Being Here

by Barry Jonsberg

  She cups her face in her hands and stares at me. I detect a reddening of her cheeks.

  ‘Aw, Mrs C …’

  ‘I have not finished. You are extraordinary. Do not ask if you are good enough for him. Consider whether he is good enough for you. He should be grateful to be in a position to earn your love. And if he is not, if he ever looks at you like you are something less than the greatest prize he could ever win, then … then …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Tell him to piss off.’

  There is silence for a heartbeat. And then Carly laughs. She laughs so hard that tears run down her cheeks. I rummage in my bag, produce a dog-eared photograph.

  ‘Here is his photograph,’ I say. ‘I don’t need it anymore.’

  ‘Mrs C …’

  ‘I don’t want it anymore. I will swap it for one of you, if you have a spare and you don’t mind a sentimental old woman having it. But you can keep this.’

  She takes it.

  ‘Jeez, Mrs C. I wasn’t saying he was bad, or anything. This is about me, not him.’

  ‘It is only about you, Carly. It is about the love you deserve. And now I want you to listen one more time. Because my story is coming to an end. And it is a story about just this very thing. Do you want to know why I never married? Why I never had a boyfriend, after Adam? Because after his love, I knew there was no point in settling for anything less. I couldn’t settle for anything less.’

  ‘He’d do anything for you, huh?’

  ‘He sacrificed himself for me,’ I say. My words sound small even to my own ears. ‘He loved me so much he sacrificed himself. Would your young man do that for you?’

  I find my own face is moist. I brush tears away with a wrinkled hand. It seems somehow apart from me.

  ‘Turn on that machine,’ I say.

  She does.

  CHAPTER 18

  FOR A WHILE, WE established the old routine on t he farm.

  Mother wrote every morning while I spent my time with Adam. I no longer entirely trusted the orchards. They weren’t as safe as they had been. Yet they provided the protection of cover and were swollen, ripe, with memories and emotions. I didn’t allow Adam anywhere near the house. And yet he still left evidence. I saw it everywhere and spent hours removing it. It pained Adam that he couldn’t be with me. It carved changes in his face. He grew thinner, gaunt. And his spirit seemed to shrivel. When I left him to return home, he would watch me until I disappeared. He never moved a muscle, just stood there as if the sole reason for his existence was disappearing forever.

  At night I watched the moon through my window. It scuttled through clouds and spilled light on my face. But my chair – the twin of the one in Mother’s room where Adam had appeared that first night, swinging his legs into and out of shadow – remained empty. The foot of my bed gathered nothing now but dust. I curled into myself, hugged my memories and rode the pain to troubled sleep.

  The only time I relaxed was during the hours Mother was writing. At all other times we would be together. Or if not, I knew she might appear at any moment. She had not forgotten the intruder. Sometimes she would make us search together. She nestled the shotgun in her arms, cradled it like a baby, and we swept the area around the house, widening the circle until we reached the furthest boundaries of the orchard. She never found anything, but that didn’t stop her searching.

  From nine until midday, however, I was safe. I took my book out onto the verandah, stayed there for ten minutes. Glancing through the kitchen window, I checked that Mother’s angular frame remained bent over her task, her hand moving regularly, the ink filling up white space. Then I descended the steps, missing the third which always creaked. I padded softly away. Then ran. Ran so the wind made my hair dance. Ran so my dress pressed against my flying legs and moulded to my muscles. Ran to the orchard.

  To Adam.

  To Adam who waited for me, perched on the branch of an apple tree or sitting cross-legged on the ground, splitting blades of grass. When I appeared at the mouth of the avenue, his face cleared. His pinched expression, the stormy emotions that darkened his skin, were blown away by the squall of my arrival. He stood and I rushed into his arms. I felt his hair against my cheek and smelled the maleness of him. The scent of sweat and sun and summer rain. And occasionally, something else. Looking back, I think it was the smell of mortality.

  One day. The last day. A Wednesday.

  I was fifteen years old.

