by Jessie Cole
But when I thought of the fathers, it was a whole different story. I imagined them washed up like survivors of a shipwreck, lost and beaten by the waves, my mother some kind of beacon, a lighthouse. And for a while they’d circle her, filled with wanting. And there was something she gave them, some indefinable need fulfilled in her embrace. It would be peaceful for a while. The lull of a pregnancy. But gradually the fathers healed and heard the calling of the world. That tantalising hum of possibility that there was something else out there, something they were missing. At first they ignored it, staring into their new baby’s mysterious eyes, watching the infant breaths rise and fall, but eventually the hum got louder and louder until they could not shut it out, and before long, like the rest, they would be gone. I imagined them one by one—big bodied and strong—awkward in our small house surrounded by babies.
But I never knew if it was true.
And sometimes I’d think of Sophie, the only girl for so long. Pretty with her curls and pink cheeks, done up like a doll in Mum’s wild homemade dresses, unaware that she was to be overrun by the rest of us, her childhood swallowed by a flood of brothers and then me. It was hard to imagine Sophie as a baby. I’d always known her as defiantly grown-up. But when I really tried, when I focused my mind, I could see her—gentle and open, tiny and beloved, the first one to suckle at my mother’s breast.
My brothers were becoming like shadows. Figures that clung on the fringes of my mind—there, but always slightly out of view. I pictured Sunny’s face, trying to recollect the details. The way his front teeth overlapped, just slightly, and how his eyes squeezed shut to almost nothing when he smiled. The last time he’d come home, he’d only stayed for a day, and most of that he’d spent out hunting for his friends. I thought, and not for the first time, about how my brothers so easily abandoned me. Took off without a thought. About how little they held me in their minds. And my heart tightened in a different way, sad and pained, and I pressed my fingers hard between my ribs, hard enough to hurt. There was a soft spot there, a hollow, ever so slight, and when I pushed it I could feel all my hurts rising. In a strange way, it soothed me. Lying there in the dark, pressing into my pain, I wondered about the hum of the world outside and why it didn’t seem to call out to me.
I thought again of Mum and Sophie and how they’d stayed, and it struck me then that Sophie might have taken up with her fella as a kind of escape, and perhaps that’s what all the different fathers were about too.
And maybe I was just like Mum and Sophie—looking for escape in a shipwrecked man, my body flinging me in its own clumsy way towards him. And secretly, right down in the depths of me, I wondered whether that would really be so bad.
I’d already let out the chickens, fed the cat and Old Dog, been out to check on Bessie and the calf, and had a quiet cup of tea before Hamish began to rouse himself on the couch. Mum had headed out to the shed early, before the heat set in.
He woke gradually, opening his eyes and gazing at the ceiling for a bit, unaware of me watching him from where I sat at the kitchen table. I stayed as still as possible, prolonging those undisturbed moments, wondering about his morning thoughts. The thoughts I had on waking were often the most peculiar I had all day. When Anja slept over, sometimes we’d lie in bed in the mornings and whisper our waking thoughts across the pillows. We were both early risers, and in the half-light this seemed a natural thing to do. And even if you shared the weirdest thought you could possibly imagine with Anja, she’d come up with something weirder. It was a comforting quality in a friend. Anja hadn’t been back since the rain-running. I wondered if she was staying away on purpose.
Hamish turned towards me, still looking sleepy. There were crease marks from where the couch pressed into his face. He rubbed his hand across his eyes and mumbled, ‘You’re already up.’
He was right. I’d been up for ages.
‘You want a tea?’ I asked, tapping my fingers against my cup. I felt suddenly impatient but I wasn’t sure why.
He looked around the room before answering me, as though it was taking him a while to remember where he was.
‘Sure,’ he said, and I could feel an awareness of his leaving, tumbling into the space around us.
‘Where’s your mum?’
‘She went out to the shed to do some work before she takes you into town.’
I stood up and lit the stove for the kettle. There were only a couple of black teabags left, but I knew we’d get some more in town later so I didn’t feel bad using them.
