The Scent of Apples

by Jacquie McRae

  *

  Warmth on my face wakes me up. Early morning sunshine spills over my bed. That was the best night’s sleep I’ve had in ages. I stretch my arms out and push myself up. As I do, strands of hair get caught in my fingers, and I see more on my pillow. I remember pulling one bit of hair out. Maybe that loosened the others.

  I raise my hand to my head, where it feels sore. A small bit of scalp appears to have no hair. Parting my hair, and looking in the mirror, I see a tiny bald patch. How weird that I don’t remember doing it. I brush my hair over the spot and tie my hair in a pony tail.

  I rub the spent hair between my palms so it forms a ball. I remember a game we used to play at school. Someone said that if you pulled out an eyelash, blew on it and made a wish, your wish would come true. I dump the hair into my rubbish bin and wonder how many wishes I get for that amount of hair.

  I’m glad to see that Mum’s bedroom door is closed as I creep past it and sneak down the stairs to Nan’s room. Her curtains are still drawn, and in the darkness I pull back her blankets and climb in bed beside her.

  ‘It’s me, Nan,’ I whisper.

  Her eyes blink open but there’s no recognition in them. Just a blank stare.

  I pick up her limp arm and wrap it over me. I snuggle into her and the familiar smell of violets and her talcum powder eases some of the dread caught in my stomach. Across the room, Poppa’s towelling dressing gown still hangs on a hook behind the door. His tartan slippers, with the hole where his big toe used to pop out, lie deserted below.

  A black and white photo of the three of us sits in an ornate silver frame on the bedside table. Tears pool in my eyes as I remember the day it was taken.

  Most memories I have from when I was four are fuzzy, but this one seems to have been etched onto my brain with a hot poker.

  I know it was a scorching day. I was running around in shorts and a singlet. Mum had told me to ‘go and get decent,’ and when I asked her where I’d find him she told me off for being smart. I’d actually thought decent was the name of a person I could play with. I spent most of the morning catching white butterflies with a net in our vegetable garden.

  I caught more than a butterfly though: just before lunch I walked as fast as I could up to the house with a rabbit tucked under my arm. I wanted to yell out and tell everyone what I found, but I didn’t want to frighten the rabbit. It had nestled its head into my armpit. Nan and Poppa were sitting in the sunshine in the pagoda.

  ‘Look what I found eating our marigolds in the veggie patch.’ I lifted my elbow up a fraction so they could see my treasure. ‘I think it’s the Easter Bunny.’

  ‘Do you now? Let’s have another look.’ Nan looked over and smiled at me.

  I moved in close and held the rabbit tight while they both inspected it. They were both grinning so much that I knew it was definitely the Easter Bunny.

  Nan pointed to a little black cross on the rabbit’s left ear. ‘I think you’re right, Libby. Look at this.’

  I can’t remember the last time I’d been that excited. ‘Cool!’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Nan said, ‘but I think you should let him go.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘So he can deliver all those beautiful eggs he makes.’

  I wanted to keep the rabbit just for myself. I had already imagined putting him in the spare bedroom so he could make me chocolate whenever I felt the urge. But then I remembered how excited I got when I knew he was coming, and thought that the other kids probably got that excited as well. Too much chocolate made me vomit anyway.

  Nan must have seen me hesitate.

  ‘We can take a photo of him before we let him go. Then you’ll have some proof that he came to visit.’

  We got Toby to take the photo. In it, all three of us are squinting into the sunshine and I’m holding onto the rabbit like I’m never going to let him go.

  As I lie here with Nan’s lifeless arm draped over me, I realise that since Poppa’s death I’ve been searching for some proof that we’re all going to be OK. The knots in my stomach and the face on the pillow beside me tell another story.

  Chapter Four

  Nan once told me that everybody had hidden talents, and everyone could become an expert at something. ‘What about Kim?’ I asked. Kim was a little boy up the road who had epilepsy, as well as a load of other problems.

  ‘Especially Kim,’ she said.

  I stared at her, unconvinced. ‘But his limbs shake so fast. If that happened to me I’d have to lie down after five minutes.’

