“I'm OK.”
“You'll be fine. I'm here most days, anyway, keeping the vultures away.” He smiled.
“Are they your sisters?” I asked.
“Heavens no, they're Grace's sisters.” He cocked his head and looked at me with a little frown.
Then who is he? I mean, what is he to the Grace woman? “Are they paying for me?”
Mr. Preston smiled on one side of his mouth. “I don't think so. Essentially Grace is paying for you. I take care of her finances and legal matters.”
So, he's her lawyer or accountant or something. Still, he's pretty attentive, considering.
Mr. Preston's mobile phone rang. He lifted it out of his breast pocket. “Preston.”
I watched him while he was talking. His phone voice was deeper and booming. He paced about, frowning and running his fingers through his hair. At the end he dropped the phone back into his pocket.
“I have to go. I had intended to stay longer.”
Mr. Preston said goodbye to the Grace woman and then left in his big dark car, promising to come back tomorrow.
I stood in the living room with my hands on my hips. The Grace woman was in her chair. I wasn't quite sure what to do.
“Umm, do you want to watch telly?” I said to her.
Silence.
Her head hung to the side a little and she leaned awkwardly, like a rag doll, in her chair. Her eyes were glassy and unfocused. A little drop of spit formed at the side of her mouth and trickled down over her lip, leaving a small dark stain on her shirt.
I looked away quickly and examined the room.
“Umm … where is the telly?”
Silence.
I walked over to the cupboard opposite the lounge and opened the doors.
“Here it is.” I pointed in the cupboard and looked over at the Grace woman. She stared straight ahead. A thin string of saliva dangled from her chin.
“I guess you knew that already,” I mumbled.
Silence.
I bent down to take a closer look at the telly.
“Umm … where are the buttons?”
I stood back and turned around in a circle.
I closed my eyes, put my fingers to my temples and tried to turn it on using Vulcan mind power.
Nothing. I'm assuming you need to be a Vulcan.
I heard a thump on the timber floor. Prickles jumped down from the windowsill and sauntered into the kitchen. He sat down next to his bowl. He looked in the bowl, looked at me, looked in the bowl, looked at me, winked at me.
“Don't wink at me, you saucy devil,” I said as I walked toward him into the kitchen.
I could feed the cat. That would give me something to do.
“Are you hungry, puss? Do you want to eat something?” I explored the kitchen cupboards. There wasn't much—lots of spices, flour, dried pasta and condiments, but nothing to make a meal with.
I found a box of dry cat food and some tins in the kitchen cupboard and poured some of the dry cat food in the bowl. Prickles sniffed at it. He put his tail straight up in the air, gave it a little shake, sauntered back into the living room and jumped on the couch.
I walked back to the telly cupboard. When I leaned toward it I saw a remote control tucked in the back. I stood back and started pressing buttons.
I picked up the cat and sat with him on my lap.
“Do you want to watch something, puss?”
Flick, flick, flick.
“You know, puss, I don't think there are enough American sitcoms in this time slot.”
Flick, flick, flick.
“Huh, would you look at that? Kramer just fell through the door again. Who would've thought he'd do that? Every episode it's a surprise.”
Prickles and I watched two hours of sitcoms. I gave him a scintillating commentary.
At nine-thirty I pulled at the Grace woman's shoulders. She stood up, and I walked behind her, pushing her by the small of her back into the bedroom.
Rummaging around in her wardrobe, I found a T-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts. I peeled off her tracksuit, trying to avoid touching the spittle. She sat on the bed in her underwear and looked blankly over my shoulder. Her stomach hung out and her shoulders slumped.
I blushed while I reached behind her and unclasped her bra. I felt her breath on my neck, and smelt it—sour and cloying. I pulled the shirt and shorts on her, tried not to look or think about it too much and dressed her as quickly as possible.
I pushed her into the bed and pulled up the covers around her neck.
“Well, then. Nighty-spritey.”