‘You’re not going to take me?’
‘I don’t drive,’ I said, turning back to study his face. ‘I never learned.’
He looked at me then, like he was finally taking in my whole form. ‘It’s not your foot?’
‘What?’ It was the furthest thing from my mind.
‘Your foot doesn’t stop you from driving?’
‘No.’ I reached out and grabbed some teacups. ‘Just, there was no point, I guess. Nowhere I needed to go.’
Hamish shook his head at that, like he had some thought that he wasn’t willing to share. He sat up on the couch. ‘But you’re going to come, right?’ His voice was morning-rough. ‘You’ll come into town with me.’
I smiled then ’cause he looked forlorn. ‘Sure,’ I said, echoing him, waiting for the water to boil.
Usually I got up in the morning and made my way steadily through the day. Especially when it was sunny, not a rain cloud in sight. But that morning every second felt weighed down and ponderous. Even though I didn’t want Hamish to leave, I was restless for things to begin.
‘When do you think your mum will want to go?’
‘I don’t know. I guess it depends on how she does in the shed.’
‘The artist at work.’
‘Yep.’
The kettle finally boiled and I poured the water into the cups, leaning over them to get a whiff of the scent. The feel of the steam on my face was soothing—an instant warmth.
‘I like your hair, Mema,’ Hamish said, out of the blue. ‘It’s really …’ he lifted his hand up, smoothing it through the air, ‘… shiny.’
This took me by surprise and I tucked some loose strands behind my ears.
‘It kind of … flops,’ he added.
‘Thanks,’ I said, peering intently into the depths of the brewing teas.
Hamish stood up and walked across to the fridge to get the milk. Mum and I were pretty good at being flooded in by now and we usually kept a few cartons of that UHT stuff stashed away in the cupboard. It didn’t taste as nice as fresh milk, but after days of flooding rain no one complained. Hamish got it out and peered at the label.
‘I wonder what they do to this stuff to make it keep.’
Obviously he wasn’t feeling as uncomfortable as I was about the hair compliments.
‘Mum probably knows. Ask her when she comes in.’
Hamish shook his head and handed me the carton. ‘I’ll be able to google it this afternoon.’
I wondered how easy it would be for Hamish to find a computer in town, but he looked so cheerful I didn’t want to bring it up. I poured the milk into the teas and handed him a cup.
‘It’s a nice day today,’ I said, glancing out the window. ‘Pure sun, like yesterday.’
He sipped his tea, eyes focused on his cup, thoughts hidden.
‘We could go for one last swim, get cool for the trip into town.’
Our car didn’t have air-conditioning, and on summer days it was stinking hot. Made it feel like your blood might boil. I wasn’t looking forward to it.
‘Cool.’ Hamish glanced at his reflection in the window. ‘Maybe I can even out my weird-arse tan.’
It was true. In the morning light I could see the faint difference between where he’d had the ochre paint and where he hadn’t. White stripes on his face where yesterday they’d been brown. I guess he looked pretty funny, standing there holding his steaming teacup—the beginnings of a beard, old tattered, mismatched clothes, odd mar
kings on his face. He looked like he’d been through something. I wondered what they’d make of him in town, especially driving in with me and Mum. I’d be surprised if tongues didn’t wag.
We went down to the creek for a swim but we didn’t speak much. Hamish’s leaving was a load inside me and I kept thinking of that shimmering ribbon of water from the night before. Things were always different in the daylight. There was less room for the fanciful, the wayward. The creek seemed ordinary in the brightness of the sun. The water level was still high, though it no longer covered the bridge. All the surrounding banks had been washed clear and clean, like there was no mystery in them at all. I felt exposed just looking at them.
‘You going in?’ Hamish asked, pulling off his shirt.
The sight of his chest unnerved me.
‘You go,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘I’ll come in a second.’
