I turn my back. It hurts too much to see him. The air has become so thick I can only get whispers of it into my lungs and my eyes are prickling suddenly from the light coming through the window.
I hold out my arm and point to the letter.
Mother pretends not to understand. She lifts her eyebrows.
‘Can I have it please?’ I say, still pointing at the envelope.
Her lips are pressed so hard together that the skin around her mouth has gone white. She tenses her shoulders, but Dad is still there, behind me, watching, so she has no choice but to give it to me. I hurry away from the sight of my dad, into the storeroom.
Huddled at the far corner of the shed; squatted next to bales of hay and bags of feed, like an addict, I rip Julia’s letter from the envelope and search desperately for the signs of her love.
Julia
‘He’s a lovely boy,’ Ms Phillips starts. ‘Although there have been a few problems settling in.’
Julia should have made up an excuse to get out of this parent-teacher interview ages ago, before the sounds in her head got too bad. Now, she can barely hear the woman; a high ringing tone is filling up the spaces in her skull and it’s taking all her strength to listen to the teacher, and quell the feeling of panic rising in her chest. It wouldn’t be so bad if Bryant were here too. But he claimed to be exhausted after the fire call-out and refused to come.
Ms Phillips is waiting for an answer to a question Julia didn’t hear. ‘Sorry? I didn’t catch that.’
The teacher repeats herself.
‘He’s getting better though, isn’t he?’ Julia asks. Perhaps her voice is too loud, like the person who shouts when listening to music through headphones.
Ms Phillips has an odd expression on her face. Yes, she must be shouting. Julia smiles, the way, she hopes, a sane person would smile. Although she is no longer sure what sane feels like. Where is the guidebook on normality, she wonders, because she desperately needs to read it. She is floundering. Her mind appears to be escaping the borders of her body, leaving her empty. Her efforts at control and containment are slipping. Does her face look normal? She smiles harder.
In contrast, Ms Phillips’ frown is deepening. ‘Oscar still has trouble interacting with the other children,’ the teacher says. ‘And there’s his obsession with flies.’
Julia ignores the crawling of fear up her back. She sees the Cornflakes box crammed with little black bodies — his friends.
‘I’m also a little concerned about Oscar’s speech. It is more like that of a five-year-old. You must have noticed the difference between your son and daughter. She has quite a hunger, doesn’t she?’
Julia shakes her head. ‘Hunger?’
‘Younger,’ Ms Phillips says loudly. ‘Your daughter is a year younger, isn’t she?’
‘Yes, Eighteen months.’ She brushes a strand of hair out of her eyes, concentrating hard. ‘But boys are slower with these things, aren’t they? Don’t they take longer to develop?’ Oh God, she’s shouting again.
Oscar’s teacher appears challenged, as though she’s been given a lump of hard clay and told to fashion it into something that Julia will be able to recognise. She looks down at her lap, then back at Julia. Her mouth opens and closes, opens and closes.
Julia leans towards the teacher.
Ms Phillips takes a deep breath. ‘I think Oscar should repeat prep.’
Julia fumbles in her handbag and pulls out a peppermint, sucks on it desperately. For a moment she stares at her hands, willing them to stop shaking. When she has counted to ten and feels a little steadier, she lifts her head. She aims for a normal volume on her voice. ‘I thought moving up here would help him.’ But she can’t even hear herself anymore. God only knows what she sounds like.
Ms Phillips reaches over and puts her hand on top of Julia’s. Her lips are moving, a frown of concern is narrowing her eyes.
But Julia can’t hear the teacher’s words, she can only see the pity in Ms Phillip’s eyes and she can’t bear it. She gets to her feet. ‘Thank you so much,’ she says, and walks out of the classroom.
Julia hurries through the empty schoolyard, back to her car. Her head is clanging like a cathedral bell. And suddenly she is struck with fear. What if Oscar is like his grandma? What if the specialists were all wrong and he’s not ‘normal’? Could the obsession with flies be an early symptom? Was Moira obsessed with things when she was a child?
