Cross My Heart

by Pamela Cook

‘So is he a qualified psychologist?’

  Max laughed. ‘Definitely not. He’s done heaps of studying, and the diploma, but most of what he does is hands-on stuff. Experiential learning. He says he doesn’t need to spend hours at a desk and get a piece of paper to tell him what he already knows. But he went through the motions of doing the training so people would take him more seriously.’

  It didn’t exactly sound like they were in the right place. Eleanor had only suggested it as a last resort and there was no way she was throwing Grace into the path of a self-taught cowboy. She’d do some more research, find a better alternative. ‘Grace, it’s time to go, sweetie.’

  Grace turned, the brush still in her hand. ‘Do we have to?’

  ‘You can come back again.’ Max gave a reassuring smile.

  ‘Can we?’ Grace’s face was animated, as bright as when she’d spotted Tiger laid out on the cushion that night at Jules’s place.

  The answer was a no, but Tess was not going to rock the boat in public. They’d sort out the details later. ‘We’ll see. Come on. Let’s go.’ If Grace wanted to groom a horse there were probably plenty of places she could do that back in Weerilla.

  She held out her hand, but Grace simply stared at it, returned the brush to Max and walked past without another word. Oh dear. Punishing silence would now be the order of the day. Not that Tess had anyone to blame except herself. Eleanor maybe, but she’d only been trying to help.

  It was an effort for Tess to force a smile as she turned to Max. ‘Thanks. It was nice to meet you.’

  ‘You too.’ Max put her hand on Jed’s collar, stopping the dog before he had time to chase after Grace. ‘Just call if you’d like to come back.’

  ‘Sure.’ Tess moved towards the car, flicking a look over to the stables where she could swear a figure was standing in the shadows, watching. If the guy wanted people to take him more seriously, as his sister had said, he might want to work on his own social skills. She heaved out a sigh. Equine-assisted learning, at least at this place, was not the answer to her problem. Her instincts, it seemed, needed an overhaul. And judging by the sour look on Grace’s face, the battle lines were once again being drawn.

  Seventeen

  The rest of the week was long and torturous, with Grace making daily requests to go back to Affinity and Tess coming up with ever more creative excuses for why they couldn’t go ‘today’. Or, in fact, not so creative. Too windy, too cold, too wet, all of which were applicable at times, but today she’d had to resort to feigning a migraine and retiring to the bedroom with a damp cloth pressed to her forehead, news which was met with a scowl rather than sympathy. Grace threw herself into her school work at the kitchen table, not bothering to look up even when Tess emerged from the bedroom desperately in need of fresh air.

  Silence lurked like swamp fog in the cottage, the air so thick with it Tess could barely breathe. Being outdoors was completely liberating, how prisoners must feel when they’re allowed out for a yard break. She let the blissful winter sunshine roll over her while she leaned against the weatherboards, checking her Facebook feed on her phone while there was a vaguely good connection. Mostly, the usual inane memes and pictures of cats, a few of them making her giggle, until Josh’s latest post appeared. Windblown and T-shirted on a yacht in the South of France, he really was living the life, making the most of his extended work junket. But you could hardly blame him. It wasn’t as if there was anyone waiting at home with a pipe and slippers. Not that she would ever be that kind of wife, or that he’d expect her to be, but … the thing was she didn’t know when he’d be back now he’d taken up an offer to visit colleagues from the conference, and she didn’t know if that even bothered her. A nagging ache throbbed behind her temples, the headache she’d faked becoming a reality. Punishment for telling lies, or so her mother would say.

  She closed her eyes and let the day soak into her skin. Tiger was resting against her leg, doing what cats do best. Tess stroked her sun-warmed fur, humming along to the sound of a contented purr. So soporific. Orange light filtered through her closed lids, and she started to drift.

  Car tyres sounded on the track beyond the fence. She cracked one eye slowly open and then the other. A VW beetle circa 1965, very similar to the one her dad once owned but in an iridescent burgundy, pulled up outside the gate and the door opened to reveal Jules. ‘Hope I’m not interrupting anything.’

