by Jessie Cole
Our closeness made me feel safe, but it could sometimes be stifling, and I began to search the horizon for some other signs of life. I found it in the friendship of the girls in my classes. I’d always been casual about schoolwork, but when I found these brainy girls, school became a place of poetry and thinking, of discussion and philosophising. These shiny-shiny girls talked and talked and laughed and laughed and fought and fought, and I could be among them and then swim back to be with Gabe, sated and fulfilled.
≈
But at home my father’s darkness seeped inside me, the nightly rants and drunken menace leaving a repository of black anger. Small capsules of adrenaline pumped through my veins and burst, infinitesimal explosions that left me shaky and filled with fear. I navigated between three worlds: school, the island of me and Gabe, and the murky waves engulfing my green garden home. Sometimes I found myself lost in treacherous waters and was shipwrecked somewhere unexpected.
One day in class we had to write a short story, and I wrote about my dad and his sad eyes disappearing from me down a tunnel of incomprehension and despair. I wrote about his familiar, soothing palms with their dry, soft skin that no longer reached out to squeeze my arm, and I lost my moorings.
When the bell rang I stood up, unable to stop my tears, and collapsed in a shocked slump against the wall, my classmates’ eyes flitting away from me in fright. I spoke then—a monologue of hurt and shame and fury—and the teacher whisked me off to the staffroom for a rest and cup of tea. They called Gabe from his class to be with me, and he came and wrapped me in his easy embrace.
On the weekends I’d stay with my bright-eyed classmates and we drank, the rest of them a little tipsy but me racing recklessly towards the blackness I could sense within. In the morning I’d wake up sick, trembling with dread over where I was and what I’d done. The empty space where Zoe had been haunted me, reminding me of all that I was not. The beach days with my sisters—their shimmering beauty—hung in the back of my mind, leaving me disappointed and forlorn. I was not hard-bodied and sleek, but small and soft and curved. I neither cartwheeled, skateboarded, danced nor sang. I was not ferocious nor dazzling, but quiet, with downcast lashes and blushing cheeks. I looked to the space where my sister had been and a great emptiness echoed back at me. Large and deep, this stark lack settled into the hollow where all my childhood dreams had lain.
And ever so slowly Zoe—the actual person—disappeared from our lives, drifting around in the depths of withered memories until she became an event, instead of a person. I clasped my hands tightly around the string of invisible rosary beads—my memories—but even the photographs of her began, over time, to fade, pushing her further from the reaches of recollection. And every year, as the person gradually diminished, the event of Zoe’s death expanded. The event lived on—her suicide—breaking away at each of us, pulling us to pieces.
≈
Four years after Zoe died, my father’s grief turned wild and the tangled threads of his control snagged and tore apart. Zoe’s scrawled letters had finally dismantled him, the rampant vine of his guilt growing noxious and strangling. Evading sleep, his night-time monologue of grief burst into the day. We woke to find he had partitioned off the kitchen with an ad hoc wooden screen to which he’d nailed all his favourite books. The kitchen table was piled up with books that hadn’t made the cut. He’d erected a shrine in our kitchen, to Zoe and to all his squally grief.
‘Kids, kids. Look, what do you think? Fucking great, hey?’
I slid towards the door, watching Jake as he tried to sit down at the book-laden table.
‘I’m not sure about the John Cowper Powys. Your mum’s always hated that book. Boring, she says. Fucking boring. Janny?’
My mother stood beside the toaster, waiting for the toast to pop up. Holding her morning sarong in place, she tried not to look at the newly constructed shrine.
‘Jess, what about you? You haven’t read any Kafka. You’ve got to, baby! I’ve nailed this one up here. All these books, they’re between me and her. All for Zoe. She’ll know. She’ll know, even if you guys fucking don’t. Janny, don’t tell me Kafka’s fucking boring! Kids, your mum actually does like Kafka, even if she’s not willing to admit it. Tell them, Janny! Fucking Zoe will know. So what do you guys think? How do you like it? The end of the hammer broke off last night, otherwise I’d add those ones too. Some Mishima … The Leopard.’
