The Shadow Behind Her Smile

by Janene Wood

  “Ah, well, there’s always next time,” commiserated the old lady.

  Kate would often sit and chat with Nona when she visited the farm. Sometimes Heather would join them, but it was usually just the two of them. They would shell peas, darn socks, or embroider pillowcases for Heather’s glory box; Nona’s hands were never idle. Heather’s mother was usually close by, cooking or cleaning, but her Italian was poor and she would have been hard-pressed to understand what they discussed.

  Although Nona understood English more than adequately – she had, after all, lived in Australia for more than seventy years, and was an intelligent, if obstinate woman – she rarely deigned to speak it. And the more years that passed, the more she withdrew into herself, reliving the past and idealizing her youth in the old country. Kate loved listening to her stories of the old days and Nona was glad of a willing audience with whom to share the language, memories and culture of her youth.

  Recently, Nona had also begun trying to save Kate’s soul.

  On her way home a few weeks ago, Kate had stopped to collect her bike when she noticed Nona sitting beside the fountain in the front courtyard. The beaded rosary and silver crucifix was in the old lady's hand and she murmured softly to herself, her eyes closed. Fascinated by the strange ritual and forgetting her good manners, Kate sat down opposite the old lady, and tried to make sense of her words.

  “To begin with, you must open your heart and mind to the Holy Spirit,” said Nona abruptly, speaking in her normal voice and betraying no sign of surprise or annoyance at having been disturbed in this most private of moments. She opened her eyes and smiled an uncharacteristically peaceful smile. “Otherwise you are only talking to yourself. Then you cross yourself...like so.” Using her right hand, the old lady touched her forehead, chest and each shoulder in turn, while speaking the words, “In the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, Amen,” as she did so. “Then you say something that’s called the Apostle’s Creed, which is a simple statement of what we believe.”

  “Catholics, do you mean?” clarified Kate uncertainly.

  “Yes, but many other Christians say it too. Fundamentally, we’re not so different.”

  “Are you allowed to tell it to me?”

  Nona gave her a queer look. “Certainly, child. It goes like this:

  I believe in God, the Father almighty, creator of heaven and earth.

  I believe in Jesus Christ, his only Son, our Lord.

  He was conceived by the power of the Holy Spirit and born of the Virgin Mary.

  He suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died, and was buried.

  He descended into hell. On the third day he rose again.

  He ascended into heaven and is seated at the right hand of the Father.

  He will come again to judge the living and the dead.

  I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy catholic Church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting. Amen.”

  “It’s not that simple,” remarked Kate acerbically.

  “Perhaps not,” agreed Nona thoughtfully. “Do you know who Jesus was, child?” she asked carefully.

  “I’ve heard of him, but Mum says the Pope made up all those miracles he was supposed to have done, to...you know...get money off people.”

  There was a quick intake of breath at this statement, but Nona refrained from actually gasping. “I see,” she said, biting her tongue. “Your mother...doesn’t go to church, then?”

  Kate shook her head. “She says that–”

  “Never mind, child,” interrupted Nona dourly, “I think I have a good idea what your mother says.” She paused a moment before continuing. “You’re a smart girl, Kate. Don’t you think you should decide for yourself what is real and what is not?”

  Kate mulled this over for a few moments and then shrugged ambivalently. “I suppose. I mean, yes...if it was anything else, of course I would. It’s just that Mum...”

  “The thing about faith,” said Nona seriously, “is that it's a personal thing. No one can tell you what to believe. You, yourself, have to decide what that is. Come Judgment Day, God will look into each of our hearts and see the truth. It won’t be good enough to say to Him, “I’m sorry, Lord, Mama said you weren’t real, but now that I know you are, can I come into Heaven anyway?”

  Kate laughed despite the seriousness of Nona’s tone. “I guess I do believe in God,” she said, meaning it. “I mean, nothing else makes any sense. The world is just too beautiful and complex for it to be an accident. But I don’t know anything about Him. Or about Jesus,” she admitted, abashed.

