Desert Fish

by Cherise Saywell

  ‘What did you do with them?’ I asked.

  ‘Sold them, Gilly,’ Pete said. ‘The ones that survived. People will pay a lot for a bird like that. And when a storm comes out of nowhere and wipes out a crop and your job, well, you’ve got to make the most of the situation, or you’ll just get run down by circumstance.’ He looked at me then. ‘Do you know what I mean, Gilly?’

  I didn’t answer right away. I was thinking of the birds and if they’d feel anything lying there, stunned and still. I wondered if you’d feel their hearts fluttering when you held them in your hands.

  ‘How do you know if they’re dead?’ I asked him.

  He looked away and said, ‘Sometimes you don’t. You just collect them up and put them in a box and wait and see.’

  ‘Do you think they panic when they wake up?’

  Pete sighed. ‘Do you know what I’m trying to say, Gilly?’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ I told him. ‘Of course I do.’

  But I wasn’t sure. I was thinking of Lexie and my dad and how my mum looked at me from the back step. I was thinking about love knowing when it’s at home, and not under your parents’ roof. I was wondering about all these things and trying to put them together with me in the middle. And more than anything I was trying to work out where I might fit into Pete’s little tale about the birds.

  Just because a man touches you doesn’t mean he’s in love. My mother told me that so often that I can’t even remember the first time she said it. It was already familiar when Yvonne Martin was my dad’s special friend. So of course I knew my dad would stop seeing her when my mum said so, and I knew before Mrs Martin did when that was going to be.

  Hovering in her living room doorway her eyes shifted from my father to me.

  ‘Do you …’ she began, and then dragged a hand through a sprayed curl, pulling it almost straight, like a pipe cleaner. She looked to my father. ‘Does she …’ But she didn’t ask the question. She didn’t know what to do, because I was not behaving as I was supposed to. I should have gone straight outside, and instead here I was, standing as my mother had instructed, waiting for my father to understand what was to happen next. He, at least, appeared relaxed. He rarely came unhinged in awkward situations. He could improvise and make do.

  ‘Maybe I should make a drink,’ Mrs Martin said, at last. ‘I could bring you a drink outside, Gilly? Would you like to play in Kerry’s sandpit?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said. I shifted from one foot to the other. ‘My mother says I’m to stay indoors.’ I looked to my father. ‘She says you shouldn’t send me outside all the time.’ I sat down.

  ‘Ah well,’ my dad said. He looked relieved. ‘That’s that, Vonnie. Time’s up.’

  ‘Are we going home?’ I asked.

  ‘In a tick.’

  He leaned back into his seat and rolled a cigarette. Yvonne Martin looked deflated.

  ‘But Creighton,’ she said, stepping away from the doorway and dropping into a chair. ‘Surely we could …’

  My dad squinted against the smoke that drifted from his roll-up and past his eye. ‘Yvonne,’ he warned. ‘Not in front of –’ He jerked his head in my direction. ‘Not in front of the little Missy. We’ll have a cuppa, love, and then we’ll be off.’

  My dad finished his roll-up in silence and then went to make the tea. Yvonne Martin sat on the couch, desolate. She curled her fingers into her palms and stared at them. The tap ran and I heard my dad clanking around, probably washing cups in that dirty kitchen. When the kettle began to whistle Mrs Martin looked up, as if surprised to see me still sitting there.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Gilly. I thought you were in the kitchen with Creighton. Do you want to play in Kerry’s room while I talk with your dad?’

  Her eyes were dewy and there was the sweet, fermented smell of her breath. She dropped her gaze after a minute, as if she couldn’t bear to look at me.

  ‘No,’ I told her. ‘I’d better not.’ I sat further back in my chair, pushing my hands under my thighs. With her limp hair and creased face, Yvonne Martin didn’t seem like a grown woman, or even a person. She seemed like a bird to me – a pigeon, greasy-feathered and weary. A feeling that was almost sympathy washed over me and it seemed important to say a little more, to soften the edges of what was happening, to explain. Cautiously, I told her, ‘You mustn’t worry, Mrs Martin. My father, you know, he just can’t help himself. But it doesn’t mean anything.’ Considering my mother, I added, ‘Love knows where it belongs, Mrs Martin.’

