about once a week.
2
Mum’s wearing one of Dad’s old shirts,
paint-speckled and smelling of turps.
Robbie makes us a caffeine fix. I pile
in sugar, secretly. I’ve been up early
with Waverley doing stingray stats
beneath the pier. Clone rays breed fast.
There’s too many of them. No answers
yet but we’re working on it. Mum rinses
dishes in the sink. The Dish Wizard sits
crusty with neglect.
—They’ll fine you, I say.
But she persists.
—Sorry, love. I’m a little tense.
—About the exhibition?
—Yes. I’ve picked out some work
but I’m not sure which…
—I’ll have a look.
—Oh would you? Thanks.
3
Mum’s new studio is Dad’s old shed.
The speed with which she moved
into it tightens my sternum just a bit.
Dad’s bonsais sit outside of it,
the garden shabby and unkempt.
I flick through piles of canvasses
stacked up where his tools were kept.
There’s Dad and Finn and Bear and me.
I had no idea Mum was so prolific.
Cello and Big Cat, even Jo Green
seated amongst roses, looking serene.
A lot of seascapes and self portraits,
Mum’s face lined with a thready ink
that threatens at times to disappear.
The pier is a recurring theme.
4
—Here, says Mum. Take a look at this.
I stayed up late last night to finish it.
The canvas is as tall as me, the paint
is wet, navy and green, with two pale
figures in relief; wraith-like, girl-shaped,
a bit ghostly. Their hands stretch out
but never meet. The lower figure
has webbed feet. Breath catches
in my trachea. Impossible to move,
let alone speak. The shed disappears
and in its place a grief-shaped hole,
sucking me in. I go into the garden
but even this can’t make the mouths
that clamour inside me cease. I know
by heart what their verdict is.
Judas. Traitor. Enemy.
5
—North, says Mum. What’s happening?
Her hand on my shoulder reels me in.
—Dunno, I say. Just feel a bit sick.
I wipe my mouth with the back
of a sleeve and sit, head down,
till the nausea recedes. I drink
the water Mum offers me.
—Goodness, she says. Is it something
you ate? You’re not… Her gaze drops
to my stomach, where it rests.
—’Course not, I say. How could I be?
But I hold the thought of it close
to me. That time with Jack we first
had sex. It was about six weeks ago,
I think. Hormones or grief? Hard
to say which. The two seem part
of the same fabric.
—You couldn’t have saved her, North,
Mum says. Her eyes are shiny,
as if fresh-peeled.
6
I chafe at the skin on my left wrist,
where the battery for my skinfone sits.
—North… Mum takes my hand,
though I resist, and pulls me to her.
Warily I let her in. And we sit
like this in a newfound, awkward
kind of peace until her jumper starts
to itch my cheek. And when we part,
a version of me remains embraced
while another peels off and makes
to leave. And I’m not quite sure
which one is me.
7
And go to sleep that night
with a familiar dread, hovering
on the brink of sleep. Waking
requires too much energy. I get
out of bed, my feet lead-dipped,
my body sloth-like, white, pasty.
I make a cup of milky tea and pour
it into the shell of me, but the tears
that fall just keep falling. The wounds
resume their clamouring; red, open
mouthed across my skin. I take
a Flight Tab: tropical theme.
Soar over Hawaii, lush and green,
just like the way it used to be.
8
And wake in a desert of afternoon
whose light soon fades to dusk
and dusk, in turn, is veiled by night.
Everything’s infused with nostalgia.
Even the birds sound melancholic.
The invisible wounds draw ranks,
converge. Bear jumps on the bed,
an unsubtle hint. He wants his dinner.
It’s nine-thirty. But I press my face
into his old-sock scent and fall back
into a Hawaiian dream of hula girls
on a grubby beach until the security
scan at the door wakes me.
Jack Leaford, it says. Verify ID.
I intercept it, let him in.
9
Bear dances in circles around Jack’s feet.
I close the door, shuffle back to bed
in my old pyjamas. Not glamorous.
—North, what’s wrong? Are you sick? he says.
