Milk Fever

by Lisa Reece-Lane

  The bees don’t sound convinced.

  ‘Bryant is going to cure me and take away the pain and, if he does that, I think I might go to Europe and see Paris. Or see the pyramids, that would be cool.’ I stretch my arms overhead and allow my T-shirt to rise up over my stomach so I can feel the humming there too. ‘Everyone will love me,’ I say, although the bees don’t answer me and I know what they’re thinking.

  ‘All right,’ I say. ‘Maybe not Wilson.’

  I close my eyes and dissolve back into the ground and sky.

  At three o’clock, I wait at the yoga centre, nervous as a sparrow. Bryant greets me and shakes my hand like I’m his new best friend. My heart feels warm and grateful towards him.

  He tells me to lie down on the floor on a bed made out of folded blankets. ‘I’m going to do a simple chakra balance on you today, Tom. Nothing too drastic. I take it you haven’t done any energy work before?’

  I figure that I probably haven’t seeing as I don’t know what he’s talking about.

  ‘Well, it’s pretty relaxing,’ he tells me. ‘You just close your eyes, rest, while I manipulate the energy around your body. I have a crystal here, see?’ He holds up a clear stone attached to a gold chain. ‘This will tell me which of your chakras is blocked or spinning the wrong way.’ He pats the blankets. ‘Right, lie down now and I’ll get started on you.’

  I don’t feel anything at first. I can hear him breathing, a soft whistling through his nose and occasionally I hear him shifting his weight beside me. I open my eyes. He is holding the crystal over my chest and it spins around and around. I watch the movement with fascination.

  ‘Close your eyes,’ he says gently.

  I close them again and try not to wriggle my arms and legs too much.

  This seems to be taking a long time. I try to open my eyes a little bit, so I can see what he’s doing. Through the blurred opening I see the crystal swinging in a loop above my throat.

  ‘Tom,’ he says. ‘Close your eyes. Relax.’

  I feel hot and restless. There is orange inside my eyes and it glows and burns like bushfire. The movement is accompanied by a hissing sound like static on an untuned radio. Pressure begins to build up in my chest and throat. It feels as though I’m coming undone. Those hands are underneath me again, grasping. A knife-like pain in my stomach. This is what I thought would happen if I relaxed too much. I hold my breath and try to prevent myself from unravelling.

  Someone is screaming near me. It’s not my voice. My teeth are clamped hard together, my lips rolled inwards to prevent leakage. That scream is still going. There are other sounds, whimpers and groans. I feel hot. So burning hot, I can’t breathe.

  Then shaking, someone telling me to open my eyes.

  Bryant is saying that everything is fine. His hand is stroking my forehead and it feels nice and cool there.

  I open my eyes.

  He is frowning at my chest, the crystal limp in his hands. There is something about his expression that bothers me.

  ‘Did I do okay?’ I ask.

  He blinks. ‘Oh, yes. Sure. You did really well.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Um, well … well, your throat chakra was closed up. Like this.’ He shows me his fist. ‘And your third eye was spinning back­wards.’ He circles his finger. ‘They should be working better now though.’

  ‘Will it cure the pain?’

  He clears his throat. ‘It might take a few more sessions for that, Tom. It’s important we don’t go faster than your body and mind can handle. But if the migraines were caused by the third eye blockage —and they often are — then they should start to improve straight away.’

  He helps me to my feet and walks me out of the hall. My legs feel like a newborn calf’s. He locks the front door and gives me a smile. I’m hoping we can have another apple juice together, but he starts to walk away, saying over his shoulder, ‘See you at yoga, tomorrow morning.’

  I feel weak on the walk home. The air is so thick it’s like breathing milk. I can hear the whine of saws from Inverness’s mill. Dad used to be best mates with Doug Inverness. He’d take a slab of beer around on the back of his ute and they’d drink together. Once or twice I’d be allowed to go too and Dad would tuck me inside his jacket when the evening cooled, and I could feel his ribs shaking every time he laughed with his mates, and I would breathe in the calming smoke from their cigarettes.

  Doug and his wife left town years ago, some tragedy apparently, and even though the mill has a new owner everyone still calls it Inverness’s mill.