  Her mouth dropped into a soft ‘O’ and she put her hand out to me, but I stepped away. Mrs Martin pushed her face into her hands and began to weep. She was like that. She was the sort of person who would weep noisily, right there in front of you. I watched, half amazed, half disgusted.

  But then something new rose in me: a feeling with no name that unravelled and pulsed, making my arms shake. My throat felt swollen, as if I couldn’t swallow. I stared into the carpet with determined concentration. There was enough to look at: the patterned swirl in maroon and cream, its texture and detail enriched with bits of fluff and lint, the dust that had been walked into the weave. I noticed that the skirting board needed to be cleaned, there were moth husks collected along where it met the carpet. I imagined myself becoming smaller and smaller, as small as those shells of moths. As small as a carpet beetle, crawling inside the gritty fibres. I felt dizzy, but I didn’t look up. The feeling was still there, and I knew that if I did not see Mrs Martin, I could make it go away. That was the most important thing. To make the feeling go away.

  eighteen

  You’d think it would be difficult, the not looking, the deliberately not seeing what’s right there in front of you. And it’s true. At first you have to practise. But after a while it’s not so hard.

  After that one time I bathed my baby in the sink I didn’t go to her at all. I thought I would wait and see if they’d notice. Perhaps they did. After a day and a night, a midwife with a perm and silver stud earrings brought her to me. She was chewing gum and the smell of the spearmint cut through her coffee breath.

  ‘Baby McPherson,’ she said. I felt a strange mix of pleasure and jealousy at how the nurse used Pete’s name. Pleasure because it was his and I felt I deserved it after all that had happened. It was penned on my plastic identification bracelet and it was on the nameplate above the bed. The jealousy was because I didn’t think the baby should have what she hadn’t earned.

  ‘I said to call her Missy,’ I murmured.

  ‘Yes, but she’s not my baby, is she?’ The nurse put her in my arms and rolled a cot up against the bed. Then, mercifully saying nothing more, she began to change the sheets.

  I wasn’t afraid to look at the baby. I was surprised at how she had come from inside me not even two days before. There were reddish spots on her face that gave her a neglected look and she had a gummy eye too. I got a wobbly feel in my stomach, and I thought perhaps I was too close so I held her away from me.

  ‘It’s just a blocked tear duct,’ the nurse said, looking up from the freshly tucked sheets.

  ‘Oh.’ I was amazed that she might be complete enough to have tear ducts.

  ‘But she won’t cry real tears yet,’ the nurse said.

  The baby was still. Her eyes were open and she blinked, staring at a point just beside me.

  ‘Can she see me?’ I asked, suddenly self-conscious.

  ‘Not really. She’ll only see a little way in front of her.’

  The nurse went into the corridor and returned with a trolley stacked with glass bottles and tall tins of formula milk. She took the baby from me and laid her in the cot. Then she handed me a bottle. The glass was still warm. She got busy pointing out the ounce marks on it and telling me how much water and how much powder I should use but I wasn’t listening. I unscrewed the rubber teat. It smelled pungent and there was a bleachy whiff about the inside of the bottle. The nurse took it from me. ‘You mustn’t touch the teat,’ she said. ‘It’s been sterilised.’ She t
ook a fresh bottle and spooned in some formula, mixing it with water. When this was done she upended it and let a drop fall onto my arm.

  ‘But it’s hot,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, it’s a little too hot,’ she agreed. ‘To be the perfect temperature, you shouldn’t be able to feel it on your skin.’

  The drop of milk sat there like a planet, round and white, clean-edged. I reached for a muslin cloth and dabbed it away. But I could still smell it, thick and sour. My breasts were hard. They hurt and there was a creamy yellow smear on my nightie.

  ‘I’ll just leave it to cool for five minutes,’ the nurse said. She put the bottle down on the bedside table and picked up the baby, arranging her in my arms. ‘When it’s tepid, you can give it to her. You’ve seen it done, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I lied.