  ‘Obviously you are. Some very important dozing going on here.’ Tess crossed her arms in a mock display of annoyance. ‘Nice car.’ She stood to greet her guest, shoving her phone in her back pocket.

  Jules made her way up the path and onto the porch. ‘Thank you.’ She beamed. ‘Elsie. My pride and joy.’ She quirked her head towards the house. ‘Gracie inside?’

  ‘Yep. Swotting as usual.’

  ‘Still not talking?’

  She let out a long sigh in answer. She’d already vented to Jules over the phone, filling her in on the progress of the drama. Jules hadn’t questioned her reluctance to take Grace back to the horse place, just listened without comment.

  ‘Well, art class is on this afternoon. I was on my way back from Orange, thought I’d call in and see if I could persuade Missy to come along.’

  ‘Good luck with that.’

  Jules blew a breath over her knuckles and polished them on her purple velvet scarf. ‘Challenge accepted.’ She pushed open the door and disappeared into the house. Probably better to let Jules approach Grace on her own rather than risk her being tainted by association with the enemy. Two full weeks had passed since Grace had been to the class. Last Tuesday she’d flat-out refused to come out of her room and had spent most of her time in there since, no matter how hard Tess had tried to prise her out. Tiger stood, arched her back, and twisted around Tess’s leg. It was funny how she’d taken to Tess, and vice versa. She’d never been much of a cat person, but there was something about this one’s take-me-as-you-find-me attitude that she quite liked. Apart from the rat incident, the two of them were getting along nicely. If only the same could be said for her relationship with the other human inhabitant of the house. The two of them seemed to be lurching from one stand-off to the next, the current one being about the horse issue.

  Just the thought of joining in on the not-therapy session sparked a cold sweat across the back of Tess’s neck. Back at uni, getting to the bottom of other people’s problems as a career had seemed like such a great career choice—until she’d become a guinea pig for an older student’s practice session and fled the room without a backward glance. She’d seen her course supervisor the very next day and switched over to a Bachelor of Human Resources, where there was no need to worry about anybody’s emotional baggage—especially her own. She shivered away the memory. Robert Frost had definitely been onto something about that fork in the road. Where would she be now if she’d followed that first path? Where would she be now if she’d never met Skye? Or if she’d never made such a dangerous promise?

  The door flew open and Grace appeared, her favourite crocheted poncho thrown over her shoulders, a wide smile stretched across her face. She skipped down the steps, leaving Jules behind to do the explaining.

  ‘Righto, Gracie and I are off to the studio. She’ll be ready for pickup at five-thirty,’ Jules announced, and with a bounce of her grey curls she followed Grace out to the car. Throwing a smug grin over her shoulder, she licked the pad of one finger and chalked up a point on an imaginary scoreboard.

  Tess poked out her tongue, not completely in jest. As the VW clunked into gear and disappeared into the distance, her smile faded to a frown. She was the one putting up with all the bullshit here day in and day out—the glacial stares, the cat’s-bum mouth, the cold shoulder anytime she tried to start a conversation with Grace. And then Jules waltzes in and gets her complete cooperation, coaxes her out of her shell and spirits her away. Utterly and completely unfair.

  She heaved out a sigh and waited for the feeling to pass. It was childish to let such a little thing bo
ther her. Of course, she was grateful to Jules—it was good for Grace to be out of the house, so there was no use sooking about being runner-up in the parenting stakes.

  Unfolding her arms, she stared out into the waning afternoon, fully aware of the ping-pong nature of her emotions. A cricket chirped in a bush. A garden lizard skittered noiselessly across the verandah. It was strangely quiet now that she was here alone for the first time in weeks. She’d always treasured her solitude, loved it when Josh texted to say he would be home late. Her usual response was to open a bottle of red, switch the TV to Netflix and scroll through her phone, checking out mindless social media posts. Anything not to have to think. Here, in the middle of nowhere, with not a sound other than the occasional birdcall, the lack of noise was slightly unnerving. She walked back inside, but her heart immediately skipped a beat. The wicker box was still sitting there in the wardrobe, its full contents yet to be revealed. She would get to it, one day soon. When things settled down with Grace. When she had time to consider what it all meant. There was something much pleasanter she could do while the house was empty and she didn’t have to worry about how it would impact Grace. Something she’d been itching to check out since she arrived.

