Portraits of Celina

by Sue Whiting

  I swallow the dry lump in my throat, turn and walk out of the room. I am the one that is mad. Certifiably insane, to be exact.

  I am making my escape through the hospital doors, when Gran calls out. I swing round.

  “Bayley! There you are.” Gran stands with Oliver and Amelia near the nurses’ desk. “I thought we’d–”

  I can’t do this now. Gran’s puzzled voice chases me out of the doors. “Bayley! Where are you going? What’s–”

  I run. My thongs slapping the pavement, my shoulder bag banging against my hip, I run. Down the hill, across some kind of park, past the leisure centre, the squeals of kids’ swimming and bombing annoying the hell out of me. I run down onto the main street and right up to the end, until breathless and bent over, I am outside Deb’s store.

  Of course, it’s closed. Sunday afternoon. I bang my fists on the doors, then lean my forehead against the glass and try to get my breath back.

  A light flicks on and one door swings open. Deb stands in the doorway.

  “No need to bang.” Deb peers down at me through tiny rectangular lenses balanced on the end of her nose, strong, spicy aromas wafting around her. “Oh. Bayley! You look a fright. Come in. What’s up?”

  What’s up? What a question. How can I even begin to tell what’s up? My father is dead and my family is deranged. My brother is in the hospital because I nearly drowned him. My emotions are a mess and my heart flips every time I see Oliver, but I have an even stronger reaction when I see his father, Bob. How sick is that? And lets not forget the real doozy: I know things I shouldn’t know, remember things that happened before I was born, write as if the long-departed, probably the murdered Celina O’Malley is guiding my hand. Which one of those little gems should I share?

  The answer is obvious: none.

  “I was in town and thought I’d drop by.”

  Deb draws her eyebrows together. “You’re standing here wheezing and bedraggled, in the main street of Tallowood in your swimmers and an Indian shirt and you expect me to believe that?”

  I don’t reply. What could I say anyway?

  Deb flicks her glasses off her nose and they swing down across her large breasts. “Come inside, love. And let me get some tea into you. I’m getting a truckload of negative energy here.”

  Deb leads me into the tiny back room. The walls are lined with messy shelves stacked high, right to the ceiling. I hadn’t noticed them last time. I slip onto the lumpy stool in the corner. Deb fills the jug at a metal sink, balances it on the one clear space on the workbench and plugs it in, then settles on the director-style chair in the opposite corner. The space is cramped – almost claustrophobic – but I welcome the closeness, feel cocooned by it.

  Deb doesn’t try to make conversation until she has made the tea and I have it cupped in my hands. “That’s Celina’s shirt, isn’t it?” she says.

  I nod.

  “And those clothes the other day – they were Celina’s too?”

  I nod again, then bow my head.

  “A little odd, don’t you think?” says Deb.

  I lift my eyes and gaze through the steam rising from my cup. It makes Deb appear wavy – ghostly.

  “Do you believe in ghosts?” I say.

  twenty-five

  “I can’t go home.”

  “Your mum will be worried, Bayley,” Deb says. “No matter what’s been going on, she doesn’t deserve to worry unnecessarily, now does she?”

  Deb is right. I stand and stretch my neck from side to side; it creaks with stiffness.

  I wish that Deb had told me that I was a nut job, that my imagination was going wild and that I should forget it all.

  Instead, she had listened keenly, her head cocked to one side, a small vertical crease between her eyes the only indication of any apprehension. Her contributions consisted of the occasional “Wow” and “Oh Lordy”. When I finished, Deb seemed delighted. “That sounds like Celina, all right. I wonder what it is she wants.” That was not the reaction I’d hoped for.

  “I don’t want to sleep in that house,” I say. “Not tonight. Can’t I stay here?”

  “Here? But–”

  “Didn’t you say the other day that your place is so empty it rattles, now your kids have moved out? Please, Deb.” I am asking far too much; I hardly know this woman.

  Deb resists, throws up every possible argument to persuade me to go home with my family. But I persist, until finally Deb rubs her face wearily, and says, “At least ring your mum and talk to her.”

