‘Try me.’
‘I’ll be breaking a promise.’
‘I can’t do this.’ She gets to her feet.
‘Wait.’ Bryant’s voice is like a stone dropped into the silence. ‘Summer’s my sister.’
‘What?’
‘Half-sister. Dad told us about each other before he died. He made me promise not to tell anyone.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘It’s true. Why else do you think I’d want to move to Lovely?’
Julia can’t answer that.
‘Summer would call me all the time, crying, because she kept having miscarriages and she was lonely up here. I thought I could help her.’
‘So you uprooted your whole family, your children, for her? For a half-sister?’ Julia can’t get her head around the enormity of his decision. ‘You lied to me. You told me you wanted to start up a yoga school in a country town. You said it would be good for the kids; fresh air and all that. You dragged us here —’ She takes a deep breath in order not to scream at him, ‘— for Summer.’
‘It wasn’t a lie. I did want to teach yoga in a country town. And I did think the move would be good for the kids. I mean, it’s not too bad here, is it? Hey?’
Julia can’t speak. She stares at him; too angry, too shocked, too confused to offer him one single word.
There is a movement behind Bryant then. The sound of air being lost.
Barbara’s voice is husky with sleep. ‘What are you talking about?’
Bryant swears and lowers his head to his hands.
His mother takes a seat at the head of the table, the throw rug around her shoulders, her hands clenched in front of her. ‘I never had any other children. Only you.’ Her voice is shaking.
‘I know Mum.’
‘Then what? And don’t you dare suggest your father ever …’ ‘
He did.’
‘Don’t you dare say it.’
‘He had another family, Mum. In Laverton.’
‘You’re lying.’ Barbara gives Julia a look of fury, as though it’s somehow her fault.
But it’s a funny thing about the truth, Julia thinks, because even if it sounds far-fetched, there is a certain resonance to it. And, as much as Barbara wants to block out Bryant’s words, Julia can tell she knows the truth.
‘That’s why there wasn’t as much money as you expected, Mum. When he knew he was dying, he left half of it with his other family.’
Tom
Wilson is breathing like a shot dog, carrying me up the drive, staggering steps I feel through his wiry arms. Mick has my legs. I’ve told them to put me down but they don’t, so I figure I’m probably thinking things, rather than saying them out loud.
Wilson’s cursing me over and over — a mantra of frustration and fear. This man who hates me so much. Does he remember another night? One like this — warm as moon water, with rows of trees like black umbrellas overhead. Are they blurring in similarity? Did he help pull his cousin out of the dam? Pale and bloated? Did he listen to the ambulance sirens baying like hunting dogs, dissecting the ill night? Is that what he remembers?
They reach the feed shed. ‘We’re gonna leave you here,’ Wilson says, between gasps. He places me on the ground, almost gently, and drags both hands down his face. ‘You were alive when I hit you, right? So, if you decide to die overnight, well that’s your own stupid fault. Not mine.’
I hear one of them vomit near the lemon tree, then their footsteps on the driveway again, crunching out of hearing. They’ll probably argue, fight maybe. Wilson will examine the front of his car and curse me some more.
I pull myself to my feet. Or rather, that’s what I try to do, but my body disobeys and remains on the ground, stubbornly prostrate.
I try again and this time my arms work. I use them to explore my body. My face is wet, but that could be sweat, not blood. My chest hurts when I breathe. My pelvis and thighs are numb.
Can I wriggle my toes, I wonder?
No.
Using my arms, I manage to pull myself into a sloped sitting position and lean against the door. Pain thumps through me like a heartbeat. I can feel the pulse of it under my tongue and against my eyeballs. Perhaps the vessels in my brain have ruptured. My skull might be filling with blood.
Internally, I feel myself sink down somewhere. Good, let me die then. But after a time, my eyelids flicker open by themselves. I watch the crimson fingers of dawn curl over the top of the milking sheds through blurry eyes. Magpies perform their lazy dawdling arpeggios. Kookaburras answer. It smells as though someone is burning off, although they shouldn’t be, not during a total fire ban. I doze for a while, drifting in and out of pain.
