by Jane Abbott
She sat up. ‘Then what did you come here for, Gabe? To make friends with my mum? Show everyone what a great guy you are? Is that why you’re here?’
He crouched down in front of her so she was forced to look at him. ‘Is that what you think? Really?’ She could see he was puzzled and maybe a bit hurt.
‘I don’t know. It doesn’t matter.’
‘Yeah, it does. You’re the one who asked to catch up in the holidays. So that’s what I’m doing.’
‘Yes, but I didn’t mean here!’ In this house that wasn’t a home, with her family, who’d become strangers. But she didn’t say it, because Gabe wouldn’t understand. She didn’t understand. ‘You’re not Michael, you know!’
He stiffened and bowed his head. When he finally replied, his voice was cold. ‘No, I’m not. I’m your friend, remember? And last time I checked, friends help each other out. So why don’t you start pulling your weight? ’Cause I could do with a friend too.’
She hated that he was right. ‘You have plenty of friends.’
‘Yeah, but I can’t talk to them the way I can talk to you. I came here today because I needed to see you, okay? Because being with you, even for a little while – even in a goddamned church – helps me deal with all the other crap.’
He’d grabbed her hands, was holding them lightly between his fingers, and he was so patient and so reasonable, and she wasn’t. After everything he’d done for her, why was she treating him like this? She looked at his hands, large and strong and tanned to gold. Not as dark as Michael’s but just as scarred. One thumbnail was black and a half-healed cut scored a wrist.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Sure.’
‘No, I mean it, Gabe. Everything’s … This place, the party, everyone at school … Sorry, I’m being a bitch. Sorry.’
‘We all have our strengths, I guess. By the way, your dad’s home.’
She didn’t need to ask how that meeting had gone. Gabe was still here. ‘How’d you do it?’
‘Do what?’
‘Win my parents over.’
He sighed. ‘I’m not trying to win anyone over. Not everything has to be a struggle, Jen. Not if you don’t want it to be. Small steps – see where they take you.’
‘Yes, okay.’ Another lesson learned.
He stood and pulled her up with him, hugging her briefly. ‘The tea’ll be getting cold. Yeah, yeah, I know. So drink coffee.’
He filled the kitchen with his warmth and his brightness, talking local affairs with her father, footy with Chris and even making her mother smile with some juicy town gossip. It was noisy and fun and … normal. Jenny joined in sometimes, but mostly she was happy to simply watch him. For the first time since moving there, the house felt like a home.
Tea was over too quickly, and Gabe rose to leave. ‘Thanks for having me,’ he said, pulling on his jacket. ‘I was wondering if Jen could come out to the farm on Friday for lunch. If she wants to, that is. I can pick her up and drop her back again.’
But Jenny knew he’d gone too far this time. And if he’d thought to ask her first, she would’ve told him not to bother. Her parents stared, helplessly caught out, but Gabe continued with his usual directness.
‘My brother won’t be there. Just me, Jim and Barb. You can come too, if you like.’
‘Cool!’ Chris cried happily.
It was Jenny’s father who had the final word; her mother was still gawking. ‘How about you let us think on it and Jenny can call you later in the week?’
Pale, beyond porch and portal,
Crowned with calm leaves, she stands
Who gathers all things mortal
With cold immortal hands;
ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE,
‘The Garden of Proserpine’
XI
Cait undid what Michael had done, not out of cruelty or the desire to teach him a lesson, but because it was necessary. Because she was afraid. He was like an arsonist working through a box of matches, each burning more dangerous than the last.
They endured Jim’s wrath and Barb’s concern in silence, neither of them offering explanation or apology, Michael soaked and muddied from sitting in the rain with the kangaroo. Gabe was there, returned from town, and he watched the two of them uneasily, perhaps understanding that worse was to come. Yet it was he who intervened on their behalf, placating Jim and comforting Barb until Cait and Michael were released to their rooms, where they lay apart, separated by more than plaster and carpet.
