‘I’d come home early to get started on that paint job I’d been putting off and your mum turned up. Her flight to Tapini had been cancelled – problems with the aircraft. She’d been lunching with work mates and if I’d known how much she’d had to drink I’d have kept my mouth shut. But I didn’t know, and I told her. She leaped to the conclusion that I’d been seeing Helen all along and she went crazy, pulling out drawers and chucking my stuff everywhere. Then she dragged the suitcase from the top of the wardrobe to fill it with my things and bingo, your painting fell down.’
‘And then she took the bike.’
‘She took the bike, CP.’ He put his beer down on the sink and took my hands. ‘Listen, this has been a long time coming, but your ma and I have finally run out of puff. We tried to make our marriage work, we wanted it to work, but it didn’t. It won’t. You can’t force some things. Your mother’s beautiful and brainy and talented and she’ll always be special to me but it’s Helen I love.’
Dad loved Helen.
I loved art.
Chris loved Diane Rudge. I hadn’t believed him when he insisted his feelings had nothing to do with my foot but now I knew it was true. If you loved somebody or something, you were stuck with it. I’d known for ages Mama and Dad didn’t love each other but it hurt to hear Dad say it out loud. Even with its tensions and secrets our life as a family had gone on. Now what?
‘Does Helen know about the accident?’
‘Of course. All Moresby knows.’
‘Does all Moresby know you’re leaving us?’
‘No. And they won’t, either, until your mother’s ready for it. And, CP? Remember I told you once I’d never leave you? I meant it then and I mean it now. I never will.’
‘Seen your hero lately?’ Mama asked.
‘No.’ Unfortunately.
‘It’s easy to be a hero when you’re not a mother. Girls your age look for heroes and you found one who paints. Well, one day you might ask yourself what kind of woman encourages another woman’s child to deceive her mother. People show their true colours in the end.’
True colours. What did Mama know about true colours? All colours are true, even if some are not so pretty. I watched her, head slewed sideways, mind picking angrily at her thoughts. The livid purple around her eye had faded; it was more the colour of the sky the day my father forgot us. She shifted her hips and clutched the chain over the bed.
‘See if you can get me something stronger than aspirin, will you? A whisky would be nice.’
I went to find a nurse and bumped into Dad on his way in.
‘Ah,’ said Mama. ‘Jolly little group. Since you’re both here you may as well know. The doctors are a-twitter. The skin on my fingers isn’t growing back and the blood supply to my foot is lousy. They’re worried about . . .’ her voice thickened, ‘gangrene. They might have to . . . to amputate.’
No.
‘One more course of the sulfa drugs and if that doesn’t work . . .’
Please God, no.
She looked at Dad. ‘For heaven’s sake, don’t look at me like that. The last thing I want is pity.’ Her shoulders slumped, as if anger had emptied her. ‘I just want a pill. Someone get me a pill.’
Dad went for a doctor.
‘You got a stomach ache, Lindsay?’
‘No, I’m just . . . what you said . . .’
Gangrene. Gone green. I felt like puking. Chopping off her fingers and foot? I looked down at my boot. Mama followed my gaze. ‘If losing my foot makes you appreciate yours, it might be worth it.’
‘Don’t say that!’
‘Wake up. Get out of those smocks. They don’t hide anything. Accept what you’ve got and be glad.’ She tugged angrily at her hospital gown. ‘Oh, shoot. Next time you come, bring me something bright. I’m sick of wearing this crap.’
Dad came back with a doctor. He was dark and handsome and young. ‘How’s the foot?’
‘Throbbing. My fingers are worse.’
‘I’ll organise something for you, dear.’
‘Dear,’ murmured Mama, watching him go. ‘Cocky young thing. If he knew I still felt a twitch or two, he mightn’t consider himself so safe.’
If my mother lost her foot, she’d lose her career and her independence. How could she be so cocky?
‘Ed,’ she said, ‘I want to see Tim.’
Tim arrived back from Goroka and went straight to the hospital. He came home fuming and let fly at Dad over dinner.
‘How could you let Lindsay see that woman behind Mama’s back?’
‘Helen,’ I said. ‘Her name’s Helen.’
