The Sunlit Zone

by Lisa Jacobson

  (boat, sky, horse, bird) just by pointing

  them out to him. Dad bored friends

  and relatives, not quick enough

  to intervene, with the story of how

  he caught me first, newborn.

  Mum always pursed her lips at this

  in a thin red thread, as if the incident

  foretold the later betrayals I’d inflict.

  13

  I reach Jack’s house with Bear,

  both of us panting, out of breath;

  my feet blood-smeared and cut

  from running over scrub and rocks.

  —Dad’s dead, I say before the crying

  sets in. I gasp at air but can’t stop it.

  —What? North, really? God, I’m so sorry.

  Shit, look at your feet. What happened

  to them?

  He moves milk, coffee and cereal,

  clears the crate that’s his coffee table.

  He sits me down beside the heater,

  fetches Bear a bowl of water.

  I’m aware of how worn out I feel,

  like the threadbare couch into which

  I sink. Details throng about my head;

  errant messengers I try to rank by way

  of importance, but they slip away:

  Dad’s socks, Jo’s bossiness, Mum’s

  soft-boned chest, the cups of tea.

  But tears and a brackish moan

  disperse all speech.

  14

  Jack peels away my sea-wet

  clothes, drags out heat sheets

  and makes warm milk. I can’t

  stop my teeth from chattering.

  My hands shake as I try to drink.

  Jack runs a shower, puts me in it,

  dries me, tends to my injured feet.

  He gives me one of his shirts

  to wear; a big man-shirt, striped

  white and green. It smells of Jack.

  I breathe him in.

  15

  And lean against Jack’s solidity.

  —What gets you through? I say to him.

  How does anyone get through this stuff?

  It all comes out in a guttural croak;

  viscous, ugly, mucous in my throat.

  —Shit, sorry Jack. I rub at tears.

  He puts his fingers on my wrist,

  the one that aches where Finn held it.

  He closes his eyes, bows his head,

  makes no sound but moves his lips.

  Jack’s like a deep clear lake, I think,

  whose skin if broken does not resist

  but calmly lets the waves recede.

  You can see the sliding shine

  of things on him. I feel a quiet

  hand reach inside and draw me up

  towards air and light. Something

  enters in.

  16

  —What did you do?

  —Nothing much, he says. Just

  said a prayer or two, I guess.

  God heals, not me.

  —God? I said. You believe in him?

  —Increasingly. Do you?

  —Well, once I did. I recall seahorses

  and phosphorus. God is a scientist,

  Dad always said. But Dad is dead.

  For a moment, I’d almost forgotten that.

  —Now I want proof, I say.

  —But why? Jack goes to the far side

  of the shed, returns with something

  in his hands: a Little Green Star Fish

  whose fluid he extracts. I didn’t know

  he had one of those.

  — Here’s proof, he says. Here, and here.

  The cuts on my damaged feet vanish.

  17

  I’m crying again. The tears well up.

  —Oh North, says Jack. He reaches out

  to stroke my hair and I somehow end up

  kissing him: his neck, his eyes, his lips.

  I catch his tongue between my teeth

  and lap as if at the rim of him.

  My groin throbs with a familiar heat

  but the voice in my head says: Stop.

  My desire pulls back to a faltering trot.

  I turn away from Jack and push him off.

  18

  Jack lifts the dark veil of my hair

  I’ve drawn shut tight against him.

  —North? he says. Are you okay?

  His voice is faint. I’m burrowed deep.

  The earth’s leaf-dank, clay-moist;

  desire loose-tangled in a murmuring heap.

  —Hey now, says Jack, soil-muzzled, far away.

  North, talk to me.

  And despite the earth’s funereal load

  that’s crushing me, its impossible weight,

  I expel four words.

  —Get away from me.

  Too late to take them back.

  I keep my eyes turned from his face

  and change the subject. Make light of it.

  19

  —What’s this? I say, and fix my gaze

  on the cross he wears around his neck.

  —I found it on the beach.

  —Pretty.

  —An instrument of torture, actually.

  But I like the grace that goes with it.

  —Grace is for nuns and Jesus Freaks.

  —Ah well, says Jack. It’s a free country.

  He kisses me on the cheek, but gingerly,

  as if I might bolt at the slightest sound

  and his eyes are sad when he stands

  to leave.

