by Clare Atkins
I constantly look around for her, but I don’t see her anywhere.
I start to pick out words from the low chatter around me. Gapu. atha. Marrkap’mi.
Rripipi hands Mum a small blue plastic jar. Mum opens it and massages the soft folds of skin on my momu’s upper back. The smell of Dencorub fills the air.
I finally catch sight of my yapa as night starts to fall. Dark mingles with the smell of smoke. The tents around the buŋgul ground glow, illuminated by the crackle of campfires. Lilaba lights one in front of where we are sitting. Nona moves in beside it and sits cross-legged, hands resting on her swollen belly. I try to catch her eye, but she is always doing something – talking to people, texting on her phone or watching the dancing.
She doesn’t look at me once.
*
The days settle into a pattern of migration, up and down the hill. From home to the buŋgul ground and back again.
Dad is staying in our spare room. I love having him around. I help him cook, making big batches, enough to feed us and our Yolŋu family. Our house swells and ebbs with bodies and shy smiles. People come to help us carry meals, or rest on the couch, or sleep.
We make endless cups of tea. Guḻwirri teases Mum for her “tea that tastes like dishwater”. Dad and I drive into town and stock up on black tea bags, powdered milk and sugar. We buy in bulk.
Sometimes, during the heat of day when there’s no ceremony on, we play cards or watch TV or I do homework to the sound of Dad strumming softly on his guitar. We fall into the habit of eating dinner in front of the ABC news. We watch it together, Mum, Dad and I, before walking back up to watch the buŋgul in the cool of evening.
For the first time I can remember, we feel like a real family.
Mum doesn’t cry on my shoulder or confide about how she feels having Dad around. I can tell she’s making an effort to be stronger. It makes me both sad and relieved.
Sometimes Dad sees me texting. I’m sure he must know it’s Nick, but he keeps his word and doesn’t comment. I’m grateful for the reprieve. I don’t tell Nick much about what happens each day. Just enough to let him know the funeral is still going, and that everything’s okay. That we’re okay. And I’ll be back at school as soon as this finishes.
Nick returns every text, but never calls. When I ask him about it he jokes that he doesn’t want my “Gold Digger” Kanye West ringtone going off in the middle of something important. It’s like he knows there’s stuff going on that he can’t or won’t understand.
I miss him. I miss his arms around me. But it wouldn’t feel right to invite him out here, or to go and see him in town. So I call and he texts. And I text and he doesn’t call. At first it bothers me, but then it starts to feel okay.
Dad takes over making Mum her morning Earl Grey tea. They seem comfortable together, like old friends. We get home late from the funeral and they talk deep into the night. I lie awake in bed, straining to hear their soft murmurs from the lounge. I’m worried they’ll discuss me and Nick, but they don’t. They talk about politics and the community, mutual acquaintances and their families.
I sift through their words, looking for clues about who they were when they were young, together and in love. I realise I don’t know much about them, as people, pre-me.
I hear them laughing together and wonder why Dad left.
*
I sit on mats in the dirt, watching the buŋgul. I sit with Guḻwirri, Rripipi and Mum. The smalls, and other relatives, come and go. Sometimes Nona sits with us too. I’m so aware of her presence my skin tingles when she’s nearby.
There’s a constant flow of people coming to ask things, like who’s going shopping, or how they can get transport, or what comes next in the ceremony cycle. Sometimes Rripipi answers, but other times it’s Nona. She answers with cool and calm. Authority, even.
I wait for her to acknowledge me, and eventually she does. She leans over, her eyes on the dancing, and says, “These are the red flag dancers from Numbulwar.”
It’s not much, but it gives me hope.
Another day, she performs with a group of girls doing a flowing modern Christian dance. The music is a cross between soft tribal rock and gospel. I watch her small, rounded belly sway gently from side to side in time with the beat. Even pregnant, she’s more coordinated and graceful than I’ve ever been.
