Cross My Heart

by Pamela Cook

  ‘Bye, darling, see you soon.’

  ‘Bye.’ And just like that her mother was coming to visit. It would be good to have a familiar face here for a few days, as long as they didn’t get into another fight. Her dad was right, they were both as stubborn ‘as the day was long’. Not that either of them would ever admit it out loud. She sent through the address along with a request to bring bedding and pillows, and dropped a cursory text to Josh. It was the middle of the night in Switzerland. Or was he in Luxembourg? Either way, he’d be in bed, probably sleeping off a business dinner. Either way, he wasn’t here.

  She stuck her phone into her pocket and leaned into the verandah post. The magpie had returned and was pecking at the grass in search of more food. This time Grace didn’t bother looking up. Maybe the whole conversation about burials and cremations had been too much. It had seemed right at the time, the longest talk they’d ever had. But would she be dwelling on it all now? Would the knowledge of what would happen to her mother’s body give her night terrors?

  A shudder, like a page being wrenched from a book, ripped through Tess’s body.

  If only there was such a thing as a magic wand. If only she didn’t need one.

  Fifteen

  No funeral was good, but there was something shockingly confronting about a funeral for someone your own age: the realisation it could be you lying there inside that cold wooden box; the certainty that one of these days it would be. Worse than both was knowing you would never, ever see the person again. Keeping her attention on the celebrant at the front right-hand side of the chapel meant Tess hadn’t had to look at the coffin even though it was right there, front and centre. The woman in white had almost finished her welcome to family and friends. Not that there were many guests. Tess and Grace, her mother as promised, and then Jules and two other women who took classes at the art studio, who must have met Skye at some point. Such a small handful of people to acknowledge a death. A life. It would be laughable if it wasn’t so damned sad.

  ‘… introduce Skye’s close friend, Tessa De Santis.’

  She’d been so distracted she hadn’t even heard most of the introduction. Now it was her turn. Every muscle in her body quivered. Ordinarily, she never would have agreed to do a eulogy, but this was one she didn’t have to think twice about. Skye deserved a proper farewell from someone who knew and loved her. Tess could sense that those gathered were quietly waiting. She closed her eyes and inhaled. Boronia: the scent of the wild blossom was unmistakeable amongst the spray of native flowers—wattle, grevillea and gum leaves—resting on the centre of the coffin. When she was seated not looking at it had been easy, but as she stood and walked towards the lectern it was stuck there like a burr, pricking at the corner of her eye.

  Five short minutes, a few well-chosen words and it would all be over. Unfolding the two A4 sheets she’d scrawled some notes on, she gripped them tight in a vain effort to stop her hands from trembling. She cleared her throat and looked up. Rows of empty pews filled most of the space apart from the cluster of four women and one child seated nearby. Grace had chosen her own outfit—a pair of Mary Janes bought in Sydney by her new ‘grandmother’, black tights, a knee-length denim skirt and a striped woollen jumper. The one concession to Beth’s concern that she was dressed too casually was a red satin ribbon pinning back the ripples of her hair. Brilliant-yellow branches of wattle blossom sprouted from her lap. But more than any of that, it was the cupid’s bow of her lips that stood out for Tess, the same perfect pout she’d had the day she was born. And the same look of total confusion in her eyes.

  The celebrant, standing to one side, gave a not-so-subtle cough and tapped her watch. Time to start.

  Okay.

  ‘Thank you for coming here today to mourn the passing of my friend Skye Whittaker.’ Her mum had suggested the phrase ‘celebrate the life of’, but nothing about today felt like a celebration. ‘Skye and I first met back in primary school. She’d come to live in my street after the death of her mother. Her father died when she was a baby and so there was only Jean, her maternal grandmother, who passed away eight years ago.’ So much death in one family. How was that possible when she herself had known so little? ‘Skye and I became great friends. We walked to school together every day, and spent hours playing on weekends. I was the youngest of three children, and as both my siblings were boys she was like the sister I never had.’

