The Making of Christina

by Meredith Jaffe

  ‘She’s picky but she does eat. Well when she’s at home she does.’ She glanced at Mrs Hardcastle. ‘I can’t speak for here.’

  Christina trailed off under the sharp scrutiny of the headmistress and the doctor. It seemed they expected an answer to a question she was sure they had not asked.

  Whatever they were hinting at, it was late and she was too tired for games. Keeping her eyes fixed on the floor, she spat out the question. ‘Will one of you please tell me what is going on?’

  Silence seeped into the rug like spilt red wine. She looked up and found Dr Connelly sweeping her fringe from her eyes and Mrs Hardcastle twisting a gold wedding band around and around her fine-boned finger.

  Anguish stabbed Christina’s chest. ‘Please answer me. What’s wrong with Bianca?’

  Clearly the headmistress and the doctor were each waiting for the other to speak.

  ‘Bianca was sure she was pregnant. She was quite specific about the dates,’ said Trisha Connelly eventually.

  ‘You’ve already told me that.’

  The doctor ploughed on. ‘She was using 20 March as her guide.’

  ‘That’s the day before her birthday.’

  ‘So she said.’ Dr Connelly leaned forward. ‘She says that was the last time.’

  ‘I’m sorry, you’ve lost me. What was the last time?’

  Mrs Hardcastle gazed at an unseen point of interest outside the window, drawing all their attention to the darkened pane.

  Christina swallowed against the lump swelling in her throat. She was conscious she was holding her breath but feared the act of exhaling would destroy her last remnants of control.

  Dr Connelly turned back to Christina, her mouth thinned to a red gash. Her words came out in a cold flat line. ‘March 20 was the last time her stepfather had penetrative intercourse with her.’

  The words smashed into Christina’s chest, leaving her slack-jawed and gasping. All of a sudden the room became impossibly bright and somebody was screaming an incomprehensible ugly stream of sound. She was angry with them for making such a racket. How was she supposed to think with all that noise? She felt clammy and nauseous. Alarmed, she threw back her head. Mrs Hardcastle was descending upon her with a brown paper bag, so she jerked her arms over her head to protect herself. She couldn’t bear the thought of having anything over her face.

  Her voice came out in a shrill whistle as if she were sucking in air through a straw. ‘You’re wrong,’ she wheezed. ‘We went out for dinner for Bianca’s birthday.’

  As the memory grew more solid, the constriction in her chest eased. ‘No, you’re definitely wrong,’ she rushed out, ‘we went to the Grand Hotel. We had pink champagne and I’d organised for the chef to make Bianca’s favourite meal – rack of lamb in an orange glaze. We had individual pots of tiramisu for dessert, which is never as good as Mama’s but Bianca didn’t mind.’

  Christina turned to the two women. She had proved Dr Connelly wrong. She knew exactly what they had been doing that night, as clear as if it were yesterday. The staff had joined them and sung ‘Happy Birthday’ and ‘Why Was She Born So Beautiful’. There had been the usual jokes about being sweet sixteen and never kissed, all laughing as Bianca blushed. ‘Jackson had one of the staff tie a napkin around her eyes and when he gave the word the napkin was whipped off and there was a set of car keys.’

  The headmistress and the doctor frowned. She would have to spell it out. ‘He bought her a car for her birthday. Nothing fancy just a little car, a metallic black – well it’s called Obsidian but it’s black really – Golf. Jackson had got personalised numberplates. Busy Bee. That’s her nickname.’

  Thinking about it, she remembered something else important too. Christina smiled at the women, eager for them to see how their facts were wrong. ‘It couldn’t have been that night. Bianca drove us home in her new car, the three of us were together the whole time, and then Jackson left early the following morning because he had to go to Sydney. I remember because –’

  ‘How long have you been in a relationship with Bianca’s stepfather, Ms Clemente?’ Dr Connelly cut across her.

  She faltered beneath the doctor’s dark stare. ‘Thirteen years.’

  Before she could ask how on earth that was relevant, the doctor said, ‘And up until today, how would you have described Bianca’s relationship with her stepfather?’

  ‘Oh Bianca adores Jackson. He’s like a father to her.’

  A gleam of triumph alighted in the doctor’s eye.