  ‘But Kim doesn’t need a rest, does he? He just keeps working away at whatever his latest challenge is until he conquers it.’

  I nodded.

  ‘So that’s his talent. He’s an expert at never giving up.’

  It seems my special talent is pulling my hair out. My fingers search for strands of hair with any defects. This week while Dad’s been away, I’ve discovered that I’m an expert at finding hair that is too coarse or too thin, or just has too many kinks. I pluck them all. If someone asked me to explain why I was pulling my hair out, I wouldn’t have an answer, except to say that it makes me feel good while I’m doing it, and once I start I just have to keep going. Like a freak flood. I don’t see it coming, and yet it picks me up and sweeps me away.

  Wheels crunch on the gravel outside my window. I look out. Dad’s car pulls into our garage. I grab a hoodie, throw it on over my pyjama top and run down the stairs.

  ‘Dad’s home,’ I yell as I race past the kitchen door. The pots and pans clang in the kitchen as I wait on the porch.

  ‘Hi, Libby. You look different from the last time I saw you.’

  I pull down the neck of my sweater so he can see the pyjama top underneath.

  ‘OK, your clothes mightn’t have changed, but I’m glad to see some colour in your cheeks. How’s Nan?’

  ‘Still the same.’ I take one of his bags from him, and as I do I feel the smoothness of his hands. Nan always said that his soft hands and long slender fingers were made for playing the piano. When I asked her why he didn’t learn to play as a boy, she said Poppa didn’t want him to. When I asked why not, she said that Poppa had his reasons, and that Dad was busy enough with school and stuff.

  I follow him into his office, where he dumps his briefcase on his desk.

  ‘Mum’s in the kitchen.’

  ‘Mmm-hmm, I’ll come and see you both in a minute.’

  ‘I think she’s missed you,’ I blurt out.

  Dad looks at me, and I know he knows that I made that last bit up. I can feel the red rise up my neck and to my cheeks.

  I don’t know what gets into me, but I don’t want to leave. I straighten up the mail that lies unopened on his blotter pad, and take his pens from a jar on his desk. I take each one out and make a squiggle to check that they still work, even though I was in last night and did the same thing.

  ‘Are you OK, Libby?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘How’s that leg healing up?’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Great. I have a few phone calls to make and then I’ll go and see how Toby’s getting on in the barn. You want to come?’

  Normally, if Dad had said he wanted my company, even if it was to walk off the edge of the world, I would have held his hand and smiled up at him as I came along. But things are all mixed up now. I can’t go with him to the barn. I can’t go with anyone to the barn, ever again.

  ‘I told Nan I’d paint her toes,’ I lie.

  ‘You told her what?’

  I said the first thing that popped into my mind, and like any lie, now I have to keep going with it. ‘Paint her toes – you know, nail polish. God. She is still alive, you know!’ I storm out before I burst into tears.

  I cry, but not about Nan. I’ve never lied to Dad before, and in the space of thirty seconds I’ve told him three.

  *

  I want to ask Dad if he’s trying to saw the flower pattern off his dinner plate. But of course I don’t. I just shovel the cottage pie in
my mouth and pretend that I can’t hear the silence that swirls in the air above our table. It’s one of the loudest sounds I know.

  ‘So what’d you do in Wellington, Dad?’

  ‘I had a few people I needed to catch up with.’

  ‘Oh cool.’

  ‘It wasn’t really cool, Libby. It was business. Unless you’re meaning the weather.’

  ‘We had lovely weather here, didn’t we Mum?’ I know I’m sounding like a loser, grabbing at any thread to get them to talk, but I’m desperate.

  ‘I was too busy to notice the weather, Elizabeth.’ Her words travel through the air and hit their target.

  ‘Someone has to earn the money to pay for all the nice things we have.’

  ‘Mmmm, I’ve been lying around, just waiting for you to bring back the bags of money so I can run to the shops and spend it.’

  Now I wish I’d shut the hell up.

  Sarcasm is a weapon that Mum likes to use, but it’s usually heavily disguised. I’m surprised at her directness.

  Dad pushes himself away from the table. The chair legs scrape on the floor. ‘I’ve got a lot of work to catch up on. Nice to see you looking better, Libby.’ He squeezes my shoulder on his way past.

