by Sue Whiting
But the raft isn’t really built for someone jumping about on it, especially when it is already overloaded with Gran, Amelia and me. It bobs about, with Seth swaying and waving and yelling.
Mum picks up her pace. “Sit down, Seth! Sit down,” she shouts.
Seth doesn’t sit down. Instead, the raft folds in half and chucks us all into the lake. We come up laughing, but the laughter dries quickly at the sound of Mum’s screams.
“Seth! Oh my God! Someone get Seth. What were you thinking?” She is practically shrieking.
I whirl around in an absolute panic, trying to locate Seth, thinking that something has happened to him again. But he is already climbing back on the raft.
“He’s fine, Kath,” Gran calls. “Calm down.”
“Calm down? Calm down? I can’t even go to work without you lot putting Seth’s life in danger. Do I have to be here every second of every day?”
We wade back in to shore, Gran pulling the raft with a bewildered Seth on board. Mum has lost it again. I have no idea how to react.
We stand on the muddy sand, dripping and defeated. Mum rushes down and bundles Seth up and hugs him close. Then she lets fly.
“What is that thing anyway?”
Amelia glares at her. “That thing is my present for Seth.”
“What a ludicrous present. He is only seven. It’s plain dangerous.”
Amelia opens her mouth to reply, but Gran taps her on the arm, and shakes her head. She steps up to Mum. “You’re overreacting here, Kath.” Her voice is soothing. “Come inside and we’ll get the cake. Yes?”
Mum puts Seth down. “I’m too upset for cake.”
“It’s Seth’s birthday.” Amelia rolls her eyes. “Get over yourself, Mum. I know that you are anti-fun these days, but the rest of us are doing our best to get on with our lives – move on, you know.”
It’s the most sense Amelia has made in years. But Mum’s not having it.
“I can’t believe you’d get him something like that.”
“I can’t believe you didn’t get him anything.” I am sorry as soon as the words slide out of my mouth – not because of Mum, but because Seth is standing right beside her, pulling at his ears.
Mum steps towards me. “Don’t you dare–”
“Stop, Kath,” says Gran. Mum glowers at her, and I sense that things are about to turn ugly.
Gran takes Seth by the hand and walks towards the jetty. “Come on, you lot. Grab all this stuff and take it inside for me. And then we’ll get the cake ready for you in a jiffy. Okay, Seth?” Gran looks at Amelia and me. “Help him get out of his wet things, will you, girls?”
We both nod. I don’t know about Amelia, but I feel totally helpless.
As I walk away, I hear Gran speaking to Mum. Her voice is gentle and kind, like I imagine it is when she is helping her people at the Soup Van. “Come on, love, pull yourself together – for Seth. Do it for your son.”
They stay down by the jetty for an hour or more. Two hunched figures sitting on the boards. I hope Gran is getting through to her. But sadly, I don’t think Mum has it in her, and I wonder if our lives are ever going to mend, if any of us has what it takes to push through the pain and come out the other end still standing.
thirty-six
It’s just before lunch. The house quiet, I sit in the shade of the front verandah, encouraging even the slightest murmur of air to find me, while I nurse my laptop, chatting to Loni on Facebook.
Loni: Got me a hottie.
Me: Name?
Loni: Sure. Just don’t know it. Yet. Lol. Give me time.
I stifle a yawn. I don’t care whatsoever about Mr Hottie, but I’ve been neglecting Loni, so I am pretending.
Loni: What about you and Hot Neighbour? Hooking up yet?
Ouch. That hurt. Should I fess up? Tell her everything? That we had indeed hooked up and that he is awesome – the best thing that has ever happened to me – but now I think I’ve gone and ruined it big-time, and I am worried that he hates me. It hurts too much even to think it, let alone write it. I settle for my invented reality.
Me: Na. Typical country bogan – too busy shovelling cowshit to bother with the likes of moi.
Loni: Bummer.
Gran sticks her head through the doorway. “Bails, you seen Amelia?”
I shake my head.
