by Nova Weetman
Walking out of the chemist I feel strange. Bridge had her ears pierced when she was seven. She has three older sisters so her parents were more relaxed about it than mine. But for me it was always this big thing I was going to do with Mum on my eleventh birthday. Mum’d even promised to have one of her ears re-pierced because it had closed over years ago, and she thought it might be nice to wear earrings again with me.
My tummy is swirling so I sit down on a bench.
Bridge grabs my hand. ‘Sometimes you feel a bit faint afterwards,’ she says, plonking down next to me.
‘Yeah.’ I don’t want to tell her that the faint feeling isn’t coming from my ears. ‘Sugar will help,’ I say, forcing a smile.
‘It always does.’
We’re sitting outside a pet shop, and I can see a glass cage full of fluffy grey kittens scrambling away from each other and trying to escape. That’s exactly how I feel sometimes. Especially lately.
‘Your dad told me about the investigation,’ says Bridge quietly.
I nod, wanting to turn an earring but knowing I’m not supposed to touch them. ‘You can come and stay with us whenever you want. You know that.’
‘Yeah. Thanks.’
‘Are you feeling angry?’
‘I don’t know what I’m feeling,’ I mumble.
Bridge jumps up. ‘Doughnut time?’
‘Definitely.’
It’s a tradition Bridge and I started when we were six, to eat a bag of doughnuts every birthday. My mum used to buy them for me to give to Bridge on her birthday and Bridge’s mum bought them for Bridge to give to me on mine.
We don’t always have the doughnuts with holes in the middle. Sometimes we get the iced ones and sometimes we get cream-filled. But today I think it’s a plain old cinnamon sugar kinda day.
The doughnut shop is one of those that actually cook the doughnuts in front of you, so we stand watching them slide along the metal-ridged conveyer belt before they drop off the edge into a bath of cinnamon and sugar.
‘Are you girls right?’ asks the lady behind the counter. She’s wearing a pink hat and a pink apron. I wonder if she dreams in pink.
‘Can we have half-a-dozen plain ones, please?’ Bridge asks.
‘Warm or cold?’
I realise Bridget is looking at me for an answer. ‘Warm,’ I say.
‘Definitely,’ adds Bridge as she takes the bag and pays.
We don’t even wait to find somewhere to sit before we rip it open and start eating the doughy, sweet-smelling doughnuts.
‘Shall we go and shop?’ asks Bridge a few minutes later, licking her fingers clean of cinnamon sugar. ‘I want to buy you a really awesome pair of earrings.’
‘You don’t need—’ I start.
But Bridge cuts me off. ‘I want to. You can’t wear red glass studs for the rest of your life.’
Bridge’s earrings are tiny moustaches. One of them is upside down, so I lean forward and gently turn it up the right way.
‘I was thinking of owls. Or lollypops,’ says Bridge. ‘We just have to find the right shop.’
‘Lucky we’ve got four more doughnuts. This might take us all day!’ I say.
Bridge’s hand dives into the bag for another one. ‘Then I need my strength. These are delicious. Come on. Let’s shop.’
Chapter 11
I come home from the shops with two new pairs of green-and-pink striped leggings because they were on special. Bridge bought the same ones so we would match. I also bought some socks for Dad so he doesn’t have to darn for a while, and I still have more than twenty dollars left! I’ve tucked it away in case I need it later.
Bridge also bought me a gorgeous pair of tiny green owl earrings, and then she said I needed a beautiful box to keep them in. BTF I had heaps of wooden boxes in different sizes and different shapes because they all had different jobs. Some looked after my jewellery, others looked after my stickers and I even had one that looked after my favourite pens and rubbers.
But now I only have one carved wooden box with one pair of earrings. Bridge is sure my earring collection will grow because she has nearly fifty pairs. But I’m not so sure.
It was hard to say goodbye to Bridge. She wanted me to come back to her place to stay the night. Usually I would. BTF I sometimes spent entire weekends with her. But now that it’s just Dad and me, I don’t feel right leaving him alone.