  Every cell of her body screamed in a shrill discordant chorus – No! No! No! No! No! Dr Connelly’s suggestion was preposterous. Christina shouted above the din. ‘Jackson would never hurt Bianca. He’s known her practically her whole life.’

  The words bounced unheeded off the walls and thudded to the floor.

  The doctor refused to be deflected. ‘Bianca alleges that her stepfather has been sexually abusing her since she was eleven years old.’

  ‘No, he can’t have. He’d never hurt her.’

  ‘You don’t believe your own daughter?’

  Mrs Hardcastle cut through the tension. ‘I think what Ms Clemente is trying to say, Dr Connelly, is that she finds the prospect unbelievable.’

  The doctor whipped around. ‘In my experience, when a young girl tells me she has been raped for the last five years of her life, she is telling the absolute truth.’

  The headmistress ignored her outrage. ‘What I am suggesting, Dr Connelly, is that maintaining a reasonable attitude may be more helpful to all parties concerned.’

  Christina sank to the couch. She studied a lump of dried mud that had fallen off her boot. Scooping it up, she crushed it in her fist. The grains sparkled like a million tiny diamonds in her palm. An immense calm descended upon her. She was back in the hexagonal room, piecing together the story of Bartholomew Rivers, of Genevieve. Where was Bianca? Out riding. On a treasure hunt, up at the stables or driving the ute. Alone, with him. A million opportunities. Christina rubbed her hand clean on her jeans. What had she done?

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Hardcastle, but we both know Bianca would never make up a story like this. It’s not in her nature to lie.’ Christina wrapped her coat around her. Was it possible to believe two opposing ideas were true, even if they contradicted each other? Another memory surfaced. Jackson saying how if Christina ever had to pick between them, he knew she would always take Bianca’s side. Now she knew why he always said that. But he was right. Her head cleared and the panic subsided. She made her voice firm, even as her heart lay bruised in her chest.

  ‘If Bianca says Jackson has been molesting her for the past five years, then I believe her. What I cannot understand is why I didn’t see it and . . .’ She paused, the words were there but saying them was unbearable. Drawing a ragged breath she continued, ‘Why wouldn’t she have told me?’

  The question hung there, a dark cloud.

  Drawing herself tall, Christina spoke with the last speck of maternal authority she had. ‘I have to see Bianca. Now.’ She rose but so too did Dr Connelly.

  ‘There’s something else, Ms Clemente. By law, I must report cases of suspected sexual assault to the Department of Community Services. They’ll want to talk to Bianca.’

  Deep inside her pockets, Christina’s fingernails sliced half-moons into her palms. ‘Hasn’t she been through enough for one day?’

  ‘Apart from my duties as a GP, I am a case worker at the Central Women’s Health Unit. I’m on good terms with the regional head of the team that investigates matters of child abuse. I think I should call Anne Rushmore and fill her in on the details.’ The doctor directed this last comment to Mrs Hardcastle.

  The word abuse pounded in Christina’s ears. Taking a deep breath, she said, ‘I guess you have to do your duty.’

  Trisha Connelly’s expression transformed from urban hippie to battle-hardened crusader. ‘The po
lice will want to interview you too, Ms Clemente. Separately, of course.’

  It was clear from her tone that Dr Connelly held Christina responsible, that she saw her as an unfit parent. Not without good cause. But Dr Connelly was not Christina’s concern, Bianca was. ‘I’m going to see Bianca now,’ she barged towards the door, daring the doctor to stop her.

  Mrs Hardcastle moved to accompany her but Christina dismissed her with a limp wave. ‘I know where I’m going, thanks.’

  Once hidden from sight in the darkened corridor, Christina slumped against the wall. The sense of calm lifted and shock and sorrow welled inside her, threatening to breach the flimsy dam of self-control. Clasping her hands over her mouth, she suppressed the urge to scream.

  When she finally trusted herself to speak, Christina went in search of Bianca. She expected to find her asleep so she didn’t think to knock. She entered to find Bianca lying on the bed with her head resting on Phoebe’s shoulder, their fingers intertwined. Seeing her mother, Bianca shot to her feet.

  ‘Mum.’