  ‘Good. Then you’ll know if she’s taking it right.’ She stood back. I noticed her freckles. Sometimes when I’m concentrating, I don’t really see what people look like. Their features take a while to come into focus. The nurse wore her hair tucked behind her ears and I could see freckles spread right to the edge of her face. ‘Call out if you need anything,’ she said as she went, pushing the trolley in front of her.

  There was nobody in the room then except the baby and me. The women from across the ward had wheeled their own babies out into the shade of the trellised garden. I lifted the baby into the cot again. I thought she might fuss or bawl but she simply closed her eyes. I lay back and stared at the bottle. I listened to her breathing, soft and shallow. Fragile.

  I closed my eyes and tried to see her, but nothing came. Her image had dropped out of my mind as soon as she was out of my sight. She was not like Pete was to me, where even when I couldn’t picture the whole of him, parts stayed sharp and clear. I could recall with absolute clarity how the skin beneath his eyes pleated with certain changes in expression; I could picture without hesitation the knots of the joints in his fingers, how the hair grew thick above his forehead. He was always there in my mind, but she was gone as soon as my eyes were closed.

  I looked at her again, lying there, breathing and sleeping and still as a secret. Then I turned over and slept with my back to her. When I woke she was crying and her hungry sounds stabbed at the air. I put my hand out for the bottle but it was cold.

  nineteen

  I stay in the motel bed all morning, until the light in the room grows sharp and the milk in my coffee has formed a skin. My stomach is cramping and the ache I felt earlier has progressed and settled across the back of my shoulders. Beneath the covers is the sour smell that made me ill just days ago and as soon as it finds me I get up and climb into the shower with my shirt on, pressing down on my breasts until I can feel the milk draining from me. I soap the shirt and then peel it off to rinse it. Beneath the stream of water I feel clean and empty, closer to the memory of my old body.

  Around lunchtime there’s a knock at the door.

  Janice stands back when I open it and says, ‘I noticed your husband going out. I wondered if you might like to lie by the pool again.’ The sun glares on the water behind her and I squint against the brightness. ‘I had such a lovely time with you yesterday,’ she adds. She lifts her arm a little to indicate the beach bag hanging over her shoulder. ‘I’ve got goodies. And we could go in for a dip if you like.’ She demonstrates heat, fanning herself with her hand. Even her fingers are brown. The nails are painted an orangey tan colour today. ‘It’s too hot for words,’ she says, smiling.

  Looking at her now, you’d never know she sent me away last night. The way she talks, as though we’re best friends. As if she’s read my thoughts, she says, ‘Sorry about last night, you caught me at an awkward moment. I saw your husband leaving this morning. He must have got back okay then.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I knew he would. I didn’t think you’d have anything to worry about.’

  I clasp my arms and look at the floor, allowing the silence to grow awkward.

  ‘So, what do you think?’ Janice makes herself sound chirpy. ‘Poolside?’

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ I say, ‘but I can’t.’ I shiver. ‘I don’t feel too good today,’ I explain. ‘I think I just need to lie down.’

  ‘You do look a bit peaky,’ she observes.

  ‘Yeah.’ The thing is, I really would like to lie out with her, despite how she was last night. Her company would take my mind off feeling sick. ‘Maybe I will, just for a while,’ I say. ‘It might make me feel better.’ Without thinking, I rest my hand on my stomach.

  ‘Period pain, eh?’ she says, with a note of sympathy, and I nod automatically in agreement. ‘I could make you a cup of tea,’ she offers, ‘and I’ve got some painkillers if you need them. I get terrible cramps.’ Her eyes fall to my fingernails, still pearly pink from yesterday, and her face lights up. ‘Oh, don’t they look lovely. You’ll keep it on, won’t you? Did your husband notice?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I say. I laugh and try to make myself sound less awkward.

  She looks down at her feet. She doesn’t want to know any more.

  ‘Well, let me see then.’ She’s resting her weight on one hip now, leaning into the doorframe and she’s got her hands out. I realise I’m supposed to show her my nails. I offer them but as she reaches out there’s a rush of warm wind from outside and a shiver ripples right through me.

