by Pamela Cook
A cat fast asleep on a purple chair cushion lifted its stripey head and meowed. Grace actually squealed. The cat arched its back before jumping off its throne and winding itself around the girl’s legs. She reached down and picked it up, burying her face in the fur. Tiger purred like a lawn mower.
‘I’m guessing someone was missed.’ Jules kept her voice to a whisper as she watched Grace cuddle the cat.
‘I had no idea until …’ Tess didn’t want to get into that whole scene at her mother’s. The wound was still too raw. ‘Until we got to the house and she went searching for the cat. I’m so glad you have her.’ The alternative did not warrant thinking about. ‘It’s good to see Grace smiling.’
Jules pulled out a chair and gestured for Tess to do the same. ‘I’m guessing things haven’t been easy?’
The look on Tess’s face must have said everything she couldn’t. Jules closed her eyes and gave a brief nod. She rubbed her hands together. ‘Well, I’ve got an enormous pot of goulash soup on the boil. And some freshly baked sourdough. How about you two join me for dinner before taking Tiger home?’
‘Oh, we shouldn’t, I mean we haven’t unpacked or anything and …’ Coming up with an answer that didn’t sound like an excuse was tricky, but Tess was eager to get settled. Grace, cat in arms, stepped closer and gave her a pleading look. ‘Would you like to stay?’
A nod and a faint smile.
Her stomach rumbled again, much louder this time, right on cue. Even her own body was on the other team. So much for taking charge. She gave Jules a grateful smile. ‘That would be lovely, thank you.’
‘Gracie, why don’t you and Tiger catch up while you watch some tellie in the lounge room.’ She glanced up at the enormous railway clock on the wall above the Aga. ‘I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.’
Grace slid from her chair and disappeared into the next room, perfectly at home. Jules was obviously more than an acquaintance. She’d been the one Grace had called when she couldn’t wake her mother. She knew the layout of the house. And then there was that effusive greeting. None of it fitted with the image of Skye as a recluse. Tess studied their host as she stirred the goulash. A few well-worn lines on her face, a little thick around the middle—not quite her own mother’s vintage, but she’d have to be in her late fifties. No kids around Grace’s age, so that wasn’t the link. It must be the art connection. She waited until the volume rose on the television before asking, ‘So, were you and Skye close friends?’
Jules gave a weary sigh and motioned for Tess to take a seat. She pulled a bottle of wine from a rack on the bench and held it up for inspection, barely waiting for approval before she filled two huge Mexican-style wineglasses and handed one across. The merlot was peppery and smooth, an instant panacea to the stress of the long drive and arrival.
Jules took a mouthful, licking her lips before starting to speak. ‘We met a few years ago, not long after I first moved here. I had a small exhibition of some of my artwork and Skye came along.’ She shook her head. ‘Gracie would have been about seven, I guess. Wandered into the gallery dragging this shaggy-looking toy dog behind her on a lead. The damned thing was filthy. Patted it and talked to it as if it was a real animal. Skye was wearing this amazing multi-coloured jacket and she had that wild mane of locks. They both did. Quite the pair. I couldn’t take my eyes off them.’
It was exactly how Tess had felt that first day, when Skye had appeared in the classroom. All the other kids—herself included—had been neat and ordinary, but Skye’s out-of-control hair and dreamy expression had made her so different. Mysterious almost. Jules was right, Grace had inherited her mother’s aura.
‘I hadn’t seen her around town before, so I assumed she must have been passing through.’ Jules looked into her wineglass as if she was conjuring her story from its contents. ‘Surprised me to hear she was a local. She was very interested in the gallery and, I could tell by the questions she asked, she knew what she was talking about.’
‘She was always good at art at school.’ Better than good. Ms Flowers, her art teacher, had been so disappointed when she’d left school early, had moaned endlessly about it being such a waste of talent and had harangued Tess about why Skye wasn’t coming back to do her HSC.