  I pull my phone from my bag and turn it on. Immediately it beeps. I have twenty-five missed calls and seven messages. I blush as I scroll down the list: Mum, Gran, Amelia, even Loni repeated over and over.

  I press Gran’s number – I still can’t face Mum.

  “Bayley, where are you for goodness sake? We’ve been worried sick.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. I’m fine. How’s Seth?”

  “He’s doing well. He’s staying in the ward overnight – for observation. That head wound is rather nasty. Your mother is staying with him.”

  “But he’s going to be okay, isn’t he? I’m so sorry – I didn’t mean for it to happen.”

  “Shush, there. No one blames you. Your mum didn’t mean those things she said. It was the stress talking. She’s been through too much – you know that. Now, where are you, sweetheart?”

  “I’m with a friend,” I say. “I’m going to stay over. Can you tell Mum?”

  “What friend?” Gran’s voice instantly switches from nurturing to alarmed. “Where?”

  I catch Deb mouthing: Tell her where you are, or you can’t stay.

  “I’m with Deb from the craft and gift store in town. She used to be one of Celina’s friends. I’m going to stay in her daughter’s old room.”

  “This is very odd, Bayley. Can you put this Deb on?”

  I hold the phone out to Deb. She takes it and walks out of the back room and into the shop. I don’t bother following, don’t really want to know what Deb is going to tell Gran. It is for the most part irrelevant – as long as whatever she says means that I don’t have to spend tonight in that house by the lake.

  Deb returns and throws the phone onto the bench. “Lord, that was rather awkward, Bayley.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Come on, come upstairs and I’ll see if Janie has left anything in her wardrobe that might fit you and then we’ll go and get some tucker. What do you say?”

  I am too grateful for words.

  There are two choices for dinner. The Wok and Roll and the Bowling Club, which Deb calls the “Bowlo”.

  “The Bowlo,” I say with enthusiasm and we stride along the main street and then across the road to the Bowling Club.

  The place smells of stale beer and is surprisingly busy.

  “Happy hour leftovers and the early starters for the Sunday night raffle,” Deb says by way of explanation, and directs me through the main bar towards the bistro at the back. It seems Deb knows the entire population of Tallowood and it takes us an inordinately long time to walk a few metres as she greets every person we pass.

  I keep my eyes low, avoiding contact with these unfamiliar faces. A large group is huddled around some low tables outside the bar area. They seem to be about my age. They shout out as two more girls enter behind me, and wave them over. They appear so happy and carefree and I wonder if I will ever have a life like that.

  “Hungry?” says Deb when we sit down at last, opposite each other at a small table.

  “Starved.” My stomach growls in agreement: I haven’t eaten a thing since the sugar hit on the creek bank this morning. The memory makes my face hot.

  We order chicken schnitzels with salad and chips.

  “I know this must be rather spooky for you, Bayley, and I hope you don’t take what I’m about to say the wrong way, but I’m really excited about what you told me this afternoon.”

  Excited is not an emotion that I equate w
ith what has been happening to me. Creepy. Disturbing. Frightening. But exciting, not even close.

  “I have this feeling that Celina wants to tell me something,” I whisper across the table as our meals are placed in front of us, “wants me to do something.”

  “Thanks, Nicole,” Deb says to the waitress. She nods at me. “Tuck in.”

  There is such relief in being able to discuss this at last. Keeping it secret had been weighing on me, and a heavy knot of tension unravels from chest. I take a mouthful of my chicken and then continue. “But why doesn’t she just tell me? I feel like she is playing with me – toying with me. She’s telling me her story, but not what I’m meant to be doing with it. It’s frustrating.”

  “I’m sure it will become clear in time. It’s simply Celina’s way. She was always a bit like that. In fact, that’s how I knew you were telling me the truth. What you were telling me was exactly how Celina was. She’d string Suzie and me along all the time – get us hankering to know what she was up to. And then of course, once we found out, we couldn’t wait to hop on board.”

