‘We weren’t that noisy, were we?’
‘Do you think the classes are going to take off here, Bryant? These people …’She doesn’t want to call them bogans but, from what she’s seen in the mall and around town, they seem to be all related to one another and have that undernourished fighter look. ‘I don’t know how much demand there will be.’ Julia takes another sip of coffee. ‘Yoga is such a … a trendy thing.’
‘For a start, Julia, yoga is not trendy; it’s been around for thousands of years.’ He folds his arms. ‘Secondly, I don’t need your negativity right now. We talked about this in detail before we moved, didn’t we? Selling insurance was corrupting my soul. I needed to make a living doing something more spiritual. We decided to take a leap of faith and let the universe support us. And here you are giving up on us before we’ve even started.’
‘We need to pay off the credit cards, and there are the electricity and gas bills from the old house still, and the rates for here. Not to mention the bill for your brochures and cards —’
‘Stop it. Your negativity is like an illness, Julia. No wonder you feel unwell.’
Hammers and anvils are clanging inside her head. ‘You’re right,’ she says, rubbing at her temples, willing to agree to anything, a lobotomy even, for some silence.
‘Your head’s hurting?’ He comes behind her and lays his hands on her shoulders. ‘Breathe in slowly,’ he says, in a measured voice. ‘And as you exhale, imagine that the pain is leaving your body, out through your feet and into the floor.’
His hands are hot and make her feel worse.
‘You realise that this pain is a symptom of your fear,’ he says.
It’s a symptom of too much alcohol, after a long, harrowing week of unpacking and arguing and dealing with two grumpy kids and an overly optimistic husband who has purchased a scary amount of unnecessary items on four maxed-out credit cards.
She gives him her best smile. ‘Thanks, Bryant. You go and get ready for some fishing.’
That’s exactly what he wants to hear. He claps his hands together and calls out of the back window for the kids to get ready.
Cicadas drone outside the window as soon as Julia turns off the airconditioner. The poor machine is so old that it sounds like a jet flying overhead, although the air it pushes out is tepid and smells of mould.
At the old house, they had decided to pack everything and sort it out when they arrived. It was a stupid idea. Now there is an ocean of paperwork on the floor: gas and telephone bills from four years ago; scribbled meaningless telephone doodles; outdated magazines and newspapers; Amber’s and Oscar’s drawings (those she will keep); supermarket dockets and dog-eared take away menus from restaurants too far away to order from.
She forgot to tell Bryant to take sunscreen for the kids. They’ll be burnt to a crisp. Amber will end up looking like one of the local women with squinty eyes and deep crows’ feet by the time she’s twenty. Julia stands up and stretches her back. It’s no good; she can’t stand the thought of the kids burning in the heat. She will have to find them, despite her nasty hangover.
In the kitchen, she fills an old Gatorade bottle with water, finds two sunhats, the SPF25 sunscreen, pockets her keys and enough change for two ice-creams and heads out into the sun.
Every step seems to rob her of energy. The whole countryside is white and glaring. Her head is a balloon, her throat a dry gully. How much further to the lake? Finally, she comes to an avenue of tall trees and steps gratefully into the zebra-striped shade that lies underneath. At the lake, she is overcome with relief to see them, sitting on a tartan blanket in the blue shade formed by a circle of gum trees; the kids eating bananas, sipping from paper cups, a merry little picnic. She imagines surprising them all, running over (well, perhaps walking with this headache) and seeing their faces light up with happiness to see her.
She searches for Bryant and sees him further away, on a tartan blanket of his own, with that woman, Summer. He leans close to her, whispering something. She holds onto the end of his ponytail and pulls his head back, laughing. Her lips are inches away from his mouth.
Tom
Yoga is not what I expected. We have to put our bodies in strange positions and breathe a lot. Breathe in, breathe out. Hold the breath.
Our teacher’s voice is soothing, like calamine lotion on a burn. I try to copy all the strange movements he and the other students make. Most of these postures have Indian names, sometimes the name of an animal. When he says cobra pose, I pretend to be a snake, making my body as smooth and rubbery as possible. Once or twice he is at my shoulder, smiling and saying, good, good.