Now Dad and I are both in our pyjamas and ET has started on television. Dad’s taking advantage of the commercial break to make us a bowl of popcorn in the kitchen and I have my feet tucked up under me on the couch. I can’t stop fiddling with my earrings, turning them this way and that.
Dad got all teary when he saw them and said I was growing up right before his eyes. I told him he’d better be careful or I’d be getting my bellybutton pierced soon and then a tattoo.
‘Salt or sugar on the popcorn?’ calls Dad from the kitchen.
‘Salt. No, sugar … No, both,’ I say, finally.
Dad laughs and flicks off all the lights making the flat dark and cosy. He slides the popcorn bowl between us just as the commercial break ends.
‘How many times have you seen this film?’
‘A hundred,’ I say, only mildly exaggerating. ‘It’s Bridge’s favourite.’
‘Clem, why didn’t you want to stay at her place tonight?’
I look across at Dad. He’s looking at the television.
‘Just didn’t feel like it,’ I say, shoving in a handful of the sweet, salty popcorn.
‘You don’t need to look after me. I want you to do the things you always did.’ His voice is quiet because we’re moving into dangerous territory.
I take a deep breath. ‘But Mum’s not around to look after you anymore.’
My eyes flick back to the screen. I can’t believe I actually said that.
‘Honey, she didn’t look after me. We looked after each other.’
I concentrate on the popcorn in my hand. ‘You mean you looked after her?’ I whisper.
It’s Dad’s turn to look across at me, and my turn to look at the television. It’s the baseball scene where ET is in the shed. I love this bit and I wish I could put our conversation on hold to watch.
‘That’s what families do, Clem.’
‘Yeah,’ I agree, but my shaky voice gives me away.
Dad reaches out and touches my hand. ‘Honey, I think we need to talk about this. I know this type of thing is hard, but …’
I pick up the remote control and my finger hovers over the volume button. I’m so tempted to turn it up.
‘You know she wasn’t … well … before the … the fire …’ stumbles Dad.
I groan without meaning to. Dad snatches away the remote and switches off the TV.
My body shakes. ‘Dad!’
‘Clem, this is important,’ he says, struggling to control his voice.
I want to say something, but I can’t find my words, so I stare at the black TV screen.
‘You need to understand what was going on with your mum.’
I feel the fury moving up through my body. I leap up and the bowl hits the ground scattering popcorn everywhere. For a minute it’s so quiet all I can hear is the traffic outside and my heart beating way faster than it should.
Then Dad clears his throat and says, ‘Sit down, Clem. I’ll clean up. I’ll let you watch ET in peace.’
I look at him and he’s looking at me and, even though it’s really dark in our flat, I can see his concern. I feel awful, but all I can do is sit down on the couch as Dad turns the TV back on and starts picking up all the kernels from the brown carpet.
Chapter 12
I hear the front door shut and sit up to check my clock. It’s only six o’clock in the morning, so I can’t imagine where Dad might be going. He’s not a jogger or a swimmer and always says he
gets more than enough exercise at work. So where could he be going at this time on a Sunday?
I carefully lie back on my pillow to avoid leaning too heavily on my earrings. It hurts when I lie in certain positions, but I sort of like it. It reminds me they’re there and that reminds me of Bridge.
I know I won’t be able to go back to sleep now. I never can once I’m awake. So instead I reach for my book. I’m re-reading one of my favourites: Harriet the Spy. It’s a copy Mum gave me a couple of years ago. Mum found it after her mum died when she was packing up all Grandma’s old bookshelves.
Luckily it was at the bottom of my locker at my old school so it didn’t burn. When I left I found a few things and for once I was pleased that I hadn’t cleaned out my locker when I was supposed to. The book has Mum’s name in the front, Elizabeth, and the year, 1982.