My father held the broken hammer in his hand, swinging it from side to side.
‘You’ve taken up half the kitchen.’ My mother’s voice quavered as she placed a plate of toast in front of Jake. ‘There isn’t enough space to sit.’
‘What? What are you fucking talking about? There’s plenty of fucking room to sit. Just move those books over and sit down. You have to complain about everything. God, kids, your mother is such a fucking complainer.’
I crept towards the table and slipped into a chair beside my brother. There was meaning in it somewhere, this literary crucifixion, but Jake and I were frightened. We huddled together over breakfast while my father commenced his ranting early.
‘I scattered the ashes last night, out in the garden. It was fucking great, just me and her. I could feel her, Janny. She was with me.’
‘You scattered Zoe’s ashes? Where?’
‘Out there in the garden. It’s the right spot. You’ll love it.’
My mother tightened her sarong, her lips pressed together in a line.
‘Oh, what, you have a problem with that too?’ My father’s face was red, his jaw jutting forward.
‘What about us?’ she asked. ‘What about Zoe’s mother? You didn’t ask her. She brought the ashes back from Holland. You can’t do things like that without talking about it.’
‘Fuck! She’s my fucking daughter. I know where she should be. You’re such a control freak. You want to control every fucking thing. Well, I’m a free man, Janny.’ This was his most frequent night-time phrase, replaying again in the morning. ‘You don’t appreciate anything I do. You don’t like my fucking books, you don’t like my fucking kitchen, you wish I’d just fucking shut up, don’t you?’
‘You’re not the only one who’s hurting,’ my mother whispered.
‘The kids, the kids, the fucking kids! All right. Fuck. But I’m not taking the fucking books down. Zoe knows. She knows what it’s all about.’
‘You can’t do this. It’s crazy.’ My mother’s voice was quiet.
‘What, now I’m fucking crazy? Oh, that’s just fucking typical.’
Escaping out to the garden, I gathered some of the grey dust back up. My sister’s ashes. I hid them in a painted wooden box among my jewellery, and—avoiding the kitchen—slipped out to the driveway and the hissing school bus.
≈
Always a punctual man, my father began to run late for work, and in the office he made phone call after phone call until his frightened patients, milling about in the waiting room, got up and went home. He bought a tiny ramshackle house in Burringbar from friends, on impulse, with a cheque that he wrote out at three o’clock in the morning, drunk, and he didn’t tell my mother. He dreamed of building an elaborate marble-floored Italian restaurant in his tiny new house, and he drew up designs and called the architects. He called the bank manager and the builders. He called old friends and acquaintances.
His secretary phoned my mother, her voice low and disturbed. ‘Janny, I’m worried about him. He looks terrible, like he hasn’t slept in days. I can’t get him off the phone.’
In the afternoon my father rang to say he’d be home soon, but he didn’t arrive. My mother was frantic, her long skirts twitching as she paced about, the crease between her brows a savage line. She thought of accidents and car wrecks, and he did not phone and he did not phone. He vanished, and it took my mother all the next day—ringing every friend they had—to track him down. In Brisbane, he’d turned up unannounced on a bewildered friend’s doorstep, clutching a bottle of wine. In the city’s giant shopping centres he’d spen
t and spent, until his credit cards were heavy with debt.
‘My daughter, everyone thinks she’s dead. But she’s not—she’s come back!’ he’d told a stunned woman at a supermarket check-out. ‘She was just on holiday. A protracted holiday!’
He took ten hours to complete the two-hour drive home, stopping along the way to make more purchases. He bought a cane furniture suite, a brand spanking new leather lounge, and more and more presents for us, which he claimed post-acquisition were all tax deductible and therefore half price.
When finally he arrived home he still didn’t tell my mother about the house he had purchased or the hefty house-sized cheque. He hid the chequebooks, and in the days that followed she couldn’t do the banking. Erratic and wired, my father talked and talked, flooding with words. My mother rang his old doctor friends for help and advice.