Hamish was different from the day before, more purposeful, less cautious. He strode forward, pushing through the flow and diving quickly beneath the water. My heartbeat started up its clattering, and I pushed that hollow place between my breasts, hoping against hope for it to stop. I watched him under the water, swimming like I had imagined myself, him the one who was free, not me. It made my eyes sting and I wondered suddenly if I might cry.
Hamish resurfaced, shaking his head like a puppy, droplets springing from him into the air, scattering onto the surface of the creek, a myriad of glassy spots.
‘Come on, Mema,’ he called out, smiling.
‘Okay,’ I said, my body loosening at the sound of his voice, hesitation slipping away.
Once in I felt better. Enlivened, less stuck. Even the bottom of the creek was clean, no sticks or leaves, no slippery moss, only flood-roughened rocks. It never stayed clean like that for long. Two or three days max. Sometimes the entire layout of the creek would change in a flood. Where it used to be deep it would be shallow. Stretches that were narrow would widen. Nothing as it used to be. I swam about, putting my feet down to test the different depths. Relearning the terrain, making it mine.
Hamish floated on his back, staring at the sky. I did my best to ignore him.
In a while he righted himself and swam towards me. I stood on my toes in a deep section, stretching out my neck to keep my head above the surface. If I moved forward an inch my mouth would go under. He hovered in front of me, treading water and watching my face. My submerged body quivered.
‘You’re quiet this morning, Mema,’ he said. ‘You alright?’
What could I possibly say? I stood there a minute, my heart pulsing. In my mind I could see the vibrations of it moving outwards from me like rings on top of water. I wondered if Hamish could feel it somewhere deep inside. In the end I just nodded my head, taking in a mouthful and spitting it back out slowly in a fountain. Anja and I were good at this trick, having practised it over the years. We could propel the water quite far with very little effort.
‘Impressive,’ Hamish said, taking in his own mouthful and giving it his best shot.
To my surprise he was actually pretty skilled. I must have looked piqued ’cause he seemed inordinately pleased.
‘You don’t have to live next to a creek to be good at spitting water, Mema.’
‘I suppose not.’
I took in another mouthful and shot a small stream out between my two front teeth. This was my specialty. The gap in my teeth was the perfect size, not too big, not too small. The water flew in a wide arc over Hamish’s head, the end of it landing in soft drops on his hair.
‘Show off,’ he murmured.
‘That gap comes in handy.’
‘They say a gap means you’ll be rich.’
I smiled, feeling the space with my tongue.
‘It’s good fortune.’ He thwacked lightly at the water with his hand, flinging some droplets my way.
‘Who says?’
Actually, I’d been hearing this prophecy since I was a child. It was a part of hippie lore.
‘I think it’s Chinese. A Chinese thing.’
‘It’s not a very big gap.’ When I was little I believed I’d been born lucky and the gap in my teeth was confirmation.
‘Big enough.’ Hamish clapped down on the water a bit harder and it splattered around my shoulders.
‘That’s cheating,’ I said, opening my mouth to refill.
‘Okay, okay,’ he said, holding up his palms. ‘You win.’
I guess it was pretty childish to try to beat him in a spitting game. My eyes started to sting again and I knew I could cry. Right then and there. I could feel it welling up, that uncontrollable urge to weep.
‘Should we go back?’ Hamish asked. ‘Your mum might be ready to go.’
I dropped beneath the water, trying to wash away the crying feeling, and when I resurfaced Hamish was already across the creek, his expression unreadable, closed.
‘Okay.’ I wiped my face with my hands, and together we clambered out of the creek and back up the green hills.
At the house, Mum was waiting. I could see her in the distance pottering around in the garden, grey curls caught up in an elastic on the top of her head. When we got closer I noticed she’d tucked up her skirt exposing the largeness of her calves and her knobbly, damaged knees. Potters always have bad knees ’cause pushing the wheel is an awkward sideways movement. It was one of the drawbacks of the trade, but Mum never complained. I’d tried to get her to invest in an electric wheel but she wasn’t ready to let go of the old one yet.
‘Cooled off?’ she called out and Hamish and I nodded.