  I lay on my back, my head resting on Adam’s stomach. He stroked my cheek. I watched the boughs of the apple tree, the canopy above. Leaves stirred listlessly in the heavy air. As they parted I caught glimpses of the sky beyond, tantalising peeks of the infinite before the veils of green closed once more. I checked my internal clock. I had another hour before I would have to return to the house and help Mother prepare lunch.

  ‘Adam?’ I said.

  He grunted. There was drowsiness in the noise, as if I’d caught him in that moment when sleep had breached the wall of wakefulness and was on the verge of victory.

  ‘Why do you love me?’ I asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why do you love me?’

  His fingers stopped their stroking. His leg, crooked before, straightened. The muscles in his stomach tensed.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘That,’ I said, ‘is not the right answer. Please. You must be able to tell me.’ There was a protracted silence, long enough to breed within me a worm of wriggling doubt. It grew as quickly as it was born, developed teeth and chewed to the surface. I rolled onto my side and gazed into his face. ‘You do love me, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. And it was the most simple of affirmatives. As if I had asked a question that required no contemplation. It simply was.

  ‘Why?’

  He closed his eyes. Long lashes curled against olive skin. Then he opened them again. I felt there was a danger of falling into their depths, spinning down forever. And I knew I would not regret the descent for one moment. I would revel in it.

  ‘I can’t explain, Leah. All I know is that there is nothing more … precious in this world than you. Ask me anything and I will do it. Without doubt, without regret.’ He smiled and brushed my cheek. ‘I’ve told you before. You are the expert with words. Don’t ask me to explain.’

  It was all I wanted, all I needed. I closed my eyes and lay my head against his arm. The air was heavy with the scent of apples and the drone of insects.

  ‘Leah?’

  The word hit me with the violence of a fist, though it was quietly spoken. I was on my feet in one movement. Blood pulsed in my brain. I was dimly aware of Adam standing next to me.

  But all my attention was taken by the figure of Mother halfway down the avenue of apple trees. She looked at me and then at Adam. What I saw in her gaze made me feel my heart was being torn in two. There was incomprehension. And then a flood of betrayal. She withered, grew old before my eyes.

  Mother turned on her heels and strode in the direction of the house, her long black dress flapping.

  ‘Mamma!’ I screamed.

  And then I ran after her, my heart, lungs and legs pumping.

  I intercepted Mother a hundred metres from the house. In the periphery of my vision I caught a glimpse of Adam emerging from the avenue of apple trees. I put the image out of mind.

  ‘Mamma,’ I said, stepping in front of her. She kept walking, her face a stone, and I was forced to scamper backwards. ‘Mamma, please. I can explain.’

  She stopped then. She looked at me as if I were a stranger.

  ‘Can you, Leah? Then explain.’

  I didn’t see the blow coming. My head snapped to the side. A fraction of a second later I heard the crack of flesh on flesh. The burning of my cheek followed slowly. I didn’t raise a hand to my face. I straightened and looked directly into her eyes.

  ‘It is not what you think,’ I said. My voice did not quaver and I was grateful. I didn’t know why it was important, but I felt it.

>   ‘You are a whore! A jezebel!’ For the first time, Mother’s voice was raised, her face contorted. I felt the pain pulsing from her. It stung worse than her blow.

  ‘No, Mamma. I am not. I am not.’

  The second slap came from the other side. This time I saw it coming, but did nothing to avoid it. I knew I deserved punishment, that my pain was a rightful price to pay. I also knew this pain was nothing compared to the spiritual suffering I must undergo later, my knees on the hard wood of the verandah, the words of contrition that would wring my soul until it was dry.

  Even so. Even so. I thought I understood what I did. But it turned out I knew nothing about the real nature of pain. I was merely on the brink of knowledge.

  ‘You are a liar and a whore!’ screamed Mother. ‘You have lain with that boy. I saw you. Dear God, I wish my eyes had been torn from their sockets before they had ever witnessed such a sight. My daughter. A whore.’

  ‘Mamma,’ I said. ‘I will tell you the truth. I swore to you that I would always tell you the truth. Listen. I beg you. Listen to me. Please, Mamma.’