“Her bed doesn’t seem to have been slept in.” Gran seems worried.
“Are you sure? I mean, how can you tell?”
“Because yesterday I changed her sheets and made it myself. That’s how. She didn’t go out last night, did she?”
How do I answer that one? “Don’t know,” I say, which is the truth, but not as accurate as “probably” which is more of the truth. “Maybe she’s gone for a walk or something.”
“Mmm. Maybe.” Gran peers out across the lake, her eyes sweep to the jetty and the track to the south and then she walks back inside, but I can tell she’s troubled.
Things were pretty tense last night when Gran and Mum returned from the jetty. Mum was trying too hard, and Amelia wasn’t giving an inch. I’ll kill her if she’s run off somewhere.
Me: Gotta go. Amelia MIA again. Need to head search party. Love you. XXX
Loni: Okay. Good luck. Love you too. XXX
I log off and try Amelia’s mobile, even though I am sure Gran has already tried. It rings a couple of times, then cuts out. I send her a message.
Where are you? Everyone worried. Message back. NOW.
I hear Mum and Gran thumping through the house calling out Amelia’s name. Doors are opened and then slammed shut, panic rapidly building.
The only thing I can think to do is to ring Oliver, and I can’t be sure if it is out of concern for Amelia or as a desperate excuse to make contact, to hear his voice again.
Flooded with nerves, I hesitate, then stab at Oliver’s number, chewing on my lip.
I get his cheery recorded voice: Hey. Not here. But I guess you worked that out already. Cheers.
I start to leave a message but tear up and it sounds like gobbledegook. I click out of it without finishing and send him a text.
Sorry to bother you but Amelia is missing. Do you know if she was in town last night? Can you check with her friends? That Lee guy.
It sounds pathetic – apologetic – but I am frazzled and I can’t think what else to write.
This is silly. Why am I so strung out? It’s not like it’s the first time Amelia has taken off or disappeared for a day or so. But this time feels different. Where could she be?
Seth runs past me and down the steps. “Amelia!” he calls and runs around the back. The anxiety in his voice is alarming.
“Be careful out there!” I yell. “There could be snakes.” Gawd. I sound like Mum.
I idly check my email. There’s only one new email in my inbox and it’s from Deb – another person I have been avoiding; I can’t cope with her going on about the wonderful Celina at the moment. I am about to open it when my phone beeps.
A message – from Oliver.
Amelia at Bowlo last night. Left at about eleven with Lee and others. Rang Lee. He said they went to Mitch’s and then he can’t remember much. He’s hell hung-over.
I message my thanks, then try Amelia’s phone again. Still no answer.
But the phone beeps with another message from Oliver.
Will go into town and look for her. Probably passed out somewhere. Lee is looking too.
Before I have a chance to reply, Mum and Gran both stride out onto the verandah, their concern clear on their faces.
“I think we should,” Gran is saying. “It’s well after twelve. She must have gone somewhere last night.”
“Would you put that blasted phone and computer away and help us here?” Mum says to me. I don’t get a chance to deliver my defence; she continues, her tone full of accusation. “Do you know anything, Bayley? Because if you do, you should tell us now. We’re about to call the police.”
“She went into town last night,”
I blurt.
“Christ, Bayley. You just told me you didn’t know.” Gran’s impatience is clear. “What’s going on?”
“I didn’t know. I messaged Oliver. He saw her. She went to the Bowlo and then to a friend’s place and–”
“A friend? What friend? She doesn’t have any friends in town,” says Mum, confused. “How did she even get into town?”
I confess all. Tell them everything I know – which isn’t that much. Neither is impressed, but they have bigger fish to fry, and I am let off the hook.
“Tell Oliver that we’ll meet him in town,” says Gran, taking charge. “You stay here with Seth.”
I don’t argue. In fact, I am relieved. I couldn’t bear seeing Oliver look at me with disgust in his eyes again.
“They’re treating her as a runaway.” Gran flops onto the sofa, her exhaustion obvious. “She’ll turn up once she’s hungry, they said. They don’t know how stubborn Amelia is though, do they?”