  When I get home, Wilson’s ute is bumping down our driveway. Loud country and western music rattles the windows. Wilson is singing along, slapping his hand against the outside of the car door, wailing about a woman whose heart was mean. I duck down behind the agapanthus plants and wait for him to leave.

  Julia

  Julia doesn’t always sleep at night. Sometimes, she dies.

  And then, the ritual of bringing herself back to life is like reanimating a week-old corpse. Her bones are made of lead, her head full of confusion. Dragging herself to the fridge for the bread and butter to make toast for the kids can almost reduce her to tears. I didn’t want Vegemite, I wanted jam. Mum, Amber pinched some of my milk. Cleaning up spills, defusing arguments. Honey, have you washed my Shiva T-shirt? And that bathroom. That bathroom.

  Coffee used to be her saviour; it could always be guaranteed to cheer her up in the morning. But no matter what she tries — different brands, different strengths, extra sugar, less water, more milk— instant tastes disgusting.

  She slides another DVD into the player for the kids, something she vowed never to do when she’d been pregnant.

  Don’t let the children watch television.

  Don’t let them have sugary food.

  Don’t let them stay up late.

  Or give in to their tantrums at the supermarket queue.

  Read them a story every night.

  Discipline them without shouting.

  And on and on.

  She’d been an idiot.

  Bryant has said nothing about his late return the other night. It’s as if nothing happened. She wants to shout at him how cruel he is to take another woman, a beautiful one too, for a ‘healing’ when she was stuck at home cleaning up vomit. But he’ll argue that it wasn’t anything special, that they were simply balancing chakras or cleansing auras. And in the end she is too exhausted from the fighting in her own head to say anything out loud to him.

  ‘The kettle’s boiling,’ Bryant shouts from the kitchen.

  She straightens up with a groan. Oscar should be well enough for school tomorrow, that will give her a chance to clean the bathroom properly and sort out their finances.

  ‘I can’t work out what’s giving Tom those migraines,’ Bryant says when she comes into the kitchen. ‘And whenever he goes into meditation, or yesterday when I did that chakra balance on him, he freaks out. The weird thing is I don’t think he even realises he’s doing it.’

  Julia stirs sugar into her cup. Four spoonfuls. Perhaps this much sugar will mask the awful taste. She takes a cautious sip. And then pours it down the sink. ‘Perhaps you should leave Tom alone.’

  ‘And not help him?’ There is a familiar look on Bryant’s face, an expression he employs when he’s arguing a spiritual point against her. Usually, she reverses out of any discussion with him when he gets that look.

  But this time she ploughs ahead. ‘What if the migraines are a symptom of something deeper? You could be doing more harm than good. Perhaps you should ask someone with professional experience?’

  ‘There’s no need for that.’ Bryant closes a book on spiritual healing and lays his hands on the cover. ‘They won’t understand the more subtle energies affecting him. I haven’t worked out if it’s some kind of abuse issue or a past-life trauma.’

  ‘Jesus, Bryant.’

  ‘What?’ He looks offended. ‘There’s plenty of evidence to support the reincarnation theory.
Just because you’re not open to these things, doesn’t mean they’re not real.’

  ‘But past-life. Have you stopped to consider a tumour?’

  Bryant shakes his head. ‘No, he’s blocking something. A repressed memory, I think. With some careful probing I should be able to uncover whatever it is and help heal the guy.’

  A chill descends on Julia. ‘Bryant, for God’s sake, be careful. The human mind is a fragile thing.’

  He walks over and places his hands on her shoulders. ‘I know this must be bringing up a lot of fear about your mother, I can understand that. But I’ll be careful, I promise. I won’t do anything stupid.’

  Famous last words.

  Despite Julia believing in forgiveness and second chances, she can’t help but chronicle her husband’s mistakes: the seven speeding tickets after he bought that stupid gad get out of the Trading Post, a little box that was supposed to warn of any speed cameras; the cheating on his taxes that cost them her mother’s small inheritance; his attempt to put an extension on the back of their last house which fell slowly sideways during a barbeque they were having; Oscar’s numerous cut ears after Bryant decided he could cut his son’s hair better than any barber; Amber’s costly ride in an ambulance the night Bryant decided to treat her glue ear with special herbs; even the scratched Teflon frying pans, the dropped crystal champagne flutes and the pile of dirty underpants he pushes under the bed every night, which she refuses to wash but simply refolds and puts back in his drawer for him to wear again. And his worst mistake, of course, with Craig, which she is not allowed to mention. Maybe that’s best. After all this time, the thought of Craig makes her throat close up and her eyes fill with tears.