  “I can teach you, if you like,” offered Nona gently.

  Again Kate shrugged. “Okay.”

  Kate reached for another pea pod, remembering that day as a turning point in the way she looked at life.

  Nona asked her now, her tone vaguely disapproving, “Tell me child, have you heard anything from that strange woman?”

  “You mean Maggie? No, nothing,” said Kate dejectedly.

  “I'm sorry you're sad, but perhaps it's for the best.”

  Kate looked aghast at the suggestion. “But that's cruel; I never even got to say goodbye!”

  “It might seem cruel, but if you think about it from your mama’s point of view, perhaps you'll feel less sorry for yourself.”

  Kate had been on the verge of tears, but Nona’s suggestion effectively stayed them. “What do you mean?”

  “Do you think that maybe your mama is happier now that Maggie has gone? Now she doesn’t have to share you?”

  Kate frowned thoughtfully, tears forgotten. “I knew Mum and Maggie never really got on,” she admitted hesitantly, “but I never thought of them as sharing me. Is that why they didn’t like each other, do you suppose?”

  “It's something to think about,” suggested Nona.

  The thump of footsteps on the stairs warned the household of Heather and Jack's imminent re-entry. A moment later the kitchen was full of Heather’s laughter. She seemed to have regained her usual zest. “Come on, Kate, let’s go.” In one hand she held a .22-gauge rifle and in the other, a box of bullets.

  Rosa turned at the sound of her daughter’s voice and frowned disapprovingly at the rifle in her hand. “And where do you think you’re going with that, young lady?”

  “It’s okay, Mum; Tony said I can borrow it whenever I want.”

  Mrs Colacino was unconvinced. “You know you shouldn’t take your brother’s things without asking first.”

  “He told me I could, Mum,” said Heather in that exasperated tone of voice reserved by teenagers solely for use on their parents.

  “Can’t you find something else to do besides shooting up the backyard, darling?” cajoled her mother. “You know the noise upsets the chooks. The last thing we need is for them to go off the lay.”

  “Well, it’s up to you, Mum, but there were two rabbits nibbling on your lettuces this morning,” Heather informed her mother. “I scared them off, but you know they’ll be back. We need to keep them under control.”

  Aware of Rosa’s passion for her vegetable garden and her almost obsessive abhorrence of rabbits, Kate was reasonably sure this argument would win her over.

  “I’ll be careful,” added Heather. “You know I only ever hit what I aim at.”

  Mrs Colacino wavered momentarily but then gave a nod of approval. “All right, sweetie. Go shoot the little buggers with my blessing.”

  Heather quickly ushered her friends toward the door before her mother could change her mind.

  “Just be careful, for goodness sake!” called Rosa after them.

  Cooler now, thanks to their still-damp clothes, the barefoot trio headed toward the back of the property, where a large raised garden bed, surrounded by a sturdy, supposedly rabbit-proof fence, had been dug out of the ground and refilled with rich soil and compost. An abundance of regular rain and sunshine ensured the garden was full of every green, leafy vegetable imaginabl
e – a veritable smorgasbord for hungry bunnies.

  “I thought we were going to Andy Barlow's to play cricket,” complained Kate. “You’re not really going to make me watch you shoot rabbits, are you, Heather?” She was horrified by the prospect.

  A sly smile of self-congratulation came over Heather's face. “Nah, I only said that so Mum would let me borrow Tony’s gun.”

  “Oh, right. What are we doing then?”

  “Oh, just a bit of target practice,” said Heather off-handedly.

  Kate gave her friend a quizzical look, getting the distinct impression Heather was up to something more than she was owning up to.

  “Don’t look at me like that, Kate!” said Heather defensively. “Jack needs to get his eye in before he goes shooting next weekend, that’s all.”