Mum perches beside Gran on the very edge of the cushion. It’s as if she doesn’t belong, shouldn’t be here in her own lounge room with her own family. Her head droops, her fingers work tirelessly at a loose thread on her skirt. And my heart breaks just a little.
I’ve railed against Mum of late, weary of her selfishness and moods, her temper, her neediness, but the woman sitting on the sofa is like a phantom, a shadow of her former self. Where is the woman who ran a successful design studio and ruled a family? The woman who loved beauty and surrounded herself with it? Who seized the day with such vehemence that sometimes one day would turn into the next without her even making it to bed? Where has that woman vanished to? Fate keeps slapping her down and each time she picks herself back up, she is a little less. And I miss the woman she was so much, as much as I miss Dad. I lost two parents that day.
“I think they’re wrong,” Mum whispers, the words spoken so softly, they seem to float away. “Something terrible has happened. I can feel it. Can’t you?”
She brings her hands to her face then, and cries.
Gran pulls her close and rubs her shoulders. Mum’s head lolls onto Gran’s chest. “Do us a favour, Bails?” Gran says, neck craning over Mum’s head. “Do some snooping on Facebook for me? The police said that would be the best place to get some information. She may even post something if she’s taken off somewhere.”
I nod, grateful for a reason to escape. I leave Seth asleep on the floor where he crashed out watching a DVD, and pad into the kitchen to my laptop. I don’t tell Gran that I’ve been glued to it all afternoon, looking for some kind of clue or lead.
I take another cursory glance, check the pages of some of Amelia’s friends from Cronulla, and consider whether I should try to friend some of her new Tallowood friends.
As I ponder this, I remember the email from Deb. I flick it open – more for a distraction than anything else. I am determined to keep my distance from Deb, at least for the time being.
Hi Bayley.
Have texted you a couple of times, but no reply. Maybe I have the wrong number?
Saw Bud Mitchell in town last night – haven’t seen him for years. He’s fit for an old guy – must be well past eighty now.
Bud?
Made me think of Robbie and Celina, and you, of course, so decided to email. How’s it going? Have you found out anything more? Was thinking that maybe we should see a medium …
I don’t get much further – can’t get past the bit about Bud in town. Last night.
And now Amelia is missing? Could there be a connection? Please, no, there can’t be. I would never forgive myself if … I don’t even want to think it.
I read from the beginning again, trying to convince myself that it is a coincidence, nothing more, and then scan through the rest.
I think there’s a reputable medium in Rosedale. Her spirit guide is a Tibetan princess. I could go with you. You don’t have to do this alone. And besides I’d love to be able to contact Celina again. I have such a lot to tell her. I think she’d be really proud of what I’ve done with my life. In many ways I have kept the ethos of the Peace Sisters alive – with my yoga and meditation …
Deb waffles on for another couple of paragraphs, and it is annoying me so much, I am about to hit the delete key, when I see the word “sister” in a PS at the bottom of the screen.
PS: Almost forgot. Also saw your sister – well, I’m guessing it was your sister – at the Bowlo last night with a bunch of local kids. Her hair was tied back with Celina’s purple scarf. I saw the scarf first and thought it was you – the family resemblance is strong! Think she thought I was some kind of wacko when I tapped her on the shoulder to say hi. Anyway she seemed to be having a good time!
Celina’s scarf?
Without thinking, I find myself traipsing up the steps and into my room. I close the door quietly behind me, my heart swelling into my throat. I remember leaving Celina’s scarf on top of the peace chest. And now it’s not there.
Why on earth would Amelia take the scarf of all things? She has done nothing but hassle me about wearing Celina’s clothes since we arrived. I can’t make any sense of it.
But it doesn’t matter. Because other things are battering away inside my head.
Bud in town.
Amelia in town.
Amelia wearing Celina’s scarf – looking like me. Looking like Celina.
Amelia missing.
