‘Nah. It’s a good example of the kind of thing that can happen.’
Pulse rocketing, Sidney stabbed the radio station’s number into her phone. Her hand shook as the producer took her call, asked for her name, where she was calling from, and what she wanted to talk about. While on hold, she googled stats about crime and mental illness, and listened to the end of Grant’s enlightened rant about ticking time bombs that he didn’t want living in his neighbourhood, near his kids. Lowe wound him up quickly.
‘We have Sidney from Brunswick on the line. Hello, Sidney.’
‘I would like to inform your listeners that there are high-functioning people out there with so-called “mental illness”, which, by the way, is offensive to many because it sounds like a contagious disease.’ Her voice squeaked. She cleared her throat. ‘Some even have university degrees and jobs and families, can you believe it? Oh, and I’d better also mention the ones too afraid to leave their homes because they’re terrified of ignorant people like Grant!’ Her inner ear itched, sweat ran from under her arms and breasts, her whole body shook. ‘Did you know that the lifetime risk of someone with schizophrenia seriously harming or killing another person is just 0.005 per cent?’
‘I’m not sure where that statistic comes from, Sidney, but —’
‘We have to stop conflating mental illness and crime. People with mental illness are far more likely to be the victims of violence. Fuck you, Grant —’
Beep, beep, beep.
‘Sorry, Sidney, we can’t say that on the radio. Hello, John from Essendon —’
Sidney switched stations.
‘Come on down to Clive’s Furniture Warehouse. We’d have to be CRAAAZEEE selling at these prices.’
She turned it off, tossed her phone into the corner, cupped her hands over her nose and mouth, and took deep breaths.
SIDNEY JUMPED at the sound of the doorbell. It was followed by urgent banging on the front door. Oh, no, somebody from the radio.
She slunk down the stairs, and opened the door a crack. Aubrey. Panic on her face, her body contorted like a gnarled tree twisting around itself. Sidney looked down. Aubrey’s grey sweater sleeves were dirty at the cuffs. And, oh God, her white shorts were stained, the tops of her thighs streaked with blood.
Sidney guided her inside and closed the door.
‘Mum’s not home,’ Aubrey screeched. ‘I’ve got these,’ she held up a packet of tampons, ‘but I can’t get them in!’
Summoning serenity from somewhere, Sidney rubbed Aubrey’s back. ‘It’s OK.’
‘It’s not OK!’ Aubrey shoved Sidney’s arm aside. ‘It’s horrible.’
‘No, it’s just normal.’
Aubrey must have been wearing mascara; it was dribbling down her cheeks.
Sidney led her upstairs to the bathroom. ‘Why don’t you have a shower? Towels in the cupboard, and you can borrow some of my clothes. Bloodstains come out easily with a soak in cold water.’ She took the tampons. ‘I’ll get you some pads. They’re easier.’
Sidney had been dancing in her Flashdance sweatshirt-dress and white leggings when her first period had started. Faye was busy, rushing off to work or somewhere; she had shrieked that Sidney was too young and shoved a handful of pads and tampons at her. She’d had to work out what to do for herself.
Opening the bathroom door slightly, Sidney placed on the floor a new pair of track pants, an unopened three-pack of underpants, pads, and the amber-glass spider wrapped in tissue paper.
Apple green mingled with rust and BO as she took Aubrey’s pants and sweater downstairs to the laundry.
She soaked the undies and shorts in the basin, threw the sweater in with a load of washing, and, when she heard the shower stop, pressed ‘start’ on the machine. Aubrey yelled for her sweater.
‘It’s in the wash,’ Sidney called.
‘I need it.’
Sidney froze. The camouflage make-up. She pictured Aubrey adjusting the towel, trying to hide storm clouds of bruises on her arms and chest. She should have known. I knew. She hugged herself, absently rubbing her shoulders, remembering her own mother’s hands on her.
