Milk Fever

by Lisa Reece-Lane

  God, she wants him so badly.

  And all she has to do is walk outside. To find relief.

  But she can’t. Her jaw is set hard against the temptation. The need to fill her ears with something to block out the sweet harmony grows stronger and, eventually, she collapses onto the couch and presses her hands against her ears.

  ‘Does it hurt?’ Bryant says, when he returns from the shopping and finds her still in pain. He places his hand on her forehead. ‘Shit, you’re very hot.’

  Barbara wrings out a cold cloth and hands it to Bryant who lays it on her brow.

  ‘Is it a fever?’

  Bryant shrugs. ‘Something’s burning her up.’

  ‘This could be the start of it,’ she hears Barbara say.

  Bryant’s hand stiffens against Julia’s forehead. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know.’ Barbara leans forward to whisper in her son’s ear, ‘Like her mother.’

  ‘She’s fine,’ Bryant says, in a loud shaky voice. ‘It’s nothing. It will pass.’

  ‘What age did her mother —?’

  ‘I told you,’ he insists. ‘Julia will be fine. I’ll heal her tonight.’

  Julia is touched by her husband’s concern. He tells the kids to be quiet. He asks Barbara to make dinner and get the kids ready for bed. He won’t let them come into the lounge room. And, even though she feels guilty at all the fuss she’s creating, and how the whole household is thrown off-kilter by her not being capable, a part of her soaks up his tender ministrations with desperate longing.

  ‘Darling, sit up,’ Bryant says. ‘I want you to try gomukhasana, cow’s face pose.’ He spends a moment trying to get Julia’s arms into an awkward position behind her back. ‘There’s a blockage behind your heart, darling. Come on. At least try. It might help.’

  But Julia flops into a curled ball, groaning, and clamps her hands back over her ears.

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll try something else.’ He places crystals on her head and body and won’t let her move until the energy sinks in. He chants a special invocation and rings a bell over each of her chakras, and waits, nervously, for a sign that it’s working.

  At eight o’clock, because she’s still moaning, Bryant makes a phone call, and Phillip Barchester arrives soon after. ‘Have you tried crystals?’ Phillip asks with a straight face, and Bryant turns his head away in shame.

  The doctor checks her heart, pulse, throat, eyes and ears. He looks baffled and serious. He talks to Bryant — most questions are answered with an I don’t know, or an I’m not sure.

  As Phillip rises from the couch, Julia grabs his hand. She means to ask him to keep silent about seeing her in the supermarket with Tom. But all she can manage is ‘Don’t.’ He frowns, obviously mystified. Then he pats her hand and tells her to relax. He prescribes painkillers.

  For the next day and night, Bryant sits by Julia’s side, giving theories about her sickness, fetching glasses of cold water, occasionally doing reiki symbols over her chest, or stroking her forehead, or patting her hand, or smiling down at her.

  And some time during the night, the fever passes. Tom has retreated. Julia sits up on the couch, Bryant asleep in his clothes beside her. She heads into the quiet kitchen on unsteady legs, and takes a long drink of water. But instead of feeling restored by Tom’s departure, she feels empty, like he’s walked off with a vital part of her soul in his hands.

  Julia

  The following morning, with no sound of Tom, she is able to make breakfast, although her body feels like it might float away. Her legs tremble and her hands start shaking whenever she tries to hold anything. She forces herself through the motions, laying out bowls and cereal for the kids, using both hands to hold everything.

  Amber comes out of the bedroom, clutching her teddy bear by the arm, looking guilty.

  ‘What’s the matter, sweetie?’ Julia says.

  Amber presses the teddy against her mouth and shakes her head.

  ‘Sit down and have your breakfast then.’

  It’s not until Julia goes to refill her coffee cup that she realises Oscar isn’t here. A shiver of frost runs through her veins. ‘Where’s your brother?’

  Amber blinks at her, won’t answer. It’s not unusual for Oscar to sleep in, but this morning is different. The house feels wrong. She hurries into the kids’ bedroom, knowing before she gets there that the room will be empty.

  ‘Oscar,’ she calls, and her voice comes out as a shriek.

  Bryant turns off the TV. ‘What on earth’s the matter?’

