'Oh good, what is it? Is she okay?'
'Fine, just something she wants to ask you. She's so happy in this course she's started, did I tell you? Design, at Sydney TAFE. Her interests have broadened at last from underwear to the clothes you put on top. She has to study art, too, and furniture design, sculpture. I'm so glad she's found something she likes, that will give her a future, too, I hope . . . You know, I think of all those years I slaved for her to get to uni, paying for extra maths tuition, science. And she just wanted to hang around in her underwear and be admired!'
'You sound like your mother,' says Lena.
'You've never met my mother.' Doreen takes a sip of wine. 'You do wonder, though, whether feminism has changed things much. At least, as much as we'd hoped.'
'Oh, that's ridiculous, of course it has,' sniff s Lena. 'You're just taking these enormous changes for granted. Back then we had to do away with the whole sex bunny routine—'
'Well, I don't know, look at this hairless obsession now,' says Rita. 'The other day I discovered that my daughter shaves her pubic hair, as well as her legs!'
Lena laughed. 'It's not only women who do that – in Ancient Egypt priests used to pluck every hair on their body, including their eyelashes!'
Really, I think as I tuck into my duck with noodles, it's just like the early days, talking over each other, saying what we feel, being who we are. I tell them about Jonny and his sock and how I walked away instead of surrendering and Lena cries 'Good for you!' and they all toast me very loudly as if I'd just got married or won the lottery. Then Doreen says there's a new book out called Why Do I Have to Get Married, I Did Nothing Wrong! and Rita chokes on her salmon.
Funny, I always thought Italy would be about men, wrote Clara, but seems in a way it's more about women. I look around at my friends and smile. Or about the woman I am. Amazing that Clara is learning such things, so young.
Hi Mum,
I want to ask you something. Well, before I do, I'll have to tell you about my latest visit to Sophia. The doctor's been to see her and given her antibiotics and she's definitely on the mend. I brought bread and milk and a nice pasticcio from the rosticceria to heat up for her lunch. She was still in bed when I arrived but she looked much better. She asked me into her room because it was warmer in there and we sat talking for a bit. On the bed there were papers strewn, and a couple of magazines. There were also some exercise books, old-looking, faded, a bit dog-eared. She saw me looking at them and she stacked them up and put the newspapers over them. She said she'd get dressed now so I left the room and waited for her in the living room. While I waited I looked around at her paintings, and a photo on the mantelpiece – there was a pale, freckled, brown-haired boy, standing in a sunny garden. He was holding a camelia and smiling into the camera. 'Who is this?' I ask when she comes into the room.
'My son. He lives in England.' Her chin trembles and she purses her lips to stop it. 'He's such a good boy. Almost too good. I worry about him. See that over there, framed in black – that's his degree. See all the letters after his name? He became a doctor, then a psychiatrist. I'm sure he's a good one, but dio mio, he's so ernest, oh he's exhausting, always trying to work things out, as if life is a puzzle and you just have to find the pieces and put them together to get the whole picture. But everyone's pieces are different, everyone's picture, even if you are from the same family. He's been trying for so long to put the pieces together. Trying far too long. But you can't tell him.'
Why does he live in England?
He grew up there
What?
Oh it's difficult to explain. I cannot
What's his name, your son in England?
James Heartacher.
This is what I wanted to ask you, mum. Isn't there a person that writes to Dad called James Heartacher? Didn't you mention it at my last supper?
Chapter 31
'Hi, Rachel, is it too early, were you asleep?'
'No, well a bit—'
'Like a bit pregnant? Sorry, it's what Mum always says, boring isn't it. Shall I ring back later? It's just, I couldn't wait.'
Saraah. She's always been so direct. Probably due to her mother being a nurse. There's the mother at fault again. But I like her directness, always have.
'No, I'm sitting up now. It's so good to hear from you, Saraah. How are you? Oh god, you're not a bit . . .?'
'No, not a chance! I've been good at that since I was fifteen. No, what I wanted was to invite you to my twenty-first birthday.'