Jules nodded, as if she was joining the dots. ‘She started calling in to the studio every now and then. She’d come and watch me paint and we’d talk about different techniques, styles, that sort of thing. Always had Gracie with her. She was guarded, didn’t give much away about her personal life. I got the feeling she was testing me, sort of trying me out. Then one day she asked me to her place for morning tea, to give her some help with a piece she was working on.’
Skye had mentioned years ago that she was doing some painting, but it had only been in passing. There’d been no evidence of any artist’s tools at the house. ‘She painted at home?’
‘Painted, sculpted, potted. In the shed.’
Ah, the one with the mural. ‘Was it good?’
‘Really good. She started making some pieces for me to sell in the gallery. Built up quite a clientele. Tourists passing through would pick up a piece and then order something else online. Skye always insisted they order through me, never direct. I kept telling her she needed to set up a website and treat her art as a business, but she wouldn’t hear of it.’ Jules returned the glass to the table and folded her arms. ‘We almost fell out over it at one stage, but I let it go. Settled for having her sell through the gallery, although I refused to take any commission.’
‘Did she earn enough to make a living?’
‘Enough to supplement her inheritance. She said it wasn’t much, but it bought her the house and kept the two of them going. Grew her own veggies, had chickens, tank water, a wood fire. The extra bits she got from her art sales usually went into buying clothes or school supplies for Gracie. Their lifestyle was pretty simple.’
One look at the place made that obvious. Skye could do basic. She’d done it when she’d travelled: she had simply thrown on a backpack and ventured off for years at a time. Material objects, possessions, meant nothing, not unless they had some sort of sentimental value. Like the gift Tess had given her for her sixteenth birthday: a fine silver chain, two hearts intertwining on the clasp. A friendship bracelet Skye had treasured. Tess’s stomach twisted. She’d meant it then, friends for life. But friends were people you could count on, weren’t they? People who were there for you when you needed them. People like Jules. She was warm and fuzzy, and arty and crafty, and all round wonderful. Everything a mother should be. Everything Tess wasn’t. Why hadn’t Skye left Grace with her?
Jules’s voice began to recede as the room started to spin. A hand rested on her knee.
‘Are you okay?’ Jules was looking down at her.
She put down her wine, pressed her index fingers against the bridge of her nose and waited for the dizziness to pass. ‘Sorry.’
‘No, I’m sorry. I should have been more sensitive. Rambling on like that. This must be such a terrible shock for you.’
Jules was so right. There’d been no time to find out why Skye might have done what she did, why she’d chosen to end her own life and abandon her only child. No time to process that decision, or what it meant. The sound of a neighing horse drifted through from the television in the next room as Grace, cat stuck under her arm, appeared in the kitchen. Her eyes shifted from Jules to the pot on the stove and back again.
‘You hungry, Missy?’ Jules stood, taking the hint. ‘Let’s eat.’
Tess cleared her throat and jumped to her feet. Action was always the best cure for introspection. ‘Can I help with anything?’
‘Plates and cutlery are in there.’ Jules pointed to the top drawer. ‘Gracie, you grab yourself a glass of milk. Tiger might like a saucer while you’re at it.’
The cat managed to escape the stranglehold and snooped around the base of the fridge. In a few minutes, they were all sitting around the table with steaming bowls of goulash and oven-fresh slice
s of crusty bread. The smell alone was completely mind-blowing.
‘Dig in, ladies.’
If action was the best distraction, food came a close second. It tasted as good as it smelled and Tess savoured each mouthful as they fell into a comfortable silence. The bowls were all mismatched ceramics, nothing like the fine china her mother always used or the plain white sets in her own cupboard. Grace devoured her dinner, flicking her eyes constantly from her bowl to the cat lapping up its milk in the corner. Tiger was not going to be let out of her sight for quite some time. Jules urged them both to help themselves to seconds and they did, Tess mopping the last of the soup with yet another slice of bread and dropping her hands to her stomach in surrender when her bowl was wiped clean. There was something to be said for homegrown country cooking.
‘That was amazing.’
Jules looked genuinely pleased. ‘I’m glad you enjoyed it.’
