“I’m glad they sat with you.”
“Me, too. Gordon and Teri brought me back to the hotel. I’m sure it was out of their way. I almost invited them to come up so you could meet them. I didn’t because I thought you would be in bed, but here you were, having a fruit fest without me.”
“Not on purpose, believe me. So how did it go with your brother-in-law?”
“Okay Not great.” Jill settled under the covers and twitched her mouth right and left before finishing her thought. “He came on pretty strong about James and me moving here.”
“Here? To Sydney? You don’t want to move to Sydney, do you?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Why does he think you should move here?”
“After Ray died, a lot of my family and a few close friends invited James and me to live with them. I know they meant well, but I couldn’t leave Wellington right away because, well … there were some unfinished complications.”
Jill paused. I waited for her to go on.
“Even after I was free to go, I didn’t want to leave Wellington. I didn’t want to be taken in by someone who felt sorry for us. Besides, James was already at the university. I’m sure I could leave him and he’d be fine, but I’m settled in Wellington. At least for now.”
“I’m sure you’ve thought about going back to California.”
“Lots of times. I don’t know if that’s what I’m supposed to do. I have this small feeling that I’m not done with Wellington yet. I think my brother-in-law feels responsible to do something for me. He and his wife are great people, but I don’t want them to be my umbrella. Does that make sense?”
I nodded. “You want to be under your own parasol.”
Jill nibbled on her thumbnail and then she got the correlation. “Like the parasol light at the B&B. Yes, that’s a good way of saying it. For now, I feel like I need to be under my own parasol.”
I tried to imagine what it must be like to be a widow at such a young age. One of my friends in California who had divorced recently told me she hadn’t counted on the loneliness. I couldn’t imagine my life without Tony. I knew I didn’t appreciate him enough.
“Jill, may I ask you something?” I wasn’t sure if the time was right, but I asked anyway. “When you want to tell me, I want to hear the whole story.”
“The whole story?”
“Yes, the whole story about how Ray died.”
Jill didn’t look at me. She kept biting her thumbnail.
“I’m not saying you need to tell me now. Just whenever you want to. And if you don’t want to, that’s fine, too.”
“Hasn’t Tony said anything about it?”
“No.”
She looked surprised.
“And I won’t ask him, either.” I looked directly at her. “Even if he does know, I’d rather hear everything from you. If and when you want to talk about it.”
“I don’t think I’m ready to do that tonight,” she said in a small voice.
“That’s okay. This is an open invitation. Definitely a come-as-you-are sort of invitation. No obligations attached.”
I expected Jill to cry as we talked about Ray, but she didn’t. Her smooth, fair skin took on a glow, and her expression was one of gratitude. “Thank you, Kathy. I will tell you sometime. Just not tonight.”
“No worries,” I said, trying to sound lighthearted.
We settled in for a cozy night’s sleep. I felt as if an invisible sweetness had strung itself like a clothesline between Jill and me in our twin beds. When laundry day came, I had no doubt Jill would hang up the personal unmentionables of her life story. And I would be there to hold the line for her.
In the morning we opted for breakfast in the hotel restaurant instead of room service. We thought that route would prompt us to get up and dressed and out the door instead of lounging in our pj’s and eating breakfast in bed.
The restaurant offered a buffet breakfast, and we filled our plates with many of the foods we would find at home in California. I had scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon that was flat and thick and not very crinkled or crispy. Stopping at the juice and condiment table, we reached for plastic, individual-sized tubs of butter and jelly.
“What’s this?” I asked Jill, holding up a tiny tub of something called Vegemite.
“You should try it.”
“But what is it?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“What do you mean you can’t tell me? Don’t you know what it is?”
“Oh, I know all right. In New Zealand our brand is Marmite.”
“Your brand of what?”
“Just try it.”
I followed Jill back to our table and kept pestering her. “Is it like peanut butter?”
“No.”
“Honey?”
“What, dear?” Her expression let me know that my goofy wit was beginning to rub off on her.
“Just answer me this, Miss Smarty Party. What are you supposed to do with Vegemite?”
“Well, different people have different opinions of what should be done with Vegemite.” Her poker face was starting to crack at the corners of her mouth. “I will simply tell you that you should try it and see what you think. I will also tell you that it’s considered a comfort food.”
“Like chocolate?”
“I can’t really answer that.”
“So do I spoon it on my eggs or what?”
“Try it on your toast,” Jill suggested.
Eager to get this silly game over with, I peeled back the top and spread all of the dark molasses-colored Vegemite on half a slice of toast. It had the consistency of jellified honey and smelled like Worcestershire sauce.
“Are you sure people eat this? I mean, it’s safe for ingestion, right?”
“Yes. Just try a bite.”
I did. Never in my life had I experienced such a disagreeable explosion of confused tastes on my poor tongue. It was a challenge to make myself swallow the whole bite.
“I don’t care for it.” I politely put the slice of toast to the side of my plate and made a face.
Jill was laughing now. This had been good fun for her.
“I’m sure you were making up the part about its being comfort food. What is it, really? Condensed sushi? Purse-sized shoe polish?”