  Kate’s eyes narrowed in speculation, but then she nodded. It was true that Frank was taking the three boys away next weekend to a mate’s property out Chillagoe way, to help cull a recent explosion of ‘roos. The grazing out west was so thin on the ground that if something wasn’t done about the kangaroo problem, there would be nothing left for the cattle to eat. Kate understood this intellectually, but found it hard to accept emotionally. Frank, being the generous, fair-minded man that he was, had also invited Kate along, but after much deliberation she’d had to decline, even though she would have enjoyed camping under the stars and eating food cooked over an open fire. The wholesale slaughter of those poor 'roos was more than she could bear.

  Jack was already setting up a row of rusty steel cans along the back fence. Despite not owning a rifle of his own, he was a good shot, with a steady hand and excellent eyesight and coordination. Frank promised him a rifle for his next birthday, but that was still three months away. Until then, he would have to borrow one from Frank or his brothers.

  Jack and Heather took turns aiming at the target, gradually increasing the range as their eye improved. Kate had a few desultory attempts, but her heart wasn't in it and she lost interest early on. She didn’t really like guns. Content to sit back and watch, she observed that Heather was clearly the better shot. Although there hadn’t been much between them at first, as the range increased, so did the number of Jack’s misses. It did him good to lose at something every now and then, she mused; otherwise his head was likely to blow up to the size of the moon.

  Unable to remain still any longer, Kate brushed herself off and began searching for some sign of Mrs Colacino's leporine nemeses. Unsurprisingly, no rabbits appeared when she looked for them – doubtless the repetitive sound of rifle-fire had sent them scurrying deep into their burrows. Instead, Taffy carried over a slimy rubber ball and dropped it at her feet in playful invitation. Kate accepted the offer with alacrity. Tossing the ball for the little dog to retrieve – and chasing after him when he wouldn’t give it back – amused them both for a good half hour. By that time, the exercise had worn the little dog out and he collapsed under the shade of a large lemon tree. Kate attempted to cajole him back into the game, but he refused to budge.

  The air was thick with the not-unpleasant smell of burnt gunpowder. It reminded Kate of cracker night, one of her favourite nights of the year. There was a brief lull in proceedings on the practice range, but she wasn’t fooled into thinking it meant the end of anything; Heather and Jack could do this for hours.

  “It’s your turn, Jack,” insisted Heather. “I did it last time.”

  Kate was listening with only half an ear, having ambled across to the vegetable garden where she was pulling weeds. The nasty things popped up just as soon as your back was turned and it looked like Mrs Colacino had been too busy to attend to them lately. Kate breathed in the sweet scents of mint, basil, oregano and coriander, mingled with the pungent odours of damp soil and rotting manure. It was a wonderful fusion of fresh, earthy aromas. She was vaguely aware of Jack walking toward the back fence to retrieve the fallen cans when the report of a single shot reverberated through her bones. The tiny part of her brain that kept track of time and space immediately told her something was wrong; surely there had been no time for Jack to pick up the cans, reset the targets and move out of range? A surprised grunt of pain answered her query in the negative, followed a millisecond later by Heather’s equally surprised exclamation of dismay.

  Heather stood frozen in place, screaming Jack's name. The rifle lay on the ground at her feet. Her face wore the strangest expression; shock, dismay, fear and guilt, all mingled together, but there was no time now to try to interpret what any of that meant. Kate’s eyes traveled to where her brother lay sprawled against the back fence, clutching his thigh. It looked like someone had tossed a handful of Nona's scarlet rose petals onto his lap. The stain of blood – Jack’s blood – expanded ever outward, the colour vivid against the washed-out tan of his skin.

  Attempting to get clear of the vegetable garden, Kate took an awkward step backward and felt a sudden, sharp pain in her ankle. Desperate to reach her brother, she thought nothing of it, forging a path through the rows of green beans and finally clambering onto the lawn.

  “Jack, I’m coming!” she called. Her bare feet found purchase on the slippery grass and she tried to run, but a strange feeling of lethargy was counteracting the adrenaline in her bloodstream. Her feet were almost too heavy to lift. Every step was an effort of will.