The Grace woman closed her eyes and I sat on the edge of the bed and looked down at her for a little while.
I noticed that her leg was tucked up in an uncomfortable way, so I pulled the covers back and straightened it.
It was weird. I hoped I was doing it right. All I did was move her from one room to another.
I walked through the house, switched off lights and checked that all the doors were locked. I left one of the back windows open so Prickles could hop in and out.
I sat on my new bed, put my hands out behind me and swung my feet back and forth like a little kid. This was my room, my home now, my first home away from my real home, where my mother was.
I knew I could do this. It would be easy. It was going to be just like babysitting except that the Grace woman was quieter and I wouldn't have to play with her.
I'd started a new job. I was a grown-up. Except I didn't feel like a grown-up, I mean, I knew most things—not everything, but I did know, for example, that if someone were to offer me a gift horse, the first thing I should not do would be to look it in the mouth. I would be far more likely to wave my arms about and shout, “What the devil am I to do with this, then?”
My first day alone with the Grace woman was fairly hectic. Actually, it was a disaster. I woke up in a strange bed in a strange house. When I looked at the clock, I could see that I'd slept in, which was unusual because I'm a morning person. Always, since I was little, as soon as I opened my eyes I would jump up! I'd skip around, ready for another exciting day.
I always do a quick lap of the house just to check if anything has changed in the last eight hours. This isn't as silly as it might sound, you know, because in the whole course of my life there have been seventy-two separate occasions when some person or being has entered the house while I have slept and left gifts or chocolates or both. You never know unless you check.
My mother is Dutch, so we celebrate both Christmas and St. Nicholas Day. We also celebrate a variety of other days that may have origins in religion but are much more likely to be inventions of my mother's. Blueberry Day springs to mind. On Blueberry Day we wear blue and celebrate the blueberry by eating blueberries in endless combinations: blueberry pancakes, blueberry pie and, of course, what Blueberry Day would be complete without fish in blueberry sauce?
Of all the fruit-based celebrations that my mother has held (Avocado Weekend, Lime Day, Mango Week), Blueberry Day has been the most consistent. The most memorable, however, would be the Inaugural Lychee Day 1988.
It was remarkable for two reasons, the first being that it was the one and only time I inquired after my father. My mother, in a manner that I can only describe as wildly uncharacteristic, blanched and then said very quickly, “It doesn't really matter. Have another lychee.” She then proceeded to poke lychees down my neck in an exceptional display of dexterity.
The other reason that Lychee Day was remarkable and, I imagine, the primary reason why it has not been celebrated since, is that it became apparent early in the day that Brody reacted to lychees with explosive diarrhea. (As if normal diarrhea isn't unpleasant enough!)
Later, on Lychee Night, I found my mother crying. When she saw me she wiped her eyes brusquely with the back of her hand and beamed at me. It was the first time it occurred to me that perhaps she wasn't invincible.
Anyway, I have never questioned any of the mythology surrounding any of these customs (nor ever asked a
gain about the other source of my genetic makeup). If these people/creatures wish to leave presents around, fine.
So I jump up. No presents this morning, unfortunately. I make myself some coffee and toast and curl up on the lounge to watch some cartoons. Watching cartoons makes my eyes sore. I think it's because I forget to blink.
After about an hour I walk into the Grace woman's room. She's looking fairly uncomfortable. As I help her up I can see, and smell, that she's wet the bed.
How disgusting! I put my hands up to my face and turn around in a circle, wondering what I should do.
I take her to the bathroom, take her clothes off and put her in the bath. I'm trying not to look at her naked. She lies there in the bath, staring at the ceiling. I quickly look in the bathroom cupboard and find some bubble bath. I whisk at the water between her feet so the bubbles will foam up and cover her body.
Then I strip her bed and put the linen in the washing machine. There's a plastic undersheet on the mattress. I lift that up by the corners with my fingers, trying not to touch it any more than necessary, and take it into the laundry, plunging it into the tub.