'Oh Saraah, how lovely, of course – why, I'd love to!'
'But there's a catch. Will you be the magician at my party?'
'Pardon?'
'Do a magic act. You know, maybe an escape with those fab handcuffs of yours or any new tricks you have. Just a short spot, but exotic, you know?'
'But Saraah, it's your twenty-first, not your ninth birthday. Why would you want—'
'Because it's cool. And different. Especially a woman doing it. And Rachel, you were a big part of my childhood. Remember Clara's chain escape in Year 6? I was so jealous, I always thought she was so lucky—'
'Clara would beg to disagree!'
'Oh, we take for granted what we've always had. That's what Greg says, my boyfriend. I guess that's why he keeps threatening to leave, make me see what it's like without him. He asked me to marry him, you know. As if! I mean, I'm only twenty-one! He wanted to get engaged at my party, like a double celebration. You know, get the key and tie the knot—'
'Instead, you want an escape act.'
'Well, yeah, that's right. Oh, I don't know, but what I do know is that you made me feel anything was possible when you did magic. You were, like, my role model.'
'Even when I tied myself to the birdcage?'
'Oh, that was so funny, yeah, even then, because it was like a lightning strike, or, I don't know, a giraffe appearing in the middle of suburbia. You know, so unexpected. And I knew you'd rescue yourself somehow, anyway. You always did. Come on, I want to give my friends a thrill. A real live magician!'
'You're on. And Saraah? Thanks for the vote of confidence. I can't tell you how much it means.'
After I put the phone down I slither back under the doona. I close my eyes but stars are zinging under my lids. My heart is racing. It's just a party, I tell myself. But my toes curl under the sheets. A role model.
I fling out of bed and dance towards the shower. I want to go out, share this wonderful feeling. I'm going to be the magician, not the assistant. Even just for a day. Like Clara, maybe I can reinvent myself, maybe it's not too late. As the water gushes down my face I try to think about reinventing and magic and Saraah, and not about James Heartacher. I want the water to wash him away.
Ever since I read that email of Clara's, I've haven't slept well. My daughter's stories are like a gripping serial that started out as something very far away and now have come much too close. There's a stab of dread every time I think of that name, Heartacher. It's like having perpetual indigestion, something I'm trying to swallow that keeps coming up. I told Clara yes, there was someone with that name writing to her dad. I moved on quickly then, telling her about her nan and my book – I tried to write about normal life. I'm trying Doreen's method, just ignoring it, thinking of other things. But it isn't working. How do you turn your mind off as if it's a tap? Drip, drip, flood?
Yesterday I passed the pool shop and went in to buy chlorine. I saw the young man with the swearing problem. He was outside unloading heavy containers of chemicals from a van. 'You were looking for that Simon guy, right?' he said, stopping to lean against the side. 'Well, he rang in sick this morning. Says he's got the flu. Won't be in for a couple of days.'
I thanked him and came home. That will be a good reason to drop in tomorrow. 'I heard you were sick,' I can say. 'Just wanted to see if there's anything I can do. If I can be useful.'
Mum, just writing this now I can feel the hair standing up on the back of my neck. I went to visit Sophia this morning and she was in her nightie
, in bed. She's still got a nasty cough. I didn't want her to get up and dressed because of me so I asked if I could just sit on her bed and chat. She didn't seem to mind – she seemed happy. I went to make coffee and that's when I saw this photo. I don't know why I hadn't seen it before. It was on top of the bookshelf, a silver-framed photo of a boy around 12 or 13, standing with a man who looks like his father. The man was dressed in hunting gear, a feathered cap on his head, one hand on the boy's shoulder and a dead rabbit dangling from the other. A gun was leaning against the white stone wall at their backs. But it was the boy more than anything that stopped my heart. Big dark eyes, armond-shaped, staring straight at the camera. Defiant. A sulky half grin showing a chipped front tooth, dark brows, the left raised in mock supiriority. It was as if the photo had been taken just after an argument. The father had a similar expression, slightly weary.