  The words blended into each other on the page. All she needed to do was say them out loud, but the more she read the more they caught on her tongue. Bits of truth cobbled together like papier-mache with gaps only she knew existed. So much of the story was missing. She reached for the glass of water sitting on the tabletop beside her, took a sip and started again. Sticking to the script just as she’d always done.

  ‘Skye was one of the kindest people you could ever meet. Gentle yet strong, she faced every challenge in her life with courage and determination. When she left high school she worked three jobs and saved enough money to take off and see the world—Morocco, Tanzania, Portugal and Turkey—finding work where she could, and she loved every minute of her time travelling. But the real love of her life was her daughter.’

  Tess looked up. Grace sat motionless, staring at the coffin holding her mother’s body. Did she really understand what this was all about? How could she even fathom her future without the one person who had always been in her life? Tess’s stomach clenched itself into a tight, hard fist. Focusing on her notes was the only way through. ‘I was lucky enough to be present for Grace’s birth and I will never forget the look of pure joy on Skye’s face when they first met. She loved being a mother and did everything she could to protect and care for Grace. She moved to Weerilla to provide a safe, quiet place for her child to grow up.’ A cold chill settled between Tess’s shoulder blades, like a knife pressed against her spine, at the memory of those newspaper clippings.

  Not now. Not. Now.

  ‘The two of them were inseparable, spending their days reading, painting, walking and enjoying the beautiful environment they quickly called home. I know that Skye’s greatest sorrow would be leaving Grace.’

  In the front pew, Grace’s head was bowed. Beth’s eyes were red-rimmed, a handkerchief scrunched between her fingers. Behind them, tears washed across Jules’s cheeks, and her two friends were equally affected. Somehow, Tess had managed to hold herself together. She was almost at the end. She didn’t need to read the rest from the notes. She folded them in half and turned towards the coffin. And there was Skye. Hanging upside down on the monkey bars at school, holding the skirt of her uniform tight around her thighs so the boys wouldn’t see her undies, her long hair cascading to the ground like a chocolate waterfall. Skye, sweat-stained and flushed from labour, a bright light in her eyes as she held her squirming newborn. Skye, the day of her grandmother’s funeral, thin and harried, so frantic she was almost unintelligible.

  This was not the time for that memory. Or perhaps it was. Leaning in, she spoke directly to her friend, as if it were just the two of them. Together again for one last time. ‘I am so sorry. I miss you. I miss our friendship. I promised you back then I would take care of her.’ She glanced across to Grace, but she was looking down at the floor. No matter. This was between Skye and her. She moved towards the coffin, resting her hands on the polished wood. ‘And I promise you now that I will look after her as if she were my own.’ Saying the words out loud made it all crystal clear. She would do whatever it took to keep Grace happy and safe. The ache in her chest deepened. She flattened a hand against the jut of her collarbone, lifted two fingers to her lips and blew a gentle kiss. ‘Goodbye, my beautiful friend.’

  Music drifted through the speakers as she moved back to her seat. Grace raised her head slightly and Tess nodded. Her breath hitched as the small figure walked up to the coffin. For most of the ceremony Tess had barely been able to look at Grace, but now she couldn’t tear her gaze away. As the first bars of the song floated through the chapel Grace placed the bouquet o
f wattle, handpicked that morning, onto the lid as planned. She took a step back but didn’t return to her seat.

  Tess shifted forward. What was she doing? Grace’s lips were moving, quietly singing along to the song her mother had sung to her since she’d been a baby. Muffled sobs from the row behind them accompanied the Eva Cassidy rendition. Tess’s pulse quickened. Her mother was trying to maintain her composure, the handkerchief now pressed to her mouth in a vain attempt to contain her sorrow. Even the celebrant—Marla, the name came to Tess out of the blue—was crying. If only someone could contain themself long enough to stop the music, stop that small, wavering voice singing about bluebirds and rainbows and dreams. But the song rambled on. There was no way out. All Tess could do was slump against the hard wooden seat and close her eyes. Wait for it all to end. Skye was there waiting for her, that day at Jean’s funeral, her nails digging into Tess’s arm, her voice whisper-soft, razor-sharp …

  ‘I have to go.’