Washing has always been my job at home. My mother is a big fan of division of labor. I was responsible for washing everything—floors, dishes, clothes, the car. Brody's job used to be waste disposal but he never did it, so his job changed to fetching things.
“Darling Brody, you need to learn the importance of immediacy,” said my mother when she demoted him.
I dry the woman off as quickly as I can, dress her in a tracksuit and push her into her chair in the corner.
I suppose I had better feed her. Looking through the cupboards, I find some cereal and a bowl. I stir the cereal and the milk together so that the cereal is soggy and kneel in front of her, spooning it into her mouth and scraping her chin with the edge of the spoon.
After breakfast, I hang the washing out, taking the woman with me.
The back garden is about double the size of a normal suburban block. The Hills Hoist is at the very back. I can just see the metal end poking out behind a trellis of creepers.
On the way to the clothesline, the woman falls over and scrapes her knee. Prickles is winding around her legs. When she falls she makes an “oomph” noise. She sits on her bum looking down at her knee. I look at her face, waiting for some pain to register, but she doesn't seem to be surprised or distressed or hurt.
I drag her back inside by the arm to inspect the wound, eager to put my first aid training into action. I'm considering a splint but then decide that it would be over the top.
I'm looking down at her leg when I notice, with increasing dread, a dark stain spreading down the inside of her tracksuit leg. She's wet herself again.
So, I put her in the bath again. She's in the bath and the phone rings. So, I run out of the bathroom and just as I'm about to pick it up, it stops.
I take her clothes out of the bathroom and put them in the washing machine. I don't know what I'd do without this washing machine.
Prickles is following me around and getting under my feet and meowing loudly, so I put him outside, but two seconds later, there he is under my feet, because I left the window open to let him come in and out as he chooses.
I put some dry food in his bowl. He sniffs at it with disdain and then starts meowing at me again. So, I reach into the cupboard and pull out a tin of stinky cat food, open it and put it in the stinky bowl. He eats it.
I go searching through the cupboards trying to find some bedclothes. The linen cupboard is neatly organized. There are sheets and pillowcases still in their original packaging. One shelf is full of handbags.
As I make the woman's bed, I notice the thick, soft texture of the sheets. Our sheets at home are thinner and more coarse.
Hearing the washing machine purr to a stop, I take the washing out. Halfway to the clothesline I find the first basket of washing that I didn't put out because of the woman's knee. It's all too much, Toto. So, I'm trying to get to the clothesline carrying two baskets of washing.
It was at this point that I had my first encounter with my new neighbor. When she spoke I thought that she was speaking a different language, and she was, after a fashion. I come from a long line of suits who articulate with masterly precision (except, of course, for Nanna, who refers to young men “taking their ferret for a run” and hoots at men on construction sites—usually at the same time; Nanna has no shame).
I hear a voice off to my left.
“Looks like ya gotcherands full, mate.”
I look up. Through the shrubbery I can see the nextdoor neighbor's back veranda. It's about a meter off the ground. There's a woman standing in front of an aluminum screen door with one hand on her hip, smoking a cigarette.
“Beg yours?” I say, frowning.
She's wearing one of those flattering flannel nighties in lime with what looks like a rosebud pattern, and so I immediately don't like her.
I have never been a big fan of the nightie. The main issue that I have yet to resolve is this: how do you get into bed without the nightie sliding up and bunching around the waist? I have tried countless methods, including pulling the bedclothes to one side and rolling onto the bed sideways, but the rolling action has a sort of wringing effect, so you end up uncomfortable longways instead of sideways. It is not possible, in my experience, to get into bed with the fulllength nightie on without such strenuous exercise that it will leave you puffed and wide awake.
Now, I will concede that in the confines of one's own property one should be entitled to wear whatever one pleases without judgment or discrimination. However, the lady next door must have purchased said nightie at some stage and one can assume that the purchasing occurred beyond the boundary of the property. Who buys a lime nightie? Not the sort of person with whom I'm likely to get along, that's who!