When I wake, I hear the cows on the other side of the fence behind me, impatient for a feed. Who’s going to milk them and help with the last of the calving?
With the new light, I make a more thorough inspection of my body. I am covered in flies and dried blood. A huge rip separates the fabric of my jeans and the flesh underneath looks like a ploughed field. I can feel my legs now, so I wriggle my toes and a spear of pain races up the inside of my thighs into my groin. Agony, but at least they work.
One of the roosters comes over and eyes me suspiciously. He pecks at a bit of dirt, chuckling for the hens to come and see what he’s found. Four of the browns and a speckled white come running, their skirts kicked up by their pale feet. They peck at the rooster’s shadow, find nothing, and then wander away again.
Normally, Mother is out at this time, feeding the chickens, gathering eggs. Watering the pot plants on the front veranda. Rosy May, mother’s old tabby, is balancing on the fence to the veggie patch, her filmy eyes following the trail of a dragonfly.
Something is wrong. The smell of smoke is stronger now, and burns my throat. I crawl over the dried lawn towards the house. It requires a comical amount of effort and I laugh at the pain, at my helplessness. White specks dance in front of my eyes so I need to blink repeatedly to clear my sight.
Normally, the back door would be open, but it is shut tight. I grab onto the door handle and twist it, falling onto the cool spread of beige linoleum. The room is dark and empty.
‘Mother,’ I call, and wait and listen.
There is the cumbersome tick of the hall clock. The hum of the refrigerator.
I crawl down the hallway into their bedroom. The bed is empty, the curtains drawn. The room smells of disinfectant. They obviously weren’t here last night.
Now the fear has escaped my body, it’s driving me back up the hallway into the lounge room, the bathroom, the sunroom filled with towers of Mother’s old magazines and her knitting.
Eventually I find her note on the kitchen table.
Tom,
Your father has been taken to hospital in Shawtown. I will stay there with him. Make sure the chickens are fed and watered and the cat needs worming (I’ve left the tablet sout on the bench). Wilson has quit so you’ll have to manage the rest of the calving on your own. Please make sure the equipment is kept clean. We do not need a repeat of the last results,
Mother.
I stare at it and read it over and over, as though it’s written in a foreign language and repetition will make its meaning clearer to me.
I should be at the hospital with Dad. He should be asking me to pass him his water, to wipe his forehead and hold his hand, not Mother. She’s the one who tried to kill him in the first place. I lie back against the floor and cry with frustration. How can I get to the bloody hospital in this condition? I can barely crawl. When the ward is night-time quiet, and the nurses speak in low voices at their station, I know Mother will finish what she started.
She will pull the very last song out of Dad’s life.
Julia
Barbara is like a dead woman. There is no sign of life in her eyes, which stare at an episode of Play School. Defeat is marked out in the slumping lines of her body.
Julia gives the kids their toast and then places a plate on Barbara’s knees and a cup of tea in her hands and kneels in fro
nt of her. ‘Hey, Barbara, maybe you should eat something? You might feel better.’
Barbara takes a deep breath. She looks down at the toast then back at Julia. ‘I was a fool.’
‘No, you weren’t.’
‘Yes, I was. I was a fool for over thirty years. That’s how long I was getting deceived.’
‘It could happen to anyone.’
‘But I missed all the signs. I refused to acknowledge what was right in front of me. All the people I used to brag to. God, I’m so embarrassed now. I used to go on about how wonderful my husband was, how devoted my husband was. They were probably nudging each other, saying behind my back, “Poor old Barbara, doesn’t know her husband’s servicing half the country.”’
‘You can’t blame yourself for that.’ Julia gets off the floor and sits beside her motherin-law, feeling a sudden fierce bond of solidarity with her. ‘You loved a man for all those years and you thought everything was really good in your life. That makes you a trusting woman, Barbara, not a fool.’
‘Oh, I was a fool all right. He was away a lot, travelling — as a salesman’s wife you expect that— but we used to get these phone calls. Whoever it was would hang up when I answered. But, ten minutes later, the phone would ring again and he’d answer it, and he’d be all secretive, going into his study, saying it was work.’