“No, it’s really, truly a type of spread for bread or whatever, and it’s really, truly considered comfort food.”
I shook my head, refusing to believe her. “Then my taste buds have not yet flipped down under because I …” instead of finishing my sentence, I demonstrated my shoulder-shaking dislike of the goo and downed my orange juice in one gulp.
Jill bowed her head to pray over our breakfast. “Lord, for what Kathy is about to swallow, may she be truly grateful. Amen.”
“That was rude!” I teased her.
“I know. I was just giving you a hard time. I’ll really pray now.”
I bowed with her while my tongue made a clean sweep of the inside of my mouth. This time when Jill said, “Amen,” I had no problem agreeing with her and adding my amen as well.
Enjoying the rest of my breakfast, I picked up the Vegemite wrapper and said, “You know what this reminds me of?”
“I don’t think I want to know.”
“No, I mean the name. Remember the I Love Lucy episode where she’s trying to do a commercial for some elixir she keeps drinking until it makes her tipsy?”
“Oh, yeah. Vetavitavegamita.”
“No,” I said. “It was Meatavitavegamin.”
“No, Vitametavegamite.”
“No, I think it was Vegamitavitamita.”
“That’s not it. All I remember was Lucy’s line, ‘It’s so tasty, too!’ ” Jill laughed. “I’m guessing you wouldn’t apply that same line to this sample of Vegemite.”
“Vitameatavegamin!” I said with the snap of my fingers. “That’s it!”
“If you say so. Come on, Lucy. We have some sights to see.”
The concierge provided us
with a map along with several brochures containing details on what to do in Sydney. He greeted us with, “G’day” and said, “No worries” twice before showing us how to get to the train station, which was the closest form of public transportation and only two blocks away.
Bright autumn sun laced with a soft breeze greeted us as Jill and I walked in step. The temperature felt warmer than when we had left Wellington. A tall palm tree shaded the small train station where we bought two tickets to the Quay, which the map indicated was the main harbor area. I was eager to see the famous Sydney Opera House. Jill had some definite opinions about the art museum.
“I’m glad we’re not driving,” she said, as the two of us boarded the quaint train. The seating area we settled in felt similar to a subway. Across from us a little boy with a gleeful Australian accent was trying to snatch a piece of candy out of his grandpa’s hand. Three teenage girls in belly button-revealing T-shirts were discussing what they should buy for another girl’s birthday gift. I agreed with Jill about not having a car. I liked getting a touch of Aussie Saturday life on the public transportation.
The train rolled into the station near the Quay. Jill and I followed the crowd off the train, past some tourist shops, and into an open area bustling with movement. Visitors and locals strolled in the sunshine and dined at the open-air cafés. Others rushed to get on one of the many ferries and other touring boats that docked in the long harbor at what was labeled the Circular Quay.
We turned to the right, and there stood the Opera House, white and elegant against the seamless blue sky at the end of Sydney Harbor. The sight took my breath away.
“I’ve seen pictures of this landmark for years.” I flipped up my sunglasses to get a better look as we walked toward it. “But this is really something. It reminds me of a huge ship with its sails at full mast.”
“And the bridge.” Jill pointed to the left. “Do you recognize that? Think of how many times we’ve seen fireworks being launched from that bridge. And there it is!”
I was glad that Jill didn’t feel embarrassed to play tourist with me. I wanted to see everything.
“Let’s see if we can buy tickets for whatever performance is playing at the Opera House,” Jill suggested.
We headed for the great alabaster structure, and I commented that the area we were walking through had a southern California feel to it. I smiled when I heard the familiar ring of a cell phone nearby. It even sounded like the personalized tune on my phone.
That’s when I realized it was my phone. Skyler was calling from college to tell me she had landed the summer job she had hoped for on campus in the admissions office.
“I’m thrilled for you, Sky! That’s great news!”
“Thanks, Mom. So, what are you doing? Washing Dad’s jeans and hanging them outside in the rain again?”
“No, as a matter of fact, I’m walking up the steps toward the entrance of the Sydney Opera House.”
Skyler didn’t respond.
“Are you still there?”
“You can’t be serious,” she said. “You’re in Sydney? Australia? The Australia that I’ve wanted to go to since I was, like, seven?”
“Yes, that very same Australia. I came over here yesterday with Jill. She had to go to a wedding, and we thought we’d have a little getaway. Dad said he was going to send you an e-mail. Didn’t you get it?”
“No, my computer isn’t working. But don’t worry. I have a guy who’s working on it for me and …” with a giggle she added, “he’s really cute!”
It felt good to hear my daughter’s voice and her giggle. Before we hung up she begged me to buy certain Australian souvenirs for her—and, oh yes, she promised to pay me back. She ended with, “Mom, did you know that you are the coolest?”
“Coolest what?”
“You are the coolest world-traveling, God-loving, adventure-taking mother on this planet. When I grow up I want to be exactly like you!”
I closed my cell phone with my head in the clouds. Skyler’s words across the miles and across the continents made up for all the times in high school that she had rolled her eyes and given me that get-a-life look.