After the dance, she takes a seat in the empty space beside me. A Yolŋu minister takes the microphone and starts to preach. His sermon is in Yolŋu Matha, peppered with confused English phrases. “Glory God.” “Our Lord Jesus be praised.” “Rising on the earth.” The young people don’t pay much attention, but Momu drinks it all in, her face earnest.
Nona looks over at me, proud. She indicates the minister. “My husband’s father.”
I avoid the strangeness of the word husband and ask, “Is he here? Stretch, I mean.”
She points at a group of men standing on the far side of the buŋgul ground. I make out his figure, at least a head above the others.
I say, “No doubt about it. Your baby’s going to be tall.”
Amusement dances on her lips. “Could’ve been Stretch Junior … but it’s a girl.”
“A girl?”
“Lucky, hey?”
I borrow her words from so many years ago. “Not trouble like boys.”
A small, shy smile passes between us.
*
My phone is ringing. The caller ID says Nick. My heart starts pounding. Why is he suddenly calling? I thought we agreed … I thought he said … I force myself to answer before my mind can run riot.
I try to sound casual. “Hey. What’s up?”
“Hey, yourself, funeral girl.”
“What kind of name is that?” I laugh.
He sounds sheepish. “It sounded better in my head.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Is now an okay time to talk?”
“I’m in bed, about to crash.”
“If you’re tired …”
“No, it’s fine. Now’s good.”
There’s an awkward silence, then Nick says, “So … my formal’s on Saturday night.”
I’ve already missed muck-up day and Nick’s last day of school. I thought the funeral might end in time, that I might be able to go. But Nona says it’s only halfway through and, to my surprise, I don’t want to leave. I just want to be here, soaking it in.
Still, I feel bad for Nick, so I say, “I’m so bummed I’m going to miss it.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
There’s something he’s not telling me. I can sense it.
I wait, and finally he says, “Rosie, I was thinking … no-one else is going solo. Seriously, even the losers have dates. And the other day I was talking to Tiffany – you know Tiffany in my year?”
I have a vague mental image of long brown hair and freckles. One of Nick’s exes.
“Her date has pulled out. He was supposed to fly up from Perth. They’ve been doing the whole long-distance thing and, anyway, he can’t come. So she asked if I want to go with her.”
The last bit comes out in a rush, like if he rips the bandaid off quickly it will hurt me less. I’m silent, taking it all in.
Nick says, “Rosie? You still there?”
“Yeah, I’m here. And it’s fine. If you want to take someone else …”
“Hey, I want to take you. But you’re out there doing whatever you’re doing and you won’t come.”
For a moment he sounds annoyed. I’m annoyed too. “Nick, it’s a funeral, remember? I can’t control how long it goes for.”
He quickly backs off. “I know. I’m sorry. I just … wish you could be there.”
There’s a pause. Then I say, “Me too.”
*
I try to avoid dancing, but family keep asking me to join in the buŋgul. They remember me taking part when I was young.
I say, “I don’t remember how to do it.”
They say, “It’ll come back. We’ll show you.”
I po
litely decline.
Eventually, Lilaba tries to pull me to my feet. I say, “Yapa, please, don’t make me. Have you seen me dancing?”
She shrugs. “Don’t remember.”
Nona’s voice cuts across the group. “I do. At our bäpa’s funeral.”
Pain flickers across her face at the mention of her dad. A cut exposed.
Guḻwirri picks up the story, explaining to Lilaba. “Rosie would’ve been – what? Six or seven?”
Nona says, “Eight. We were eight.” The memory is still firm in her mind. “I’d been trying to teach our yapa the cockatoo dance. I told her – just stand back there in the dark. No-one will see you. You can practise. She started behind me, but when we finished she’d disappeared.”
I say, “I was concentrating!”
Nona shakes her head. “She was dancing backwards, trying to run away.”
The women smile, teasing me with kind eyes.
I smile back at them. “We can’t all be good dancers like Nona.”