  Julia can’t speak. She hurries back into the kitchen and kneels in front of her daughter, who has started crying. ‘Where is he, sweetheart?’

  Amber leans forward, her eyes magnified by tears. ‘Oscar wanted to go back to the city. He packed some biscuits and a drink.’

  Julia’s head is swimming with fear. She takes a steadying breath. ‘How did your brother say he would get into town, darling?’

  ‘Get a lift with someone. We watched a movie once and this boy ran away from home, and he got a lift with this old lady, and everyone thought the old lady was a witch because she lived in an old house, but she wasn’t really a witch, she was just lonely.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Bryant says under his breath. ‘I’ll call the police.’

  Julia pats Amber’s knee and gets to her feet. ‘Right, I’m going to get dressed.’

  Barbara grabs hold of her son’s arm. ‘What shall I do?’

  He thinks for a moment. ‘Check under the beds,’ he says. ‘And the broom cupboard.’

  Julia throws on some shorts and a T-shirt, slips her feet into a pair of sandals, and hurries back into the kitchen. ‘Any luck with the police?’

  Bryant frowns. ‘There’s a recording.’

  ‘They might not even be on duty.’ Julia can feel a growing sense of panic and urgency building inside her.

  ‘Wait, I’ll try again.’ He redials the number, then after a few moments of listening, he hangs up. ‘They’re still busy.’

  ‘Or fishing.’ Julia walks to the front door. ‘I’m going to see if I can find him.’

  ‘Wait a second,’ Bryant says. ‘I’ll come too.’

  They drive towards the town centre. Julia rests her head against the glass and stares at the weatherboard houses, the dried-up paddocks, the grazing cows and old miners’ huts dotted here and there, each one leaning towards the earth, chimneys stacked like toy blocks. Where would Oscar go?

  He could be anywhere. Some psycho could have picked him up by the side of the road; a child molester or murderer. Julia feels sick. She is cold and hot at the same time; her skin too tight. She sees Oscar, grumpy and dusty in a stranger’s car, his little packet of biscuits crumbling in his fists, his drink growing warm. ‘Oh God, Bryant, we have to find him. I’ll die if anything happens.’

  ‘He’ll be fine. As soon as he gets hungry, he’ll come running home.’

  ‘No, he won’t.’ And Julia realises that Bryant doesn’t know their boy very well at all. ‘Hunger won’t make a bit of difference to Oscar. Remember that time he refused to eat anything because I wouldn’t let him play on the computer? He went without eating for two days.

  In the end, I had to back down and let him play.’ She groans. ‘I just can’t understand what’s upset him this time.’

  Bryant clears his throat. ‘Ah, I might have an idea.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He wanted to speak to you last night while you were sleeping but I wouldn’t let him. He had one of his big tantrums. You know what he’s like.’

  ‘Oh, that’s brilliant.’

  ‘Well, you were sick.’

  ‘Oh, God. Why didn’t you just wake me?’

  Bryant puts his foot down harder on the accelerator. ‘Don’t worry, Julia. We’ll find him.’

  They check the two main roads leading out of Lovely and then return to the town centre. Taking a side of the mall each, they ask in every shop if they’ve seen a little boy, so tall, with messy brown hai
r and blue eyes.

  In the café, Joe unties his apron. Bruno and Anthony leave their chess game. And they all accompany her to the end of the mall where Bryant is waiting with his own group of people; the man from the bargains shop, Mrs Fatori and three teenagers talking quietly between themselves.

  ‘Let’s go and get Pete,’ Mrs Fatori says, and Bryant and Julia are led to the bluestone pub where a police four-wheel drive is parked out front.

  ‘Pete, Sam,’ Mrs Fatori yells, so loud that everyone in the pub turns to watch her. ‘We’ve got a little boy missing, so get your fat, lazy arses off those bar stools and come help us find him.’

  Julia could kiss her. She could kiss all of these people she used to think of as bogans, who march without hesitation out of the pub. She could kiss all these people, who have locked up their shops, left behind their beer and snooker games, abandoned their skate boarding or TV watching, to help find her little boy.