  Tess didn’t bother pulling her arm away, telling Skye she was hurting her.

  It had been over six months since they’d seen each other. Tess busy setting up her consultancy, Skye caring for Grace and her dying, now dead grandmother. When Skye had phoned her about Jean’s death she knew she had to come. Her friend was thinner than the last time they’d met, and sadder. More on edge.

  ‘I’m moving away. Out west.’ Skye rocked the pram holding a sleeping toddler.

  Tess dragged her gaze away from the manicured lawn crowded with headstones. Skye had been crying, mourning the loss of the one person who had always been there for her, but right now her eyes were dry. And fierce. Tess swallowed hard. ‘What do you mean?’

  Skye flicked a hurried look to the door of the church. ‘Gran left me the house. I’m selling it and moving away. I’ve changed my last name and I’ve got a solicitor sorting things out. He has my papers, my will, my wishes.’ Her words were tumbling out so fast Tess could hardly comprehend what she was saying. ‘I’ll write to you when we get settled, but Tess, you have to promise me you’ll do what you said.’

  Do what she said? Hadn’t she already? ‘I promise you, Skye, I’ve never told anyone.’ Admitting it now, as an adult who knew how wrong it was, sent a surge of blood rushing to her face.

  ‘No.’ Skye shook her arm as if to jostle her into understanding. ‘About Grace. You promised me when she was born you’d look after her if anything ever happened to me.’

  ‘Of course.’ She sighed. The second promise she’d made was so much easier. There was little likelihood of it ever needing to be kept. ‘You know I will.’

  Skye’s shoulders dropped. She loosened her grip, both of them staring down at the three curved lines marring the smooth flesh above Tess’s wrist. ‘Sorry.’ She gave a watery smile before pulling Tess into a long hug. ‘I have to go.’

  She hurried away then, packed a sleeping Grace into the car and drove off. As Tess turned back towards the church a solid man in a charcoal suit made his way down the stairs. She hadn’t seen him when she arrived, just as the funeral was starting. Her stomach swirled as she made a beeline for the carpark, her hand covering her mouth. It wasn’t until she’d pulled open the door of her car, turned on the ignition and done up her seatbelt that she dared to look in the rear-vision mirror. She lifted her hands to the steering wheel, glad for the grounding feeling the movement allowed, completely ignoring the ten-kilometres-per-hour signs as she drove out of the cemetery. When she pulled over, a few blocks away, the three red crescent-shaped marks on her arm were already forming into tiny bruises.

  As the final notes of the song played now, in another chapel, another funeral, Tess glanced down to where her arm was draped across her waist. The skin on her wrist was no longer red, the marks no longer visible, part of a series of memories she’d long since locked away, but she could see them now almost as surely as she’d seen them that day. She could hear Skye’s voice joining with her daughter’s, quietly singing the final bars of the song.

  The same old paralysis gripped her on the drive home. Judging by the deafening quiet inside the car, she wasn’t alone. No wake had been organised, despite her mother’s claims that you couldn’t have a funeral without one. There would hardly be a crowd to invite and Tess was in no mood to make small talk with strangers who never really knew Skye in the first place.

  As soon as they pulled up at the house Grace marched inside, grabbed her book and bear, and bolted straight out of the back door, letting it bang shut behind her.

  ‘Do you think you should go and have a talk to her?’ Beth placed her handbag down on the kitchen table. ‘Or I could?’

  ‘No.’ The last thing the kid needed today was the woman who had shrieked at her about the dirty mark on her dress trying to cheer her up. The two of them had been polite to each other since yesterday afternoon, but there was still a lot of fine-tuning needed before their relationship could really get off the ground. ‘She’ll be fine, Mum. Give her some time. Books are her escape. It’s probably the best thing for her right now.’