*
Lomu’s daughter, Kaneisha, becomes my small shadow. She follows me around and sleeps curled in my lap. I’m reminded of her arms slung softly around her dad’s neck in our lounge room. Grief washes through me all over again. It comes and goes like the tides, sometimes barely there, other times enough to drown you.
Our momu watches, with sad but approving eyes. “You’re her mukul bäpa. Her aunty.”
I play quietly with Kaneisha, games I remember from being a kid. Round and round the garden. This little piggy. I recite nursery rhymes I thought I’d forgotten. I ask Momu where Kaneisha will live. She tells me Tina is living at Bawaka now; she’s going to take her. I’m relieved to know she’ll have a stable home.
One afternoon, Kaneisha reaches out and touches my hair. She pulls something from it, then repeats the action. Her fingers are gentle and probing.
Mum looks over and says, “You must have nits.”
“I couldn’t.”
She parts my hair gently. “You do.”
I can hardly believe it. “I haven’t had nits since primary school.” I take a risk. I look at Nona, and add, teasing, “I used to get them from you, didn’t I?”
Nona hesitates. Then, to my relief, she smiles. “Thought I got them from you.”
*
I sit as still as I can. Mum combs conditioner through my wet hair. She’s using a fine-toothed nit comb she found at the back of the bathroom cupboard.
It’s Saturday night. Nick will be at his formal. With Tiffany. I feel so confused. Part of me is jealous as hell, and part of me thinks I wouldn’t want to be there anyway.
Mum’s touch is gentle. Careful. Loving. She teases out knots and searches for eggs and the tiny creepy-crawlies. I can feel her warm breath on my neck. I feel suddenly emotional.
I say, “You used to do this every week, remember?”
Mum nods. “Sunday night. Nit night. Before the craziness of the school week.”
We both smile.
She rinses the comb at the bathroom sink. “It was kind of nice, wasn’t it? In a weird way. A chance to just sit down together and talk. No agenda … no logistics … no big emotions …”
She gives a small self-deprecating laugh. I know she’s giving me a chance to talk, to make things good between us.
I hesitate, then say, “It’s Nick’s formal tonight.”
My voice sounds strained. It’s been so long since I offered her even a scrap of information about my life. She opens her mouth to say something, stops herself, then says, “If you want to go, I could drive you in.”
“It’s okay. I don’t want to.”
“Are you sure?”
I nod. I don’t dare say any more. If I do I’ll start crying and it will all tumble out and she’ll say she knew Nick wasn’t for me all along, and I’m not ready to hear that. I haven’t made up my own mind yet.
So I stay quiet.
And she keeps combing.
I feel the sting of tears in my eyes.
But I stay quiet.
*
I make pancakes. We haven’t had time to shop again. The pantry is almost bare, but there’s flour, eggs, long-life milk. I whisk and fry, then carry the flat golden circles up to the buŋgul ground with a container of golden syrup. They’re an instant hit, gobbled down amidst smiles, drips and dribbles.
I hear Nona say, “Mätjala.”
I look up in surprise. It’s the first time she’s addressed me like that since we were kids.
“Do you remember when we were little? The Queen’s Birthday?”
I catch on. “We made pancakes …”
She nods. “Every year. And we’d get all dressed up, in tiaras and pretty dresses.”
Mum smiles. “I’m sure I’ve got a photo of that somewhere.”
I add, “And we’d eat jelly. Mum never let me have jelly. Only on special occasions.”
Mum is still adamant. “Too much sugar isn’t good for your teeth!”
Guḻwirri grins, then pulls back the left side of her mouth to reveal brown edges and cavities. She jokes, “See?”
The memories are flowing back now. A whole cascade of them. “And remember when we stole Barbies?”
“That was your idea!”
“It was definitely yours.”
Rripipi says, “I believe Rosie. Nona always did everything first.”
It was a family joke when I was little. I arrived in the world five days before Nona, but she beat me in everything else. She smiled first, laughed first, took her first steps months before me. She learned multiple languages while I struggled with one.
Nona smiles, “Hey, I didn’t know it was stealing. We were only three or something.”
