The Sunlit Zone

by Lisa Jacobson

  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.