At the end of class, he tells us to stretch out on the floor, and imagine we are lying on a beach and the sun is soft and golden and birds are singing.
My body is relaxed. I am floating on the water; the sky is stretched tight and blue over my head. My ears are filled with water so I can’t hear the birds that fly above me. The water enters my cells and draws out the impurities until I am left sparkling clean.
I am pure, I tell myself. But the words in my head have a hesitant edge to them.
Am I pure?
The water grows colder. Clouds roll into the sky. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the shadows creep over the surface of the dam towards me and I know I am not alone. There are hands underneath me; an insistent pulling on my back. There is a huge boiling sickness in my stomach. I have to get free of this. I have to wake up again.
‘Open your eyes,’ the voice says. ‘You’re safe.’
I sit up with a start, my heart hammering. The room is hot and stuffy; the smell of incense burns the back of my throat.
The other students are looking at me strangely.
My teacher kneels down beside me, his hand on my arm. ‘Are you all right, Tom?’ When he notices the other students staring, he lowers his voice. ‘Don’t worry about them, mate.’
I put my arms around my knees. ‘What happened?’
‘You had a bit of a reaction,’ he says. ‘Look, wait here a minute.’
He gets to his feet and talks to the other students, as they roll up their mats. He reminds them about a class the following evening and says he hopes they can be there. Then he ushers them outside with plenty of smiles and one or two pats on the back.
I get off the yoga mat and start to roll it up like I saw the others do.
Bryant hurries to my side. ‘Leave that, Tom.’ He extends his hand, and when I take it, he pulls me to my feet. ‘We’ll go and get you a drink. You look a bit hot.’ He locks up the hall and takes me to Molly’s takeaway where he buys me an apple juice.
‘Sometimes yoga can have a strong effect on people, especially the first time.’ He sips his juice and watches me over the rim of his glass. ‘Do you remember anything about the meditation at the end of class? You seemed … troubled by it.’
‘I was very relaxed.’ I put my glass back on the table. ‘And I imagined that I was floating in the sea.’
He nods and smiles, encouraging me to go on.
‘What’s Pilots?’
‘Pill-ah-tees?’ he says. ‘It’s a little bit like yoga. It focuses on strengthening all these muscles here.’ He runs his hands up and down his stomach and sides. ‘I thought perhaps that you had a bad vision, or a dream while you were meditating.’
‘Not really.’ But the thought of it makes my heart quicken and starts to open up the cracks in my head. ‘I better go home now.’ The last thing I need is for Mother to see me sitting here, being idle. I get to my feet.
‘Wait a second.’ He puts money on the table and then places the empty juice glass on top of it. ‘I might be able to help you.’
The sun cuts across the café veranda and shines in my eyes so I can’t see his face anymore. For a moment I am blind.
And then he is close to me and his shadow blocks out the sun. His hand is firm against my shoulder.
‘I can cure you,’ he says. ‘I’m a healer.’
Julia
Bo
th of the kids are sick, and Julia is still in her dressing gown at three o’clock. No time for a shower, make-up; no time to make the beds or wash the dishes from breakfast; no time to make herself any lunch. She hasn’t cleaned her teeth and has drunk five cups of instant coffee so far.
She has played seven games of snap, three of pick-up sticks, countless games of I-spy, and a protracted game of Monopoly that ended in most of the hotels and cash being thrown across the other side of the lounge room in an Oscar tantrum. She has measured out cough syrup, blown noses, taken temperatures, massaged tummies, rubbed backs and caressed foreheads.
As Oscar screams from the lounge room that Amber stole his airplane, she puts the water on to boil for another cup of coffee.
Bryant has spiritual healing books spread over the kitchen table and is deep in concentration.
‘Mummy,’ Oscar calls from the lounge room. ‘Amber’s been sick.’
Julia carries a damp cloth and disinfectant into the lounge room and starts to clean up the floor.
Bryant follows her. He stands in the doorway with one of his books in his hand and says, ‘You know, I think the universe might have sent me here to heal one of my students.’
