by Clare Atkins
Matt says, “Piker.”
“Later, then, okay?”
Nick ignores them, and presses the central-locking button on his key. The Hilux doors snap open. I climb in. The boys are still beside the ute, watching us leave. Through my closed window, I hear Reggie start singing. “Bah, bah, bah.” I recognise the tune to “Another One Bites the Dust”.
My body tenses up. Nick pulls away from the kerb. We leave them behind us.
“Why was he singing that?”
Nick shrugs. “I don’t know. They’re morons.”
“I know they’re morons, but why that song?”
“Probably some reference to me being pussy-whipped or something.”
“Have you ever sung it?”
“I don’t know.”
We’re on the main road now. It’s a sixty zone but he picks up speed.
“Did you sing it when that guy died? You know, the one in the car crash?”
He looks at me, not understanding. I say, “We had a meeting about it at school. Do you remember? A young guy – died a few months ago. Did you sing that song after the meeting?”
I see a glimmer of recognition in his eyes. “I don’t know. If I did it was just to get a laugh.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“I wouldn’t have meant it, Rosie.”
I stare ahead of me, silent. We turn left towards Yirrkala and the street lights of town disappear behind us. Nick speeds up to one hundred, flicking his high beams on. The red and white reflectors either side of the road glare back at us. Behind them, the scrub is dark and shadowy. I see Lomu swinging from a branch. Nona keening as he’s lowered into the ground. Kaneisha screaming, My daddy can’t breathe.
Nick mutters, “I knew this would happen.”
My voice is sharp. “What?”
“Your bloody dad.”
“This has nothing to do with him.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“He didn’t say anything about you –”
“Bullshit. He hated me, Rosie. And if you want the truth, I didn’t like him either. He’s so ‘save the world’, ‘be politically correct’.”
“And you think there’s something wrong with that?”
Nick shakes his head. “He can say whatever the hell he wants. He’s out there living that. At least he’s not a hypocrite –”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “You think I’m a hypocrite?”
“You act like you’re so connected to ‘the community’ but you’re not. Selena told me what you said about that girl, your so-called sister … that it meant nothing. You haven’t hung out with that family in years. But then someone dies and you’re all involved. And your dad shows up and you start talking about how great the culture is, and how much they know about nature … so yeah, I’d say that’s hypocritical.”
We’re hurtling along now. Margaritas swirl in my stomach. I lean against the window, propping myself up. The glass is cold from the air con. It forces me to focus. I am here. This is real. I’m really hearing this. What Nick thinks. What I haven’t wanted to hear.
We pass through a section of bush illuminated by flames. More burning off. I smell smoke and see Nick’s face in the dim orange glow. His lips are set in a grimace. His eyes are hard. I suddenly feel like I don’t know him at all. I’m breathing heavily. I try to stay in control. “Nick … maybe you’re a bit drunk –”
“I’m not.”
“You’re obviously angry –”
“Well, seriously, Rosie … I’ve tried to understand … but don’t lecture me about it when, underneath it all, you think what I do. You just don’t say it. At least I’m honest about it!”
I’m crying now. “If you hadn’t met Shaniquwa …”
“I regret telling you that.” He almost spits out the words. “You always thought you were too good for me.”
“That’s not true.”
A smouldering silence. It seems to last forever. I see the first of the signs flash past us. No grog. No porn. And the stencilled No racism. No intervention. I’m struck by the bizarre thought that I still haven’t pointed it out to Nick. It seems ludicrous now.
Nick swings left into the community, turning his high beams off. I check the lit-up dash. He’s going seventy in a forty zone. “Slow down.”
He does. Just a little. We pass two dark figures walking by the side of the road. Nick swerves to miss them. “Shit! How are you s’posed to see these people at night?”
We speed past a group of young kids playing tip in the glow of a streetlight near the shop. He pulls into the driveway of my house. I’m relieved as we crunch to a stop. Our newly installed sensor light clicks on. I almost laugh. Thanks, Intervention. Just what I need right now.