Aubrey said something as she slopped paint onto the skirting boards and Sidney’s long-sleeved T-shirt she was wearing. Sidney was distracted, thinking about bruises. She stopped rollering and looked down from the ladder. ‘Pardon?’
‘How long have you and Christos been married?’
‘A long time.’
‘My mum and dad have been separated for nearly six months.’
‘That must be difficult.’
‘Only because they’ve got me.’
Sidney bit the insides of her cheeks.
Aubrey dipped her brush into the paint, neglecting to wipe off the excess on the tray; it dripped onto the drop sheet. ‘Is there something wrong with you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘All those tablets at …’
‘I’m fine most of the time, but every now and then I … become unwell.’
Aubrey frowned.
‘Nothing serious.’ She was going to leave it there but decided to be honest. ‘I have a mental illness. Although I don’t like to call it that, sounds like a disease you can catch. A psychiatric disorder? I’ve never been able to think of the right words for it. My brain’s just wired a bit differently to most people’s.’
‘Snap.’
‘Mmm. Sort of.’
‘My uncle had to stay in a psych hospital for a while. He heard voices telling him he was Oprah Winfrey.’
Sidney nodded.
‘Thank you for the make-up.’ Aubrey focused on slapping paint, evading Sidney’s eyes. ‘And the beautiful spider.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘What does it feel like, you know, when …’
‘I don’t remember much about those times.’
‘Do you hear voices?’
‘Sometimes.’
Aubrey twisted her brow and mouth.
‘My voices are just a part of who I am.’
‘Christos has to look after you?’
‘He knows what to do, yes. He’s like my carer as well as my husband.’
She caught Aubrey scrunching up her nose, and wondered why she seemed to dislike Christos — everybody liked Christos. She climbed down the ladder for more paint. A starburst of custard yellow speckled her gloves — should have covered them with disposables.
‘I could help you too. Just tell me what to do.’
Sidney wished it could be true.
‘It hurts,’ Aubrey said. ‘My tummy.’
‘You’ll get used to it.’ Sidney liked her cycle. It reminded her that in one way she was normal; while her mind was not exactly a ‘standard fitting’, her body was no different to other healthy women’s.
Aubrey sniffed.
‘If it’s really bad, you could take some Nurofen.’
Aubrey shook her head. ‘I can’t stop thinking about the Collins Street baby.’
Sidney put down the roller, knelt, and rubbed Aubrey’s shoulder.
‘She wasn’t even a year old.’ Aubrey reached out and clung to her. ‘It’s not fair.’
Sidney returned the hug. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d held another human being with care and without reservation. I wish I was your mother.
TRIPLE ZERO? No, not an emergency. Local police? Sidney keyed the first three digits into her phone, and then deleted them. Police involvement could end in disaster — outing Aubrey, getting her into more trouble with her mother. And the father might be worse. She sat on the bottom ladder rung and googled What to do if you suspect domestic violence.
A domestic-violence resource centre appeared as her first search result.
She tapped the menu: FOR
FAMILY, FRIENDS, AND NEIGHBOURS.
No. FOR CHILDREN — TAKE THE QUIZ; READ TRUE STORIES; GET HELP.
GET HELP —
The room darkened. She looked up. Christos was blocking the light from the doorway — he’d slipped in quietly, for a change. No grin on Cheshire Kitty’s face. She didn’t like it. He’d heard her on the radio? Seen her credit-card statement? Had only six months to live?
‘I’ve got some bad news, Sid.’
Oh, God.
She pocketed her phone as he knelt down in front of her.
‘It’s your mother,’ he said, wrapping his arms around her.
He felt as though he’d lost weight.
‘I got a call from Gareth Maher at the cop shop up the bush.’
She shivered.
‘I’m sorry, she’s passed away, Sid.’
It had been a long time, but Faye would have let her know if she was unwell, surely. It must have been a sudden illness. A heart attack or stroke.
Christos sat back, holding her hands in his. ‘It was a traffic accident.’
‘What kind of —’
‘Shh. You don’t need to know the details.’
‘Yes. I do.’ Her voice rose and deepened at the same time.