I pick it up and something falls out from the back. I glance down at my bedspread and see a photograph has fluttered free. There’s yellowing sticky tape around its edges, so it must have been stuck inside the removable cover. I grab it and, as I stare, my stomach starts churning.
It’s a photo of Mum and me that I don’t think I’ve seen before. We’re in our old garden. In the background I can see the beans I used to pick for dinner and a lemon tree full of fruit. I’m young, maybe six, and I’m leaning against her, smiling. Mum has a faraway look on her face, like she’s imagining being somewhere else. Her hair’s the same as when I last saw her: long, unbrushed … wild. Her arms are around me, cutting me in half.
I hold it closer and look into her brown eyes, wondering what she was thinking. We have some photos Mum put on Facebook and some on Dad’s phone, but this must be one of the only printed photos we have. The fire took the rest.
I’m eating cornflakes when Dad comes in with two plastic trays of seedlings and a brown paper bag. His hands are muddy like he’s just plunged them straight into the ground and pulled out plants.
‘You’re up,’ Dad says, as if it isn’t nearly nine o’clock. ‘I bought us some croissants.’ The sight of Dad holding out the bag full of Mum’s favourite Sunday food makes my eyes well up.
Dad wraps me up in a hug. ‘I’m sorry. I should’ve left you a note.’
I shake my head. ‘Not your fault,’ I say, blinking away the stinging sensation in my eyes.
Then Dad looks down at the table and sees the photo. He freezes and I can feel his whole body go rigid. He reaches for it, but I snatch it away before he can touch it. ‘Wash your hands first, Dad.’
A moment later, the tap goes on in the bathroom and I close my eyes tight, stopping the tears. The urge to cry has been annoying me all morning. On. Off. Just like the water in the tap. But I’m holding it back. I don’t want to cry now.
‘Where did you find that?’ Dad says, drying his hands on his shorts.
‘It fell out of my book.’
‘It’s your mum,’ he says, picking up the photo and cradling it close to his chest.
‘Yeah. And me.’
‘Oh, Clem,’ he says. Then he just stands there staring at the photo for a really long time.
I sit in my chair, staring at him staring at the photo.
Finally he places it back on the table and gives me a sad sort of smile. ‘Raspberry or strawberry jam?’
‘Just butter,’ I say, remembering how Mum liked her croissants. She never had jam. Not even when Dad and I ribbed her about it and told her she was missing out.
‘I think I’ll just have butter, too.’ He turns on the grill.
I examine the photo. The little girl doesn’t look like me. She looks like someone I don’t know, full of hope and wonder, leaning into her mum’s arms like they’re the safest place in the world.
‘I went to the gardens and grabbed some plants,’ says Dad, taking out some plates. ‘Thought we could work on the courtyard together, while it’s still sunny.’
‘Okay.’
‘Maybe we’ll even meet a few of the other residents.’
‘Great,’ I say, sounding like it’s anything but.
‘And this afternoon I really want to go and take a look at our old house,’ says Dad quietly. ‘Maybe we can dig up some of my plants from the backyard and move them here. Before they all die.’
I haven’t been back there. Not since the day after the fire. Not since I walked through the burnt-out frame looking for scraps of my life that had survived.
‘You don’t have to come,’ he says gently, ‘if you don’t want to.’
I shake my head. ‘I’ll come.’
Dad slides a croissant onto a bright red plate and places it in front of me. I touch the flaky skin feeling the warmth from the inside. I tear it open and watch as the butter melts across each side. I haven’t eaten a croissant for months. It tastes just the same as the ones Mum used to buy after her early morning yoga class on Sundays.
‘I bought three, so if you want another one …’
I wonder if Dad bought one for Mum without even thinking about it. ‘I’m good. Thanks, Dad. You have it.’
But he doesn’t seem to be eating anything at all. I watch him pick the edges.
‘What plants did you get?’
‘Natives mostly. Figured they’d survive better. There’s not much shelter and if we’re not allowed to water every day then natives are the way to go.’
‘Did you get some of those special flowering ones?’