  The policemen spread a map of the area over the bonnet of their four-wheel drive. The crowd gathers around them. They divide the map into areas, and divide the searchers into pairs.

  The biggest cop, with ginger hair and a darkly freckled face, says, ‘All right everyone, the little boy is called Oscar and he’s seven years old. He could be anywhere from Drew Street to halfway to Melbourne by now, so let’s make it snappy.’

  Someone in the crowd tells him to shut up talking then.

  He ignores the heckler. ‘We’ve put through a call to Shawtown and they’re sending out a couple of vehicles to help in the search. The SES is covering the bush and pasture from the lake all the way to the land at the back of the council buildings. Everywhere else is open. So, choose a section, then tell Sam where you’re going so we don’t lose anybody else.’

  People look at the map and tell Constable Tong which section they’ve chosen and then, two by two, the gathering fans out. Before some of them have walked fifty feet away, Julia can hear them calling Oscar’s name.

  ‘Did he have any favourite places he liked to go?’ the ginger-haired constable asks.

  ‘He liked the lake,’ Julia says.

  ‘Anywhere else?’

  ‘We haven’t been here very long. He told his sister he was going to hitchhike to the city.’

  ‘Well, don’t worry, we’ll check the lake and the roads out of town, and then swing by your house when we’re done. It’s probably best if one of you waits at home. You never know with kids, he could be there by the time you get back.’

  ‘I’ll stay and help with the search,’ Bryant says.

  Driving back through the town, Julia’s nerves are stretched into long brittle strands. Her hands are tight on the wheel.

  As soon as she walks through the front door, which has been left open in anticipation of Oscar’s return, she knows he isn’t there.

  ‘Well?’ Barbara asks. She is sitting with Amber on the couch.

  ‘Nothing.’ Julia can’t sit down. She feels too restless. She needs to do something. Or go mad.

  She closes her eyes against the pain. Where would he go? She imagines herself as Oscar, as that strong-minded, but sensitive boy, troubled by something. Where would he go?‘We checked everywhere, right?’

  Barbara nods. ‘Yes.’

  ‘The broom cupboard?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Under the couch?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  The shed?

  Julia hurries from the room and into the back garden. She doesn’t bother calling. Oscar won’t answer.

  Rusted hinges and weather-buckled wood makes the door to the old laundry stiff. But she can see that it has been opened recently, and she pushes her shoulder against it.

  He’s sitting in the far corner, where she knew he’d be; under a ledge burdened with old pot plants and paint pots. He watches her, his hands around his ankles, chin resting on top of scuffed knees. His pillow and an old blanket have been made up into a bed and his favourite cars and transformer toy lie on the pillow.

  ‘Hey, angel. How are you doing?’

  ‘Good.’

  She sits down beside him. Her nose tickles from the dust. There are spider webs everywhere and Julia’s skin crawls at the memory of the red backs Bryant found. ‘Has something upset you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Everyone was very worried about you, Oscar. The police and CFA have been out searching for you. Mummy and Daddy have been very upset.’ ‘I didn’t think anyone would miss me.’ He says this with perfect honesty, without a hint of self-pity.

  She feels like crying at the absurdity of it. How could he not know how precious he is to her? She’d give her own life for this child. ‘Oscar, I love you more than anything,’ she says fiercely, putting her arm around his shoulder. ‘You mustn’t run off and hide like that again.

  Of course we miss you.’

  ‘Anyway, I’m thinking of moving out here,’ he says, patting the concrete floor. ‘My bedroom’s so crowded with you and Amber in there. And I’ll be eight soon so I’ll need my space. Can you get my Pokemon cards?’

  Later that afternoon, at Oscar’s insistence, she cleans the shed from top to bottom, and helps him carry his toys and games outside and sets up a proper bed for him in one corner. Even dinner is eaten in the shed; she carries it to him on a tray, and puts it down on an overturned tea chest. ‘But this is a once-off,’ she says. ‘From tomorrow, you’ll need to eat inside with the family. Because that’s what families do.’ He shrugs, noncommittally.

  It feels all wrong and gnaws at her through the night. She can’t sleep. What if Amber decides to move into the old chook shed? What then? She wants to press her family back together again with her hands and hold them against her chest where they won’t wriggle away from her.