  Skye’s art studio.

  She grabbed the keys hanging by the back door and made her way across the yard. An enormous padlock secured a bolt slide on the shed door. She tried each key on the bunch until one slipped neatly into the barrel and the lock popped. The door yawned open, the shed exhaling the pungent smell of paint and turpentine. She wrinkled her nose and leaned in, peering into the gloom while she fumbled around for a light switch. When she found it a single naked bulb sprang to life, cobweb threads dangling from the socket. A battered-looking trestle table extended across the far wall, the surface covered in tubes of paint, brushes, some half-finished canvases and an assortment of clay sculptures and pots. She stepped inside, pulling open the heavy hessian curtains covering the one window for natural light. There was a busyness about the studio. Chaotic yet organised. Skye would have been in her element here, pottering around, losing herself in her art.

  Tess ventured closer to the table, studying the paintings one by one. The largest canvas, a metre or so square, was an abstract bush scene, the trees suffused in a yellow aura, birds dotted through the branches against a background of violet sky. Another showed a small figure walking down a trail, the blue-grey leaves of the gum trees arching over her head, and a garden of brilliantly coloured flowers in stark contrast to the duller tones of the bush. It had a dream-like, mystical quality about it, as if the girl—Grace?—was walking through a sacred space. Other, smaller paintings were similar in style and theme—crowded with trees and flowers and birds. Bright and lively and lovely. No wonder Skye’s pieces were in such demand.

  On the wall opposite the window was another door; another padlock. She rotated her way through the set of keys until she found one to fit. This was a smaller, darker room, much stuffier. Stale air filled her lungs and she coughed it out. An eerie fluorescent glow filled the space as she turned on the light. Shelves holding paint supplies, blocks of clay and mosaic tiles cluttered the walls. An old blanket was thrown over something propped against the lower shelf. Tess crept closer, picking at a corner of the blanket and letting it slip to the floor. A shower of dust motes flew into the air and she fought the urge to sneeze before focusing on what she’d uncovered.

  She doubled over, as if she’d taken a punch to the gut. Breathing out, she emptied her lungs so completely her next intake of air echoed in the hollow cave of the room. Her eyes burned as they took in the image splashed across the canvas in front of her: a close-up of a woman’s face done with haphazard brushstrokes in varying shades of charcoal, the eyes closed, the mouth down-turned, the features grossly distorted. Waves of long hair fell to the bottom of the painting. And dabbed across the cheeks were what could only be tears. Dark-red glossy tears shining against the matte grey skin. Tess forced herself upright. There were more paintings stacked behind. Barely touching her fingers to the edge of the first canvas, she tipped it forward at enough of an angle to take in the next image. Her hand, resting on the corner of the board, shook, the tremors reverberating all the way to her elbow as she took in the darkened room, a shadowy figure silhouetted against a sliver of white light, and in the corner, another figure curled into a foetal position.

  ‘Oh God.’

  She choked back the overwhelming urge to vomit. She needed to get out. Run. As fast and as far as she could, but her feet were rooted to the floor, her entire being paralysed. She was back there, in that room at Jean’s house …

  Swimming up through an ocean of sleep, eyelids flickering. A shuffling sound. Bedsheets moving. The rustle of cotton and a low growl, like a wolf baring its teeth. She made her eyes open. Skye’s bedroom was always so dark, the heavy curtains blocking any light from the street, making it hard to see even the outline of your hand. Another sound, this time more of a grunt. Tess turned slightly in the single bed, waiting for her eyes to adjust. Another movement on the other side of the room. She pushed herself up onto her elbows, peering harder.

  Everything inside her turned to ice. Someone, a man, was lying on top of Skye, his hand covering her mouth. He was moving. Pushing against her. His face so close as he made those horrible noises.