  I sank to my knees.

  I kept my eyes fixed on Mother’s boots as I babbled. How Adam had appeared at Daddy’s funeral. A small boy. My imaginary friend who grew as my imagination grew, whose spirit took on bodily form over the years, became … himself. I tried to explain why I thought I had made him. To combat the void left when my father placed a gun barrel into his mouth and pulled a trigger? To fill the gap that might have been filled with children my own age, at school perhaps?

  I told her everything. I left out nothing. And with each word, I felt cleansed. For I had always felt that I had been less than honest with Mother, that I had withheld.

  I had not lied. But I had withheld. And she deserved better. She was my mother and I loved her.

  When I was done, all words spent, I kept my head lowered. The silence was sharp, but I didn’t know if forgiveness or anger honed it. I looked up.

  Mamma had a fist to her mouth. Her eyes were wild. There were tears on her face. I could not remember the last time I had seen her cry. I felt a surge of hope.

  ‘My God,’ she whispered. ‘My God, what have you done?’

  I reached out towards her leg.

  ‘I don’t know, Mamma,’ I said. ‘What have I done?’

  Her scream made my blood run cold. It was something primitive, primeval. If I had not seen her mouth twisted in agony I wouldn’t have believed her capable of uttering it. Her hand raked across my cheek. But this time it was not the flat of her palm. It was nails that tore at my flesh. I lifted a hand to my face and it came away red. And then her fingers were entangled in my hair. Mamma yanked me to my feet. I felt my scalp stretch and tear. She had both hands in my hair now, pulling and ripping. The pain made my eyes fill. It occupied all my being, so that her words came as if from a distance.

  ‘Do you not see?’ she screamed. ‘Do you not see what you have done? You have brought evil here, Leah. Into our world. You have been corrupted by the Devil and that … that creature is his spawn. Here to tempt you into wickedness. How could you create something like that? It is only God who can create. Or the Devil to taint His purity. And the Devil has used your vanity to pursue his own ends. To harness the evil that lies within you.’

  ‘No, Mamma. Adam is not evil. I am not.’

  ‘You lie. You are so full of sin, you cannot taste your lies. But they are foul, girl. Your very breath reeks of corruption.’

  The blows came faster now. Mother put all her strength into them. My lip burst and lights exploded in my head. I tried to cover my skull with my hands, but she found a way through. The thought blossomed through pain. She means to kill me. My mother means to kill me.

  When the pressure eased and then fell away, I thought for a moment that she had re-considered. I opened an eye that was already starting to swell and close. And what I saw did not, at first, make sense. I shook my head to clear illusions.

  Adam had his fingers around mother’s throat. Her face was distorted in pain and fear. Already I could see her skin changing colour, suffused with purple as oxygen fled. She flayed at his arms, but her strength had gone. Terror lived behind her eyes.

  And Adam? Adam was expressionless. The muscles in his arms bunched as he increased the pressure. Sweat stood on his forehead. And the worst part was the silence. The sky and earth looked on and were silent.

  ‘Adam, no!’ I screamed, but he didn’t appear to hear me. His eyes bored into my mother’s. I tried to tear his hands away, but he was too strong. I brought my face as close to his as I could.

  ‘Adam,’ I said. ‘If you love me, you will let her go. Please, Adam? Let her go. For the love you bear me.’

  For a moment, nothing happened. Then his eyes focused once more. He saw me. And his hands dropped.

  Mother fell to the ground, gasping. I threw myself beside her and cradled her head in my hands. She coughed and her eyes bulged. But as her lungs tore at the air, her skin lightened, became tinged with pink. I cried. And they were tears of relief.

  It took a few minutes before she was able to speak. Her words were little more than croaks, but they pierced me to the heart.

  ‘Do you deny the Devil’s evil, Leah? Do you deny it still?’

  I looked up and met Adam’s eyes. He occupied them once more. But all I read within his gaze was defeat. I knew then … then … thomething … happening … thomething …

  ‘Mrs C?’ Carly sits up in her chair. Her eyes flash with alarm. ‘Are you all right?’