  The barely-there nod suggested her mother wasn’t so sure. Nor did the folded arms. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Wrung out.’ ‘Wrung’ was exactly the right word for the twisted sensation Tess had going on, as if someone had grabbed her insides from each end, pulled hard and turned them in opposite directions. She dropped into a chair with a thud. Her mother was standing in the middle of the kitchen, a single strand of pearls slung around the neckline of her plain navy dress like a Tupperware hostess waiting for the party to start. Hands pressed together in prayer position, she tapped her fingertips together in a gesture Tess recognised well. It was probably best to circumvent what was coming next. ‘I could use a cup of tea, actually.’

  Tea was her mother’s favourite cure-all, and being useful in the kitchen was her specialty. She sprang into action. It was good to have her here for moral support. A backstop if things went awry at the funeral, not that it had been needed in the end. The adults had been the ones shedding the tears. Grace had been a bastion of composure. Only the pallor of her cheeks and the distant, vacant look in her eyes gave any indication of her mental state. And her current, obvious need to be alone.

  ‘How has she been since you arrived back?’ Teacups clattered onto their saucers and the kettle started to boil.

  ‘Okay, I guess. She wanted to sleep in her mother’s bed. I wasn’t sure if it was appropriate, given the circumstances, but at this stage I’m letting her do what she wants.’

  ‘Children don’t always know what’s best for them.’ This, through pursed lips.

  ‘I know that, Mum. But I’m still working out how she ticks. Coming back here must be fucking hard …’

  Her mother’s face darkened.

  ‘Sorry.’ She wasn’t, but it was easier to keep the peace. ‘It must be very hard for her to be here without Skye.’

  ‘It’s all she’s ever known, I suppose.’ Beth turned and poured the water, leaving the teabags to sit and brew.

  ‘True. She’s led such a sheltered life, it must have been so hard for her being wrenched away to the city, dumped with complete strangers. Twice.’ She sighed. ‘I really want to know what’s going on in her head, but she’s just so …’

  ‘Closed off?’ A wry smile. ‘Like someone else I know.’

  ‘We can’t help who we are.’ It sounded more defensive than she meant it to be. ‘How Mother Nature made us, I mean.’

  ‘But you weren’t like that as a child, Tess. You were happy-go-lucky, open, chattering away all the time.’ Her mother handed across her tea. ‘It was only later that you changed. Got all sullen and moody. I know teenagers can be difficult, but you really laid it on. Oh, and that terrible Goth business.’ She shook her head. ‘Thankfully, that didn’t last long.’

  Tiny bubbles edged the liquid in Tess’s cup. She watched them spin as she stirred in a half-spoonful of sugar and then one by one, they vanished. How the conversation had become about her own deficiencies wasn’t
such a mystery. Her mother was well skilled in the art of table-turning. And judgement. For a supposedly Christian woman, she certainly didn’t hold back when it came to laying blame. ‘Anyway …’ Tess arched her eyebrows and stared daggers at her mother. ‘This isn’t about me. It’s about Grace.’

  ‘See? That’s exactly what I mean.’

  ‘What?’

  Beth waved a hand in the air. ‘You. Closing off. I make one small reference to your attitude and you shut down.’

  The bang of the cup on the table jarred in the quiet of the kitchen and they both winced. ‘I’m not shutting down, Mum. We started off talking about Grace and how hard this all is for her and then you go off on some friggin’ tangent about me being a painful teenager.’ Cropped hair dyed a few shades darker than normal, a couple of tats and a wardrobe of basic black hardly made you a threat to society. Still, it had been good to get under her mother’s skin. Find a focus for her anger. Beth had responded with alternating bouts of hysterics and melancholy. It was the latter she reverted to now, sipping her tea and sulking.

  ‘The point I was making …’ she waited for the slight turn of her mother’s head, ‘is that Grace is introverted, probably by nature. Living in such an isolated place and then losing pretty much the only person she could count on, it must be overwhelming. So I’m giving her some space and time.’

  Her mother nodded. It was so unlike her not to say anything, not to try to run the show. Perhaps she’d been given the keep-it-to-yourself lecture before the mad golfer had headed off for the weekend. If so, it seemed to have worked. They finished their tea in silence. Embers crackled in the pot-belly. The clock ticked above the kitchen window. Slowly, quietly, a mother–daughter truce, of sorts, was reached.