Portraits of Celina

by Sue Whiting

  I gulp and steady myself, straining not to think about my stupid behaviour yesterday, and I caution myself to steer clear of making eye contact with those greeny-blue pools.

  “My gran’s here,” I explain.

  “Oh, I, er … is your mum around?”

  “Oh, yeah. Um, come inside.” I rush up the steps and inside, as if fleeing from a grizzly bear. I am a lunatic.

  Oliver follows.

  “Oliver!” Seth jumps off Gran’s knee to circle round and round him. “This is my gran.”

  “Hey.”

  “Call me, Maree, love,” says Gran.

  Mum is filling the kettle. “Hi there, Oliver. Would you like a cuppa?”

  “Have one,” says Seth. “Pleeeease.”

  Oliver seems uncertain; his eyes flit around the room until they rest on Amelia.

  “Hi, Oliver,” says Amelia, smoothly. She reaches into the cupboard and pulls out some cups.

  “Hey,” says Oliver. “How’s it going, Amelia?”

  My face burns. When have these two met?

  Mum appears similarly puzzled. “Oh, I didn’t know you two knew each other.”

  Oliver holds his hair back off his face with both hands – it is clear he is uncomfortable. “Yeah … er … we met–”

  “In town,” Amelia finishes for him.

  In town? When? The other day when Amelia went missing for hours? Something is going on here. I cast my mind back to last night – to the white car and the group huddled outside. Amelia said it was her friends from Cronulla on the way to a festival, but why would they come this way? It didn’t sound convincing last night and it seems even less so now. Was Oliver in that car? With me in my underwear on the road, acting like a moron? The thought makes my heart plummet.

  Has Amelia hooked up with him already? I turn to leave.

  “Where are you off to?” asks Gran.

  “Oh, you know, better get back to it. There’re boxes to move and stuff. The builders need the barn cleared.” I swing my arms like the village fool and take a few faltering steps backwards as I speak. Get back to it? Boxes to move? Duh! I sound like such a nana.

  “Yeah,” says Oliver and for a moment I worry that I have broadcast my thoughts somehow and that Oliver is agreeing with me. “Yeah, I have to go too,” he continues to my enormous relief. “Thanks, anyway. But Mum asked me to row across and see if you guys would like to come over on the weekend for a barbecue. She is going to ask the Ralphs as well. She would have rung, but she doesn’t know your name …” He reaches into his shorts pocket and pulls out an envelope. “Anyway, she said to give you this. It’s got our phone number and everything.”

  Mum takes the envelope. She pushes her hair behind her ears. “Why, thanks … Oliver. That is … so … kind. But …” Her voice is quavery.

  “Tell your mum that we’d love to come,” says Gran. “Kath will give her a ring later. Won’t you, Kath?”

  Mum stares at the envelope and eases herself onto one of the kitchen chairs.

  “Kath?”

  “Ah, yes, yes – I’ll ring as soon as the phone’s sorted. It’s not connected yet and we’ve no mobile coverage … hopefully this afternoon.”

  “Great. Okay, thanks.” Oliver backs away and we clatter out and down the front steps together.

  Stop being an idiot, I tell myself, all too late as I stumble on the last step and do an embarrassing trying-to-keep-your-balance dance involving flailing arms and bendy legs.

  “Whoa.” Oliver reaches out to catch me.

  I manage to dodge his grasp, regain my footing and walk on like nothing happened. I slip into the barn, saying, “Gotta get the trolley – for the boxes. See you.”

  Oliver pauses outside the barn, then nods and says, “Yeah, okay. Saturday, I guess.” And heads off to the lake.

  I prop myself up against the barn wall, sure my unsteady legs will give out at any moment.

  thirteen

  Now pretty much empty, the barn is a great hollow space – almost cathedral-like with its high pitched ceiling, strips of afternoon sun slicing in through the gaps in the weatherboards. Sitting cross-legged in the middle of the dirt floor, I am overwhelmed by it.

  I am stuffed. Grimy. Grotty. Stinky. My body aches from hours of hard slog and I lust for a shower. If only I had the energy to get up.

  I flop back and gaze up at the patches of blue peeping at me through the roof, too tired to care that my hair is resting in a pile of swept up crap.