An image of her mother sneaks into her head. New Year’s Eve, fifteen years ago; Dad leading her back into the house, a pink see-through nightie is clinging to her thighs, high heels clobbering against the steps.
‘Happy New Year.’ She turned and saluted the crowd in the street, dropping the bottle of sparkling wine she’d been carrying. Then she proceeded to slap Dad on the face, saying, ‘You want this? You want this?’ as the neighbours laughed and cheered her on.
Two days later she went to the shops, bought six bottles of vodka and camped out in the corner of the living room, pressed her white body against the bookshelf and tumbled into depression. She wouldn’t eat, or sleep or acknowledge her daughters. She spat at anyone who tried to approach. She drank and cried and laughed in spiralling circles, rubbing her nose against the sleeves of her dressing gown until they were thinned down with despair. She stared through drunken eyes at the lounge room furniture as though she couldn’t figure out where she was. Dad said she’d be taken away if they mentioned her behaviour to anyone. So Julia went to school, remained silent, acted normal.
Not long after that — a week or two, at most — Julia and her sister, and their poor shattered father, were sitting numb in the funeral parlour.
The headmaster told Julia her mother had had a ‘terrible accident’ that day. But, when she got home and found her father bent over the bath tub with bleach and a scouring pad in his hands, Julia realised that her mother’s death hadn’t been an accident at all.
Moira had positioned herself in the dry bath (she forgot you’re supposed to add water), swallowed the last of the vodka and then ran razor blades from her wrists to the inside crease of her elbows — she knew how to do that bit right — and bled her body to death. The blood had made patterns like a child’s drawing up the tiles and back wall of the bathroom, something Julia’s father had only been able to scrub down to a pink shadow, and Julia was reminded of what they couldn’t prevent every time she went to shower.
As she inserts her key in the car door she can barely breathe.
She rests her head on the steering wheel and, now that she has finally given herself permission, discovers that the tears have thickened inside her and refuse to fall.
Tom
After lunch, still exhausted from the accident, I take a nap and once again find myself in the back paddock. Mother lies beside the hole. Her arms are crossed formally over her chest, ready for burial. But her eyes are open, and watching me.
‘This is a test,’ she says, through closed lips. ‘I want to see what you’re made of. You don’t even need to dig the hole this time. Look.’
I take a step closer and inspect the black wound under the tree. She’s right; there is nothing left for me to dig. I could push her in with my foot, if I wanted to. I could tumble the earth down on top of her. I could squash it firm and pat it with my bare hands.
But now, surrounded by this quiet afternoon, I feel that something has shifted. The world is without breath, without colour or sound. And when I look down, I notice that I am wearing pyjamas.
I turn away from the grave and open my eyes.
My bed is in a puddle of afternoon light. Cicadas buzz outside my window. It’s hot. There is a series of long scratches on my right shin, beading with blood. I am alone in the room, except for Blackie, who is sat on the end of my bed, licking his front paw. Did the cat scratch me? I wouldn’t put it past him.
‘Bugger off,’ I tell him.
The cat narrows his eyes at me and then jumps down off the bed to saunter out of the room, pausing briefly to sniff
at something invisible on the floor, letting me know that he goes because he wants to, not because I’ve told him to.
Faintly, I can hear Mother’s house shoes scuffing in the hallway, outside my bedroom, and then the cat talking to her in its strange alien voice. I press my hand to my forehead, feeling disoriented.
My legs are throbbing with pain and feel too tight in the bandages, but I don’t have the energy to get up and take any painkillers. So I close my eyes and soon the heat and hypnotic hum from the cicadas outside send me back to sleep, until the alarm clock wakes me for afternoon milking.
It’s excruciating trying to walk. And even more difficult to get my legs to bend when I sit on the motorbike to round up the cows.
It takes me twice as long as usual to milk them.
By the time I get back to the house, my whole body is pulsing and ringing with the pain, and there are patches of blood soaking through the bandages. I take three painkillers and prepare tea for Dad.
He takes a long time to wake up, as though he has journeyed from another country.