  ‘Anyway,’ he says. ‘He might not come back after his chakra healing. Some people are actually scared to get better.’

  ‘If he does, perhaps you should suggest he get a check-up, with a doctor, just in case.’

  There is a long silence in which Julia holds her breath. She hears Bryant sigh.

  ‘Do you forget sometimes, Julia, that every thought you have, every feeling you experience is creating your life and the world around you? All your negativity serves to do is attract more negativity.’ He pushes his hand through his hair. ‘It’s a vicious cycle, sweetheart. I’ve warned you about it in the past but you never seem to listen to me. For example, you could lose that excess weight if you stuck to the affirmations I gave you.’

  ‘Bryant. There is a difference between being positive and being realistic.’

  ‘Granted, but you’re not being realistic, Julia, you’re just being plain negative. Come on, let’s play the associations game so you can see. But this time, no cheating. It has to be your first thought, okay?’

  They’ve played this game enough times before. It’s important for Julia to censor her answers, but not pause long enough for Bryant to be suspicious. She shrugs. ‘Go on then.’

  ‘Love.’

  Dirty socks, she thinks, but says, ‘Flowers.’

  ‘Men?’

  ‘Um … football.’ So far so good.

  ‘Money?’

  Her mind is blank for a second.

  ‘Come on, come on,’ Bryant snaps. ‘Don’t think about it.’

  ‘Gold, then.’

  ‘Relationships?’

  Pain. But Julia says, ‘Nurturing.’

  Bryant frowns at her. ‘Are you cheating, Julia?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think you’re saying the first thing, that’s all.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘You know what? I think you need a new affirmation.’

  ‘But I haven’t finished doing Life can be easy, joyful and fun, yet.’

  For a moment he’s thinking, pursing his lips with concentration. ‘Okay, how about … It is safe for me to trust other people.’

  There is obviously another one brewing in that head of his because he frowns, and then smiles. ‘Ah, yes …The more I allow people to be themselves, the better I feel.’

  Julia can’t help but formulate one of her own. The more I shut up and smile, the safer my husband feels.

  Julia

  She hears the front door open and the kids saying, ‘Hi’ to someone.

  Then Bryant’s voice, ‘Can we squeeze in one more for dinner?’

  Julia certainly has enough food; a huge pot of spaghetti bolognese and a French stick covered with butter and fresh garlic. Enough for a football team. ‘Um … sure,’ she calls back. But she utters a quick silent prayer that their dinner guest isn’t Summer.

  Bryant comes into the kitchen followed by another man.

  ‘Julia, this is Tom. Tom, this is my wife, Julia. Something smells good, darling.’

  ‘Spaghetti.’ Julia tries not to stare at Tom. He is alarmingly attractive with his golden skin, tangled dark hair and clear brown eyes. She clears her throat. ‘So, Tom, do you live around here?’

  ‘At the dairy.’

  ‘Is that the one on the road leading out of town?’ Where Bryant hit the dog.

  ‘Yes, it is.’ He stares at her in a way that feels too intimate. Julia turns her back. Like a schoolgirl she feels her cheeks redden.

  The windows are fogged up and running with condensation. She turns down the heat on the boiling pot of spaghetti and searches for the colander; one more object, she supposes, that is hiding in the tower of unpacked boxes in the hallway.

  ‘Have a seat, Tom,’ Bryant says. ‘I’d like to work out a specific program for you. I think a couple of chakra balances to begin with. Then, maybe a past life or inner-child regression. And, of course, I’ll get you to change your thought patterns. Without that, the treatment won’t be so effective. Now, you don’t have to pay me any money. All I ask is, after I’ve done the healings, you give me a few quotes for my brochures, you know, about what a difference the healings have made in your life, that kind of thing …’

  The kids come into the kitchen. Oscar opens the fridge door and stares inside. ‘I’m hungry.’