I shift the pillows, close my lids. North,
c’mon. Work with me, mate.
He raps my head with a gentle fist
but I just can’t seem to open it,
too tired to define what’s festering.
And yet his voice slows my descent
into the darkness so I try to speak.
10
—It’s Mum, I say. She did me in.
She’s painted this piece for the exhibition,
of Finn and me. I feel like a nutter but
I’m really freaked. Will it never end?
—I don’t know, says Jack. Maybe.
He unpeels the sleep wrap,
lifts my T, strokes my belly.
—Shhh, he says. My breath adopts
a slower rhythm. The mouths stop
jabbering, dissolve into skin.
I drink the tea Jack makes for me.
The evening settles. The sky darkens.
He sits with me and doesn’t leave.
11
It’s the first day of summer.
Jack fones me.
—Come over, he says. Want to
show you something.
I coax the Flute up Potter’s Hill.
Bear hangs his head out from
the rear. His spittle gathers on
the window shield. I park under
the pines and Jack appears.
—Shut your eyes, he says. And no peeking.
Mole-blind, I let him lead me to the shed.
The sun dissolves on my closed eyelids
and a velvet darkness intervenes. Scent
of sawdust and wood varnish.
—Okay, you can open them now, he says.
The boat’s complete with a pristine
sail and new rigging; petite as a boat
from a fairy tale that travels, enchanted,
across the sea.
12
A heat wave in Melbourne. Firestorms
rage. The sun’s red eye stares through
the haze although these fires are far away.
Birds sit limp-winged in wilting trees;
silent, panting, open-beaked.
Only the sea offers up a reprieve.
The whole town’s on the beach, it seems.
Jack guides the boat down the slipway
till a wash comes in and it floats free.
—Quick, he says. Jump in!
I grasp the hand he offers me and land
face down across the seat.
—Ow! I say. But Jack’s laughing.
I lurch towards him and cuff his ear.
13
We adjust the sails and rigging till
the canvas fills and swells with wind.
The keel cuts easily through the waves,
my flat is small as a tooth in the mouth
of the bay. It’s cooler out here with
a strong sea breeze that wraps itself
around my limbs. The boat lifts
with a sigh and slaps back down again.
Jack feeds the ropes through clinking rings.
We sail in silence, wind-ruffled beneath
a summer sky; halcyon blue and infinite.
14
And we don’t return until evening
falls across the bay. The town
offers a wan contrast to the stars
that multiply above; planets dead
or dying, yet much prettier than
the sickly light of the de-sal plant.
Too hot to sleep or do anything
but seek a cool reprieve out here.
Jack drops the anchor at a distance
from the beach. We’re invisible.
No one to see us except the moon
that shines behind cloud drift.
The boat rocks gently in darkness.
15
I take Jack’s hand and put it
to my lips. I kiss each callused
fingertip, press my mouth against
his eyelids, run my fingers through
his hair, kiss his chest and the cross
that dangles there.
—North, he says, are you sure about this?
—Kiss me, I say, and unzip his jeans.
—Okay, he says, and lifts my T.
We fall back on the boat’s hard deck
and after a while I let him in.
And God, how good it feels
to come home at last to a place
you’ve dreamt of, but never been.
He sinks his teeth into my neck,
gently. I think, that’s just what
sharks do when they mate, and then
I come. Beautiful, creamy, soft, loose,
wet. Small clouds settle like animals.
16
Our local gallery is Snow Crash Inc.
Not large, but its reputation is.
Most galleries opt for virtual art
but Snow Crash likes hard copy.
Waverley and Cello are already here.
Cello’s gown is ruby red. I feel a bit
dowdy next to her until Raoul arrives
with Ambré asleep and milk stains
on his suit lapel.
—Raoul, I say. You do look smart.
—Merci, he says. Et tu, ma belle fille!
I twirl for him in my emerald silk.
I’m a sucker for his French accent.
We snaffle the waiter (young, gangly)
and relieve his tray of wine and beer.
Waverley, decked in glitter garb,
stockpiles our plates with butterfly
cakes. Cello snaps off the wings,
then scoffs the lot.