‘Son …’
‘I made you something to eat, Dad, but I had to use the camp stove, so it probably won’t taste as good as last time.’
He puts a hand, mapped with sluggish veins and liver spots, on top of mine. ‘I’m past eating, Tom. You know that.’
‘I threw all your tablets away.’
‘Suits me fine. They were hell to get down.’
‘Mum won’t be able to poison you —’
‘Stop it, Tom,’ he says. ‘It’s the cancer done this to me.’
‘She’s been trying to poison both of us. She puts stuff in the capsules. I’ve seen her.’
‘Like sugar?’ He’s smiling at me.
‘Dirt more like it.’
He reaches over — the movement takes a lot of effort — and he ruffles the top of my head. ‘My boy,’ he says, gently. ‘Go and close the door. There’s something I want to talk to you about.’
I carry the tray with his eggs over to the nightstand and close the door. When I return to the bed, I lie down beside him, so we’re facing each other.
‘Virginia said you asked about Simon again. Do you remember what happened?’
‘No, not really,’ I say. ‘But I’m trying. Mother told me what I did. And God is punishing me for it.’ Obviously the boy that committed this terrible deed has walked away; his traumatised echo is hiding somewhere deep within me. Perhaps I’ll never find him.
‘You didn’t do anything wrong, Tom.’
‘But Mother —’
‘Listen, Son.’ He takes my hand. ‘Your mother made up her own mind about what happened that night. In fact, she refused to come out of the house when I found you boys, wouldn’t even call the ambulance. Just sat in her chair, knitting. She kind of shut down after that, like she was the one dying. But it was definitely Simon who mixed up the bucket of alcohol. You and your mates were just the unlucky sods to find it.’
Is he just being nice? Trying to make me feel less guilty?
He squeezes my hand. ‘Your brother left a suicide note in the milking shed. I found it the next morning.’ He takes a moment to breathe. ‘When I showed the note to Virginia she became hysterical and ran off with it. To this day she still denies its existence. Simon was her golden child.’
I feel a bone-aching sadness for my brother. ‘I used to dream about him sometimes. I always thought I made him up, like an invisible friend.’
‘He was a beautiful boy,’ Dad says, ‘but delicate as tissue paper. He had allergies to milk and grass seed. On a dairy farm too, poor kid. In some kinds of light, you could almost see straight through him. There were days when I thought he’d just disappear. Not like you, Tom. God, you used to be a handful,’ Dad says, ‘always getting into mischief. I don’t know how many times I got called up to that damn school to talk to the teachers.’ Dad coughs deep in his chest and then clears his throat. ‘Although you weren’t the same after the accident either,’ he says. ‘None of us were. But you, it was like you stepped into a world of your own.’
‘My world is more colourful now. And it sounds better.’
He watches me, through eyes filled with clouds. ‘I wish I’d been a better father.’
‘You’ve been brilliant, Dad.’
‘No, Son, I haven’t.’ There is rain pooling in his left eye, which he tries to hide with his knuckles.
I take his hand away and tell him how much I love him. I talk about my plans for the farm; how we could expand the business, get in more cows, upgrade the machinery, renovate the kitchen, buy a new four-wheel drive. I stay next to him, watching him breathe, until sleep takes him away.
The digital clock changes to six o’clock.
The house is unnaturally quiet without Mother in the kitchen, as though the walls and windows are holding their breath in anticipation of her return. I shift my position uncomfortably on the bed. I stare at the bedroom door, listening to the silence thicken around me, while nervousness prickles the back of my neck.
Where is she?
Julia
Before she turns into the driveway, before she even turns the corner onto her street, she knows there is more to come. The children are excited at her arrival; they make her close her eyes and lead her into the kitchen. Barbara is there, quietly sipping coffee out of a latte glass.
‘How good am I?’ Bryant points to the espresso machine like a game-show girl.
‘It’s plumbed in? I can’t believe it.’ She draws Oscar to her side, kisses the top of his head. ‘Did you help Daddy?’
‘Yep, I did.’