  Phoebe slid across to her own bed and sat with her arms folded across her chest. Christina took the point – Phoebe was going nowhere. Bianca edged towards the bathroom door and Christina’s heart clenched at the obvious rejection. She told herself Bianca was uncomfortable in her presence because she had no idea what Dr Connelly had told her. Could a sixteen year old stipulate that details of her consultation be withheld from her mother? Christina had no idea but guessed patient confidentiality probably excluded her. She said, ‘How are you feeling, sweetheart?’

  Bianca shrugged. ‘Okay.’

  It was a poor start. ‘Can I get you anything? I’m sure sick bay has paracetamol if you need it. Or would you like me to make you a cup of tea,’ she said, gesturing towards the kitchenette down the hall.

  ‘It’s not that kind of pain,’ Phoebe snapped.

  Christina regarded Phoebe. She should be grateful, she was grateful, that Phoebe was Bianca’s best friend. Bianca was lucky to have someone as loyal as Phoebe to protect her. The thought jolted Christina. Because she had not. She tried to smile, to lower the tension growing in the room. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t knock, Phoebe. The doctor said she’d given Bee a sleeping pill. I didn’t expect to find you here.’

  ‘Someone has to look after her,’ the teenager retaliated.

  ‘Pheebs,’ Bianca whispered.

  Phoebe shot to her feet, ‘Well it’s true, Bee.’ She turned on Christina. ‘This is all your fault.’

  Christina felt her mouth go dry. As evenly as she could manage, she said, ‘I had no idea what was going on, Phoebe. That’s a terrible thing to admit, I know, but it’s the truth.’ Turning to Bianca, she added, ‘I’m sorry. To my shame, I knew nothing.’

  ‘But you should have known!’ Phoebe shouted. Her eyes were shiny with tears but she planted herself in front of Christina, determined to say her piece.

  Christina didn’t want a scene in front of Bianca. Phoebe was entitled to her accusations, no doubt she was right, but Bianca needed them both to stay calm. ‘You obviously know more than I do, Phoebe,’ she said, trying to placate her.

  ‘Bianca has told me everything. Haven’t you, Bee?’

  Bianca shook her head and fled to the bathroom, locking the door behind her. The shower came on.

  Christina stared at the locked door. Wondered if Bianca really was showering or just blocking them out. Turning to Phoebe she asked a simple question but one she wasn’t sure she was prepared to hear the answer to. ‘What’s Bianca told you?’

  ‘Everything,’ Phoebe hissed, tilting her chin.

  The blunt truth of this sawed at her insides. ‘How long have you known . . . everything?’

  Phoebe crossed her arms. ‘Ages.’

  ‘But how long is ages, Phoebe?’ Christina pleaded.

  The lanky teenager sucked on her cheek. ‘Most of this year. Since Bee started sharing a room with me.’

  Christina’s eyes burned but she would not cry in front of this angry child. ‘After she started boarding, did she say if he . . . Has anything happened since?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Truths besieged her. Ages, Phoebe said. Five years, Dr Connelly said. Since they’d been here in the mountains. Nausea rolled over her in waves. Her skin felt like it was on fire. She snatched at her jumper, wrenched it over her head. Stared at her bare arms suddenly clustered with angry red welts.

  Phoebe was not done. ‘Do you want to know why Bianca hates you so much, Ms Clemente?’ She didn’t wait for a response. ‘Because she tried telling you – she did!’ she shouted before Christina had a chance to say a word.

  ‘He’d do stuff to her in the house, even when you were there. He thought it was a game. He said it was such a big house, she could scream her lungs out for all he cared. You’d never notice.’

  The truth of Phoebe’s words battered her. Bartholomews Run was riddled with places to hide. So many rooms: the studio, the barn, the stables.

  ‘He bought her underwear from Victoria’s Secret,’ Phoebe spat out, her face twisted with disgust.

  Christina’s mouth filled with a silent scream.

  ‘He’d make her go through the mail-order catalogues with him whilst he picked pieces he liked. She told me that sometimes he ordered two sets. One for Bianca and one for you.’