I headed inside to get changed. Hamish didn’t have anything else to wear so he just stayed out in the sun. He’d dry off in no time. In my room I looked at all my bright hanging skirts, considering which one I should wear. Usually I enjoyed the boldness of their colours, the bright, joyful lines of their prints, but today I wondered whether they might make me look strange. Stranger than I already looked. I pulled my boots from the cupboard, the ones specially made for my bung foot. They were black old-style lace-ups that rose well above my ankle. Nowadays, you could get most shoes made up for a foot like mine, but I didn’t see much use in it. These had always been enough. Putting them on made me feel more of an invalid rather than less. But they were also a kind of armour, they helped me feel ready for all the straight lines of the world.
Back outside we all climbed into the car. It was an old Corolla station wagon, white and dingy with hideously scratchy seats. I let Hamish have the front, which didn’t seem to please him, but I wanted to be able to watch him from the back, watch him try to make chitchat with my mum. Maybe, since he was leaving, this was my way of making it hard on him. I don’t know, I’m not usually so mean.
I noticed straight away that something wasn’t right. Hamish hesitated before opening the car door, and by the time he sat down there were huge balls of sweat standing out on his forehead. It was hot, but we’d just been swimming, and the car was parked in the shade of one of the big old camphors. Compared to outside, it was cool in the car. Mum glanced across at him and turned the engine on. I could tell she knew something was up too, but she didn’t say a word. When Hamish pulled his seatbelt across, his hands were shaking real bad, his skin paler and paler by the second.
Scrambling into the middle of the back seat I leaned forward and put a hand on his shoulder, but he shrugged off my touch.
‘Mum?’ My voice came out like a croak.
Mum put the car into reverse and turned to look behind her.
‘Try to breathe,’ she said quietly to Hamish. ‘I’ll go slow.’
As Mum nudged the car slowly backwards, Hamish’s breaths started coming in quick. He was almost panting, sweat pouring down his face in rivulets. Mum paused a second, watching him, and then she put the car in drive.
‘You tell me to stop and I will,’ she said gently. I don’t know why, but something about my mother’s softness with him made my eyes fill up again. I tried not to let them spill over.
Hamish kept looking stra
ight ahead. He lifted his shirt with shaking hands and wiped his face.
‘What’s happening to me?’ he choked out, his breath sounding strangled.
‘Looks like a panic attack.’ Mum moved the car forward at a snail’s pace.
‘A panic attack?’ Hamish repeated. ‘From getting into a car?’
Mum just shrugged, driving real slow. We bumped down the driveway, every rock seeming to punch into the tyres. It probably only took a minute or two but it felt like forever. Soon the bridge loomed up ahead and Hamish started grasping at his throat, and I knew then that he wouldn’t go over. Mum must have known too ’cause she stopped the car and turned the engine off. Hamish grabbed at his seatbelt, trying to get it off. I opened the door and pushed myself out, pulling his door open too. He propelled himself out of the car with such force he nearly bowled me over. It took me a second to find my feet.
Squatting in the grass, he looked like he might retch. Mum didn’t get out, but put the car into reverse and drove it back up the drive and into the shade. I watched her get out, close all the car doors and stand in the front yard, observing us. I wasn’t sure what to do. How to get Hamish to come out of the sun. If he was one of the animals, I’d have known how to comfort him, but he didn’t seem to want me anywhere near. He wouldn’t look at me at all. Finally, I stepped up towards him and crouched down on the grass nearby.
‘You alright?’ I knew it wasn’t much but it was all I could muster.
‘Fuck, fuck, fuck …’ He rubbed his hands across his shorn hair, hard.
‘You nearly died trapped in a car. It’s not surprising your body doesn’t want to do it.’
I could remember the sound of his car sliding against the wooden railings of the bridge. The loud splintering crack of it breaking through. I glanced up and looked towards the bridge. From where we were crouching I could see the remains of the broken railing hanging loose. I hadn’t really considered what it must have been like for him to be on the inside.