Details and all their associated devils, nothing she knows about, nothing she cares to know about, so those go into the box as well. She nods. Murmurs suitable responses as her sister continues to speak, or maybe not so suitable responses, because now Jacqueline is crying again, standing right in front of her and asking about Charlie, about Sally Paige, about whether there is anything Antoinette can do, and no, she says, and he’s gone, and I’m tired, just let me sit here for a minute.
Just for a minute.
The look on her sister’s face, scared and sad and panic-stricken – she folds that up too, small and sharp-cornered, and tucks it so deep inside the Box of Scary-Bad, she hopes it might never escape again. And if the box has grown too large now to forget, too unwieldy to lose or hide or overlook, still it’s better that those things are kept inside, those broken and jagged and toothsome things that might otherwise draw blood, or worse. It contains them, confines them, makes them safer to observe from vantage points slantwise and sly, and when Antoinette feels too queasy from looking, she can always close the lid.
The box takes so much, Jonah’s whale gaping and greedy, gulping down all that she can find to feed it.
When the doorbell rings, chiming clarion through the house, her sister and Loki exchange a startled glace. Then, the nurse, Jacqueline says, and I’ll make myself scarce, Loki replies, mutters something else about seeing Charlie for himself, except he doesn’t say Charlie, he says the charliedoll, and the word scratches at Antoinette and she doesn’t get up from her chair even when the nurse bustles into the room, Jacqueline trailing at her heels. A large woman, brisk and brusque, less chatty than the weekday nurse, but today she smiles gently and pats Antoinette’s shoulder, and her voice is muted with sympathy. Sometimes they choose to go on their own terms, love. Have you had a chance to call her doctor yet? The syringe driver gets in one last wheeze before she slides open the casing and ejects the battery with a blunt, unvarnished nail.
Antoinette blinks. Shoves this all into the box.
By the time Dr Chiang arrives, she can no longer find words of her own to speak. So Jacqueline answers his questions while Antoinette just sits, watching him perform his checks of Sally Paige’s body as if it isn’t blindingly obvious that a body is all that she is, watching his mouth quirk when he takes the Dilaudid bottle and holds it to the light, removes the straw and stares for a moment before placing it gently, carefully on the night table. Normally, a death like this needs to be reported to the Coroner’s Office. The police will come, an autopsy is likely. His gaze skims over Antoinette, lands square on her sister. But I don’t believe that’s necessary, do you? To put this dear lady through such a grubby business? And Jacqueline pauses, and she shakes her head, and Antoinette watches as the good doctor drops the Dilaudid bottle into his bag, then leans over and kisses Sally Paige’s colourless cheek, whispers something that sounds like goodbye, that sounds like you’re welcome, into the empty shell of her ear. And the Cause of Death certificate he leaves with them says heart failure, says malignant neoplasms. Makes no mention of hydromorphone or fatal overdoses or plastic bendy straws the colour of bile and spite.
The box swallows this too.
Jacqueline on the phone, the funeral service papers from Sally Paige’s yellow envelope in her hand. No, we don’t need any more time with . . . with her. Please come as soon as you can. And so they do, the smart middled-aged woman in her smart middle-aged suit who sits with them in the living room while her two latex-gloved colleagues remove the body from the house. Everything pre-arranged and paid in full, but alterations can still be made, the woman advises. Sometimes family members choose to add personal touches of their own; it helps them feel more connected to the service. Jacqueline shakes her head, thank you but no, and Antoinette, still lost for words, follows her sister’s lead. Sits up straight like Jacqueline, crosses her legs in just the same efficient way and nods along, plays echo with her sister’s curt and careful responses. Only later, once the funeral people have departed with their newly signed permission slips, does Jacqueline grab her by the arm, worried and wide-eyed, and what the hell was that, she demands to know. You need to stop with the damn echolalia, Ant. You’re starting to scare me.
Into the box, into the box.