  ‘Well, dinner won’t be a minute,’ Julia says, ‘so close the door.’

  She turns off the oven and puts the garlic bread on the bench top. ‘Hey, kids, I need someone to set the table and someone to put away the comics and pencils.’

  ‘I’ll do it, Mummy.’ Amber squeezes in against Tom’s chair, saying, ‘Excuse me, please’, and picks up all the comic books and pencils.

  ‘Thank you, Amber. You’re very helpful.’ She hands Oscar the knives and forks. ‘Would you put these on the table for me, please?’

  ‘What will I get if I do?’

  ‘A huge thank you.’

  ‘Big deal, who wants a stinky thank you?’

  Negotiations are futile; she will have to employ blackmail. Julia lowers her voice. ‘If you don’t set the table, Oscar, there will be no cartoons tomorrow morning.’

  He shrugs. ‘I don’t care.’

  Stage two: ‘Then, no chocolate after dinner.’

  He thinks about it, frowning, lips moving silently. What clever argument is he going to come up with?

  But he concedes this round and takes the cutlery over to the table, plonking it in the middle.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Julia realises Tom has been watching her. She feels uncertain under his gaze and turns back to the stove where the sauce is bubbling furiously, spattering orange marks against the tiles.

  She mixes the pasta and sauce together, unwraps the garlic bread, grates some parmesan cheese into a bowl and, with Amber’s help, carries everything to the table.

  They eat together in relative peace. Oscar tries to upset Amber by eating with his mouth open and showing her the contents, and Julia is sure he keeps kicking his sister under the table, but otherwise they behave.

  During lulls in the conversation, Julia is aware of a strange humming sound. She watches Oscar closely; it’s the kind of thing he would do to annoy his sister, but his lips are busy sucking up lengths of spaghetti.

  ‘Excuse me a moment.’ Jul
ia gets to her feet and checks the stove. It’s switched off, and doesn’t appear to be making any sound. Bryant and Tom watch her.

  ‘What’s up?’ Bryant says.

  ‘It’s probably nothing.’ She walks over to the fridge and listens there too.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I can hear this sound. It’s like humming, a note, or something.’

  Bryant raises his eyebrows at Tom, as if to say Cuckoo.

  ‘I hear it too,’ Tom says.

  Julia turns to face him. ‘What do you think it is?’

  Bryant laughs. ‘I think Tom’s just humouring you, darling.’ He collects all the plates and dishes and carries them over to the sink. ‘Delicious meal,’ he says, patting his stomach, then returns to the table. ‘Now, Tom, where was I?’

  Julia makes them coffee, gives the kids their chocolate and washes up. She stands at the sink and listens to the men’s conversation behind her. The words blur after a while but, every time Tom speaks, she can feel the resonance of his deep voice travel into her bones.

  Tom

  The spade is sweaty and I have to grip it extra hard to prevent it slipping through my fingers. Night is a womb around me, dark and warm, but not silent. My eardrums vibrate in sync with the cicadas and the distant sound of the wood splitter at the mill, which is like the primitive thump of a heartbeat. Who is working at this time of night?

  Mother lies next to the hole, her arms stiff and her fingers held up like the claws on a tiger. She’s not happy about this.

  It can’t be helped, I tell her silently.

  She grinds her teeth.

  It will be peaceful soon, Mother.

  I bend down and remove a stone. I put it on top of the mound of other rocks at my side — to be used as a headstone when I’m done — and continue digging. Sweat prickles my skin and tightens my eyelids. I lean back against the wheel of Dad’s old tractor for a moment, breathing heavily.

  ‘You’re planning to crawl out again, aren’t you?’ I say.

  She puts the word Yes in my mind as neatly as an envelope through a mail box. But I continue lifting those clods of hard grey soil until a black rectangle lies before me.

  This is the part I hate, touching her. I arrange her dress, a polyester floral thing she’s worn for years, over her knees and neaten her woollen hair around her face. I stumble my way through the Lord’s Prayer and I can feel her disapproval when I muck up the order of the trespasses bit with the temptation bit.