‘Really?’ Julia wipes the floorboards quickly. She puts the cloth in a plastic bag, ties it up and sits back on her heels. Amber looks feverish, her eyes slightly bloodshot, holding onto her toy rabbit. ‘Do you feel okay, honey? Do you want me to get you a drink of water?’
‘I’ll get it.’ Bryant goes into the kitchen and returns with two glasses of water. He hands them to the kids, who say their thank you’s with croaky voices.
‘Good manners,’ Bryant says approvingly.
As Julia gets to her feet, there is a knock at the door.
It’s Summer. Julia stares at her for a moment, temporarily mute. The woman is like sunshine after weeks of rain, clean and fresh, smelling of flowers, dressed in a white linen shirt, cut-off denim shorts and a pair of sunglasses propped on her head. She smiles a model’s smile.
‘I heard the kids weren’t well.’ She holds up an earthenware pot. ‘Chicken soup. The last thing you feel like doing when you move is cooking, isn’t it? And we don’t have the takeaway choices like you’re probably used to in the city.’
‘Summer,’ the kids call to her, their cold-filled voices sounding better.
She smiles her way past Julia and puts the pot down on the coffee table. The kids crash into her, one on each arm and squeeze her tightly. She ruffles their hair. ‘You poor little things,’ she says.
It’s like they’ve known her for years; even Amber has cheered up, showing her the bunny, Oscar telling her about the cartoon they’d watched earlier.
Bryant stands next to the couch, looking on indulgently. ‘Can I interest you in any refreshments?’ Somehow he makes the question sound like a sexual invitation.
‘I don’t want to be any trouble,’ she says. ‘But a tea would be nice, something herbal if you have it?’ She sits down next to the kids.
Bryant says, ‘I’d love a cup too, darling.’ And he joins Summer on the couch. All of them together, like a happy little family.
Julia blinks at them for a moment. She doesn’t want to leave Summer alone with Bryant and the kids. Irrationally, she fears being replaced by this perfect woman in the time it takes to make a pot of tea.
She’s being ridiculous. ‘Tea for two, coming right up,’ she says brightly, and she picks up the soup from the coffee table, and heads into the kitchen where she puts the kettle on to boil.
In the bathroom, Julia makes an effort. She cleans her teeth, brushes her hair and tries to hide the dark circles under her eyes with concealer. The colour is all wrong though, too orange for her skin tone; the tube had been in the two dollar bin at the chemist, sealed up so she couldn’t test it on the back of her hand.
She straightens her spine, adjusts her dressing gown. Come on, Julia. A few years ago, she wore stylish clothes and didn’t need any make-up; or at least when she did use it, she knew how to apply it properly. And Bryant used to say she was beautiful. Nothing has changed. Okay, she’s put on a little weight, nothing too serious and her face looks blotchy and her eyes look tired, but nothing that a little make-up and self-confidence won’t fix.
The mascarais old and clumpy and makes her lashes stick together like little arrows. The more she tries to separate them with the brush, the thicker they become and eventually she wipes most of it off with a piece of toilet paper.
She tries not to remember her former life. An image so faded and sepia in her memory now that she questions whether it was ever real or just the fabrication of a mind starved for importance.Warming up with the other dancers backstage, the faint jumbled sounds of the orchestra warming up too, in the pit. Her body; lean, flexible, obedient. Perfectly broken-in pointe shoes, stiff tutu, the nervous desire to pee that will be forgotten as soon as she steps out on stage. The other dancers in a world of their own, but ready to immerse themselves in each other as soon as the curtain rises. Indescribable joy at hearing the audience grow silent and the music begin. And that encouraging wink from one of the male principal dancers (one Julia seriously fancied) in the wings; aware that this was her first performance with the company.
All of these images have been replaced by glaring motherhood visuals: dirty nappies, leaky breasts, sleep-deprived clumsiness, hair pulling, name-calling, spat-out food, wobbly body bits and the odd blood-curdling scream at three in the morning.
Worse, the absence of creativity and discipline in Julia’s life has opened up holes in which painful feelings creep through. Without the numbing effect of intense physical effort and concentration, life seems more painful.