My cheeks are wet and hot. I barely look at Nick as I get out and slam the door. His tyres churn on the gravel as he takes off. I watch the Hilux round the corner and head up the hill. It disappears into the night.
I’m standing so still, so stunned, so frozen, that the sensor light clicks off.
I look up at the stars. They’re spinning. Thousands of them. Spinning out of control.
*
I sit down on our driveway. The sensor light clicks on again, then off. The air is so humid it seems to hold me. I feel gravel digging into my bum. Mosquitos whine around my head. I slap at them. Somewhere up the hill, a man and woman are fighting. I don’t know what they’re saying, but it sounds ugly. A few camp dogs join in.
The sensor light clicks on again and I see Mum on the stairs in her pyjamas. She takes a step down towards me. “Rosie?”
“Yeah.” My voice sounds haggard, thick and heavy as the night. She walks down the steps and over to my side. I either look terrible or I stink, because she says, “You’ve been drinking.”
“Just a bit.”
“Come inside.” She squats down beside me. I see her register my pink dress, but she simply says, “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”
I shake my head. I can’t bring myself to talk.
Mum puts her arms around me and I cry.
And cry.
And cry.
And weep.
Eventually, she helps me up and we walk towards the house. “Let’s get you into bed. We can talk about this tomorrow.”
*
Morning burns through my curtains. I open my eyes. I have a thumping headache and a shredded heart.
Mum sits on the edge of my bed and offers me a glass of water. It’s not Berocca, but it helps.
I tell her everything and she just listens.
She doesn’t tut-tut or judge or try to relate it to her life.
She just listens.
I realise I’ve underestimated her.
*
I get off the bus and drag myself into the school grounds. I feel like a dead girl walking. Everyone will stare. Everyone will know. Did you hear? Nick and Rosie broke up.
But it’s all in my head. I look around and everything is normal. I spot Selena standing near the library with Stephanie and two of the Elites. They’re looking at something on Stephanie’s phone.
I try to walk past them, towards the lockers, but Selena calls out. “Rosie … have you seen this? Come here.”
I walk towards them, slowly. Reluctant. Stephanie holds out her phone so I can see. “My older sister works at the mine. She took this photo this morning.”
It is a photo of a bitumen road. On it, in enormous white spray-painted capital letters, are the words THIS IS NOT YOUR LAND.
I look up at Selena. She meets my eyes. I know she recognises the writing, the style, because I do too.
The bell rings, and we start to move to class. Selena falls in beside me as we walk to English. She hands me a plastic Woolworths bag.
“Your dress. You left it at my place.”
“Thanks.” I stuff it into my backpack.
“It actually wasn’t that bad when I looked at it in daylight. Kind of cool. Vintage, you know?”
My voice is dull. “It
used to be Mum’s.”
“No way. It was a great party. Pity you left early.”
I look at her, wondering. Did Nick tell her about our fight?
I get my answer as she adds, “Sorry to hear you and Nick broke up.”
I don’t know what to say. My chest tightens. My eyes are hot.
“He got completely busted, if it makes you feel any better. Dad found him passed out on the couch with bits of white paint on his hands on Saturday morning. He was already suss – you know, with Nick’s history? But then he went to work, heard all about it there. When he got home he was furious. Said if the cops found out …”
She’s watching me closely now. I realise she’s sussing me out, seeing if I’m going to tell. I wonder if Nick asked her to do this. The hot feeling in my gut seethes and burns. I want to say, “I’m going to the police. I’m going to report this.” But I don’t. Even now, I don’t have the guts.
I say, “I’m not going to tell, Selena.”
“Oh. Good. I told Nick you wouldn’t, but you know … break-ups can get messy, can’t they?”
She smiles and flicks her hair as we walk on.
She’s right next to me but we feel miles apart.
*
No-one else knows who wrote it. The photo is forwarded from phone to phone, then posted online. Some kids think it was written by a Yolŋu person. Others argue it was Ŋäpaki. Or some kind of protest about the Intervention.