Dad speared a frankfurter and dunked it in tomato sauce. ‘You’re right, Tim, I shouldn’t have. I should have stood up for your sister so she didn’t have to.’
Tim turned to me. ‘You’ve stopped seeing her?’
‘Of course.’
‘I know you don’t want to upset your ma, CP,’ said Dad. ‘But Helen’s been a good friend to you. She’s part of your future and your mother knows that. You don’t have to choose between them. When you’re ready, go and see her.’
‘Yeah, go,’ said Tim. ‘Rub salt into Mama’s wounds.’
‘But do your painting here,’ Dad said. He rolled another sausage in sauce and mashed potato, ignoring Tim. ‘Done any lately?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘You know why not.’
Dad put down his fork. ‘Let’s get something straight – both of you. The accident was just that, an accident. It was not my fault and it was not Helen’s fault and it was not CP’s fault. Stop trawling the wreckage looking for someone to blame. Get back in the cockpit, CP, and fly your ruddy aeroplane. You know what that means. Just do it.’
Dad set a brimming glass of orange juice on the table in front of me. ‘Happy birthday, CP,’ he said. ‘Juice, freshly squeezed, all the way from the highlands. See? I remembered your birthday. Fourteen, hey? Old lady. So, what do you want?’ He fingered the neckline of my smock. ‘A new dress?’
‘Happy birthday,’ said Tim, sliding a small flat box across the table. ‘From Mama and me.’
Inside was a silver bracelet with shimmering blue and green enamel circles. I clipped it around my wrist. ‘It’s beautiful, Tim. Really. A terrific choice.’
‘I didn’t pick it. Mama did. The jeweller took her a pile of stuff to choose from.’
My nose stung with tears. ‘No card?’
‘What do you reckon, Lindsay? Mama can’t write, remember?’
Dad let out a long breath. ‘Okay. Nice gift. Now, CP, what do you want – money for painting clobber from Helen?’
Tim stiffened.
‘No.’ I wouldn’t do anything to drive Mama back to Canada.
‘You did pretty well out of ten bob a while back. Or maybe this time you really do want lipstick?’ Dad smiled.
‘I need new boots.’
‘Not for your birthday. We’ll go to Steamies and get you a dress for starters. Something pretty to cheer your mother up. Now, what for breakfast – bacon and eggs?’
After breakfast Dad bustled me into the jeep. Mama’s little blue car stood in the driveway gathering dust. ‘If she loses her foot she won’t be able to drive,’ I said.
‘I know.’ Dad slammed the jeep into gear and drove slowly down the road. Outside Helen’s shop he stopped. ‘Go on, get yourself something.’
‘No, Dad.’
‘Then just go in and say hello.’
‘No.’
‘You’ll have to some time.’
‘I know and I will, but not yet.’ Not while Dad was waiting. Not until I got used to the idea of them being . . . together.
Dad hopped out of the jeep and disappeared into the shop. A few minutes later he returned with a parcel. ‘Her idea,’ he said.
Two books – one on Matisse, another on Chagall; beautiful books that made my heart ache. ‘All right?’ said Dad, putting the jeep in gear.
I nodded. ‘All right.’
I
n Steamies, he ploughed through to the children’s clothing department. The saleslady looked me up and down. ‘You’re more a young lady, dear. You need ladies’ wear.’
Dad raised his eyebrows and followed the direction of her finger. He rummaged around in a rack of dresses and pulled one out. ‘How’s this?’
Purple frills with yellow flowers? Paint it – maybe; wear it – no.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ Another saleslady, tall and skinny as a rocket.
Dad jerked his thumb at me. ‘A birthday dress for my daughter. Something special.’
‘Well now,’ she smiled at me. ‘Let’s see. Oh . . .’ Her eyes fixed on my foot. ‘You poor thing. You poor, wee girl.’
My jaw dropped.
‘How sad.’
‘Sad?’ I said, ‘A boot? What’s so sad about a damn boot? I’m not a cripple.’
‘No, of course not. I didn’t mean to upset you. I think you’re very brave. Here, let me—’
‘I’m not brave! It’s nothing.’ I turned and began to sift through the dresses, rage burning my face. Behind me I heard the saleslady whispering to Dad.