Yumalil is listening with big eyes. “What happened?”
Mum says, “I remember that. Your ŋamala and I went shopping at IGA. You girls were cruising around. Then we all climbed in the car. You were playing happily in the back seat. We were almost home, and you’d been so quiet. We thought, What’s going on? We looked around and there were half a dozen Barbies back there! You must’ve just walked out with them because you were so short!”
Kaneisha has been listening from my lap. She pipes up, “You got Barbies?”
Guḻwirri shakes her head. “Kaneisha, don’t get any ideas!”
We all laugh. We laugh together.
*
Nona looks exhausted. Heat shimmers over the buŋgul ground.
Mum says, “Why don’t you go to our house for a bit? Have something to eat, some cold water and a lie down.”
Nona nods, appreciative.
“Rosie will take you.”
Mum drops us down the hill, then drives back up. We’re left alone. Nona climbs the stairs and enters our house. She looks around. I try to guess what she’s thinking. “Been a long time since you were here.”
She nods.
“Does it feel strange?”
“Yaka. It feels … happy. Lot of memories.”
She smiles.
I turn the fan on and get the cold water from the fridge. We sit, nursing glasses of cool liquid on our knees. She is in the same armchair her brother sat in.
I say, “He came here, you know. Your wäwa. A couple of months ago. He had Kaneisha with him. He seemed happy … well, maybe not happy, but fine. I never thought …” My voice breaks. I start again. “Do you know why? Did he give any signs?”
“Don’t know. I’ve been at Gikal.”
There is the longest silence. It is steeped in loss and regret. I’m comfortable enough to sit with it, and let it linger.
Eventually, I move back to the kitchen to make us lunch. By the time I finish, my yapa is dozing, her head slumped back on the chair. I sit opposite her and eat my cheese and tomato sandwich. Her face is soft and unguarded. She looks exactly like she did when we were kids, apart from the protruding belly that rises and falls with each breath. In, out. In, out. She’s so lean it looks like she has swallowed a basketball.
I can hardly bel
ieve it’s real.
Nona wakes and eats lunch. We walk slowly back up to the buŋgul ground. The heat clings like a second skin. We pass frangipani trees with fragrant white flowers that smell of honey in clumps as big as my head.
I say, “I think I saw your baby kick, while you were sleeping. Your stomach moved, kind of like a little person jabbing from the inside. Is it possible I saw that?”
“Maybe. I feel it … but from outside I’m not sure.”
“When are you due, again?”
“February.”
“I can’t believe you’re going to be a mother.”
A confusion of emotions flits across her face. “amaḻa says she’ll look after it for me …”
I’m surprised to hear this. “Do you think she will?”
I don’t want to admit it, but the idea makes me anxious.
Nona says, “She’s drinking less. And she’s come to all the appointments.”
Her voice is hopeful, like she’s searching for a way out. But I sense she knows it’s not a long-term solution.
We cross Balnguma Road. A flock of black cockatoos rises screeching from a nearby tamarind tree. The buŋgul ground is in sight. A collection of dusty parked cars and tents. People bunched in the shade of quickly made shelters. The enormous banyan tree draped in shadecloth, like mourning clothes, stretching its arms high and wide. Camp dogs strut around. Two race past us, snarling. Nona’s hands subconsciously move to protect her stomach, as she shoos them away. “Tsa! Tsa!”
After a few more steps, she says, “I like going to the hospital, seeing those nurses. I started thinking maybe I could do that. Be a nurse. It would help, you know. Help me look after this baby. And help Momu. She’s getting old, too old to look after the smalls. If I had a job I could do that.”
I hear the weight of responsibility in her voice. I feel for her. Ache for her. I say, “Nurse Nona. It makes sense. You always said … when you came back from Darwin …”
She looks down, embarrassed. “I haven’t even finished school.”
And suddenly there’s a wall between us again. A deep, gaping wound. A festering silence. Something inside me screams, Just tell her you’re sorry!