He sighed. ‘A semitrailer.’
She thought of Collins Street.
‘She was walking up the middle of the highway.’
Her stomach twisted as an image flashed through her head: grass, earth, screaming, broken glass.
‘Mahersy said witnesses saw her trying to flag semis down with a handkerchief in her hand.’
Those were almost the exact lyrics from Faye’s favourite song, ‘Mama Hated Diesels’. The custard-paint’s smell was suddenly overwhelming. Sidney stood up. Christos tried to hold her, but she pulled away, ran out of the room, down the stairs, and into the laundry.
She covered her mouth, unsure if she was laughing or crying. Something in between, soundless. Aubrey’s white shorts were in the basin, floating in a pool of bloody water.
‘My mother is dead,’ she whispered. The words didn’t sound right. ‘Mum is dead. Faye is dead. Dead, dead, dead.’
‘Stop it!’
THE DRIVEWAY to the house on Broken River Road had never been sealed. Christos slowed the Volvo wagon to minimise the dust.
A lump of pain the size of an orange had formed between Sidney’s chest and throat.
‘You all right?’ Christos said.
It hurt to swallow, to control her tears. ‘I know she was awful to me, but she was my mother,’ she whispered, turning to look at him. She was confused by his expression — was it sympathy, or incomprehension? The smudged grey area between black and white was difficult for Christos. ‘She was beautiful, she loved animals, and …’ The tears won. ‘She was my mother.’
The drive up had elicited a strange anticipative yet empty feeling. Returning home but knowing that nobody would be waiting. Sidney had left at the end of 1991, with Christos, six months after the fire, and never been back — only in her dreams, her nightmares.
Christos reached across and rubbed her shoulder. ‘Remember the floods of 1990?’ he said wistfully.
Christos had been in the Country Fire Authority. He’d helped Sidney’s family sandbag before attending emergency call-outs. He’d warned them to evacuate if the river reached seven metres on the flood-level gauge. They hadn’t evacuated. They’d put Glinda, the goat, inside the house; stacked the small electrical goods and important possessions — photos, records, cassettes, Sidney’s books — on the highest shelves; and tied the furniture to door handles so it wouldn’t float away. They couldn’t keep their border collie, Barky, from swimming, so Pop had strung two empty soft-drink bottles to his collar, like floaties. The water level hit a record 8.45 metres, and the sandbags were no match for the sinister spill sleazing into the house. The State Emergency Service had advised residents to develop an emergency plan, put together an emergency kit, and stay tuned to the radio for updates. Mum, Nan, Pop, Auntie Stella, and Sidney had taken smokes, a cask of claret, potato chips, and The Great Catsby in his carry-cage up onto the roof. They’d listened to country music until the portable cassette player’s batteries died.
After the flood, they found two of the chooks drowned in their shed, Glinda standing on the kitchen table, and a Murray cod in the lounge room. The floors and furniture were destroyed; mould bloomed next to the flowers on the wallpaper. The house had smelled like wet dog, and then worse: rotting meat.
Nan and Pop had sold their unit — the proceeds, and most of Mum’s savings, went on house repairs, and a caravan big enough for them all to live in during the refurbishment. That summer, Auntie Stella found a boyfriend, sold her house, and moved to New Zealand with him. Faye took up heavier drinking. Pop accidentally shot Barky dead while rabbit hunting. Nan rediscovered religion, and vacuumed the grass in the yard. And Sidney started going out with Christos. Ironic that a year later they’d be back in that caravan after fire destroyed half the house.
The Volvo crunched to a stop at the rusted gate. Christos got out to open it. He didn’t bother closing it — nobody entered or left here anymore.
He parked in the half-dead weeds behind the sad caravan and Faye’s old bronze Fairlane.