Michael’s cries woke her that night, but she didn’t go to him. Instead, she lay in her room and listened as Gabe tried to banish whatever horrors his brother saw. Twisting on her bed, Cait stared at the wall, where she saw herself and Michael as they’d once been: Pyramus and Thisbe, too absorbed and too defiant. With long-repressed desire, she watched them reach for one another, through stone and mud and mural, and later entwine in love beneath a canopy of stars, far from the lush green walls of that fabled city.
She’d never told Michael. Nor had Whittaker, as she’d suggested.
Will I ever remember?
No. You never have.
But she’d been wrong. Without her help, Michael had recalled the name. And though he couldn’t place it, it had caught, searing a place in his memory that until now had been filled only with the present.
She didn’t go to school that last week of term. She felt it safer to keep as far away from Michael as possible, the few hours without him each day giving her space to think and to worry. Barb, believing she was ill, fussed around like one of her hens, yet she would have been better off attending to the boys: Michael, who dreaded sleep, and Gabe, who longed for it. Cait had no idea how Gabe managed to get through that week, exams consuming any energy he had left, but his strength was greater than any of them suspected. The evenings were the worst, as she and Michael sidestepped each other in the small house, their hostility open and uncensored. Jim grumbled and cursed but he waited for the term to finish before punishing them both.
On the first morning of the holidays he issued his decree: ‘You’ll fill the truck, you hear me? Not half. Not almost. I want it filled to the top, the wood split. Then stack it up against the east wall of the shed, under the canopy.’
Cait dared to protest. ‘But we already have plenty. It’ll take –’
‘Don’t talk back, girl.’ He was furious. ‘I don’t care how long it takes you. Just do it. Whatever’s going on, you work it out. Together. Because if you can’t get on, you can bloody well get out!’
The last shouted words were for Michael; Cait had more claim to be there. Barb witnessed Jim’s anger with sorrow, Gabe with resignation. But Michael seethed. Cait could feel heat rising, warming the kitchen more quickly than any stove or fire.
‘What about Gabe?’ he demanded, mutinous to the last.
‘He’s not the problem,’ Jim replied. ‘Now, get out, both of you. I don’t want to see you back here ’til the end of the day.’
Michael drove the truck west to the strip of bush, thick with old trees, that separated two of the western paddocks, and as they crossed the land, Cait thought of the last time they’d been together, of Michael’s words and the kangaroo and the gun. The nightmares had finally passed but he still looked exhausted, his face paler than usual.
‘Michael, I –’
‘Shut it.’
‘But –’
‘Shut up, Cait! Just … just shut up.’
He was too grim, beyond simple anger, so she left him alone to curse the grinding gears of the truck, the weather and her father. Reaching the bush, he stopped near a clearing and leaped out to unload the chainsaw, axes and fuel. She watched him button his coat against the wind, push up the collar to shield his neck and pull on a beanie. Even his gloves were black, stained with oil and dirt, and he walked among the trees, assessing the ones that were already down, their wide trunks grey and ready for cutting. A shadow man; her prince of the dark. Every god and none.
Uncertain of her role but re
fusing to ask for direction, Cait stood by the truck. She was already cold, and the thought of the long day ahead added to her misery.
Michael donned earmuffs and pull-started the chain saw, and she watched him cut easily through one side of a dead tree before clambering over to the other, working quickly while she stomped her feet on the ground, trying to stay warm. Using one of the axes and the splitter, he cleaved the bigger logs, and Cait began using the other axe on the smaller ones, relieved to have something to do at last. When they’d finished, she carefully backed the truck between trees while Michael watched impatiently, until she’d neared enough for him to open the tailgate.
‘Get up,’ were his only words to her, and she did so because she had no desire to argue or even answer him. He stripped off his jacket and beanie and began tossing up the blocks and logs. They clanged and bounced on the metal floor, forcing her to sidestep. The first were easy enough to stack against the front wall of the truck, but Michael was faster and, as the pile grew, the wood seemed to get heavier and more cumbersome. The floor of the truck was slippery with wet bark and her boots kept sliding on the metal. He finished long before she did but didn’t climb up to help, instead moving on to the next trunk and restarting the chainsaw.