‘He doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t eat. I think he’s having some sort of episode.’
‘He’s just starting to feel better.’
‘No, he’s acting crazy. It’s beyond that.’
‘I saw him the other day at Jim’s. He was in high spirits. Life of the party. Back to his old self.’
‘No, this isn’t normal. He’s out of control.’
The next morning, my father’s day off, a handyman came to spray the orchard with white oil, but my father made him sit down and watch music videos.
‘See how when Clapton comes on stage, Neil Young shifts over? They can’t stand each other. You can see by the way Clapton holds his head. I’ve got it figured, man. You can see it, right?’
‘Well, I don’t know … but I guess I should get to work.’
‘No, no, man. Just watch this bit. It’s fucking great. You can see that Dylan doesn’t even want Willie Nelson there. I mean, it’s Dylan’s concert, right? I can tell just from this one look. There, that bit, did you catch it? See how Dylan kind of smiles right there? Here, I’ll rewind it for you.’
He had developed detailed theories about what the videos meant, and he sat and stood and sat and stood and talked to the handyman until finally it was late and the bemused man escaped into the night.
The next week my father’s oldest friends rang my mother with concerns—crazy letters and midnight phone calls. He came home late from the office, arms gesticulating with a frenzied flourish, and declared he had something amazing to tell her. First, though, he had to make a few phone calls. My mother waited while he made call after call, until, exhausted and bewildered, she gave up and went to bed. The next morning, a Saturday, he had converted to astrology. Accosting me at breakfast, he dragged me up to the pavilion, then sat across from me with a notepad, asking nonstop questions about my friends and their star signs and jotting down my replies.
I was surprised by this latest obsession, but I sat with him and talked and talked. It felt like the first time my father had heard me speak since Zoe died. He was vibrant, energetic, his arms sweeping out in lavish emphasis. Tentatively, I smiled. I could see my mother watching us from the walkway down below. Leaving to pick up Jake from a friend’s house, she lingered a while, unsure, before she walked out to the car.
When my mother was gone, my father stood up and smacked his pen against his page.
‘Thanks, Jess—you’ve told me everything I need to know. I’m working on something special here.’
‘Right, okay.’ I was confused.
‘I’ll be back later to tell you what I’ve found.’
My father went away to his room and when he returned an hour later he cornered me in the kitchen.
‘I’ve discovered something amazing, Jess. Zoe didn’t leave me. She didn’t fucking leave me. I’ve got this patient, a fucking beautiful girl—you’d love her, Jess. You’ll meet her soon. She’s fourteen, and I know that she’s really Zoe. She’s Zoe reincarnated.’
Standing over me, my father began to cry, a deep collapsing sob.
‘She’s not dead, Jess. I knew she’d never leave me. I worked it out from all the things you told me, from what you said about the star signs.’ He wiped his tears from his cheeks with the heels of his palms.
‘But Dad, she’s fourteen—how could she be Zoe? She was born way before Zoe died.’
‘It’s partial reincarnation—one of my patients told me about it. This guy knows about heaps of fucking stuff, baby. I’ve done a lot of talking with him. Lots of fucking talking.’
‘Dad, that’s crazy.’
‘You don’t believe me?’
‘No. You’re acting crazy.’
I longed for my mother to return and rescue me.
‘You want to know something else?’
‘No.’
‘See this picture?’
My father held up a Time magazine with a picture of a black-skinned man with glasses on the cover.
‘Do you know who this is?’
‘No.’
‘It’s Arthur Ashe.’
‘Who?’
‘Arthur Ashe—he’s a tennis player who died of AIDS a few years back.’
‘So?’
‘Do you see anything unusual about this photo?’
‘No.’
‘That’s me. I’m Arthur Ashe. I can tell by the shape of the glasses.’
‘But he only died a few years ago, right? Come on, Dad, how’s that possible? Who were you before he died?’
‘I’m me, baby, but it’s partial, you know?’
I fought tears, wanting to be away from him. ‘Dad, you’ve lost the plot. You’ve totally lost the plot.’