  Mum clears the table, banging the knives and forks on the plates like she’s auditioning for a rock band. I take the plates from her, more to rescue them than to help.

  One of the dishes is a Royal Albert plate with purple and blue pansies on. Nan’s favourite. Nan’s a royalist, and knows everything about the Windsor family. You don’t want to even mention a royal unless you have an hour to spare to listen to all the details about who got married to whom, and what job they’re currently doing. She’s so proud of William. She talks about the family like she pops over to their place all the time. Or she did. Now I can’t get her to say anything.

  I wash the soap suds gently off the plate. I miss her so much. I want her to come back. I want to watch the light sparkle in her eyes as she asks me, ‘Did you know? Pansies were the Queen Mother’s favourite flower.’

  When Mum’s really mad, she goes quiet. As much as I hate her constant bitching, her quiet is worse: an eerie silence that you know is building up to something – something that is not going to be nice.

  ‘I think Dancing with the Stars is on tonight, Mum. I could watch it with you.’

  ‘Last time I asked if you wanted to watch it with me, you told me the show “sucked”.’

  ‘It sort of does, but you like it.’

  ‘Thanks, but I’m not in the mood. I think I’ll just go to bed early. I’ll see you in the morning.’  The peck she gives me on the cheek is so fast it’s like a slap.

  On the way to my room, I see a sliver of light shining under the door of Dad’s office. For one moment I think about going in. I lean my head onto the oak-panelled door and can just make out his gravelly voice as he talks on the telephone. The tapping on his keyboard doesn’t stop while he talks. I know if I was brave enough to push open the door and disturb him, he would smile up at me, but his hands would hover just above the keyboard. I don’t need to be reminded what a bother I am.

  I climb into bed as the light fades outside my window. My scalp tingles, like it has a million ants crawling through it. If I scratch it, maybe the feeling will go away. But when I do, it doesn’t.

  Hair laps on both sides of my fingers. The compulsion to pull just one strand is too strong for me to resist. It feels as smooth as silk. I imagine thousands of tiny silk worms inside my skull. Munching on mulberry leaves and spewing out silken threads from tiny holes in their jaws, just so they can thread it through the tiny holes in my scalp.

  When I pluck my hair out, it’s not the hair I’m after. It’s the trance-like space I get to cocoon myself in. A space where I feel no pain. Until morning.

  Then, for a brief moment, when my eyelids open, I think all is well. But it only takes a second for my brain to kick into gear. An achy patch on my scalp reminds me of what a defective human being I am. A loser.

  I turn on the bedside lamp and search around the head of my bed. Tucked under my pillow I find strands of long coarse hair, and a couple more lie discarded on my blankets. Don’t you dare cry, I tell myself. You did this to yourself.

  I clutch the hair in my hand and open my door a fraction. I don’t hear or see anyone, so I sneak along the passage to the upstairs bathroom. The floorboards creak as I go past my parents’ room.

  ‘Is that you, Elizabeth?’ Mum shouts from behind the closed door.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Why are you up so early? It’s the weekend.’

  ‘I was just going to the toilet.’

  I close the bathroom door and slide the lock across. I stand on my tip toes to see into the mirror. I’ve pulled from the same spot as yesterday. The red bald spot is now weepy and sore to touch. It’s only the size of a ten-cent piece but it feels as wide as the Pacific Ocean.

  The sight of it makes my stomach muscles clench up like I’m going to be sick. I grit my teeth and slump down onto the toilet seat. I cup my hands over my face and search the dark place behind my closed eyelids. Hoping for some answer to this craziness. This time, I can’t hold back the tears of shame and anger.

  I pull off a couple of sheets of toilet paper and lie the strands of hair on it. Keeping my thumb pressed down on the hair, I scrunch the paper around it. I ball it as tight as I can, before lifting the lid on the toilet and flushing it away.

  Back in my room, I rummage through my top drawer. I pull bikini tops and knickers out of the way as I search for a green bandana. I know it’s here somewhere. Mum’s always on at me about tidying out my drawers, but up until now I’ve never seen the point. I find the bandana screwed up at the bottom.