  Deb plays with the salad on her plate, as if remembering something. “One thing you must know,” she says. “Celina was a beautiful, kind-hearted person. A little bossy, perhaps, and determined; we used to call her our hippy sergeant major. She was a Leo, so it’s to be expected, I suppose. But she won’t do anything that will hurt you. You don’t need to be scared of her, scared of what’s happening. Embrace it – you will be the better for knowing her, like we all were.”

  This is getting far too weird. Better for knowing a ghost? Maybe Deb’s a little cracked also.

  I am concentrating on my dinner and reflecting on Deb’s words, when a roar goes up from the group near the bar. Three more have joined the group. There are shouts of “About time” and “Hurry up – I’m starving” and the group get up and start walking into the bistro to the long table that stretches across the back wall.

  Over the top of their voices is a hissing jerky laugh that makes me almost gag on a mouthful of chicken. Oliver.

  twenty-six

  “Hey.” Oliver is beside me before I have the chance to swallow. “You okay?”

  My face blazes. I cover my mouth with my hand, and force down the mouthful of food. “Yeah.”

  I don’t know what else to say, and a long silence stands between us. Oliver scuffs at the patterned carpet with his battered Converses, his face unable to mask his confusion.

  “How’s that gorgeous mother of yours?” says Deb. I appreciate her intrusion. “Could you tell her that the art supplies she ordered for your pop have arrived?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Are you having dinner here?” Deb continues. “Do you want to join us?”

  No! Yes! My heart seesaws.

  “Ah – thanks. But I’m here with the guys.”

  “Sunday dinner at the Bowlo – things haven’t changed much since I was your age. Used to come here with Suzie and Celina and your da–” Deb stops. Her eyes swing from me to Oliver and then back to me again. “Oh, look,” she says, the words coming out high and squeaky. “There’s Julie. Just the person I need to catch up with about her meditation classes next week. You don’t mind, do you, Bayley? Perhaps you could hang out with Oliver for a bit? Meet some of the locals?” Deb catapults out of her chair and hurries off into the bar.

  Oliver slips into the seat beside me, and leans his head close to mine. “Where’d you go?” he whispers. “We searched everywhere.”

  We? Oliver was out looking for me? Perhaps Annie and Bob too? Bob after answers, no doubt. I am beyond mortified.

  “I even slipped down into the morgue,” Oliver continues, his eyes twinkling, “in case you were communing with the dead. Now that’s a seriously creepy place.”

  At first this throws me. I have a how-does-he-know-I’ve-been-communing-with-the-dead? moment. Then I realise that he’s being funny. “You idiot,” I say. “You did not.”

  “You calling me a liar? I’m offended. Now you must tell me where you got to.”

  “Why must I?”

  “To make up for hurting my feelings. Come on. Spill.”

  “Nowhere. I went for a walk. To Deb’s. I’m staying there tonight.”

  “At Deb’s? Really? How do you know Deb? What’s going on, Bayley?” He cups his hands over mine and the sincerity in his eyes turns me to jelly. “Come on. You can tell me – trust or bust.”

  “Trust or bust? What does that even mean? You are an idiot, you know that.”

  “You have to stop calling me that. It does nothing for my fragile self-esteem.”

  I giggle, but my mind is swirling. Should I tell Oliver too? Would he think I am a loony? Probably. And how could I tell him about my reaction to his father? No, bad idea. Very bad.

  “Nothing’s up. Really. It’s just a lot of stuff has happened to my family these past few months and we’re all a bit strung out about it.”

  “What kind of stuff?” There’s a catch in Oliver’s voice and I can tell he is nervous that he’s going too far.

  “My dad …” A lump forms in my own throat. Is it always going to hurt this much just to say his name? “He died last May – suddenly.”

  “Crap. What happened?”

  “It was stupid really. There was this big rainstorm. Seth had left his Batman out on the patio and was wailing about it getting wet. So Dad went to the rescue, only when he went to run back inside, he fell over and hit his head on a stone bench. It was pretty horrific and I guess we’ve all fallen to pieces since.”

  “That sucks.” He squeezes my hand then swipes at the escapee tear running towards my ear. “Is that why Seth always wears that cape?”