Sophia came to stand behind me then. I jumped! She picked up the photo and made a kind of tsk! tsk! noise with her tongue.
Mum, imagine Dad at thirteen. Try. That photo was him. Well, the spitting image of him. I felt so sure. It twisted my guts. My heart literally stopped for a second. I looked at Sophia. I looked at the boy in the photo. He's got her eyes.
Who's that I asked, pointing to the boy. But I already knew.
My son, she said.
What's his name?
Gianni. She started to cough again, and her eyes swam with tears.
Chapter 32
I don't think I'll go to see Simon today. I feel too shaky just now. My head is too full.
Years ago Clara said she wanted to go to Italy to see where her father grew up. Perhaps she needed to make the place real for herself. I can understand that. Guido didn't paint his childhood for her the way some fathers do, recounting small boyhood incidents while she sat on his knee. I remember telling Clara when she was two that Guido seemed to have flown down from another planet – not a trace of family but such exotic suits. He'd even packed a velvet smoking jacket! So perhaps it was my fault she'd believed that under those cream silk shirts and Italian shoes her father was a god, like Zeus, who came from gold-etched Disney clouds. Sometimes, at night, she'd creep up from behind and grab him, hopefully in the act of transforming. She was convinced those brownish stains on his fingers were not tobacco at all, but scorch marks from his fiery travel through space.
I always thought Clara might have an empty space inside her where her father should be. Or maybe that was me. It's so hard to tell. I'm not good at boundaries, either. All I know is, I tried to fill in those gaps with me, but it wasn't enough.
Dearest Clara,
It must be so strange for you, having these feelings. All I can say is, I share your confusion. I don't know if it's right to say this to you but I've always felt sad that Dad didn't talk more to you about his childhood, about himself. He is a difficult person to know, but I suppose that's just his way. It must have been very painful for him, with his mother dying so young. Hard to talk about. He was only six, remember. It probably marked his whole life. But that's made it hard for you, too.
I'm sending you hugs and I think of you always,
your loving mamma x
Hi mum - yes, I know Dad's mother died when he was six. It was a terrible tragedy. I know that, and I always thought that was why he is the way he is. I haven't written to him about this. I know it might hurt him, bring up old woonds. And these are only my own weird wonderings. I'm just telling you about all this because I figure you're not so emotionally involved – I mean with this side of the world.
I asked Lucia about the photo – I couldn't help it – surely you can see why!? I didn't want to be nosy, I said, but I had such an urge to know more about the boy. Lucia knew the photo I meant, with the man and the rabbit and the gun. All she could tell me was that yes, it was her son, but Sophia had never talked about her family very much. 'It's strange,' said Lucia, 'I would count Sophia as one of my best friends, but we don't talk very intimately as most women do. Sophia likes to talk more about ideas and philosophy – she seems to get sustenance from that the way other people receive warmth from a hug or an intimate confession.'
I asked if the son from Australia keeps in touch with his mother but Lucia said no, not that she's aware of. There was some trouble in Rome when he left Italy, something to do with the Red Brigade but Sophia only mentioned it once, years ago. 'From what I remember,' she said, 'it didn't sound as if the son – Gianni – was politically involved. But any publicity about it wouldn't have looked good for the father's career so he helped bundle Gianni out of the country.'
I wondered aloud about why, as the mother, Sophia wouldn't have tried to contact him, or why he didn't return after it all died down, or what must be wrong between them for all these years of silence to have gone on, or maybe Gianni isn't alive any longer – but Lucia just raised her hands and said, 'Families!' She had never liked to pry – 'You don't ask people about things that cause hurt, do you,' she said. And she looked at me reprovingly, so I stopped asking anything more.
But what do you think, mum? At least the other brother is still around, even if he does live in England. Lucia says he rings once a week, so that's something. Now I'm going to go and study my verbi irregolari . . . seems everything in this life lately is irregular. You can't even count on verbs any more.