‘No need to fuss,’ he boomed. ‘She’s not made of china and she’s not deaf. She’s just ignoring you.’
I stifled a laugh. Eventually I found a dress that I liked; blue, green and white vertical slashes that followed the lines of my body. When I put it on, I looked more sixteen than fourteen.
‘You look terrific,’ said Dad. ‘Wear it to the hospital.’ He laughed.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘You are. I was very proud of you, CP. What’s so sad about a damn boot?’
‘Silly old bat,’ I mumbled. On the way out we passed a rack of shorts. Dad stopped. ‘Now if you really want to make your mother happy . . .’
‘Not shorts.’
‘Just a damn boot.’
‘Oh, you bloody . . . father!’ I snatched a pair of olive-green shorts, a little longer than the others, and took them to the counter.
Tim’s bike was chained up outside the hospital. Dad and I walked through the cool corridor to Mama’s big room at the end. Tim was sitting beside her bed, reading aloud from the South Pacific Post. Mama opened her eyes – both of them. Persil-white whites, coffee-bean irises. She looked at my dress, then at Dad, then back at my dress.
‘Nice dress, Lindsay. Happy birthday.’
‘Thank you, Mama. And thank you for the bracelet. I love it. Look.’ I held out my arm. ‘It matches my dress.’
‘So it does.’ For a while she said nothing, gazing out the window, then she said, ‘I have news. My foot stays.’
I sagged with relief. Dad grinned at Mama but she wasn’t looking at him, she was looking at Tim and Tim wasn’t smiling.
She lifted her bandaged hand. ‘But my fingers have to go.’
Tim left Moresby two days later.
Mama had to lever him out. ‘The only thing that’ll give me peace of mind is knowing you’re back at school and doing well. It’s your last year and I couldn’t bear it to be messed up.’ When he still refused to go, Mama refused to have the operation.
The doctor weighed in. ‘Gangrene and the tropics, son. The sooner you go the better.’
Dad swallowed. You could hear it all the way to Melbourne.
Chapter Twenty-three
The tide was turning. I stood in the shallows watching black mica bubble up through the sand and form tiny diamonds like the patterns on a puk-puk’s back. Miniature cliffs rose as the water raced in and collapsed as it fell away, switching from black to beige and back again. Rivulets, fine as hair, whooshed and sucked into tangled pathways, constantly changing the mosaic. One minute I was looking at an entire landscape, the next at nothing.
A wind blew; the sea was turning dark and glassy. I got up and went to the change sheds where a bougainvillea trailed across the bricks. I gathered some blossoms and went up to the hospital.
Mama sat on the edge of the bed, testing her foot on the floor. A nurse hovered. I put the flowers on the tray-table and watched my mother take a step. Thunder rumbled in the distance.
‘New boot, Lindsay?’
‘Yeah.’
Wind whipped through the open window and the nurse hurried over to slam it shut. She watched Mama wrestling with the crutch. ‘You’re doing well, Lily May. How’s the pain?’
‘All right.’
‘I’ll get you some aspirin just in case.’ The window mirrored her retreating back, leaving me staring at the reflection of my mother and me. Her thin shoulders were hunched over the crutch like a coat-hanger. Her face was scarred and there was a bandaged stump where fingers used to be. Beside her I looked like Orphan Annie in a sagging smock and boots. I felt a surge of shame. This woman, my mother, had loved, nurtured and fought for me all my life, asking for nothing in return except that I make the most of what I had. As she was doing now with what she had been dealt, without a hint of complaint. I felt the minutes rolling by and it seemed as if I could see them stretching out like a long road all the way into the future until my life ran out. My parents would be gone, I would be gone. My boot would be dust. I stared at the reflection of a coward. A cripple? A word, a state of mind; not who you are. Unless you want it to be.
I waited in Helen’s shop while she finished serving a woman and a little girl. I didn’t recognise the girl so I guessed she must go to Ela Beach School. Like I had when I first came here with my toxic message. Floozy, trollop, harlot, hussy, woman-of-the-night. Leave my father alone. And she had.
She looked up, smiled and tilted her head towards the back of the shop. I went around to her work room. Everything was the same: my sketch of the marble-players in its usual place
on the wall, her painting of me still on the desk and still incomplete.