THIS IS NOT YOUR LAND.
Then whose land is it?
*
I enter the pool, sidestepping mangoes ripe and rotting on the ground. I’ve come a bit early. I know the hours he works. I want to swim some laps. The water is like velvet, warm and smooth. I feel my body calm as I swim back and forth.
I rehearse the words I want to say. You have issues, Nick. Issues from your past. You’ve got to deal with them or they’ll swallow you. It all sounds clichéd and corny.
I’m about to turn at the wall when his body slips into the water next to mine. It still takes my breath away. I have touched almost every beautiful muscle of his tanned body. Almost. I long to reach out now.
I force myself to surface and stand up. Feet on pebblecrete. Back straight. I push my goggles up so I can look him in the eye. “I know you did it.”
“Yeah, I did. And you know what? It felt fucking great. Bloody Abos, think they can tell us what to do.”
His words are violent and ugly. They aim to hurt, and they do.
“This isn’t you, Nick.”
“What would you know? Frigid bitch.”
I feel my heart crack into a million pieces. There is nothing I can say. I put my goggles back on and push off the wall. They fill with tears before I reach the other end.
One, two, three, breathe.
One, two, three, breathe.
Don’t think about Nick. Or what he said. Just swim.
One, two, three, breathe.
One, two, three, breathe.
Don’t think about Nick. Or what he said. Just swim.
*
I finish the second part of my triptych. Each panel is small, just thirty centimetres square. It is lunchtime, but Ms Naylor is buzzing around, preparing for her next class. She comes to look over my shoulder. “Hey, that’s starting to take shape.”
I step back and stand next to her. To see what she sees. The first panel is adapted from my sketches of Lomu after he died. It is his spirit walking down Shady Beach, bleeding into the landscape. The second is Rripipi on her verandah. Her face is squashed into the bottom-left corner. Her hair is an upside-down banyan tree. Its branches meld into her scalp, but the roots are torn and ragged, flailing in the air, an unruly afro.
Ms Naylor says, “You’ve really captured an atmosphere. It feels … sad. Melancholy. Like something’s been lost.”
I say, “I guess it has.”
She seems about to say something, but changes her mind. She looks at the work one final time before moving back to her desk.
I start on the third panel. Smudging charcoal. Darkening the lines. Blurring greens into blues and greys and whites. I draw a face swirling into water, the ocean or a pool. The features are nothing remarkable, the expression blank. I don’t know if it’s smiling or frowning, swimming or drowning.
Time seems to disappear.
I’m startled out of my trance by the school bell, marking the end of lunch. It is only when I finish that I realise what I have drawn. It is me. Mätjala. Driftwood. Smooth and shaped by the ocean. Pushed around by the tides. Washed onto a shore somewhere and lying unnoticed.
Broken.
38.
2007
“He’s going to win, Rosie. Kevin-oh-seven!”
Mum’s face beams with excitement. It’s election night and we’re home, watching the coverage on the ABC. “How great would it be to get rid of Howard?”
I shrug. “Does it really matter? You and Dad are always saying politicians are all the same.”
I take a sip from the tiny flute of champagne she’s poured me. It tastes fizzy and cold and much better than beer.
Mum says, “Yeah, but Rudd might end the Intervention.”
“So what?”
She looks at me in disbelief. “I’m going to let that one through to the keeper. But only because I know you’ve got break-up blues and, of course, ’cause it’s your birthday.”
I turned sweet sixteen today. I always thought I’d have a big party, but nothing feels sweet since Nick and I broke up. I keep crying at awkward moments, like when we watched Ratatouille at school. It’s a cartoon about a mouse who cooks, for goodness sake. I had to make a quick dash for the toilets so no-one would see me bawling.