  I pull on some tracksuit pants and an old Rip Curl sweater. I avoid looking in the mirror, and braid my hair into a French plait by feel. I make the braid go a little bit to the left so it covers the bald spot. I slide about a hundred bobby pins in to keep the sides in place and then use the bandana over the top like a scarf.

  As I tip-toe downstairs, I hear Mum and Dad talking behind their bedroom door. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I’m grateful that for once their voices aren’t raised. They swan around the house like all is well, just for my benefit. Then they go into their bedroom and fire shots like they’re at war.

  I slip out through the front door, and pull the door shut quietly behind me. I walk between the poplars along the path towards the river. A small shelter belt of macrocarpa trees blocks the view to the Waikato river. The trees were planted long before we got here. Their flat-top hairdos show signs of their battles with strong winds. I sit under the outstretched branches. Corrugated bark pushes into my back.

  The sun has just risen, and a faint glow is still evident in the streamlined clouds above. This sight would usually have me running back to the house or barn, to skite about the wonders that I’ve seen. I press my back harder into the bark.

  I hear footsteps, and turn to see Toby heading my way. His faded blue jeans hide his bow legs. His oilskin hat is pulled low on his brow, making him appear way older than he is. I duck behind the trunk and hope the brim of his hat obscures his vision.

  ‘Either leprechauns have got taller since I was a kid, or it’s you, Libby, hiding behind there.’

  I scramble out from behind the tree. I can feel the heat from the blush on my cheeks. I see the confusion on Toby’s face. He’s always been like a big brother, and I’ve never hidden from him.

  His tanned face and raspy voice are some of my earliest memories. At school in year four a teacher made us do an exercise about how far back we could remember. I had tons of recollections of Toby from when I was only about three. Toby helping me to make my very own garden. Digging around in the dirt with him and finding a family of earthworms. Toby and I sitting in the branches of an apple tree, spitting seeds onto the ground. I remember feeling guilty because my memories of Dad didn’t start until much later.

  ‘What brin
gs you out here so early?’

  ‘Just wanted to get out of the house for a bit.’

  ‘Right.’ He nods his head up and down several times, like he understands, but he leaves a gap for me to fill in with more details if I want.

  I pick bits of grass and leaves off my pants and check again that my scarf is still in place.

  ‘I was going to walk along the riverbank and check on some grafts in Daffodil paddock. Do you want to come?’

  I see the look of hope in his eyes.

  ‘Sorry, Mum’s expecting me back for breakfast. I better go.’

  Toby frowns, and I know he’s struggling to work out why his biggest fan is pushing him away. He knows I’m lying. I usually spend most of my time telling Toby what a controlling cow my mother is, and he spends most of his time making up reasons why he needs my help in the orchard.

  ‘Maybe another day,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, sure. I forgot something in the barn so I’ll walk back to the house with you.’

  I can’t tell Toby that I was going to sit with a rock on the edge of the river for a while. I feel like I’ve deserted Patrick – I haven’t left any offerings for weeks. But I suppose he deserted me first, so we’re even.

  Small gravel stones flick up from Toby’s steel-capped boots as we walk along. I concentrate on the piffing sound they make as they flick on to the ground. The only thing keeping the silence away.

  ‘Looks like it might be a nice day,’ he says.

  I nod my head but keep staring at the ground.

  ‘That old tabby’s been hanging around the barn again; looks like she’s about to drop another litter.’

  ‘Cool,’ I say, but without the enthusiasm to go with it, it comes out like, ‘So what?’

  Over the years, we’d had dozens of stray cats lurking around the barn. The wood pile outside and crates staked up high against the side of the barn make perfect hiding places for cats. Poppa, Toby and I all left saucers of milk and snacks of tuna for them to eat when they were using our place like the local maternity hospital.

  Poppa had named the tabby Tallulah after a character in Bugsy Malone, a movie we watched together. Tallulah was the girlfriend of Sam, the guy who owned the bar in the movie. She was a bit of a flirt and loved shimmying around on the stage. Each year our Tallulah produced at least three litters. Poppa reckoned Tallulah must be a hell of a good dancer to attract so many boys.