Amelia, how could you be so stupid?
thirty-seven
I ring Oliver immediately.
“Yeah?” He sounds sour.
“Have you seen Bud?”
“What?”
“Your pop. Have you seen him?”
“What has Pop got to do with this?”
I ignore the question and plough on. “Answer me. Have you seen him?”
“When? No. You’re psycho. I’m hanging up.”
His comment hurts, but I am past caring. “Did you see him at the Bowlo last night?”
“No!”
“In town?”
“No! And what if I did? You can’t seriously think he has something to do with Amelia.”
“Where is he now? At Lakeside?”
“I have no idea. I’m still in town, with Lee – looking for your sister.”
And he’s gone.
I glance at the time. It’s almost five-thirty. I don’t know what to do – but then my eyes are drawn to the peace chest. As usual, the hairs on the back of my neck rise and my veins feel as if they have been injected with ice water. Celina is with me and her presence is terrifying.
I slump onto the floor, close my eyes, try to settle the waves of nausea, but my mind jams with images.
Of Bud.
Bud and Amelia.
Amelia screaming.
Bud dragging her down some back alley and into his red ute. The terror in my sister’s eyes swirls round and round before me.
I jump to my feet. Shake myself free of the nightmare images.
Bud has Amelia.
And I have no choice. Celina is telling me something and this time I can’t ignore it.
I pull on my joggers and steal down the stairs, slip into the kitchen without Mum and Gran noticing and out the back door. I skirt round the side of the house, and then behind the row of poplars along the southern fence line to the jetty. Then I hit the track and I am off.
I haven’t run all the way round to Lakeside before, but I reckon it must be about ten kays. In the days when I was running with Dad, and I was super fit, I could do ten kays in about forty-five minutes. Now, an hour should see me there easy – which means I should be there before it’s dark, and for some reason this seems important. What I am going to do once I am there and what I hope to find are another matter. But Bud has Amelia and the only way to help her without everyone dismissing me as a psycho is to prove it. I only hope I get there in time. And I don’t even want to consider what that means.
The boatshed provides solid cover. I lean against it, collecting my thoughts and trying to c
ontain the queasiness that I always feel as soon as I step onto Lakeside.
My plan – rough as it may be – is to get inside Bud’s studio and poke around a bit. Not sure why, but something is telling me that this is what I must do.
Intuition? Lack of other alternatives?
I don’t think so. This time I am certain it is Celina.
I give myself over to her. She has my rapt attention. Guide me, Celina. Please, show me what to do.
A couple of hurried glances around the property don’t reveal much, except that the light is fading fast. It must have taken me longer to get here than I thought it would.
Oliver’s car isn’t in the drive. But there are at least two other vehicles – one, Bob’s four-wheel drive, the other a red ute. Bud’s – like in my vision. The lights are on in the main house, but the studio and old farmhouse are both in darkness. The tangle of barns and sheds tucked around back are obscured from view. I am aware of the faint waft of Spanish-sounding music drifting down from the main house, and I imagine Annie, pink-streaked hair gelled up in tiny peaks, glass of wine in hand, swaying to the music and preparing dinner. No sign of Bob or Bud or anyone else about. Perhaps they are inside for dinner. Makes sense.
I could slip into the studio now, or wait until everyone is asleep.
But I don’t have the luxury of time – Amelia’s terrified eyes fill my mind and my ears ring once more with her screams. The images of Bud dragging Amelia away are too real, too scary. They can’t be ignored. Every second counts. Bending low, I scamper to a rectangular rose garden, and squat behind the thorny bushes. My senses are hyper-alert and the perfume from the roses is sickeningly strong. I bolt up to the studio. I am not much good at this espionage stuff and my footfalls sound like a herd of elephants approaching, and are only rivalled by the crazy thumping of my heart against my ribs.
The studio is nothing more than a glorified shed, with glass sliding doors covering the side that faces out to the lake. The doors are closed and the place looks deserted, but I decide to err on the side of caution and head for the southern side, hoping for a smaller window to peer through, just to make sure.