Mum said, “Okay, so no party – what about dinner at the Walkabout or the Arnhem Club instead? You could just invite a few close friends.” But things have been weird lately. Selena’s spending more time with the Elites, and I’ve realised I let friendships slide. The people I used to chat to in the breezeways or at the canteen, the ones I ignored while I was in Nick Land, have moved on. They’ve formed new groups. They have new people to talk to before assembly. I feel totally alone.
And in the back of my mind, as always, is Nona. Her birthday is five days after mine. She’ll be sixteen soon too. Sixteen and six months pregnant. I’ve thought about asking Mum for her number but something stops me. I content myself with updates. Mum says her pregnancy is going well. Her mother-in-law is getting better. Stretch has been offered a job as a Dhimurru ranger. They’re thinking of moving back from Gikal to live with Stretch’s brother’s family at Ski Beach. I’m torn about whether I want her to or not. There’s been another suicide there recently and, according to Mum’s friend Sadie, many more attempted. The mood in the community is grim.
Labor gains another seat on the ABC’s big electoral map of Australia. The seat turns from blue to red. Mum grins. “I think they’re really going to do this!”
Something small and mean inside me wants to provoke a fight. I want her to feel as miserable and guilty and angry and let down as I do. So I say, “It’s not like the Intervention’s been that bad, anyway. I mean, people made such a big fuss. ‘The army’s coming. They’re going to take our kids.’ And what? Nothing. A few extra government people walking round. Signs. Sensor lights. Fences.”
“You know it’s about more than that.”
“The whole thing is a joke.”
“It’s psychological, Rosie. This kind of stuff affects people deeply. Look at what’s been going on around here.”
“Same old shit, isn’t it? People dying every other week.”
Mum stares. “You’re really pushing me now. That’s insensitive.”
The small, mean thing inside me whispers, Good. But before I can say it out loud, Mum is distracted by another electorate on the TV map changing to red.
She grins. “Rudd’s almost got it. I better call your dad.”
She picks up the phone and dials. As soon as he answers, they launch into a dissection of w
ho has what seats and what’s still needed for Labor to win. Mum seems animated and alive.
I think how different our lives might’ve been if Dad hadn’t left her. Left us.
She’s looking at me now, holding out the phone. “Someone wants to say happy birthday.”
I take the phone. “Hi, Dad.”
“Mum says you’re being a grump.”
He’s so direct that, despite myself, I smile. “Thanks a lot, Mum!”
She looks at me, confused, as Dad continues. “That’s not allowed on your birthday, okay?”
“It’s not like I’ve got heaps to celebrate.”
“Excuse me? Excuse me? You’re healthy and able. You have two parents who love you and … drum roll … we might even get a semi-decent government in tonight.”
“Trust you to throw that in.”
“Wait – I’ve saved the best ’til last. Mum and I both chipped in and bought you a return ticket to Yilpara for your birthday. You fly down the day after you finish school.”
“Are you serious?”
“I can’t wait to see you down here, blossom.”
And I’m crying. Again.
At least this time the tears are happy.
*
Dad meets me at the dirt airstrip in a bomby old four-wheel drive. It’s a silver Toyota Land Cruiser that looks as old as he is. It has two dark grey stripes and about a hundred tree scrapes down the side. Both the back-seat windows are missing. I try to yank the passenger door open, but he stops me.
“Just wait. I need to open it from the inside.”
He does something fiddly with the handle and the door swings open. I climb in beside him and put my seatbelt on. Dad doesn’t bother. The sun glares down at us, as the engine rattles to life and Dad starts to drive. He seems nervous, peppering the silence with questions.
“Flight okay?”
“Small plane, hey?”
“First time in a single-engine?”
“Were you nervous?”
“This what you expected?”
The community is right next to the airstrip, but Dad wants to show me around first. We veer onto a dirt track, heading for the ocean. I look out, drinking in my surroundings. The land is flat, scribbled with scrub which flares into bush then shrinks back again. Everything has a crisp brown edge, curled and panting in anticipation of the wet season. I’m grateful for the salty breeze whipping in through the open windows.