The kettle makes a whimpering noise from the kitchen. Julia’s throat has swollen shut from unshed tears. She dabs a little eye shadow on each lid and forces herself to cheer up. Look at her wonderful life now: her beautiful children; her adoring husband; a house in the country. If she’d stayed with the ballet she would have none of this; just a demanding schedule, arduous training and a rather lonely existence. ‘You made the right choice,’ she tells the mirror.
From the other room, the kettle begins to scream.
Summer is already there, pouring water into the teapot. ‘Where is your tea strainer?’
Julia has no idea. Probably the same place as the tin opener, aluminium foil, the recipe books, Oscar’s favourite truck, the tea towels and pens, the spare light globes, toilet paper and her headache tablets. ‘It’s somewhere.’
‘Never mind.’ Summer picks up the cups and looks at her chicken soup. ‘Do you want me to put that on for you?’
‘No thanks. The kids have eaten.’ Something Julia has just cleaned off the floor. ‘I’ll give them some later.’
Summer shrugs. ‘Okay.’ And she carries the cups of tea into the lounge room.
Julia sits at the kitchen table, flicking through a recipe magazine, wondering if she’ll find the motivation to try something new and special for dinner, listening to them all laughing and talking in the other room.
‘Julia,’ Bryant calls out.
She takes a deep breath and walks into the loungeroom.
They are all close on the couch; their faces show the afterglow of laughter. The difference in the kids is remarkable; Amber is smiling, sitting on Summer’s lap, having her hair plaited.
‘Ah, sweetheart,’ Bryant says, his arm around Oscar’s shoulder. ‘Summer wants me to do a healing for her.’ He angles his head at the children. ‘It might be a bit quieter somewhere else.’
‘We can always go to the Angler’s,’ Summer offers. ‘There’s hardly anyone in there at this time of day.’
Bryant gives her a warm smile. ‘You need to lie down. The yoga centre would be better.’
‘Do you have to do it now?’ Julia puts her hand on his shoulder.
‘Why not now? We weren’t doing anything special, just sitting around.’ He points at her face. ‘You’ve got mascara or something on your cheek.’
‘It’s only a cold.’
‘Can we come too, Daddy?’ Oscar asks.
Amber starts to wriggle. ‘I want to go with Summer.’ And Julia watches in amazement as her daughter reaches up and puts her arms around this stranger’s neck.
‘Not today,’ Summer says. ‘But I’ll take you two to the pictures soon. If it’s okay with your mummy, that is.’
‘Now?’
Summer laughs. ‘How about on the weekend?’
The kids have a mutiny as soon as the front door closes. Amber cries so much she throws up again, this time on Julia’s lap. Oscar storms into his bedroom and slams the door, then opens it again and slams it harder.
Numbness fills her entire body.
She lets the kids watch The Simpsons, she doesn’t even change channels when Itchy and Scratchy start cutting each other into pieces; she lets them eat chocolate biscuits for dinner, the chicken soup growing cold on the bench top; she lets them sleep in her bed; she lets them sulk and say they hate her.
At eleven fifteen, she kneels before the bathroom tiles and opens a new bottle of bleach, her ears straining, waiting to hear Bryant’s throaty-sounding Toyota pull into the driveway.
Tom
If I listen real close, there is a sound between my ears. And if I let it expand, then it joins the larger sound of Lovely and eventually the rest of the world. Cicadas buzz underneath me, bees and blowflies hum above, their drone low and peaceful. And inside my head is singing. The vibrations travel into my bones and cells until I feel resonant with the day. I lie on my back and stare at the sky. Lemon-scented gum trees stretch cream branches upwards, their bark as smooth as human skin. Olive green leaves wave gentle fingers overhead.
A few feet away from Mr Matthew’s hives, I recline. The bees don’t bite me; in fact, they told me they enjoy my company. I’m nice and still, and I don’t try to pinch their honey. Well, just the one time, when I was young, and they gave me a few bites for my trouble, but these days we’re buddies.
‘I reckon I’ll make some new friends when I’m cured. Wilson might even like me.’
Milk Fever Page 5