easy.’
Kina regards her carefully. ‘I think she got worse as she got older. Especially after she was attacked a few years ago. I’m not sure she ever really recovered.’
‘Attacked?’
Kina nods decisively.
‘She was walking home one night. Apparently it was three men. They took her bag and phone, hurt her badly enough to put her in hospital. I think they wanted to keep her there but she checked herself out.’
Kate stands, unspeaking, unsteady on her feet.
‘She didn’t tell you?’
Kate shakes her head. ‘But she spoke about me? She had my details?’
Kina nods. ‘She said you were working in Tasmania.’
Kate wonders how she knew that. Did she search for her online? ‘That’s right.’
‘You weren’t in contact with her?’
‘Not for a long time.’
‘I remember her saying you were angry with her, that you couldn’t forgive her for things that happened when you were a child.’
Kate looks up. ‘She said that?’
Kina shrugs. ‘She said a lot of things when she’d been drinking.’
‘Did she say anything else?’
Kate can see her deciding how much to tell her. ‘Nothing that matters,’ she says at last.
Kate stands very still, unable to move. She has heard her mother’s apologies, her self-pitying desire for absolution too many times. None of it was true. Finally she breathes out, realising she has been holding her breath this whole time.
‘The flat. It’s rented?’
‘It’s public.’
‘I don’t have any of her details. Is there somebody I have to notify?’
Kina stands, staring at her. ‘You need to speak to the department. I can find the number.’
‘Thank you,’ Kate says.
Closing the door, she slumps down at the kitchen table. She had thought herself defended, that she had left all this behind. But now she is here she knows she has not. The state of the flat, the chaos of her mother’s affairs – already she can glimpse what lies ahead: the unpaid bills, the overdue accounts that will need closing, the debts that will no doubt come to light. As she looks around the squalid room, Kina’s words ring in her mind: She was walking home one night. Apparently it was three men. They took her bag and phone, hurt her badly enough to put her in hospital.
Kate has heard these stories before. When she was a child her mother would often proffer accounts of people following her or hurting her as explanations for injuries or lateness. The first time Kate recalls it happening was a Saturday afternoon when she was in her first year of school, and she had been left at her friend Emily’s house. When Claire dropped her off, she told Kate she would be back later, but at some point Kate realised it was getting dark, and her mother had not returned. Emily’s parents didn’t say anything, but she can remember them standing in the kitchen, talking in low voices, and knowing that it was about her. Eventually Emily’s mother served dinner, the four of them sitting in an uneasy quiet around the table, and later they let Kate and Emily watch television. It was almost eight when the doorbell rang, and Claire appeared. She was dishevelled, her lip bleeding and cheek bruised. When she saw her, Emily’s mother gasped – Kate remembers the way she put her hand over her mouth, like a character in a play – and let her in.
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