  There is a numbness on the left side of my face. My mouth sags and a thin trail of drool leaks. I need to answer her. I am not all right. My brain sends orders to my mouth, but the message doesn’t arrive. It is strange. I see the words ordered beautifully in my mind. I know which to select. But my body is an idiot.

  ‘Thomething …’ I say. ‘Thomething

  …’ After that there is bustle and lights and movement. But most of it passes me by.

  THE BEGINNING

  And was all the time merging with a unique endeavour

  To bring to bloom the million-petalled flower

  Of being here.

  Next time you can’t pretend there’ll be anything else …

  CHAPTER 19

  I AM THE CENTRE.

  Everything else is vague. There is a harsh light somewhere. I am lying in a sea of white. My body feels dry and shrivelled and weightless. A husk. The smallest breeze will sweep me away, tumble me towards a void. I close my eyes to seek it. Find it.

  ‘Mrs Cartwright?’

  The voice is a summons I don’t want to obey, but it is insistent. The only way to make it go away is to acknowledge it. I do not know how I know this. I just know. I open my eyes.

  The light is still there. A face swims before it. I do not recognise the face, but I am not sure that means anything. The light paints a nimbus around it. An angel with pockmarked skin and a thin moustache.

  ‘Can you hear me, Mrs Cartwright?’ says the mundane angel.

  I attempt to send a message from the centre, but the practicalities are beyond me. I blink my eyes instead.

  ‘You are in hospital, Mrs Cartwright,’ he says. ‘You have had a stroke, but you are stable now. Do not try to talk. What you need, more than anything, is rest.’

  I was resting. Why summon me to tell me to rest? I don’t understand.

  She has red hair and a face I know. She holds my hand.

  There are machines around me. From the corners of my eyes I see lights blinking and lines that run, fade, renew themselves. Tubes grow from the withered flesh of my arm. It is my flesh, but outside of me. I am the centre. Little else is real.

  ‘Oh, Leah,’ says the woman with red hair. She is weeping and she holds my hand too hard. I know her. I think I loved her in another place and another time. She brushes her eyes with a hand and tries for a smile. Her aim is off. It comes out twisted.

  ‘You’re looking much better, sweetie. We were worried about you ther
e, for a while. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Leah Cartwright it’s that she’s a tough old bird. Keeps coming back for more. You’ll be on your feet before you know it, so you will.’ She is gathering momentum. I feel her words are masking something, that maybe she spills them to avoid thinking. I don’t know. ‘Everyone from home sends their love and warmest wishes for a speedy recovery. I have a card.’ She holds it up before my face. It is full of writing, but I cannot make any of it out. ‘I’ll put it on your bedside. And then there are the flowers. Have you seen the flowers? They are beautiful. A massive bouquet. Can you smell them? It’s like summer in this room, Leah.’

  Her name is Jane. I want to taste the word in my mouth, but I can’t.

  I find strength from somewhere, channel it into what remains of nerves and sinew and muscle. I squeeze her hand and watch her eyes widen, fill with wonder.

  ‘The baby, Leah,’ she says and her voice is drenched in the exultation of mystery. ‘It moved. My baby moved. She kicked.’

  She laughs, a hymn to life. My mouth twitches.

  Everything is quickening. It is as it should be.

  She continues talking, a torrent of language. I like the drone of words. They mingle with the hisses of the machines, become a lullaby that rocks me to sleep.

  Time passes and I occupy a little more of myself. Now I feel myself as a centre that pushes outwards, nearly to the limit of a wasted body. I cannot control it. No, I cannot do that. But I am me. I am Leah Cartwright. My mind is battered, but working. Memories are more vivid than the room I know I will not leave. I can move parts of my body, though it takes an extraordinary effort of will. I even manage to speak one or two words, but they are poor and mangled things. I smile and it is lopsided. The muscles on the left side of my face refuse to cooperate. The building is crumbling, but I am a tenant yet.