Frost on the ground, cold that burned inside your nose and head, freezing car seats, steamy windows. Winter? The end of autumn or the start of spring? You had pulled up right where the Volvo is now. Or did you park outside the gate? In the blue-and-green Cola Hardware pick-up truck. Had we been out somewhere together that night? You told me that you couldn’t see me anymore. I can’t remember your reason, or if you’d kissed me goodbye. Did I cry? Did I get out and slam the door? Did I look back? Faye had flicked on the porch light from inside, and I’d hurried towards it. No, I’m sure I didn’t look back.
‘What are you thinking?’ Christos said.
It’s in the monsters’ cupboard, where you know it’s always been. ‘Will I have to identify the body?’
‘No.’ He patted her hand. ‘Anybody in town who knew her over a period of time can. I’ll do it if I have to.’
She unclipped her seatbelt, stepped out, and walked around to the boot, shooing away a fly. The air smelled of clay dust and farm-animal shit. A shovel was leaned against the back of the house, next to a stack of firewood. Paint was peeling from the weatherboards; a broken window had been repaired with tape.
One of their old peacocks flew overhead and landed awkwardly on the rusted roof. Elton or Liberace? When Sidney was young, she’d thought their calls sounded like ‘Aah–aah! Harelip!’ until Christos said it was more like a woman screaming ‘Aah–aah! Hell–p!’. Either way, it seemed more melancholic than she remembered. She looked across the paddock. Where was the other one?
‘Holy fuck,’ Christos said. ‘I’d forgotten all about them. Used to scare the shit outta me when I slept over. Thought they’d both be dead by now.’
There was a portable fan heater in the boot next to an overnight bag and Sidney’s little red case. ‘Gets cool at night here this time of year, remember?’ he said.
No shit.
A fly landed on his upper lip, lapping at the sweat there. He brushed it away.
She put her hand on his overnight bag, thanked him for driving, stood on tiptoes, and pecked him on the cheek.
‘What?’ He laughed. ‘You don’t think I’m leaving you here by yourself?’
She lifted her chin.
‘Come on, Sid.’
‘You have to go to work.’
‘It’s sorted.’
‘I told you this is something I need to do on my own.’
> ‘What about the funeral arrangements and the real-estate agent?’
‘I’m not a baby, Chris.’
His raised eyebrows said yes, you are. He held up his hands. ‘Let’s just have a coffee, and then see how you feel.’ He left his bag and lifted out the heater and her case.
He went first, half a dozen flies hitching a ride on the back of his shirt. He found the spare key under the broken flowerpot, next to the frazzled Welcome mat at the back door.
The ‘new’ kitchen — built after the fire — smelled of garbage. A hospital-green door had replaced the stained-glass one in which Jesus had lived for a while. There was a clock on the wall that looked even newer — no dust or grime — cheap, but its ticking seemed extra loud.
She felt Christos’s hand on the small of her back. ‘Where do you want your case?’
‘In the lounge room.’
‘Make the coffee? I’ll take out the rubbish.’
The tap screamed when she turned it on; the pump groaned, and water spluttered out brown before it ran clear.
‘So, what’s the plan, Sid?’ Christos said over his chipped mug, at the kitchen table — there was only instant coffee, so she’d made tea.
The tea tasted odd — musty, sulphidic — and Sidney tried not to think about what might be in the rainwater tank. ‘Sort the place out a bit.’ She looked around at the mess: the clothes and towels strewn across the floor, the dirty dishes stacked on the grimy benchtop. ‘Tomorrow, I’ll get onto the funeral place and the real-estate agent. And the Salvation Army.’
‘We could have dinner at the golf club tonight.’
‘No, Chris. Going through her things … I really need to do it by myself.’ She stood and walked across to the sink, looked out the dusty window. Pop and his mates had fenced the yard around the house when Sidney was a baby starting to walk. A peacock’s feather was caught on the chain-wire gate. Beyond it, ten acres of scrub and eucalypts — a drab Tom Roberts landscape — led to the river. The only variation in colour came from the maple tree shedding its blood-red leaves in the yard. Nothing ever changed here. ‘Give me a couple of days.’
All That I Remember About Dean Cola Page 10