She gives a hollow sounding laugh. ‘And Bob only spent every second Christmas with us. He said it was because of the roster system at work. But now I know where he really was. Celebrating with his other family.’ She squeezes her eyes shut for a second. When she opens them again, she notices the cup of tea in her hand and takes a cautious sip. ‘The worst thing, the very worst, is imagining that this other family knew about us the whole time. I imagine them laughing at us. At me. Thinking what a stupid woman I was.’
‘Mummy, can we have Grandma’s toast? She’s not eating it.’ Oscar already has his fingers on the edge of her plate.
‘I’ll make some more for you in a minute, sweetheart.’
Barbara divides her toast. ‘Let them have it, dear. I couldn’t eat a thing.’
Julia goes to the kitchen and takes a couple of painkillers for her hand, which is still stinging from the chemical burn. She walks into the bedroom, where Bryant is lying on the covers, staring at the ceiling. Sitting down beside him, she watches his face for a moment. Bryant’s body language is tight, arms and legs crossed, chin aimed self-righteously at the ceiling. He’s yet to meet her eyes. Normally, this defence would work; she’d retreat until he was in a better mood, perhaps do something to soften him up first. But she’s finally figured out her husband’s strategy — act outraged, instead of remorseful. It’s worked a treat in the past. Faced with Bryant’s bad mood, Julia’s natural instinct is to placate him, and in the process forsake her own anger.
But this time it won’t work. ‘You should have told me about her.’
He clenches his jaw, then releases it enough to say, ‘I did.’
‘You know what I mean, before last night.’
He sighs. ‘I promised Dad.’
‘Come on, Bryant. He wouldn’t have minded me knowing.’
‘Dad said, don’t tell anyone, Julia. He didn’t say, “Don’t tell anyone, except your wife.”’
She shifts her weight on the bed. For a moment she listens to the cartoon music coming from the lounge room; Oscar’s favourite show has started. There will be no leaving the house for another ten minutes anyway. She clears her throat. ‘But I made such a fool of myself with Summer.’
‘I know, she rang this morning. She was concerned for you.’
‘But I wouldn’t have if I knew she was my sister-in-law. We could have been friends. It’s hardly my fault that I thought she was screwing you.’
He finally stops staring at the ceiling to look at her. ‘That’s because you don’t trust people, Julia. I told you there was nothing going on with Summer. Summer told you there was nothing going on. You just don’t trust anyone.’
‘Don’t try and turn this around so I’m the guilty party.’
‘There is no guilty party.’
Ah, but there is a guilty party, and Julia is it. Although, whispers some cognisant part of her brain, perhaps this guilt has nothing to do with Summer. Perhaps this guilt can be illuminated by one pertinent question: would she have done what Bryant did, for her own sister?
The answer is a resounding no.
But Bryant’s caring isn’t concentrated on the knot of his immediate family; it’s global, almost random, a lottery of kindness, not dependent on anything other than Bryant’s present whim. Sometimes he’ll empty his wallet for a homeless person, other times he’ll turn up his nose at them. There are times when he’ll play with the kids for hours, letting them ride on his back and pull his ears; times when he can’t be bothered to go in and kiss them goodnight.
She imagines the move to Lovely as a snap decision he made one night after getting off the phone to Summer. He probably didn’t even need to think about it. Let’s move to Lovely; why not?
The music starts for the end of Oscar’s favourite cartoon. She leans forward, about to stand up but Bryant grabs her hand.
‘I know you’re upset with me, Julia —’
‘Angry,’ she corrects him.
‘And angry,’ he says. ‘But I couldn’t let my dad down, could I? I might regret a lot of things I’ve done, but I didn’t want that to be one of them.’
She puts him out of his misery. ‘It’s all right, Bryant, perhaps you did the right thing. I don’t know.’ She disentangles her hand from his grip and gets to her feet. ‘But spend some time with your mum today, would you? She’s understandably devastated.’
Bryant sighs. ‘I just wish she’d never found out. She’d be so much happier.’