But you should have seen that photo, mum.
Tell me what you THINK!
love, Clara x
Chapter 33
Simon still isn't back at work. This morning I will go and visit him.
I dress more carefully than usual. Make it casual but attractive. I don't want to look like I spent ages trying. Blue jeans, that close-fitting, low-necked navy jersey. I'll wear my hair out, nearly dry, when I brush it, it flies out wild down to my shoulders. Mascara, and a just a simple line under each eye. I look for just a few seconds into the mirror. Okay.
The pool van is parked on the street outside Simon's house. My face is hot. My hands are sweaty on the steering wheel. The car radio says 12.10. Suddenly it seems such an outrageous act to come around here. Assert myself into this man's space. What right do I have?
I park a few metres behind the van. Switch off the engine. Even if he's standing at his window, he won't be able to see me here. I have time to think. I stare through the windscreen at the back of his van. There's a slight dent near the left rear light, showing grey under the white paint. Beyond the van is the shaggy lawn, untended like a face with a week's stubble. I've never seen Simon's face unshaved. It's always clean, shiny. That endearing jaw. Neat flat ears close to his head like a cat.
I glance in the rear-vision mirror. Then I get out of the car, walk past the van, and up the path. Once my cheek brushed against his, the day we danced in the living room. I remember the prickle and the firmness. A thump of pleasure makes me catch my breath, but I push it down. I stand still at the door, my hands frozen in the pockets of my jeans. I wish my heart would stop yelling at me. Up close, the lolly orange of the door is overwhelming, rich and ripe. I think of rockmelon. The door seems to have been freshly painted. I wonder why he would bother, with his daughter grown up and left home.
I take a deep breath to keep me company, and knock on the door. Two four six eight, come on now or you'll be late. How that chant of mine used to irritate Clara. I'm not a baby. Nothing happens. I start counting in twos to sixty-eight. While I'm counting, wanting to leap forward into multiples of four, I'm listening for sounds inside the house. I take a step forward. Nothing. I knock again. More loudly. I start at seventy and count to a hundred and forty.
I put my ear to the door. The silence is thick, like something knitted, worked on. There's a texture behind the door, I can feel it. I'm like an animal on the prowl, the skin on the back of my neck bumpy, the hairs raised. I'm hovering between fight and flight. There's still nothing from inside. Just the blank hysteria of the orange door.
It occurs to me suddenly that this might be the best moment of the day – while my fantasies are still inta
ct. Behind the orange door in my mind there is Simon, possible provider of future love and loyalty, a handsome shield against loneliness. This is what I do. Conjure up the illusion, stick it over the reality. Is that what I did with Guido? The real person, then, whoever he is, will always be a surprise, because he'll be different to the one I imagined. And I've never liked surprises, even the good ones. They're not in my control.
I could walk back down the garden path now and get in my car. I could start the engine, switch on the radio, listen to the news. I could drive back home and do the last edit on my book and keep the fantasy. In my break this afternoon, I'll make Earl Grey tea and close my eyes and imagine a reunion with Simon. He will burst from his house, finding me on the doorstep and, heavy with passion, will take me in his arms, smothering my face with kisses. He'll search for my mouth, as if the air inside me is all he needs to breathe and our mouths will be locked into the same space and breath and he'll smell lovely, of Lux soap and wholesome love and clean socks washed by his very own hands, and he'll throw me down on the sofa and thrust his hands up my shirt and touch me with reverence. If I walk away now I can keep that.
I tiptoe to the window. Thin slatted blinds, a warm honey colour. There's only darkness in between. Perhaps a flicker, there, in the middle. A movement of light, of something shifting. Or just the sun moving between the trees behind me.
I glance back at the van. He must be at home, what with his car parked right outside. Maybe he's asleep. Or maybe he's had a heart attack or slipped in the bath and he's lying unconscious on the cold tiles. That's the hazard of living alone. I think of that old man who was found twenty-one days after he'd died, lying in the hallway with the phone cord dangling above him.
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