  Christina collapsed onto Bianca’s bed. Initially Jackson had hated her wearing underwear, then all of a sudden he changed. Her drawers were crammed with lacy thongs and sheer baby doll pyjamas. There was a particular satin and chiffon cami set in pale apricot that she adored. For a time Jackson requested she wear it every time they made love. And Bianca?

  ‘He used to laugh about it and tell her how much sexier she looked in it than you did. Then he’d make her do stuff.’

  ‘Stop!’ Christina throws her hands over her ears. ‘Enough, Phoebe, please.’

  But Phoebe couldn’t or wouldn’t stop. ‘He was always buying her stuff. Jewellery, shoes, clothes. He said he liked to dress her up.’

  Fragments filled her mind. Bianca insisting she wash her own clothes. The locked box on Bianca’s chest of drawers. When asked, Bianca said it held her treasures. Christina never even thought to insist she unlock it.

  The shower turned off. Phoebe stepped closer. ‘You’ve ruined Bianca’s life.’

  The toilet flushed, Bianca would be out soon. Phoebe hissed at her. ‘She doesn’t want you here.’

  ‘You can’t know that.’ Peppered with Phoebe’s accusations, the words lacked conviction.

  Phoebe sat next to her, too close, thigh against thigh. Christina shifted away but Phoebe moved closer. ‘Bianca thought she was pregnant. She was frightened and she knew she needed help. Imagine carrying your stepfather’s baby.’

  Christina stared at her knees, breathing in, breathing out, trying to ignore the relentless whispering in her ear.

  ‘The plan was to run away. Go to Sydney, to uni. Leave you playing happy families with your rich boyfriend in your oh-so-fabulous house.’

  Christina gulped, in and out she told herself. Don’t listen to her.

  ‘He told her if she kept her mouth shut, he’d buy her an apartment on the harbour – Kirribilli or Potts Point, wherever she liked. That nothing need ever change. He said he knew a thousand ways to distract you. She would be his forever.’

  Christina faced the darkened window, stared out into the void. Her arms burned. She scratched and scratched at them, felt the skin collect under her nails. She scratched harder until her arms were slippery with blood. She leaned her forehead against the glass, felt the slide of sweat. Her guts boiled and Christina realised she was going to be sick.

  She pushed past Phoebe and headed for the kitchenette. Into the sink went her tea, her tears and her life. Christina vomited until there was nothing left except bile, but even then she felt no relief. Her legs shook an
d her arms burned and her insides felt like they had been eaten by acid. What had she done to Bianca?

  chapter twenty

  Five Days Till Christmas

  The weather is typically hot and humid. As they weed and mulch the vegetable beds, Christina feels rivulets of sweat stream over her body. The sky fills with towers of clouds that will brood in the long hot afternoon before exploding in a fury of thunder and lightning. Three kookaburras on the branch of a gum tree throw up their cackling cry, foretelling the impending storm. By Christina’s knee, a colony of ants races back and forth, their instincts warning them to make safe their nest.

  Two beds over, Rosa pinches the tips off the basil so it will grow bushier and rubs the bursting skins of the tomatoes, pocketing a few for later.

  ‘Have you thought about what you’re gonna get Bianca for Christmas, Tina?’ she says, moving over to the peas and picking tender pods for tonight’s dinner.

  Christina, who is sprinkling potash over the potatoes, pauses to consider the question. A present. Beyond Bianca’s safe return, she has given no thought to a gift. What meaningful gift can she give her daughter other than her contrition? An actual object is beyond her imagination. If asked, Bianca would no doubt tell her to buy an Oxfam goat.

  Bianca has grown to hate money. She believes Jackson’s wealth was the key to what happened. She despised their dependence and the false sense of security it provided. She had recognised that money was more than an economic necessity. It advantaged people in ways intellect or social standing alone did not.

  As far as Bianca is concerned, Christina’s reliance on Jackson’s money made her unwilling to rock the boat and Jackson knew it. He used that knowledge to threaten Bianca and force her to keep silent. Bianca had been right. If only she were here so that Christina could tell her so. That Della too had been right when she’d questioned the power of money to corrupt love and Christina had not listened.

  Christina wheels a barrow of spoilt hay to the end of the row, the geese trailing behind her. They gather honking at the gate, hoping for a treat, until Rosa yells at them and they waddle back to their favourite spot under the hydrangeas.