  Exhaustion: I know you well. There’s nothing like throwing yourself into work to keep your mind off your troubles. That’s something I’ve learned over the past months. Bayley Anderson, Family Workhorse and Resident Slave. Though in all honesty, I know that I have sought out the role – it’s been my survival tactic.

  But now, stretched out here, pooped, my worries come rushing back in: looping, rotating, flicking from one to the other inside my head.

  Celina. Dad. Mum. Oliver. Oliver and Amelia.

  Oliver and Amelia. Was it jealousy that drove me so hard today? That made me work like a demon? And what is there to be jealous about? Every time I have seen Oliver I have acted like an absolute tool. If Oliver is interested in Amelia, who could blame him? Besides, who would want to hang out with a loony who believes the ghost of Celina O’Malley is communicating with her?

  For God’s sake, brain, shut up! Give me a rest.

  I close my eyes and command my mind to be still, but a new thought nudges its way in. My eyes shoot open.

  Mum. The barn. Mum and the barn.

  And it seems so obvious.

  This place oozes with possibility, begs for creativity. I sit up and look around. On my feet now, I walk to the far end, lean up against the wall and take it all in. Yes. It’s perfect. Fix the barn up and make it into a studio and Mum won’t have any excuses. She will have to start designing again, start playing around with the things she loves the most: colour and light, beauty. How could she not be inspired here? She thrived on it before, and she can again. I know it. And as soon as she starts to be her old self, everything will settle down. Order will be restored, and perhaps I might be a little less insane.

  It all seems so simple, and a tiny seed of hope wedges in my heart, giving me renewed energy. I drag a box of rubbish into one corner and pick up the broom. I kick a few lengths of rotting weatherboards out of my way. One flicks over. It is a wooden sign of some sort, covered in thick grime. I use the end of my T-shirt to wipe it clean.

  Karinya.

  The sign tumbles out of my hands and clatters to the ground. Karinya. Karinya. The word ricochets around in my head and then I see it. That vision. Robbie and Mary talking. Mary hanging a sign above the door. Karinya. Peaceful place.

  I am feeling a thousand kilometres down the road from peaceful. I pick up the sign and the whole scene replays for me. I hear Pat strumming on his guitar and giving Mary instructions. See Celina, Deb and Suzie, dripping wet, begging Pat to get towels for them. See Robbie wiping his camera and worrying about his lens getting damaged by the splash of water.

  “Bayley! Come here for a moment, will you?” Mum’s voice drifts across the yard, pulling me back to the barn. “Bails!”

  With unsteady hands, I turn the sign over, wondering what to do with it.

  “Bails!”

  “Okay! I’m coming.” I dash off across the drive, leave the sign by the front door and make it up the stairs in four huge bounds. My head is swirling.

  There is a commotion coming from my bedroom: loud cursing mixed with shrieking laughter and a sound like air whooshing out of a giant balloon.

  Mystified, I tap open my door. Mum and Gran are both on the floor giggling like school kids, a large inflatable air mattress bucking on the floor between them.

  “Wretched thing!” wheezes Gran, giving the mattress a kick.

  “Careful you don’t put a hole in it,” Mum says. She slaps down Gran’s foot. “Or you’ll be sleeping on the floorboards and we’ll have to listen to you complaining
about your poor old joints.”

  “Careful, you,” warns Gran.

  The sight before me is unexpected. I can’t remember when I last heard Mum actually laugh. I smile despite myself – perhaps Gran’s presence is already having an impact. I hang back, not wanting to intrude.

  “Bails!”

  I step into the doorway. “What’s going on?”

  Gran leans on her knees and levers herself up with a sigh. “This stupid self-pumping mattress isn’t behaving. Can you give us a hand?”

  My eyes move around the room: Gran’s suitcase and handbag, a basket full of her bits and pieces, her pillow and toiletry bag and car keys.

  “Gran’s going to bunk with you for a couple of days,” says Mum. “But I can’t believe your room is such a tip. You’ve spent all day in that old barn, yet you haven’t unpacked a thing here.”

  There’s gratitude for you.

  “What on earth have you been doing up here?”