‘Hello, Cinderella.’ She stood in the doorway wearing a green shirtmaker dress with turn-back cuffs. Her hair was tied with my bottle-green velvet ribbon.
‘Cinderella?’ I said, my heart curling over as I thought of Stefi.
‘You’ve finally ditched the rags.’
‘Oh. Yes.’ I was wearing my new shorts. I hated them. I felt naked but I was determined my mother should not be ashamed of me. I nodded towards her desk. ‘You still haven’t finished that picture.’
She turned to look. ‘No, and I must. With boot or without?’
‘I don’t care, Helen,’ I said. ‘Either way, it’s me.’
She nodded. ‘I’m glad to hear it. Done any pictures lately?’
‘No.’
She made her face a question mark.
‘You know why,’ I said.
She folded her arms and tilted her head. ‘Who are you, Lindsay?’
My mother’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Shorts! Your legs need some sun.’
‘I know. And I’m going to buy some dresses for school.’
‘Dresses or smocks?’
‘Dresses.’
‘Hallelujah.’
‘Mama, I have to tell you something. I’ve been to see Mrs Valier.’
‘That’s nice. Draw pictures together again, did you?’
‘No.’
She leaned on her crutch and took a few steps. ‘I hope you’ve got the sense to apply yourself at school this year.’
‘I will, Mama, but you need to know I’ve dropped Maths II and I’m taking Art.’
She stopped. ‘Well. That promise didn’t last long.’
‘I know Mama, but I can’t be you. I’m me. I make pictures. It’s who I am.’
She walked slowly towards the bed. ‘Right. Well, I’ve got that straight, at last.’
She came home in the third week of March. A painting I was working on lay on the end of the dining room table. Mama looked at it for a moment but said nothing.
Dad had shifted his things into Tim’s room, but wasn’t moving out of the house until he was satisfied Mama could manage on her own.
‘Don’t stay on my account,’ she said. ‘I can manage fine. I’ve got a backlog of work to do, includ
ing that job for National Geographic in Tapini, and then I’m leaving for Canada.’
Mama’s foot was not yet strong enough to manage the clutch on her car, so Husband drove her around. She didn’t complain that he crashed Iris’s gears and she didn’t complain about the daily physiotherapy which I knew must have been painful. She didn’t complain about the long teardrop scar on her face or about Dad leaving her. She didn’t even complain about me, and that scared me. I tried everything I could think of to persuade her not to leave but her mind was made up.
‘Stay for what? I’m redundant. Replaced by both of you.’
‘Not by me. Never by me. I need you, Mama.’
‘Yes, you do need me, but you want me only on your terms. You want me to pat you on the head and say everything’s fine. It isn’t, and I’m not going to watch you throw your life away. I’d rather live my own.’
‘Okay,’ said Dad, backbone of the family that no longer existed. ‘Time out.’
Time out. Running out. My mother’s Tapini assignment – her last – was set for early April and the closer it came, the more panicky I felt. Dad didn’t try to talk Mama out of going back to Canada, but he was anxious that we part on good terms.
We were arguing, one morning, over who emptied the milk can when Dad grabbed the empty can and slammed it on the kitchen bench. ‘Stuff the effing milk can! I’ve had it with you two. If you won’t sort yourselves out, I will.’ That night he came home and slapped an envelope on the table. ‘This is a ticket for Lindsay to go with you to Tapini, Lily May. You owe her. The full story.’
‘I owe her nothing. I’ve given her everything I could, everything she’d take. She rejected my past when she rejected her name. What’s left belongs to me.’
‘It belongs to her too. It belongs to everyone you affect, everyone who loves you. That accident should have been a wake-up call to you both. What has to happen before you get it? Does one of you have to die?’
The shadow of our little Piaggio aeroplane was a mosquito on the chasm walls. Above us, mountain peaks towered into clouds and below, valleys plunged thousands of feet. The plane banked sharply left, dropping and tilting and barely dodging the raised rim of a ledge that ran uphill into the stony side of a mountain. We dropped onto the ledge and roared up the slope, the windscreen filling with the great grey face of a cliff. At the last minute we stopped.
The Beloved Page 24