  That night she dreams of a beach. Standing on the waterline, flying kites, a storm sitting like a bruise of charcoal against the horizon. In one hand, the kites have the faces of her family — Bryant, Oscar and Amber. In the other hand, she has only one kite — Tom. For some reason, there is an orchestra playing over her head; soaring strings riding the fourth movement swell of Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade, competing with the brewing storm.

  Each arm is stretched in opposite directions by a ferocious wind. The kite strings cut into her hands and drops of blood fall onto the sand. She braces her legs and tries to hang onto all of the strings, feeling the muscles and tendons in her arms stretching and screaming. The woodwind section spirals up and down, echoed by the violins, trumpets march insistently forward until the whole orchestra is whipped into a swaying frenzy. The wind keeps tugging at her arms until she feels sure she will be split right down her middle. Eventually, sobbing, she opens one hand but, come morning, Julia can’t remember who she released.

  Tom

  I have no memory of walking to the library, but here I am standing at the round wooden counter, while Mrs Wiltshire, the librarian and former English teacher, makes me a membership card.

  ‘My word, Tom. You’ve grown, haven’t you? Do you still like writing essays?’

  ‘I don’t remember ever writing one.’

  ‘Well, you were always very good at them if I recall rightly — very original. Now, be sure not to lose this because the library charges five dollars to replace lost cards.’ She hands me a laminated card with my name on it. ‘So romantic poetry, right?’

  I frown at her, not sure what she’s talking about.

  Pulling me by the arm, she leads me to a shelf of books at the far corner of the building. When I continue to stare at her, she says, ‘You asked for books on romantic poetry, Tom.’

  ‘Oh, that’s right.’ I remember now; I’m going to make Julia fall in love with me. ‘What kinds of poems do women like reading?’ I say. ‘I mean, if I wanted a woman to fall in love with me, what should I read her?’

  Mrs Wiltshire’s face lights up. ‘Oh, is it anyone I know, Tom?’

  ‘I don’t think so, she’s new to town.’

  ‘How exciting.’ She taps her index fi
nger against her bottom lip a couple of times. ‘New, hey? Not the girl working in the bakery section of the supermarket?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Mrs Fatori’s niece? She’s very pretty.’

  ‘No.’

  She consults the ceiling for a minute. ‘I can’t think of anyone else new. Come on, tell me who the lucky lady is.’

  ‘I can’t tell. She’s married.’

  Mrs Wiltshire’s smile vanishes. ‘Tom, not the yoga teacher’s wife?’

  I can’t stop my face from blushing and she puts her hand on my shoulder. She lectures me for half an hour, but I block out her words. Cracks are beginning to appear around the edges of my awareness.

  Something important I’ve forgotten.

  I get out of the library with eight books and a promise to behave myself.

  Despite the heat, I feel strangely cold. In the fruit shop I can’t stop shivering. Mrs Fatori sells me a bunch of mixed flowers in pretty red cellophane; she asks me who they’re for, but there is no way I want another lecture, so I say, ‘Mother,’ and Mrs Fatori smiles with approval.

  Joe has to open the door for me at the café because my arms are so full.

  ‘What’s all this?’ he says.

  ‘I’m going to win someone’s heart.’

  This must appeal to his romantic Italian nature. ‘Celebration,’ he says, and hurries into the back room where he stores the cheeses, returning with a bottle of sparkling wine. When Bruno and Anthony come in for their morning coffee, he tells them I am in love. In fact, Joe tells everyone: he tells Phillip Barchester, who orders a strong takeaway latte, and raises his eyebrows at me; Mrs Craig, who wants five hundred grams of fetta, and tells me to be careful; Mrs Fatori, who comes in for a chat (she tells me she knew the flowers weren’t for my mother); two lost tradesmen who missed the turnoff for Shawtown, and order salami and cheese focaccia while they’re here, and say, ‘On ya mate,’ as they leave; and Mrs Fatori’s niece. She is very pretty, I have to admit, and she looks at me and blushes and smiles while she waits for her hot chocolate. Joe keeps winking over our heads to Bruno and Anthony. Bruno and Anthony keep winking back.

  When she leaves, Joe claps me on the shoulder.