  Believe me, Mum, you don’t want to know.

  “Could you move some of this stuff off the floor? Give Gran a bit of room?” Mum points to the mound of boxes on top of the chest. “And what is going on here?” She whips off the blanket and frowns at me, waiting for an answer. “It’s like the Leaning Tower of Pisa, Bails. You’re lucky it hasn’t come tumbling down on you, or that Seth hasn’t knocked it over.”

  I tense up. My eyes latch onto the peace chest.

  Gran follows my gaze. She stares at the chest, a quizzical expression on her face. Then she pales and grabs the side of my bed to steady herself. “Oh, my,” she says. “Is that what I think it is?” She takes a hesitant step towards the chest. It’s strange to see my always-in-control Gran appear this intimidated. This is the woman who drives around the inner city in the middle of the night feeding the homeless.

  “Yes, I think it is,” says Mum. “It’s full of Celina’s things.”

  “Celina’s? The peace chest? It can’t be – we took that with us when we cleaned the place out. I remember packing it up with some of Celina’s things – keepsakes, you know. Can’t believe we left it behind.” Gran looks me squarely in the eyes. “Have you opened it, Bayley?”

  My nod is barely perceivable and I wonder how Gran will react when she hears that I have been wearing Celina’s clothes.

  “What’re these boxes doing piled on top?” asks Mum. “Really, Bayley. It’s a bit ridiculous.”

  Gran sighs. “Suppose I should have a peek inside.”

  I shiver.

  “Come on, Bayley. Move those boxes for me, will you? They look pretty heavy.” When I don’t move, Mum adds, “What’s up, Bails?”

  “It creeps me out.”

  “That’s a bit rich,” says Mum. “You’ve been wearing Celina’s clothes since we got here. Didn’t seem to bother you then. Come on. Give me a hand.”

  “You’ve been wearing her clothes?” Gran’s tone is spiky. “I hope you’ve been treating Celina’s things with respect, Bayley. They hold a lot of memories. They’re not playthings.”

  I feel chastened. “I wasn’t playing. I … I … like them. They fit me perfectly. I–” I stop, don’t trust myself to go on without revealing too much; the discovery of that sign is still making me reel.

  I shrug and then lug the boxes onto the floor in the hall. The peace chest stands uncovered and alone against my wall. And I feel equally exposed. I flip open the lid. The colourful contents blaze at me as if seizing the moment of escape. A shiver chases up my spine and the room feels charged with a strange electricity.

  “Hooley dooley,” says Gran. She reaches out and runs her fingers across the pool of fabrics. “You’ve been wearing these clothes?”

  I nod.

  “Sorry, Bayley. But I don’t think that’s right.”

  I bristle. “There’s a whole lot that isn’t right about Celina,” I say, feeling trapped and foolish and unexpectedly angry. “Like why is this chest even here? How could you leave it behind and not realise? Especially if Celina meant so much to you.”

  “Bayley, watch your tone,” cautions Mum. “Don’t speak about things you don’t understand.”

  “That’s just it,” I say. “I don’t understand.” I shove my hand into the chest and rummage around until my fingers grasp the photo album. I flick through the pages then thrust the album at Gran.

  “Hey, be careful with that,” says Gran.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Tell you? What are you talking about?” Gran takes a step back, slips her glasses on and peers down at the photo.

  “What’s this about, Bails?”

  I stab at the photo of Celina on her first day at high school. “I look exactly like her. Exactly.” I flip the page over, and the next and the next. “Why didn’t you ever say?”

  Gran sinks onto my bed. She studies the photos, then looks up at me with glassy eyes. “I didn’t realise,” she says. “Both you and Amelia have always been more O’Malley than Anderson, but I hadn’t realised that the resemblance with Celina was this strong.”

  Mum drifts across to peer over Gran’s shoulder. “Whoa. That’s amazing.”

  I am close to tears. “How could you not know, not realise? I’m like her twin or something and I never knew.” My voice rises, packed with emotion. “It’s all such a big horrible secret. No one ever talks about what happened. Not really anyway. All anyone will say is that she disappeared and was never found and then her parents were killed in a car accident a few years after. No details. Only the O’Malley death stare if you dare to bring it up. The house gets cleared out and boarded up for almost forty years and no one in the family seems to think any of this is strange. No one. There’s not even any photos of them anywhere, Gran. You have photos of the whole clan on that wall of yours at home, but none of Celina and her parents. Why?”