  20

  From the shed I hear his dull retreat;

  footsteps on concrete, grass, nothing.

  I fall back onto Jack’s old couch, hollow

  and angry enough to summon up desire again.

  —Come, baby, says the man inside my head

  that I hire for ten minutes occasionally.

  —Come on, baby, come with me.

  I climb the thick rope of his voice

  and almost, sort of, kind of come

  in little fibrous knots, swiftly replaced

  by tears. I cry myself to sleep.

  21

  And dream: a tumbling, fractured dream

  about Dad’s old serge coat infused

  with soil and nail clippings.

  —When I’m gone, I’m gone, he says,

  washing his hands in a bowl that holds

  eternity. I wake up shuffling time

  in a dog-eared deck. Think, where am I?

  Details assemble in my head: the beach,

  Jack’s place. His couch. That kiss.

  It’s just past twelve a.m. My fone lists

  nine missed calls: Mum and Waverley.

  The cat is curled up on my feet.

  I can hear Jack breathing close by me.

  —Bear! I whisper. Gather my things

  and quietly leave. Jack doesn’t wake.

  A dome of stars shines overhead.

  22

  —Waverley, I say across the night.

  Can I come over?

  I hear her wade through REM.

  —I guess, she says. Hang on a sec.

  Shit, that you North? It’s one a.m!

  But she lets me in, yawning

  through a riot of hair and offers

  me the comfy chair. I smoke

  her cigarettes, drink her beer

  and tell her almost everything.

  P
art 16: Waves

  Queensland, 2039

  When loneliness comes stalking, go into the fields,

  consider the orderliness of the world. Notice

  something you have never noticed before.

  Mary Oliver

  1

  October was a flurry of exams.

  I passed with honours. Trudy failed.

  The fruit salad trees burst almost

  overnight into riots of perfect

  fruit: lemons and apples, oranges,

  peaches, pears and apricots.

  Leo went home to Elizabeth Bay,

  where his folks sold didges made

  in Asia as souvenirs of Australia.

  —Go figure, said Leo, unphased.

  Trudy was off to the Gold Coast

  with a stack of friends.

  —See ya, she said. Behave, okay?

  She gave me a cute, tight-fisted wave.

  I raised my hand to do the same

  but already she had walked away

  and left me in ticking silence.

  2

  Not everyone left for the summer

  break. A handful of students

  and lecturers stayed. I was in

  no hurry to go back home

  to the despondent pitch and toss

  of the waves or my parents’ house

  in Angler’s Bay. Instead, I took

  long walks past the Disney resorts

  and ate at the almost empty caf

  at a table with peeling laminate.

  There were only a dozen or so of us:

  a few age-spotted profs, offshore

  students and the girl with plaits

  who sat with me on the Sky Rail

  from Brisbane that first day.

  She was reading now as she was then,

  lasagne congealed upon her plate

  as she chewed upon one scarlet braid.

  Her hands were slim and elegant

  with bitten, ice-blue fingernails.

  3

  Her braids were long as horses’ tails,

  the wiry hair not quite contained.

  They made me want to weep again

  like they did when I saw them

  on the train. An equine sadness

  reared up in me, intent on making

  a quick escape.

  —I’m Waverley. She looked up

  and smiled. Are you okay?

  —I’m fine, I said.

  And I was really, for melancholy

  was a familiar beast who often slunk

  in unannounced. Waverley sensed

  all of this somehow with a delicate

  furrowing of her brow, giving birth

  to the friendship we have now.

  4

  Autumn came in amber drifts.

  Leaves scattered the lawns

  and the heart-shaped pond with

  a casual, coloured symmetry.

  When Trudy failed to reappear,

  the stuff I shifted from her bed

  left a slight indent, as if a creature

  once nestled there. Leo said Trudy

  had joined a cult, some doomsday mob from Byron into cyber drugs.

  —Not good, he said. He’d got fat

  over summer, and I saw him then

  as he’d look when middle-aged.

  Already he sported a faunish beard

  and a paunch above his jeans.

  Any desire I’d felt was dimmed.

  The kiss intended for my lips fell

  on my deftly turned away cheek.

  His milk teeth made me nauseous.

  5

  Waverley became my new room mate.

  She filled the room with her zany taste.