Cait shook off her jacket. Her gloves were damp from the wet wood and her hands frozen. By the time she was done, he was ready to start again, and so their morning took on a rhythm of toil, backbreaking and mindless. And hatefully silent. After the third tree, the truck seemed no more full and his mood grew blacker.
‘You know there’s a better way to do this,’ he said, swigging from a water bottle. His first full sentence since they’d started.
‘No.’
He scowled, opening his mouth to argue, but she turned back to her task. Only when she heard the chainsaw buzz could she sigh her relief.
A sudden whine, and she turned in time to see the machine buck in Michael’s hands before he slammed down the guard, cutting the motor. He cursed, and she flinched at his venom, watching him kick at the trunk and pull on the machine to free the broken chain, his hatred of everything getting noisy while the air around them froze.
‘Michael, no!’ she yelled, as he summoned his word.
The fallen trunk, earlier so inanimate, exploded into shards that spun and hurled like shrapnel. The chainsaw came away and twisted in the air, but he deflected it easily and it smashed against a nearby tree. He was the eye of the storm, broken wood flying around and past him, and Cait cowered against the side of the truck, making herself as small a target as possible. He raised a hand and another tree burst, its body erupting and splitting, sending torpedoes to whirl and soar up and over, gouging the ground and spearing still-standing trees. Birds rose, screeching, to safety.
‘Michael! Stop it. Stop!’
He turned to her as another tree shattered. The air was thick with missiles, circling wild and deadly. ‘I can’t! I can’t stop it.’
There was another crack and a tall gum toppled to the ground. He was afraid now too, and his fear fed his power.
‘Yes, you can,’ she called, trying not to panic. ‘Just calm down. You have to calm down.’ A huge jagged piece flew at the truck; she screamed and curled herself small as it thudded into the metal cage. To her right, another trunk rose and spun, scything saplings.
Michael was dazed, swaying on his feet, but his rage didn’t abate. He couldn’t stop it alone, not any more. He had no idea.
Uncurling, standing straight, Cait steadied herself. ‘Michael! Look at me.’
He turned and another tree exploded, but she pushed away from the side, trying to get a foothold on the slimy floor, until she stood unprotected.
‘No!’ he shouted. ‘Get back. I can’t control it!’
Ignoring him, she held out her arms to welcome his anger, and it flew at her, eager and hateful, pummelling and pounding and stabbing, splintery knives piercing soft flesh, beating her back to the wall of wood she’d built.
ii
‘Cait!’
She dropped and so did Michael’s rage; tree trunks and branches rained down to bounce and roll across the ground. He ran to the truck and leaped up, scrambling, skidding on the floor and tearing off his gloves. She was crumpled, her white shirt bloodied and ripped. When he lifted her, her head fell back and her hair hung like water to the floor.
‘Jesus. Oh God. Oh God. Cait? Cait? Cait!’
Horror burned his throat and he gulped it back down. Her face was unmarked, but the back of her head felt sticky and wet and his hand came away red. A jagged stick staked her chest, above her right breast, and blood welled from her stomach. She was breathing, shallow and faint, and all he could think of was the kangaroo and the voice he’d heard so often in his dreams.
Just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should.
But this was Cait. It was Cait! And she wasn’t dead. Not yet.
Calm down. You have to calm down. He heard her voice inside his head, cool, a balm to steady him. Lowering her body to the floor, he pulled at her shirt, gagging at her wounds and at the sight of his hands, so wet with her blood.
He’d healed himself before, but he didn’t know how, couldn’t understand. He’d spoken a word, but he couldn’t remember it, and maybe it wasn’t the same word he needed now.
Oh God, oh God, oh God.
Gabe. He’d know what to do, how to help. Michael reached for his phone; Cait moaned then, and he bent to her. ‘Cait? Can you hear me?’
There was no response – only the sharp pricking of his tears as he looked down at her, and dread giving way to fear, opening the door to a persistent knock he knew.
Tap, tap, tap.
He shook his head, trying to dispel it. Placing a hand on her belly, over the visceral tear that gaped and wept blood, Michael spread his fingers wide to cover his mistake. He didn’t close his eyes but stared at it hard, concentrating as he had with the kangaroo. But he couldn’t seem to see inside to knit the flesh or bind the skin, and her blood seeped between his fingers to drip and pool on the dirty floor.