  I drop to the floor, draw my legs up to my chest and wrap my arms around them. I know I have been ranting, that I’ve lost my temper for no good reason.

  Gran and Mum seem too shocked to answer. They examine the photo album in silence.

  Finally, Gran shuts the album with purpose. “You have no idea what it was like, young lady.” Her mouth is tight, lipless, her shoulders tense. “It was a very dark time for the whole family. It nearly killed your pop. And it was in our faces all the time – everywhere we went: in the papers, on the TV, the radio, in the sympathetic expressions of our friends and neighbours. There was no relief – not for a minute and after a while, it gets to you, Bayley. It really gets to you.”

  Gran’s agitation vibrates through me. She gets up and walks to the window. Parts the curtains, peers out. “I don’t know if you realise,” she says more to the lake than to me, the tiny crystals dangling from her ears glinting in the mellow light, “but Celina was more than a niece to us. We were close – she was almost like another daughter. And when Pat and Mary died it was the last straw; it had been heartbreaking enough for Pop to watch his favourite little brother and his beautiful wife suffer so much, trying to come to terms with something too terrible even to contemplate … then for them to die in such tragic circumstances, well, it was more than we could bear. Pop collected up the photos and articles and other bits and pieces and put them in a special box in the trophy cabinet. He couldn’t stand having them stare at him all the time. We came up here and sent everything off to charity – it’s what Pat and Mary would have wanted. But the house was loaded with too many painful memories and that’s why we boarded it up and abandoned it. I wanted to sell – but your pop couldn’t. Is that enough information for you?”

  Gran turns to face me. “I know you have had your fair share of tragedy, Bayley, but that doesn’t give you the excuse to take it out on me like that.”

  I hold back my tears. I want to say that it has nothing to do with Dad, nothing to do with what we have been through. That it has everything to do with the hammering in my head that is telling me that for some reason Celina is communicating with me. And I don’t know why. Or what to do. But I clam
p my lips and hug my legs tighter.

  “I think I’ll go for a bit of a walk,” says Gran. “Check out that lake.” She leaves the album on my bed, steps over the air mattress and pushes past me. She is close to tears, and I feel like a bitch.

  Mum slips past me without a saying a word – she also is ready to bawl.

  Well done, Bayley. Proud of yourself? I kick out at the chest and the lid slams shut with a resounding thud.

  fourteen

  I have to face it. Celina O’Malley has become an obsession.

  It is middle-of-the-night still, and I close the kitchen door behind me, turn on the light, place my laptop on the table and boot it up. The curtains puff in the wind, making me jump. I yank down the window. I am so edgy these days.

  I type “Celina O’Malley” “missing persons” into Google and am amazed initially that we actually have internet connection, and then to discover numerous hits.

  I click on the first link. It is a New South Wales police force site. I scroll down the page until there, right before me, in stark black-and-white, is a photo of a serious-looking Celina with the caption: Celina O’Malley, missing since April 7, 1975. Aged 16.

  Seeing this documented in such an official way makes it much more real. I click out of the site, out of Google. I can’t bear to see Celina’s face like this – in a police file, among the countless other missing persons. Empathy for Gran and Pop, and Aunty Mary and Uncle Pat and what they must have gone through, followed by disgust at my own outburst, swamps me.

  But with a ghoulish fascination, I reopen the link.

  Celina was last seen as she left for school at around 7.30 am. She had arranged to meet a friend at the bus stop on Greenhill Road, but never arrived. Despite an extensive search of the area, she has not been seen or heard of since. Police hold grave concerns for her safety.

  Reported to Tallowood Police Station.

  Was she meeting Deb? Or Suzie? Or this Robbie – if he’s real and not someone I’ve dreamed up? Did they think something was wrong, or did they get on the bus, thinking Celina was sick or late? How did they feel when they realised something terrible had happened? I can’t imagine how I would cope if Loni disappeared like that.