The truth was, I had gotten a life, and suddenly I was cool. My life was flipped. Flipped completely down under. And I wasn’t sure I ever wanted it to flop back to the way it had been.
What surprised me the most about the Sydney Opera House was the immensity of the building. I felt as if a great fish were swallowing us when we went inside. Jill read to me from the tour brochure that the building was finished in 1973 and had gone ninety-five million dollars over budget. Neither of us, even with our familiarity with the film industry, could imagine a project going so far over budget.
The part that surprised us the most was that the building wasn’t a single, huge concert hall but rather a complex with several performing arenas. We found that we could buy tickets on the spot and go to an opera that evening, a jazz concert later in the afternoon, or a Shakespearean performance at seven. The system was much less formal than anything I’d experienced in the U.S.
We both agreed on tickets for the opera, even though we knew nothing about the performance being presented that evening. It just seemed that, when at the Opera House, go to the opera.
“What would you think about going to the art museum now?” Jill asked, unfolding the map the concierge had given us. “I read in the tour brochure that it has some extraordinary Aboriginal art. It’s not far from here. We could walk through the botanical gardens.”
“Sure!” I was still euphoric about being “cool,” according to Skyler. Jill could have asked if I wanted to walk across the top of the harbor bridge attached to nothing but a bungee cord, and I would have done it.
The botanical gardens were brimming with autumn flowers still in bloom and a wealth of imposing old trees. The sun was warm enough to prompt us to peel off our sweaters. Jill pulled up her hair in a ponytail, and we talked about how much we loved the weather.
At a split in the trail, we stopped where half a dozen people were standing and staring up into a huge tree. The tree was thick with what looked like black pods the size of kittens hanging from the branches.
“What are you looking at?” Jill came alongside an older man who had a pair of binoculars.
“Bats.” He handed her the binoculars. “Fruit bats. Curious creatures.”
I immediately took several steps backward as a shiver ran up my spine. Jill peered through the binoculars and made appreciative comments about how clearly she could make out the details of the bats’ folded-up wings.
From where I stood, I could easily see that this horde of nocturnal creatures was hanging upside down. There had to be hundreds of them. A young man with a backpack picked up a stone and threw it up into the tree. A great fluttering sound followed.
Jill and I instinctively grabbed each other by the arm and took off running away from the disturbed bats. Behind us we heard the older man yelling at the rock thrower.
“Are they following us?” I squealed. I couldn’t bring myself to turn around and look.
“No, they’re going back to the tree.”
We slowed our pace to a walk and joined in a burst of nervous laughter.
“That was too creepy,” I said with a shiver. “I’m going to have nightmares about bats chasing me.”
Jill playfully reached over and fluttered the back of my hair with her hand, as if imitating the sensation of a bat hiding in my tresses.
“Not funny! Not funny! Not funny!” I spouted, pulling away.
“You’re not fond of bats, I take it.”
“You’re quick!” I teased her back.
Jill chuckled and pointed to where we exited the botanical gardens to connect with the art museum. “How did you handle Batman while you were growing up?”
“Never watched it. Never went to see the Batman movies. Wouldn’t let my daughter keep any Batman-related miniature action figures that came with her kid’s meal. Bats are awful. Bats are evil. Bats should neve
r be made into toys for children to play with or appreciated in any way, shape, or form!”
Jill laughed.
“Why are you laughing? Bats are not funny. They are wicked.”
“Okay! Well, it’s unfortunate you don’t feel the freedom to express your true opinion on the topic.”
We walked another few yards before I turned the tables. “So, what are you afraid of?”
“Nothing,” Jill said with an all-too-cocky kick in her step, as we entered the stately art museum. While we rode the escalator to the lower level to view the Yiribana Gallery, I told Jill she couldn’t get off that easily. There had to be something she was afraid of.
“Hobbits.” She winked.
“That joke doesn’t work here. We’re done with the hobbit jokes. I’ll find out what you’re frightened of one of these days, and then I’ll demonstrate how an understanding friend should treat another friend’s phobias.”
Jill took off a few steps ahead of me with a carefree flip of her hand, as if she didn’t have a fright in the world. I knew it was only a matter of time.
Taking one look at the art in front of us, I thought we were in the wrong wing. Jill, however, offered low, appreciative humming sounds and drew closer to the pictures.
“These are exceptional,” she murmured, gazing at one of the many walls lined with large canvases. Each of the paintings was made up of thousands and thousands of perfectly round dots all placed so as to form a pattern. The colors were earth colors: sand, green, blue, black.
“Don’t you love this? It’s like a bird’s eye view on an ancient world but with so much energy that it seems to move.”
I had to do a double take to make sure Jill wasn’t joking. Trying to sound as polite as possible, I said, “I don’t think I’m seeing what you’re seeing.”
Jill did a double take on me to make sure I wasn’t joking. “It’s all about the balance. That’s the beauty of how the Aborigines view the world. Look at this one.”
Jill explained the way the dots lined up to form shapes and impressions of shape. She gave me a crash course on how Aboriginal art compared with the European Impressionists, including a side note on how Monet captured light and time of day with his many water lily paintings. Jill saw much more in these paintings than I did and kept talking about the balance.
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