‘Yeah. The flowers are yellow, though. Not that dusty pink.’
I think I’m glad about that. I remember the dusty pink ones. They grew all over the rocky area that Dad built at the front of our house. Mum loved them and I used to pick them when I was younger. So I think yellow is definitely the better way to go now.
‘You should go change into something other than Bridget’s pyjamas,’ says Dad, suddenly standing up and clearing away the rest of his uneaten croissant.
‘I’ll meet you out there,’ I tell him.
I slide the photo off the table and head to my room. As soon as I get there, I stick it back into my book, hoping that somehow I’ll forget it ever existed.
Chapter 13
Gardening isn’t usually my thing, but today I’m enjoying having my hands in the dirt. I like how warm the dirt feels and how it crumbles. It’s not much of a courtyard, though. There’s a sad-looking lawn in the middle with garden beds around the outside and only one tree that’s struggling to survive. So I guess it’s lucky we’re here to fix it up.
I’m responsible for preparing the plants for Dad by gently freeing them from their pots and tickling the roots the way Dad taught me. Then Dad plants them, patting them into the earth and moving onto the next already dug hole.
I like that I don’t have to talk much when I’m gardening with Dad. The plants become the focus, instead of conversation. We work well as a team. It doesn’t take us long to plant three-dozen native seedlings. When we finish, Dad hands me the watering can and I lightly shower each plant.
It certainly looks better than it did before we moved in. And there’s something satisfying about planting a living thing. In fact my body feels all relaxed and calm, like it does after I’ve run a particularly hard race.
Later, as we’re cleaning up our gardening tools, the back door swings open and a woman around Dad’s age struggles out with a broken washing basket. She smiles a friendly, warm smile when she sees us and I find myself smiling back.
‘I wondered when I’d meet the new people in flat two,’ she says, walking to the clothesline. She drops her basket on the ground and comes over to talk to us.
I notice that she has bright orange hair that’s obviously dyed because the roots are much darker, and green metallic-looking dangly earrings.
‘I’m Maggie,’ she says, holding out her hand to Dad. Her fingers are covered with silver rings stacked almost to her knuckles.
Dad goes to shake her han
d, realises how dirty his is and wipes his hand on the front of his overalls instead. ‘I’m Neil. And this is my daughter, Clem.’
‘You are the new people in flat two, aren’t you?’ asks Maggie.
Dad nods. ‘Yeah, we moved in last week.’
‘Well, thanks for doing the garden. I’ve been meaning to get onto it forever, but I never do.’
‘No worries. We had a vegie garden in our old place so I was itching to do something. I hope everyone likes native plants.’
Maggie grins. ‘I think everyone will just be happy that you’ve taken care of it.’ Then she nods goodbye and returns to her washing.
Dad and I grab the rest of our tools and head past the clothesline. Hearing Dad say how much he’s missing his garden causes my muscles to tense up again and all the calmness I felt is suddenly gone.
As we walk into the stairwell, Maggie calls out, ‘I’m upstairs in flat five if you ever need anything.’
‘Thanks,’ replies Dad.
The stairwell to the block of flats is made of dark grey concrete, which makes you feel like your life is miserable and, let’s face it, ours is. Dad must be thinking the same thing because he says, ‘A couple of plants might help cheer up this area, too, don’t you think, Clem?’
How can Dad be so optimistic all of the time?
‘Yeah. Although I’m not sure anything will really help.’
‘Course it will. Let’s get ourselves cleaned up and we’ll head over to the house to see if the orchids are still alive. They probably wouldn’t mind a turn at being inside.’
I’m not going to argue. If Dad thinks an orchid or two will spruce up the concrete, then who am I to tell him he’s wrong?
I shut the door to my room to get changed. New leggings or tired, old ones?
Mum always had this thing about washing new clothes first before you wear them. Well, she’s not here anymore, so I can do whatever I like. And that includes wearing my new green-and-pink striped leggings without making sure the dye isn’t going to run on my skin.