  She tried to lift her hands, cover her ears to block out the sounds, but she couldn’t move. She had to do something. Say something. She swallowed once, twice, and then again until finally a single strangled syllable scraped across the rawness of her throat.

  ‘Stop.’

  Complete and utter stillness. Blinding, aching silence.

  The man turned his head. Looked right at her through the darkness. She fell back onto her pillow, gripping the hem of her nightie. Don’t breathe. The knobbly bones of her knees clamped together. The insides of her thighs knotted tight. She jammed her eyes shut as the shadow moved closer.

  No, please no, please no, please …

  A stream of air forced its way out through her nostrils. She took a quick breath back in, pretending to be asleep even though it was far, far too late. The bed creaked under the foam mattress as the acrid mix of tobacco and aftershave smothered her senses. If she just lay here, if she was still enough …

  The rough pad of a finger followed the line of her cheekbone. A hand crushed the bones at the back of her neck.

  A sharp pull yanked her head sideways. ‘Such pretty hair.’ His breath on her skin, hot and clammy and vile. ‘You want some, too, do you?’

  She shook her head. A ripple of pain.

  No.

  Her eyes were already closed. She shut them tighter and shook her head, but the memory refused to budge. It was there in the painting when she opened them again, in the wild strokes, the frenzied brushwork. A sudden, suffocating heat filled the small space. She flicked off the light, slammed the door shut, bolting and padlocking it again despite her trembling hands, and staggered through the studio into the world outside. Everything she’d locked away for all these years.

  Skye had captured it all.

  An hour, maybe two, later, she gritted her teeth and pinned her eyes to the road. She’d sat outside the shed unable to move until afternoon had waned into dusk and then into darkness. It was the same reaction she’d had that night after he’d left, pinned to the bed, not by any physical force, but by something much stronger.

  Much more debilitating.

  Something that had nothing to do with selflessness or friendship.

  Now, as then, a violent shiver racked her body. She pulled over, keeping her foot on the brake as she let the engine run. She had to get a hold of herself. What good would she be to Grace if she ran herself off the road? There was no one else, or at least no one else Skye trusted enough to take care of her daughter, even if that trust was completely misplaced.

  And her job right now was to collect Grace.

  She hit the button on the CD player and the interior of the car vibrated with the booming
voice of Adele. The songs washed over her as she continued on into town, calming her jangling nerves. Until the lyrics of ‘When We Were Young’ and the idea of facing your fears brought back all that she was trying to forget.

  By the time she arrived, the blinds on the studio windows were drawn and the door locked. Jules would think her an imbecile, incapable of getting here on time when she had nothing better to do than laze around and keep up with her social media updates. If only she’d stuck with that rather than venturing out to the shed.

  She straightened her shoulders, pulling herself up to her full height, as she approached the house, followed the instructions she gave her clients about creating the right impression. In this instance, the impression of a capable parent, not a paranoid nutter. A murmur of voices hummed inside the house: Jules had company. Excellent. She could just whip in, grab Grace and be on her way.

  ‘Hi, anyone there?’ She rapped her knuckles lightly against the wall.

  ‘That’ll be Tess.’ Jules not-so-muffled voice sounded as she swung open the door, one arm flung out wide. ‘Come on in and join the party.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Jules, I lost track of time and then …’

  ‘You and me both.’ A deep voice greeted her from the other end of the kitchen.

  Jules nodded in the direction of her guest. ‘Mitch was late, too. His penance was to shell the peas.’ She grabbed Tess by the arm and dragged out a chair. ‘Yours is to peel the spuds.’

  ‘I, uh …’

  ‘The kids are in there watching some TV.’ Jules pointed towards the lounge room. ‘And you’re all staying for dinner.’

  Oh no, that was so not happening. Playing happy families was not part of her plan today. She was way too on edge to be decent company. High-pitched giggles trickled into the kitchen.

  ‘Is that Grace laughing?’ The sound was so unusual she needed to make sure she wasn’t hearing things.