  ‘Geez, Missy, your hands are hot’. She lays her palm flat against my forehead, and before she can say any more the floor starts to darken and disappear beneath me. I drop my head into my hands. She catches me before I fall.

  When I come to, I’m lying on the floor and Janice is crouched beside me. A damp cloth cools my forehead and as I open my eyes she leans over and peels it away. She lays her hand there and murmurs, ‘That’s better. Now let’s get you up on the bed.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I didn’t know that was going to happen.’

  ‘People rarely do,’ she says. ‘You shouldn’t be on your own though, not if you’re blacking out.’

  ‘I’m alright, now,’ I insist. But when I stand my legs feel like something separate from the rest of my body. Janice has to guide me to the bed. She wets the cloth at the sink, squeezes it and dabs at my forehead.

  ‘I’ll wait here for a while anyway,’ she says. ‘Just to make sure you’re okay. Why don’t you rest for a bit.’

  I give in and lie back, closing my eyes.

  When I wake again Janice is sitting on one of the vinyl chairs with the Women’s Weekly from beneath the tray and a cup of Maxwell House.

  ‘How long have I been sleeping?’

  ‘Only an hour or so. But you were snoring. You were dead beat, weren’t you?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  Her coffee smells strong, a little acrid. She picks it up and sips, grimaces. ‘I don’t usually drink it black,’ she says.

  ‘We put our milk in the fridge over at the office. You can go and get some if you like.’

  ‘Oh no,’ she says. ‘It’s not that bad. They should have refrigerators in the rooms with heat like this. It seems silly to have colour television but no fridge. Ah well, at least they have magazines. Even if it is the Women’s Weekly.’

  ‘Don’t you like Women’s Weekly?’

  ‘Bit old-fashioned for me.’

  ‘I like the problem pages,’ I tell her.

  She laughs. ‘Do you? Well, they’re much the same in any magazine. I like makeovers. And I’m afraid they’re not quite up to scratch in here.’

  ‘Do you read the problem pages?’

  She shrugs. ‘Not really. I think they make them up,’ she says.

  ‘The answers?’

  ‘No, silly,’ she says. ‘The problems. I can’t imagine writing in to a magazine with a problem. Can you?’

  ‘No, I guess not,’ I say, even though I probably would if I could find the right questions. I wonder who Janice talks to if she’s worried about something. ‘I still like reading them,’ I tell her.

  She puts her hand to my
forehead again. ‘That’s better. Your temperature’s nearly back to normal.’

  ‘Is it? Oh, thanks, Janice,’ I say, flooded with relief and with gratitude. ‘I hate being on my own when I’m ill,’ I confide.

  ‘Me too,’ she agrees. She folds her arms and leans back into the chair. ‘And my husband’s useless when I’m sick. Especially when it’s my period.’

  ‘Hmmm. I know what you mean.’

  I close my eyes for a moment, because my head feels light and there’s still that ache across my shoulders and low down in my belly too.

  The chair creaks as Janice moves in it. She puts her hand on my arm. I don’t open my eyes straightaway. I concentrate on the warm dry sense of her, the comfort that radiates from somewhere between her skin and mine and how reassuring it is not to be alone.

  Then she speaks again and her words are hollow and a little tinny. They drift towards me as if from a great distance. ‘But it’s not your period, is it, Missy?’ She rises and puts her coffee on the table, then goes over and opens the door. From beneath my lashes I watch her looking outside before she pushes the door properly shut. ‘You wouldn’t have a fever like that with your period,’ she says.

  I’m not sure what to tell her so I say nothing. When she turns to me, she says, ‘I took your track bottoms off. When you were sleeping. Because of your temperature.’

  I scissor my legs beneath the sheet, notice for the first time their bareness.

  ‘I saw your stomach.’

  My heart is racing now and I’m trying to think of what Pete would say.

  ‘Should you be here, Missy? Because whatever’s happened to you, I don’t think you’re well enough to be travelling.’

  ‘But I’m fine. Nothing bad happened to me. I’m okay.’

  ‘Then why did you faint?’

  I clasp my hands together and look down at the pink sheen on my fingernails.