“I was just saying you got your hands full, mate.”
“Yes. I do.”
“I'm not talking about the washing, mate.” She takes a drag of her cigarette between sentences and talks through a cloud of smoke. The original dragon lady—boom, boom.
I look over the vast piles of washing in my arms. “Oh?”
“Eyemeaner.”
“Eyemeaner?”
“Er!” She points back toward the house with her cigarette. “Er, arya deaf?”
“Oh, you mean her.”
“Yeah, mate, her. She givingyardtimeyet?”
I'm doing the translation in my head as we go along, giving you a hard time yet. This means there's a couple of seconds delay before I am able to respond.
“No, not really.”
She takes a long drag on the cigarette. “Well, I don't reckon yoolafta wait long, yoonowdameen?”
“Pardon? Oh! You-know-what-I-mean.”
“What?”
“You said “you know what I mean.' ”
“Yeah?” She cocks her head on the side and takes another drag. “You a nuffytooarya?”
“A nuffytooarya?”
“Christ! Two of yous! Just as bad as echutha.”
“No, I'm the carer.”
“What?”
Ccrck, are you receiving, lime nightie woman? Over, ccrck. “Carer, you know. I look after her.” “How old arya? Twelve? Pretty poor fuckin' choice if you ask me, mate.”
And with that she flicks her cigarette into the garden, spits, and walks back into her house, slamming the screen door behind her.
Well, I understood that!
Charming.
I carry the baskets to the washing line and hang out the clothes and the linen. I'm humming to myself. Something is nagging at the back of my mind. I must be hungry.
So now it's lunchtime and I make myself a sandwich. I'm looking for your plain ordinary condiment in the fridge. There are mustards: tarragon mustard, honey mustard, red peppercorn mustard. There are jellies: rosemary jelly, thyme jelly, red currant jelly. There is something called nasi goreng. I have a quick sniff and decide that it is probably not suitable for a sandwich.
There is a series of sun-dried vegetables: sun-dried tomatoes, sun-dried capsicum, sun-dried aubergine. Then there are several jars of tapenade. What in heaven's name is a tapenade? Where's the Vegemite?
I drag out a jar of nutmeg honey. What's wrong with ordinary squeezable honey? I spread the nutmeg honey on the bread and cut it into little triangles—force of habit.
I'm sitting out on the back step eating my sandwich. Something's nagging at me. What is it?
After lunch I sit on the couch and I'm exhausted. I pick up a magazine on the table and read that for a little while. I've done two loads of washing and I'm exhausted. Then it's time to bring it all back in again. Quickly, in case I run into that lime nightie woman next door again.
I'm standing at the washing line singing a little song.
The Grace woman! I've left her in the bath!
I run back to the house and into the bathroom. She is lying there in the bath. The bubbles have all disappeared. Most of the water has drained out of the bath. She lies there with her hands folded neatly over her belly. Her lips are blue and the skin on her hands and feet is puckered.
I can see her blue veins, like tiny vines, under the white skin of her chest and breasts. Her wet hair is wrapped in thin tendrils around her neck and across her cheek. She looks dead.
I've killed her. It's my first day and I've killed her.
I felt that cold paralyzed feeling, exactly like you get when you're watching a horror movie and you know something really scary is about to happen, but you can't look away. Except it wasn't deliciously scary, it was the real thing.
I've killed her. I'm a murderer. What do you do when you've killed someone? Do you call the police first, or the ambulance?
Then her eyes slid toward me, not blinking, cold and dry, like lizard's eyes. She held my gaze for just a moment, her lizard's eyes looking right through me, accusing.
My God, she's in there.
She's looking at me like a real person, but not. Her eyes are on mine but there's nothing. Is there? I'm frightened of her.
I'm holding my breath. Fright steals through my veins and it's cold. I'm frozen. My heart ka-thump, ka-thump's in my ears. Then her eyes slide away again.
Finding Grace Page 3