  This was an antidote to Trudy’s zines

  and makeup scattered about the place.

  Waverley had gingham geraniums

  and an iposter of a deep-sea squid.

  But the best was Janine the mini-pig,

  a tiny pink and hairy thing that slept

  in a shoe beneath her bed.

  6

  I settled into a study routine

  with a major in marine biology.

  Waverley was a better friend for me

  than Trudy or Leo had ever been,

  despite her slightly eccentric ways

  I somehow managed to integrate.

  One night I found her snug in bed

  with a female tutor from Transgenics.

  Those thick, red plaits and bookish genes

  belied a large addictive streak

  mainly for caffeine tabs and patches.

  But compared to Trudy’s Heaven trips,

  these were milder blips, redeemed

  by her wit and intellect.

  7

  Then in October of my second year,

  L-Kida flexed its muscles again

  by filling a dome with arapax

  at Brisbane’s gala Logies event.

  All four of Missy Higgins’ quads,

  film vets like Kidman and Blanchett.

  L-Kida’s minions got the lot.

  A podmail to the government

  declared a university would be next.

  All of the best brains dead, it said.

  My fone trilled not long after this:

  my mother, high with anxiety.

  —North, she said. Come home, love.

  Please.

  8

  That night I dreamt of falling through

  deep space towards the earth but

  couldn’t seem to land on it. I woke up

  homesick for Angler’s Bay, Shale Road,

  my folks, Pixie’s Café. It took six weeks

  to book a flight and get the okay

  from security. The bay was prettier

  than I remembered it; opal blue

  and sparkling. I applied an anaesthetic

  patch, felt the ache inside recede.

  My homecoming was an experiment.

  Outcome unknown, and perilous.

  9

  —North! said Mum as I walked in

  with my baggage and a new haircut;

  smart and short, a blue helmet.

  Clutching a tea towel to her chest,

  she hugged me hard. Then Dad

  came in from out the back, tracking

  soil on the beige carpet but for onceMum didn’t tell him off.

  —North! he said. Well, well.

  His mouth did a little upwards twist

  and his lips trembled. Don’t cry

  Dad, I thought. If you cry, I’m sunk.

  But he wrapped me in an iron grip

  and released me with a half-gasped

  breath. Grief still hovered about

  his eyes, in the creases of his smile.

  The jar on Mum’s red kitchen bench

  held the same biscuits as before I’d left.

  But her hair was grey and she’d lost weight.

  10

  Dinner was tense. I had changed,

  I think, and was out of sync with family

  habits and rituals. But I loved the pale

  slope of my mother’s neck and sought

  it out now for some kind of comfort.

  The gap between us felt fathomless,

  a watery expanse we could not breach.

  —I’m glad you’re home, said Mum.

  I just couldn’t sleep.

  —Which meant nobod
y slept, said Dad

  with a wink. He was wearing a cardigan

  he’d had for years. I wished I could

  curl up on his knee, the way I did

  when I was three. No one spoke

  of my degree or if I would go back

  to university. I got up from the table,

  pushed away my chair, went out back,

  sought solace elsewhere.

  —Where’s she going? Mum said. North,

  come back, please. There’s no dessert till

  you eat your greens!

  11

  Dad found me sitting in an old

  cane chair, staring at a trellis laden

  with pears.

  —Espaliered, I said. You’re good

  with them. My plants always wilt.

  Why do you think that is?

  —North, said Dad, go easy on

  your mother. She’s had a lot to deal

  with. My health, for instance. And

  with you not here…

  I picked a leaf from the pear vine

  and dissected it. Mum never went

  easy on me, I thought. But I stayed

  in their house for another two years

  until I completed my science degree.

  Part 17: Home

  Angler’s Bay, 2051

  We shall not cease from exploration

  And the end of all our exploring

  Will be to arrive where we started

  And know the place for the first time.

  T S Eliot

  1

  —Keep an eye on your mother, Jo Green

  says. But Mum’s okay. She’s finally

  got her bad hip done, the house is up

  for sale at last, and her first exhibition

  in years will be hung in December

  at Snow Crash Inc. Mum seems

  to walk more lightly now. Dad’s death

  has sluiced her clean somehow of earlier

  griefs, the way water poured over shells

  dislodges sand and grit. I call in on her