Bryant turns to the machine. He has a stainless steel jug at his side, a carton of organic milk, a packet of espresso coffee. He has tucked a tea towel into the band of his jeans and has another one folded over his left arm.
Julia listens to the hum of the machine as it pours out creamy lines of coffee into two latte glasses. She is soothed by the machine’s familiar noises. And even the ringing sounds inside her head have quietened in deference to the machine. Perhaps she has been too quick to expect the worst.
Bryant turns the nozzle and a mountain of steam surrounds him. He froths the milk for far too long, she can smell it burning, but she doesn’t care. Her machine is back in action.
She lifts Oscar onto her lap. For once he doesn’t wriggle straight off again and she enjoys the warmth and softness of his body against her stomach. Oh, dear little boy, what is going through that mind of yours?
‘What did you get up to while I was gone?’ she asks softly.
‘Why do you always ask me such boring questions, Mummy?’
‘I’m interested, that’s all.’
He shrugs and leans his head back against her chest, his heels kicking lightly against her shins, watching his daddy froth the milk. His hair smells of fresh dirt.
Amber comes around to Julia’s side and whispers loudly, ‘We’re being very nice to Grandma.’
‘They have been too,’ Barbara says, placing a spoonful of foam into her mouth. ‘They both drew me some pictures, didn’t you?’
‘Yes,’ Oscar says, grumpily, ‘but the teacher wouldn’t let me use much sparkly stuff, so my picture looks crap.’
Julia gently shakes his shoulders. ‘Oscar. Language.’ But it’s good to see Barbara smile, albeit fleetingly. She has a lot of make-up on, and perfume, and her best clothes. She holds her body upright with determination, as if trying to convince herself, and the world (if it cares to notice), that all is well. Bryant has probably given her one of his special metaphysical pep talks. But it’s not working; Julia can see the grief seeping through Barbara’s face, like rising damp beneath a fresh coat of paint.
‘I love that colour on you.’ Julia leans forward. ‘Is it cashmere?’
Barbara shrugs. ‘Acrylic, I think. I don’t wear it often; it makes me itch.’
Bryant clears his throat. ‘How strong do you want this coffee, Julia?’
‘Sorry?’
‘How stron
g?’
‘Oh, lethal would be nice.’
Bryant stops punishing the milk and carries the coffee over to Julia, placing it before her. ‘See what you think.’
She takes a sip. Not one of Joe’s creations, but in a way it’s even better, because she knows how much care and thought and fussing went into it. She feels a glow of appreciation. ‘Perfect,’ she sighs, and she is rewarded with a huge smile from her husband.
‘Hey, you’ll never guess what?’ Bryant’s expression grows serious.
‘What?’
‘You know that call out this morning. There was an incident at Tom’s dairy — a structure fire. I was just telling Mum about it.’
Julia can feel the familiar anxiety settling back on her shoulders. ‘Is everyone all right?’
‘Well, Tom had to be taken to hospital, but not from the fire. The ambo guy said he looked like he’d been hit by a car. He was passed out in the kitchen when we got there.’
Julia feels panic twisting inside her at the news. She still desires Tom, despite her resolve to leave him alone, and it makes her feel all wrong inside; that eerie feeling, like when you’re about to come down with a virus. She takes a sip of coffee and keeps the emotion from her face. ‘Will Tom be okay?’
‘Yeah, he’ll be fine. But Phillip Barchester is in trouble.’
‘What happened?’
‘Mr Perfect forgot the filter on the water hose and all the mud from the dam buggered the pump.’
Julia is overwhelmed with a sense of relief. So other men stuff up too, she notes, even capable ones like Dr Barchester. Maybe all men do stupid things.
‘Daddy, where’s my chino?’
‘All right, mate, hold your horses.’ Bryant goes back to the machine and turns on the steam.
Nothing happens.
Julia feels a shiver of concern. Perhaps they should have waited for a plumber. ‘Maybe leave it …’
‘No, no, I can fix it.’ Bryant leans behind the machine and does something with a screwdriver. He comes back to the front, undoes four screws on the front panel and frowns at the innards. Then, he hammers at something.
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