Probably, Julia thinks, but is that better? The illusionary happiness of the deceived has been the subject of debate with friends a few times. If a girlfriend’s husband is cheating, should the woman be told? The divide is usually equally split. Half say, yes; half say, no. Lauren even had a specific rule: if the woman is already miserable, let her know; if she’s happy, keep quiet. It had seemed ridiculous to Julia a few years ago when she heard it but, now, she’s not so sure. Perhaps all happiness, ultimately, is the product of ignorance.
She gets the children ready for school and they leave the house with Grandma on the couch, Bryant beside her, the pair of them watching Sesame Street, holding hands.
‘We need to be extra nice to Grandma today. See if you two can come up with a special surprise for her.’
‘I will draw a picture,’ Amber says. ‘And I’ll ask my teacher for some of that sparkly stuff to put on it. I’ll do a picture of the seaside, just like her house in Queensland.’
Oscar kicks the back of Julia’s seat a few times.
‘Stop that, Oscar.’
‘But Amber stole my idea, ’cos I was going to do Grandma a picture too.’
‘Why can’t you both do one? I’m sure she’d love two pictures.’
In the foyer, at school, Oscar’s new friend has a pile of party invitations. Julia watches with joyful expectation and Oscar bounces on his toes with barely suppressed excitement.
With the kind of ceremony only a six-year-old can pull off, Kane hands out the cards one at a time and smiles proudly, seriously. He offers one to a small girl with nut-coloured hair and knobbly knees. She turns it over a couple of times then hands it up to her mum to read aloud. Next, a boy with large see-through ears.
‘I have to invite your little sister,’ Kane says. ‘Sorry, but Mum said I had to.’
‘She’ll be a pest,’ the boy says. ‘You just wait and see.’
Those two obviously know each other well. Julia looks on, smiling.
A line has formed. Oscar takes his place at the back, beside the class twins, waiting with his hands clasped in front of him. She can tell he is fighting hard to remain still and not get over-excited. His first ever party.
‘Aren’t they
little angels?’ Julia says to one of the other mums.
‘When they’re sleeping. Sean, don’t scrunch it up, mate. Let me have it, or we won’t know the date.’
The twins receive one card between them. They hold an edge each and put their heads together to read it.
Kane has two left. He hands one to a boy with no front teeth and a runny nose.
Julia scolds herself for holding her breath. It’s a kid’s party, for goodness sake, relax, she tells herself. But please, please let that last invitation be for Oscar, who is holding out his hand.
Kane frowns. ‘Where’s Sam today?’
One of the kids scans the hallway. ‘Dunno.’
The pale boy shrugs. ‘He must be sick.’
And Julia sees Oscar’s outstretched hand withdraw and rub his nose, pretending not to care as Kane puts the last invitation back in his school bag.
Amber says, ‘Why didn’t Oscar get a party invitation?’ loud enough for Kane’s mum to hear, and look away.
Julia bends down so her mouth is close to her daughter’s ear. ‘I don’t know, sweetheart. Maybe Kane was only allowed to invite a few friends this time. That’s all right.’
‘It’s not all right because Kane invited everyone, except Oscar.’
Julia is aware of the other mothers busying themselves, looking intently for things in school bags, fussing with hair. She wants to give these women a piece of her mind; point out their cruelty, but she will say nothing. This is a country town; one primary school, one high school. The animosity she fosters now will endure. No escaping to another suburb, another school, a new set of faces. She swallows down her distaste for them, and smiles. ‘Come on, sweetheart.’ She wraps Amber in a hug. ‘There will be lots more parties.’
Julia tries to give Oscar a hug too, but he elbows his way past her, past the laughing kids and the fussing mothers and takes his position at the window, studying the chaotic movement of the flies.
She kisses the top of his head and whispers: ‘I love you more than the universe.’ But he pretends not to hear.
Tom
With difficulty, I pull the yoga timetable from its hiding place between the phone directories. My hands keep shaking and the pain in my legs is making my vision blur. It takes several attempts to dial the number. While I wait for someone to answer, I try to steady my breathing.
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