Loki, filthy hands and sweat-grimed face, fridge door propped on his hip as he gulps down juice straight from the bottle. You’ve buried him? Jacqueline incredulous, possibly appalled, that’s what you’ve been doing all day? And, not quite, he tells her, he’s just dug the hole. I thought you might want to say goodbye before I fill it in, both of you. Antoinette shaking her head, turning her back, and so it’s only her sister and Loki who end up going down to the shed. Who end up coming back snappish as snarling dogs, Loki wanting to know why they have to leave, why they can’t just stay up here, Jacqueline reminding him that she has to get back to work, and oh, he sneers, that’s right. Her precious gallery with her precious Brisbane dilettante, obviously so much more important than her family at a time like this, and Jacqueline looses a venomous glare, tells him to shut up and get his things together, tells him they’re leaving as soon as they’re packed. And don’t forget to wash your hands, she says, pitch-perfect Sally Paige redux. That oleander you picked for Charlie’s grave is toxic.
The box groans, bulges at the sides.
A car engine roars to life out the front while Jacqueline is helping Antoinette to gather her clothes. Deeper, far more guttural than the Laser’s familiar purr and her sister swears, drops the shirt she’s been folding and runs. Antoinette follows at a dawdle, less curious than reluctant to be on her own, and discovers Jacqueline on the verandah, glaring at the oily stain in the carport where Sally Paige’s Commodore should be parked. He’ll be back soon, Ant, don’t worry; he’s only blowing off steam. But obviously worried herself once night seeps in, pacing the living room windows with nails gnawed between teeth, freezing hopeful at any sound of an approaching vehicle, until at last Antoinette takes her sister’s hand, presses it tight to her chest, and oh, Jacqueline says, and of course. You’d know if anything happened to him.
And Antoinette pushes down on the lid, pushes down hard and feels it shudder beneath the pressure of everything inside, pushing back harder.
Three eggs left in the fridge which Jacqueline scrambles for supper, shares out on toast between them, though Antoinette does little more than pick at the fringes of hers. The dishes are something she can do, and so she does. Hands thrust in water near hot enough to blanch, scrubbing thorough and empty-headed as her sister talks on the phone. Sorry, Becca, but someone needs to be there in the morning in case the truck turns up early. Only when pumpkin hour zips past with still no sign of Loki, does Jacqueline call it a night. He’ll be here when we wake up, Ant, you’ll see. Crammed tight as sardines in Antoinette’s single bed – neither of them wanting to sleep alone in this house, on this night – Jacqueline’s arm around her waist, breath whisper-warm on the back of her neck. Can I tell you a secret? Antoinette nods and makes a small, soft noise in her throat that’s as close as she can manage to yes, and her sister finds her hand and squeezes it. When I have a baby, I’m going to name him Charles. Or Charlotte, I think, if it’s a girl. And Antoinette makes another noise, smaller and softer, and Jacqueline squeezes her hand again. I know, they’re both such beautiful names.
No room left in the box now, not the scarcest sliver of space.
So, in the morning, dream-worn and drained, the taste of grit fresh in her mouth, Antoinette shuffles out to the kitchen where her sister is brewing a pot of peppermint tea. We can’t wait around for him all day, Jacqueline says, her face a stony blend of frustration and fear. Antoinette coughs and clears her throat, finds a small cache of words tucked right at the back of her tongue and sorts carefully through it: I can drive us back home. Her sister looks doubtful but, it’s okay, Antoinette tells her, I’m okay, I can drive. And she is, for the most part. Only pulling over twice int
o the emergency lane as those grease-dark shadows in her peripheral vision stagger briefly onto centre stage. Even so, Jacqueline is visibly shaken by the time they reach the apartment. We should take you to a doctor, Ant. A suggestion so silly, Antoinette might laugh if laughing didn’t seem so taxing. Go to work, Jacqueline. I just need to get some sleep.
Except she doesn’t.
Except she can’t.
The place is too quiet, too empty, and the Big Box of Scary-Bad thumps and scrapes along the floor of her heart until she perches herself right upon its lid, puts her whole weight into holding it down, holding it still.
Holding herself so very, very still.
And when her phone shimmies and bounces into life, that insipid jazzy ringtone she never has gotten around to changing – oh, how she wants it to be Jacqueline, needs it be Jacqueline or even Loki, needs one of them to be here beside her at least, right beside her, close enough to soothe the restless shift and sway of the stones that hang behind her ribs. But it’s only Sharon, asking how the weekend went and if her sister has been and gone, asking if she should bring anything up to Mount Doom with her today. If Antoinette still wants her to come back up, that is. If–
I’m not at Mum’s. She died. She died yesterday.