  “Kate!” screamed Heather hysterically. “What are you waiting for?” After finally throwing off her own paralysis, she was kneeling at Jack’s side, putting pressure on the bleeding wound. “Hurry, Kate! Get over here and do...whatever it is you do!”

  Urged on by Heather’s desperation and the fear in her own heart, Kate's feet sluggishly responded and she finally reached Jack's side. He was cold and clammy when she touched his forehead, sure signs he was going into shock. That's what happened when you lost a lot of blood, according to a book she had read. It sure looked like a lot of blood. She gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

  Kate closed her eyes and tried to calm her pounding heart. She could tell there was something very wrong with her, but it would have to wait. She hoped it could wait, at least until she helped her brother. Taking a series of deep breaths, she gathered what little remained of her energy. Then everything went black.

  Double Admission

  May 1964

  At 34, Jane McDermott didn’t look nearly matronly enough to have three teenage boys and a ten-year-old daughter. Still as slim as she had been at sixteen, with glossy, brown hair, and wearing a pair of fashionable white Capri pants that accentuated shapely, tanned calves, she appeared to be on her way to a beach party or a barbecue.

  But one look at her anxious face was sufficient to contradict that assumption.

  Following the signs to Accident & Emergency, Jane raced through the lobby, finally spying Heather’s mother pacing back and forth in the A & E waiting room. Seeing Jane, Rosa gave her a look of such pure despair that Jane’s blood immediately turned ice cold.

  “Rosa!” cried Jane. “Please tell me I misheard you on the phone. Did you say Jack had been shot?”

  Rosa Colacino was pale, with an unnatural grey cast to her skin. She nodded gravely. “They managed to stop the bleeding and he’s been given a transfusion, but we’re still waiting for the surgeon to come and remove the bullet. Apparently, it’s his day off and he’s gone fishing, but someone’s gone–”

  Jane cut her off. “And Katy? How is she? She didn’t have time for anything but the most relevant facts.

  Rosa’s expression became even more downcast. “Katy is…not good,” said the older woman, placing a gentle hand on Jane’s arm. Jane’s shoulders slumped in preparation for bad news. “The doctors are with her now, but she’s still unconscious. They don’t seem to know what’s wrong with her.”

  “How did this happen?” cried Jane. “Jack knows better than to play silly buggers with guns and Kate would never hurt a fly.” That left only one other person – but now was not the time to be making wild accusations. Jane tried hard to swallow the lump i
n her throat, but it remained steadfastly stuck. She turned an anguished face to Rosa. “Where are they? I need to see them.”

  Jane followed Rosa in a daze; the white-painted corridors, the distinctive odour of disinfectant and malaise and the sympathetic glances of the nurses were all an indistinct blur. Rosa halted outside a curtained-off room and allowed Jane to enter first. Three beds stood in a row along one side of the room, all of which were occupied. Jane gasped and turned to Rosa, confused. “What's Heather doing in bed? Dear God...she wasn’t shot too?”

  Rubbing her eyes tiredly, Rosa shook her head. “No. She fainted earlier, but the doctor thinks she’s just a bit anaemic. She’ll be fine with a bit of rest and some vitamins.”

  That was good news at least. Jane turned her attention to her own children, lying quietly beneath starched white sheets. It was so unlike them to be so still and quiet. The disturbing sight of IV lines and oxygen masks made her want to break down and cry, but she forced herself to stay strong. She didn’t want them waking up and seeing how frightened she was. And wake up they would, she told herself firmly. They would be running around and getting into mischief in no time at all. She refused to think otherwise.

  A white-coated doctor and a nursing sister walked into the room. Jane ignored them for the moment, creeping over to Kate’s bed and stroking her sun-bleached hair, noting the chill of her flesh and the shallowness of her breathing. Bending, she kissed the smooth skin at her temple and then moved across to Jack’s bed, where she repeated her actions exactly.