‘Fuck, you sound just like your fucking mother! Both of you so fucking critical.’
Escaping to my room, I waited for my mother to come home. Restless and afraid, I locked my door and stood inside watching the green wilderness through the glass. All the trees of my childhood were still there, solid as they’d ever been, but I couldn’t feel the comfort of them. I bit the sides of my cheeks, hard, but there was nothing. No pain. I was feeling less and less.
My mother arrived home at the same time as the furniture van, and the delivery man began to unload the lounge suite. My father asked him to stay for dinner and then regaled him with details of his newly acquired astrological knowledge. After dinner he invited the man to stay the night, and then—in a flurry of movement—headed out to a party at a friend’s house. We watched him go, exhaling in a communal sigh of relief. This friend was a psychiatrist and a colleague, and surely something would be done. Talking shyly to the bamboozled furniture delivery man, my mother showed him to the spare room.
Late that night the mother of the fourteen-year-old patient rang to speak to my mother.
‘Look, I’m worried about your husband. He came to my house—he just dropped by. He says he thinks Zoe has returned. He says he thinks my daughter is her, that she’s come back to him. I think he’s becoming obsessed with her. He sounds crazy. I don’t think it’s right—I mean, he’s her doctor. It’s not safe. He says he wants to take her away somewhere. She’s just a kid, you know?’
My mother didn’t know what to say, the woman’s words slamming against her, leaving her dry-mouthed and afraid. After she hung up the phone she searched and searched, until finally she found the chequebook and the house-sized cheque.
≈
I escaped the quiet fear of the house to spend the night with the shiny-shiny girls. In their bright company I drank and drank, aiming for that swamping blackness. The girls found me crouched in the garden, shivering and wordless, and tenderly they pushed my hair from my face. Bundling me up, they took me to bed. I lay in the darkness, my head pounding and my stomach raw, and eventually I slipped off into a welcome unconsciousness.
In the morning someone woke me to come to the phone. My mother had called and it was urgent.
‘Jess?’
‘Yeah, Mum—what’s wrong?’
My throat felt razored, my voice shrill.
‘Jess, it’s your dad. He went missing. They lost him at the party.’
‘What?’
‘He
disappeared and they couldn’t find him.’
‘Where is he? What happened?’
My head was throbbing, and I pushed my fingers hard against my temples.
‘He’s at the police station,’ my mother said. ‘The police picked him up.’
I was afraid to speak, afraid to find out why. The silence stretched between us.
‘Jess?’
‘What did he do?’
‘Are you okay?’
‘Yeah, I’m all right. Tell me.’
‘He broke into someone’s house—there was no one home—and put some music on. He turned it up really loud and the police came. He was naked and muddy—he’d smeared himself with something.’
‘Is he okay? I mean, is he hurt?’
‘I think he cut himself a bit with the glass. You know, from the window when he broke in. But it’s not serious.’
‘Mum, what’s going to happen?’
‘He’s not going to be charged, I don’t think. It was clear that he’s not well. They’re taking him to the Richmond Clinic.’
‘The Richmond Clinic? Where all his patients go?’
‘Yeah.’
The phone shook in my hand. I clenched my teeth together until they scraped loudly in my ears.
‘I have to go over and bring him some stuff, some books and pyjamas. I can’t pick you up. Can you stay there today?’
‘Yeah, that’s fine, Mum. Is Jake okay?’
‘He’s quiet, you know—he’s worried, I think.’ My mother sounded tired and tight. ‘Jess, I’ll ring you when I get back, okay?’
‘Yeah, all right.’
I hung up, and turned around to face the wary eyes of my friends. Shipwrecked, I felt myself slide down the wall to the floor. I looked up at the girls and then stumbled up and outside to retch into the garden. They ran me a bath, and I climbed naked into the warm water, my whole body shaking and numb. The shiny-shiny girls let me soak, poking their heads carefully around the door now and then to check on me. I thought of my father in hospital pyjamas and felt the relentless quickening of that frantic movement within.