Two heartbeat’s worth of silence, then: Where are you now?
At Jacqueline’s. We came back this morning and–
Stay there. I’m on my way.
She wants to know where Sharon thinks she might go but the call is already cut, and so she waits, and waits, and when the girl finally arrives, rapping on the door in trackpants and a glitter-spun unicorn hoodie, she asks her then. Where am I supposed to go, Sharon? Where do you think I should go? And Sharon hugs her, right there on the doorstep, and somehow keeps hugging her even as she wrangles her back into the apartment. The girl is warm and soft, and her arms are surprisingly strong, and she knows nothing of the box or of anything that Antoinette has had to stuff inside it, and this also makes her safe.
‘I’m so scared,’ Antoinette whispers.
‘That’s okay,’ Sharon whispers back. ‘You’re allowed to be scared.’
The box heaves again, swells and threatens to split, and Antoinette can’t keep the lid in place anymore, doesn’t want to keep it in place, and so with a sob she moves aside. Presses her face to the girl’s shoulder, and allows it all to come tumbling loose.
Becca called Dante. Of course she did. Her boss is leaning against the desk at the rear of Seventh Circle, laughing with Ryan Jellicoe as though the two of them are best mates. As though they always have been. There’s no sign of the girl herself.
‘Jacks!’ Dante shouts as Lina walks through the doors. ‘So glad you could spare the time to join us.’
Ryan swivels, his already toothy smile broadening to a grin. ‘Hey you.’ His dreads are tied loosely back with what appears to be a strip of paint-spattered canvas. When he hugs her, the smell of ti-tree oil fills her nose. Fills her heart with emotions too complex to immediately tease out, and Lina is alarmed to find tears at the corners of her eyes.
‘Hey yourself,’ she says, recovering. Puts her cheek in the way of his lips as he leans in for a kiss. Behind his back, Dante is smirking. Lina rolls her eyes and steps from Ryan’s embrace. ‘It’s really good to see you,’ she tells him, and means it. Ryan Jellicoe is simple. Easy. Probably the easiest thing in her life right now.
‘All right,’ Dante says. ‘I hate to break up this heart-warming reunion, but there’s a handful of masterpieces gonna be rolling up any minute.’
Lina glances at her watch. ‘It’s not even midday.’
‘Because transport is renowned for sticking to schedule, yeah? They called an hour ago, said they were on their way.’
‘Sorry you had to come in, Dante. I did tell Becca to handle things–’
‘Including this charming guy here? Bit much to foist on the poor girl first thing Monday morning, don’t you reckon?’
‘But I . . .’ Lina frowns at Ryan. ‘Didn’t you get my message last night? I told you I wasn’t going to be able to make it for brunch.’
At least he has the decency to look sheepish. ‘Yeah, maybe not.’
‘Ryan, would it kill you to check your phone once in a while? In case, I don’t know, someone might actually be trying to reach you about something important? Like, oh let’s see, your first major exhibition, perhaps?’
‘Might be easier to plant a GPS chip in my arse and be done with it.’
Dante laughs. ‘Welcome to my world, Jacks.’
And then her own phone rings and the two men swap glances.
‘Better get that,’ Dante says.
‘It might be important,’ Ryan adds.
Both of them deadpan, or nearly so.
‘Very funny,’ Lina says as she pulls her phone from her coat pocket. The number comes up as unknown and her stomach lurches. Hope twisted with the faint afterburn of anger. She turns away from Dante, from Ryan. Walks half a dozen paces and keeps her voice low. ‘Loki?
It’s not Loki. It’s the woman from the funeral home. Confirming that the service could be held tomorrow as requested, if they’re absolutely certain they want it so soon. The notices won’t appear in the papers until the morning, which doesn’t give anyone a lot of time–
‘We don’t need time,’ Lina tells her. ‘We just want it over with.’