‘Shit,’ he whispered. ‘Shit, shit, shit! C’mon, Cait. Help me.’
Calm down. You have to calm down.
Michael squeezed his eyes tight, breathing deep and slow to stifle his fearful whimpers, and invoked images of her, memories that moved and shuffled like cards: Cait as a child, holding a tiny kitten; Cait laughing with Gabe; Cait swimming lazily in the waterhole; Cait on the motorbike, her silver hair like a banner in the wind; Cait in the garden, glowing in white; Cait reading a book by the fire, her feet tucked under her. But there were other images too that flashed and vanished – of women who seemed like Cait but weren’t, women he couldn’t remember yet seemed to know so well. And with each image his power surged and pulsed and he breathed, in, out, deep, deeper, until he found the word he needed and called it, and heat rippled beneath his hand, burning and searing. Cait gasped and arched and fell back, limp again.
The wound was gone, sealed tight, the skin as unblemished as it’d ever been, except for the stain of blood. But there was no pleasure to be felt, no time to marvel at what he’d done.
The wood in her chest quivered with each small breath. Long and sharp and grey, it jutted from her body, held fast in an ugly embrace. Gritting his teeth, Michael pulled on it gently but it wouldn’t budge, and she groaned.
‘Sorry, Cait. This is going to hurt.’
Pushing down hard on her shoulder with one hand, he grasped the shard and yanked it out, tearing it from flesh and between bone, and she screamed, her eyes widening in agony. Blood welled, yielding long, thick splinters and the wet cotton threads from her shirt.
‘Shh,’ he soothed. ‘It’s okay. Look at me, Cait. Don’t close your eyes. Stay with me.’ She moaned as he pressed her breast, but did what he said, locking on to him. When Michael spoke again, there was that familiar wave of heat.
He pulled her up and, ignoring her groans, parted her hair to examine the gash in her head. It still bled and he c
losed it quickly, then dragged her onto his lap and held her tight, rocking her gently. Her head sank into the hollow of his shoulder, and he pressed his cheek to her hair.
‘I thought I’d lost you. I thought I’d killed you. I’m sorry, Cait. I’m so sorry.’
They both stared at the devastation around them – the littered ground, trees stripped of life, the fallout from his rage.
‘God, Michael,’ she whispered, safe in his arms, ‘what a mess.’
He lifted Cait onto the seat of the truck, wrapping both jackets around her and bundling the ruined shirt under her head. ‘Stay here and rest,’ he said. ‘I’ll deal with everything.’
‘The chainsaw’s broken,’ she mumbled.
‘I know.’
Her hand gripped his arm with unexpected strength. ‘Michael, be careful. Promise.’
‘Shhh. It’s okay, Cait, I can handle it. Just rest.’ He brushed her hair from her face; she closed her eyes at his touch. When he bent to kiss her head, she sighed. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered again.
Climbing out of the cab, he closed the door gently. The wind had picked up and thin clouds hurried overhead as he stepped around the clearing that wasn’t clear any more. Once-healthy trees lay broken and twisted, the ground ruptured by unearthed roots. Thick trunks had become kindling, smaller branches matchsticks, and everything else carpeted the ground. Even with the wind, it was eerily quiet, and Michael realised he was missing the usual chatter of birds.
I can handle it, he’d told Cait. So confident, so sure, so bloody arrogant. What a joke. He had no clue where to begin, how to repair the damage he’d done, how to fix this mess.
He picked up what remained of the chainsaw. The blade had snapped and the chain hung in oily ribbons, clogged with dirt and leaves. Fuel dripped from the broken motor and the handle had bent. But most loud in his head was Jim’s fury. Machinery was expensive to replace, and they’d been taught to look after it, to nurse it to the very end of its life. He tried to picture the chainsaw as it had been, dented in places, its yellow paint worn and scratched, the steel blade whole, the chain strong and black with oil, teeth sharp and hungry. He heard its beehive voice, buzzing with purpose, and saw it balanced in his hands, vibrating and eager.