17
—Waverley, says Mum, and Cello too!
Thanks for coming, girls. I’m so nervous.
She’s radiant in a way I’ve never seen.
Her skirt has a pearlescent, oyster sheen
and flows like water around her feet.
Her grey hair looks arty, sophisticated.
In the distance I see Jo Green’s coiffed
head bobbing beside some local celeb.
Then Jack walks in and scans for me.
I wave across the crowded room.
He raises an eyebrow. I smile at him,
feel the hard shell I’ve been sheltering
under lift a bit and let light in.
18
I sip the cheap pink bubbly courtesy
of the gallery, and weave through guests.
Mum’s paintings shimmer on the walls
in oil and charcoal, ink and chalk.
The figures merge and blend, hard
to say where one begins or ends.
Dad floats unbidden into my thoughts,
the way he used to scratch his head
at some of the pieces my mother did.
—It’s beaut, he’d say, you’ve captured it.
Except… He was always the realist,
my old dad.
19
The piece Mum showed me in the shed
looks different now it’s on the wall,
with an ethereal glow and something else
I hadn’t seen before. Two hands reach
down into the sea: my mother’s hands
(there’s her wedding ring). Something
lifts its weight off me and ambles away
on cloven feet. A waiter drifts past
with a tray. I grab a drink and down it
quick.
20
By the time my mother makes her speech
I’m lit up like a memory chip.
—Steady on the champers, says Waverley.
—Too late for that. I sling an arm around
her neck. I love you, mate. And deliver her
a sloppy kiss, leaving lipstick on her teeth.
—I love you too, she says. But not like that.
If you do it again, I’ll wring your neck.
She wipes her mouth.
—Shh, Jo says. They’re launching it.
A spoon against glass makes the room
fall silent.
21
And after all is said and done, Mum
joins me where I stand transfixed
before that painting of Finn and me.
I’m euphoric and swaying a bitbut I just can’t take my eyes off it:
this likeness of my almost-drowning,
my mother’s hands as they reach down.
—She was always swimming away, Mum says.
Her eyes on the painting, straight ahead.
—Jack and I were in the dunes that day.
—What difference does it make? she says.
What were you doing there, anyway?
—I really don’t think I ought to say.
A pulse flickers in my right eyelid.
—North Croft! says Mum. You were kids!
—We were fifteen, Mother. Actually.
The past rushes into a bottleneck but just
then Jo Green intervenes with flowers
for Mum from her new garden.
22
—I’ve sold the house, I hear Mum say.
I only found out yesterday. Enough
for a place in the Southern Dome
and a bit left over fo
r North, I hope.
She strokes my cheek.
—That’s great, says Jo. They’re selling
quick. You’ll love the city galleries.
More wine? she says and off she flits.
—Where’s Jack? says Mum beneath
her breath. I’ll break his bones when I
get to him. Jack looks across the room
just then and gives my mum a neat
salute. She meets his eyes and dips
her head in a gesture hard to read
before I realise she is chuckling.
Laughter erupts from both of us,
rushing as if from a hidden stream.
Tears on the fault lines of Mum’s
cheeks. More light floods in
and I can’t stop it.
23
And after the gallery crowd
has thinned to a clump of family
and friends, we walk together
to the beach with parcels
from old Tom’s Fish’n’Chips.
Cello and Raoul, Ambré, Jo,
Jack and Waverley, Mum and me.
I take off my shoes, flex my toes
and feel the sand’s authenticity.
The new pier has a violet tint,
reflecting the evening sky in it
and the tide, now at its lowest ebb,
reveals old pylons just beneath.
The sun that’s sinking lazily
extends its rays across water.
They advance in waves and then
retreat in ripples at my feet.
24
I loose, gently, the hand that’s holding
mine. Jack’s hand. Unfurl my fingers,
curled up inside his. Let the casual
banter of the group wash over me.
Walk away from it along the reef
to the long red shelf of rock
where Finn vanished.
25
I sit down on the rock and watch
the waves swell into glassy peaks
the sea reclaims, as it does most things.
The Sunlit Zone Page 14