Grace too had left an empty bowl. She yawned, hand over her mouth, before rubbing a scrunched fist over her eye.
‘You tired, sweetie?’ Tess had no idea where that particular endearment had come from, perhaps some dormant maternal spring she’d never needed to tap into, but it seemed to be popping out of her mouth surprisingly often.
Grace nodded.
‘You’ve both had a long day.’ Jules began clearing the table, waving Tess away when she attempted to help. ‘I’ll do this. You get going before it gets too late. Take little Tiger home to bed.’
Home to bed in the cabin in the middle of nowhere. Jules’s place was getting more appealing by the minute, but Grace was already pulling on her coat, gathering Tiger into her arms, and Jules, who had left the room briefly, was already opening the door to a cat carrier.
‘No complaints, Missus, you’re going home.’ Jules shoved the cat in and clipped the locks shut. ‘I’ll bring her out to the car for you.’
Outside the temperature had dropped along with the wind. Tess wound her scarf a little tighter around her neck. Was it the cold or the vision of the empty house she was returning to making her shiver? She stared down the street into the night. So quiet. So black.
Jules deposited the cat carrier on the back seat and Grace slid in beside it. ‘Thanks for looking after Tiger.’
‘My pleasure.’ Jules’s voice cracked. ‘I’ll come out to see her soon.’ She closed the door and blew Grace a kiss before handing Tess a business card. ‘If you need anything just call.’
‘Thanks.’ They stood side by side on the footpath, two women who didn’t even know each other, connected now by an orphaned girl, until Tess broke the spell and headed around to climb into the driver’s seat. The load of her new reality pressed down on her like a solid slab of cement. The sensation wasn’t a new one—the trick was to keep moving before it became too hard to shake it off. She sucked in a quick draft of air and started the engine.
In the rear-vision mirror she could see Grace smiling down at her four-legged friend, now out of its cage and sitting on her lap. Thank God for Tiger. Thank God Jules had kept her safe. Tess turned her eyes back to the road, the hum of a contented cat murmuring behind her, and drove off into the darkness.
Eleven
Every noise seemed to echo in the quiet of the night as they pulled up outside the house. The banging of the car doors, the crunching of gravel underfoot, even the whistle of Tess’s own breath through her nostrils. Whoever came up with the torch app was an absolute genius. She opened the door and fumbled around for the light switch. A yellow glow lit the room and her shoulders softened a fraction. They were out in the sticks, but at least there was a lock and four solid walls between them and the rest of the world. Of course there was the chance they could both freeze to death—the fireplace was conspicuously empty and there was no way she was going on a kindling expedition at this time of night. Layers and blankets would have to suffice.
A beaded curtain separated the living area from the one single bedroom. Grace grabbed her suitcase and headed straight into what must be her room, cat in tow. If Tiger objected to being dragged around like a ragdoll, she kept it to herself.
Small mercies.
Only one other bed existed in the place: the double at the far end of the room, the one that must have been Skye’s. Tess wrapped her jacket tighter around her body. The only other option was the couch. Or the floor: the rough, cold wooden floor. Couch it was, if she could find some blankets. A timber box at the base of the bed was the most likely storage place. She flipped up the lid and the faint scent of lavender wafted out. A pile of woollen blankets was stacked beside sets of sheets and a couple of spare pillows. She might have to sleep on a lumpy lounge, but at least she’d be warm.
There was a movement in her peripheral vision. Her stomach flipped as she spun around. She dropped the bundle she was holding, letting out a mouse-like squeak. Grace had crept out so quietly she hadn’t made a sound and was standing right behind her. Well, in front of her now. Tess lowered her hand from her chest and heaved out a sigh. ‘You scared me. I didn’t hear you come out.’
Sorry. No words, but that’s what her expression meant.
‘Silly me.’ She could hardly blame the child for her own paranoia. ‘Is everything okay?’
Grace was holding the cat as if it was a baby, paws over her shoulder, head tucked beneath her chin. ‘Can I sleep out here?’
A question. An actual out-loud question. ‘On the couch?’