The woman reassures her that this is normal. This is understandable. People grieve in different ways, at different speeds. Lina doesn’t need reassurance. All she needs are the details. She takes her diary from her bag and scribbles down the address of the crematorium. The woman starts to give driving directions, but Lina cuts her off again. She remembers the glazed expression in her sister’s eyes that morning as she pulled the car over to the side of the road. I just need a minute, Jacqueline. I’m . . . I’m not seeing so good.
‘We’ll be taking a taxi,’ Lina says. ‘Thanks for all your help.’
Behind her, the gallery doors swoosh open and Becca waltzes inside. She balances a takeaway coffee tray in her right hand, a Krispy Kreme box in her left. ‘Truck’s arrived,’ she says cheerfully, jerking her head back towards the man in the Day-Glo yellow shirt who follows at her heels. The girl’s face falls only a little when she spots Lina. ‘Oh, hiya.’ She considers the three cups in her tray. ‘Sorry, you want me to run back and grab you something?’
Lina shakes her head. ‘I’m fine.’
It takes a good couple of hours to fully unload, unpack and inspect each and every canvas, then stack them away in the storeroom. Ryan more anxious than he tries to let on. Dante, despite himself, obviously impressed with the work.
‘It’s not what we were after originally,’ he tells Lina. ‘But still, it’s got a certain weight to it, yeah? A gravitas I wasn’t expecting from the photos Jellicoe sent. You might have made the right call here.’
‘Might?’
‘Let’s see what our Fearless Leader thinks come opening night.’
Lina nods. ‘Dante, I need a favour.’
‘Oh, doth pray tell.’
‘I need to leave early tomorrow. Round about lunchtime.’
‘Jesus, for real?’ He scratches an irritated hand through his crew cut. ‘A half-day today, another one tomorrow – you realise you do still work here, yeah? You can’t just be running around on secret women’s business whenever it takes your fancy.’
‘It’s for a funeral,’ Lina tells him. ‘My mother died on the weekend.’
He stares at her. Hand frozen on top of his skull. ‘You’re taking the piss.’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Fuck me, Jacks. What the hell are you doing here?’
Dante takes a step forward. Moves as though he’s about to put an arm around her, and Lina shifts subtly sideways. Boss turned father
figure isn’t something she needs right now. Or ever. ‘It’s all right, really. We weren’t close. I’m only going to the funeral because my sister will need me. She’s not . . . she’s not really herself at the moment.’
‘Yeah, maybe because her mother just died. Jacks, your mother just died. Go home, fuck.’ He pulls his wallet from his back pocket. Slides out a CabCharge voucher, folded neatly in half. Thrusts it towards her. ‘The hell with that PT shit, here. Take the rest of the week if you need it.’
‘I don’t.’ She keeps her voice even and firm. ‘I need to be here.’
Dante seems about to object, then catches himself. ‘Yeah, okay, sure. Healthy distractions, busy minds, not so much with the dwelling on the sad. I get it, but Jacqueline? I do not want to see you here tomorrow. Capiche?’
Lina takes the voucher. ‘Capiche.’
In the taxi, she calls home to see if Ant needs anything. An unfamiliar female voice answers. ‘Sorry,’ Lina says. ‘I think I’ve–’
‘Jacqueline? Is that you?’
Jack-lin, the voice pronounces it. Ugly, blunt syllables in brutal collision.
‘Who is this?’ Lina demands.
‘Sharon, I’m a friend of Ant’s. You, um, you probably know me as Greta.’
‘Greta?’ Lina rubs at her forehead, fuzzy images jigsawing together. She only ever met the woman a couple of times. That severe, blunt fringe. Thick black eyeliner and ruby lipstick. Velvet. Corsets. The dead bat brooch. ‘What are you doing in my apartment? Where’s my sister?’
Asleep, that decidedly un-Germanic voice informs her. She crashed out a while ago. Burned herself out more like. There’s been tears, lot of them. Lot of weird-arse talk about . . . well, anyway. Her mother’s death seems to have hit her pretty hard and – oh, the woman exclaims with a strange, squeaky gasp. Oh god, she’s sorry, of course Sally was Jacqueline’s mother as well. She didn’t mean to–
‘It’s fine,’ Lina breaks in. ‘I’m fine.’
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