  I nod, our eyes meeting, and it feels as if we are talking to each other without saying a word.

  “Hey, Oliver,” some tall skinny guy from the long table yells. “You gonna order or what?”

  “Keep your pants on, you tosser. I’m coming,” Oliver yells, then turns back to me, his mouth curving into a smile. “Come meet the gang. We hang here most Sunday nights. Then sometimes we go to Marco’s to play a bit of pool or watch a movie or something. It’s pretty wild. Are you up for it?”

  I look across at the group – who have probably known each other their whole lives – and my insides squeeze together.

  “Come on,” says Oliver. “Katie and Tina are in your year. They’re both horsey nuts, but they can be okay. All you have to do is toss your head and say ‘neeeeiiigh’ and they’ll be your friends for life.”

  I shake my head. “Nah.”

  “You mean neigh.”

  “No. I mean no. Pass. Not tonight. Sorry, but I’m too stressed out – what with Seth and everything.”

  “All the more reason. Give you the chance to chill for a bit.”

  I feel everyone’s eyes upon me. I take in the relaxed manner with which they huddle, draped over one another, laughing and teasing and at ease. They appear to move as one.

  Oliver takes my hand and tries to drag me to my feet. He is smiling that ridiculous smile of his, the one that reaches right up to those bloody greeny-blue eyes, and I almost cave. But a roar of laughter from the long table brings me back to my senses. I pull out of his grip.

  “Don’t do this, Oliver. I can’t.”

  I feel trapped. I don’t want to go anywhere near Oliver’s “gang” – they will see straight through me, expose me for the loony I certainly am.

  Oliver tries to coax me out of the chair again. I dig my heels into the carpet. The walls of the tiny bistro seem to press in on me and those laughing faces become distorted, leering, raucous, swirling around me. I jump up, push past Oliver and bolt: through the crowded front bar, out the front door and onto the street and into the absurd rosy radiance of the early evening.

  I sense Oliver behind me, can hear him calling my name, but I refuse to stop. I take a sharp turn into some dodgy alley and sprint like I am fighting for first position at the state cross-country. I dismiss the thud of footsteps and
heavy breathing behind me.

  The alley is a dead end. A tall wire fence blocks off a large car park. I skid to a halt.

  I am considering scaling the fence, when Oliver catches me by the wrist and swings me to him.

  “Man, you’re fast.” We are both puffing, our chests heaving. “Sorry for pushing you back there. I don’t know when to stop sometimes.”

  I swallow the rock that has wedged in my throat. “Sorry for being an idiot.”

  “Same.” Oliver’s voice is as warm and comforting as my feather doona and I want to wrap myself in it. “Hey,” he says, “just proves we have stacks in common, crazy eyes.”

  I try to wiggle free of his hold, but he clutches me tighter and pulls me to him. He goes to say something, but instead presses his lips fiercely against mine and I am surprised by the way my body responds. We bend into each other, heads on each other’s shoulder.

  My face is wet with tears. That was so good. But this is so not the right time.

  twenty-seven

  The river, thick with mud and silt, slides around the edge of town like a languid brown snake. It’s early morning, and Oliver and I stand at the top of a grassy verge and watch a pair of grey ducks ride the current around the bend, bobbing skilfully under a series of low overhanging branches.

  Oliver cups his hands around his mouth. “Duck!” he shouts to the ducks.

  “You nut,” I say and laugh.

  “Just offering some friendly advice. Those branches pack a powerful punch.” He leads me down the mushy bank to the water’s edge, the sodden earth squelching beneath our thongs.

  It is already muggy, and I am aware that I should be heading home. Mum will be pissed about me staying the night at Deb’s so the chance to spend some time alone with Oliver first is too tempting to pass up.

  “This track goes all the way to Wongawilli Bridge,” Oliver says and there is an element of pride in his voice as he shows me his town, his place.

  I nod – soak in the morning peace and enjoy the intimacy of walking hand in hand with Oliver Mitchell along the banks of the Wongawilli River. Just us and the ducks. Oliver brings my hand to his lips, and it’s as if my veins have been filled with sunshine.