Bottom lip drawn between her teeth, Grace shook her head. She walked the length of the room and stopped beside the bed.
‘You want to sleep there?’
A small but distinctive nod.
Tess flicked her eyes from the bed to Grace and back again. Was that healthy? Letting a little girl sleep in the bed where her mother had died? Where she’d found her? She swallowed hard. Her phone was right there in her back pocket. She could call Jules and ask her advice.
Grace put the cat on the bed and turned back around, eyes narrowed, lips pressed together in a pout. She’d sensed Tess’s hesitation. Was this her version of a tantrum? Tess had been the queen of them as a kid, although hers had been a lot louder, involved a lot more wailing and thrashing, and generally took place on the shopping-centre floor. In her own quiet way, Grace was just as good. She was standing her ground. What was the point of saying no? Maybe it would be a comfort to her. Maybe it was her way of staying close to her mother.
‘Okay.’ Keeping it light, she reached back into the blanket box. ‘Let’s make it up fresh.’
Grace picked up the cat and gently deposited her on the floor.
Agreeing with Grace’s request was easier than following through. Heart hammering, she pinched the edge of the crocheted cover and peeled it back. There were no sheets, just the pastel pattern of the bare mattress. She continued on, completely uncovering the pillow. Skye’s face was crystal clear before her, dull eyes open. Unseeing. Lifeless.
Not a sound in the room, but the thunderous pounding of blood reverberated through Tess’s temples. A hand fell gently on top of her fingers and she jerked her head up to meet Grace’s gaze. Skye’s eyes, and yet her own. Blinking. Gleaming. Alive. Tess mustered a small smile. Grace was made of tough stuff. She was most definitely her mother’s daughter.
She took a breath to calm the clattering of her pulse, then step by step, they gathered up the clean sheets and made the bed together. Grace climbed in and Tiger jumped up to snuggle beside her.
Grace’s eyes were already falling shut. It had been a huge day. In every imaginable way. Tucking Grace into bed here was so different. At the apartment she’d usually rolled on her side after reading her book, so clearly closing down that Tess had never been game to do anything other than whisper goodnight and switch off the light. But here, in her mother’s bed, she lay flat on her back, her head tipped to one side, a purring, real-life Tiger tucked in beside her along with the wounded bear. There was something gentler, more relaxed in the angles of her face. Something Tess couldn’t resist. Reaching out, she stroked a few
wayward locks of hair back off Grace’s cheek. So smooth. So innocent. She leaned down and kissed the sleeping child on the forehead.
‘Sweet dreams.’
Grace wouldn’t hear her, she was already asleep. But the feel of her new foster-daughter’s skin beneath her lips was sure to make her own dreams a little easier.
The house grunted and moaned like a galleon being tossed about on a wild sea. Tess lay in bed, eyes bulging, arms locked across her middle. Lamplight drew long shadows on the wood panels lining the walls, creating a strange other-worldly effect. She focused on the brightest point, tried to block out everything else. Meditation had never been one of her strongest talents, but one technique she remembered was to focus on everything in the room first. Grace’s bedside lamp was made from stained glass, covered in butterflies, like the ones on the jewellery box Tess had given her that first day they met. Presumably, Grace had packed it with her things to bring home. If it did make an appearance it would go perfectly with the room. A total fluke.
Another loud creak sounded as the timbers shifted. She jumped up, pulling the doona closer to her chest. Cold air nipped at her cheeks, the only exposed part of her body, the rest of it layered in tracksuit pants, shirt, hoodie and finally, blankets. The weight of it all was comforting, yet still not enough. She dragged her gaze back to the original spot on the ceiling. Pictured the butterflies coming to life and flitting around the room, herself as a butterfly, wings beating, drawn to the light. People talked about white light appearing when you died. Had it been like that for Skye? Was she afraid even though it had supposedly been her choice? The questions floated in the half-light as she drifted on the currents of sleep, pausing on one memory and then the next …
Skye in the school playground, sitting alone with her lunchbox on her lap, her unruly hair bunched into two ponytails. A shy smile lighting her eyes at their first hello.