By the time Mason managed to pull her off the bed, her useless arm slung over his shoulder, her feet staggering and tripping all the way down the hall, he was already dog-tired. Trying to lift her dead weight into the bath almost broke him.
She roused a bit when her legs hit the water, complaining it was cold. Then she slid down the side of the bath like a ragdoll, her numb limbs at awkward angles, unable to do anything to get herself out. Mason squeezed a large blob of shampoo under the running tap and took a moment to appreciate the apple scent masking the sourness of his mother. She had smears of dried vomit on her chin and in her hair. Mason wondered how he’d ever have the patience to sponge them out.
As the water level crept higher, he returned to Ivy’s bedroom and stripped the sheets off the bed. He bundled them into a ball along with his mother’s jeans, and shoved it all into the washing machine on a warm cycle. Ivy made a groaning sound in the bathroom, and Mason hoped to god she wasn’t going to throw up again. He hurried back down the hall to find she’d slipped lower in the bath. Water was inching towards her chin.
Her eyelids fluttered open. ‘Gonna let me drown?’ she slurred. ‘Turn it off.’ She attempted to lift a foot and kick at the tap. Her leg smacked down hard against the surface of the water, sending it sloshing up the sides of the tub.
Mason squirted another blob of shampoo into the tap’s stream, making no move to stop the flow.
‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’ Her eyelids were heavy. ‘Get rid of us all that way if you could.’
Mason watched the water rise over her chin. It was at her bottom lip.
‘No helpless baby this time,’ she murmured, almost nodding off. ‘You wouldn’t have the balls.’
Water trickled into her mouth. She coughed and spluttered, too wasted to lift her head properly. She let it flop to the other side and her mouth found water again.
How’s that feel? Mason thought. Serves you right. You think I like this? Cleaning up after you all the time? You are a baby. You are helpless.
A floorboard creaked in the hallway. Mason glanced over his shoulder to find Henry staring wide-eyed at the bath, flinching at their mother’s spluttering coughs. Mason’s mind had gone elsewhere for a second. He quickly jerked forwards and yanked the rubber plug out of the plughole. A gurgling vortex formed between his mother’s feet as the water level started to drop.
Mason turned and walked out of the bathroom, avoiding his brother’s gaze. ‘Go to bed,’ he told Henry as he passed.
In his mother’s bedroom, Mason remade the bed with robotic precision: clean sheets, crisp corners, fresh blanket, new pillowcases. When he returned to the bathroom, Henry had made himself scarce, and despite the fact that Mason had ordered his brother away, he still felt a twist of annoyance.
Why do you leave me to deal with her on my own?
Mason hauled his mother out of the tub, wrapping her in a dry towel before staggering back down the hall with her. Ivy complained and elbowed him as he peeled off her wet T-shirt before letting her fall against the mattress, leaving her wet underwear on as he yanked the sheet and blanket over the top.
When it was done, Mason trudged around the house switching off lights and collecting sodden towels. There wasn’t a word to describe how drained he felt; he ached all the way through to his bones. Eventually, when he returned to the kitchen, he walked over to the glass cabinet in the corner and stared at his mother’s adored Wedgwood plates for a long time. He scanned every one until his eyes landed on the plate he was looking for. Middle shelf, second from the right. Her favourite. He removed it from the cabinet before gently closing the glass door.
Mason studied the plate for a moment, running a finger over the matte finish, the delicate white cameo resembling icing on a smooth blue cookie. He carried it carefully across the kitchen to the front door, then out onto the verandah and into the darkness.
When Mason reached the brick carport, the sensor light blinked on, sending mice scurrying for the safety of shadows. He walked over to the wooden tool bench where Wayne had often tried in vain to resurrect their broken appliances. Glancing down at the plate in his hand, Mason’s thumb found the familiar chip on the rim. He pressed the fleshy part of his thumb deep into the crack until it broke his skin.
Then Mason cocked his arm and pitched the plate at the wall.
Now
Ivy Weaver’s words don’t really hit me until I reach the post office. Despite my best efforts, my throat tightens and I have to blink to stop my eyes from leaking. I shove Luisa’s letters into the post box on the footpath and hurry to the PO Boxes at the side of the building. It’s away from the road here and thankfully there’s no one else around.
My hand is unsteady as I attempt to line up the key with the lock. When I finally get the small door open, I grab the pile of envelopes and junk mail and shove them into my tote bag in one messy fistful.
Your fault.
Sabeen would tell me Ivy doesn’t mean it, that she’s lashing out because she’s feeling helpless and needs somebody to blame. She’d say I shouldn’t take it personally, that it could have been any one of us who copped it; I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.
The thing is, the Nolans see a different version of Ivy Weaver to the one she’s shown me. They get smiles as she’s picking up a pizza, friendly chit-chat on the footpath outside the pub. When Ivy was drunk at the park on New Year’s Eve, Liv and Sally took care of her and drove her home because she’d ‘overindulged’. They make excuses for her because she’s ‘had a rough trot’ and ‘her heart’s in the right place’. I know that’s not her. Or, more accurately, that’s not the only version of her. And I’ve had enough encounters with her over the years to know she doesn’t like me.
When I was around ten or eleven I tried to speak to my mother about it. She laughed it off and said, ‘I think you’ve misinterpreted something there, honey. Grown-ups have a bit more to worry about than taking issue with random children.’ There was no mistaking how I felt, though. Kids know these things. Their gut feelings aren’t muddied by second-guessing or making excuses for people the way we do as we get older.
I’d sensed it in Ivy’s expressionless greetings when she’d find me on their doorstep, the way she’d close the door and make me wait on the verandah until Henry came out. If I spoke at social gatherings she’d stare at me through half-lidded eyes as though everything I said was tedious. Once, when I was thirteen, she loudly accused me of stealing a Mars bar from the newsagency. I had to turn out my pockets as a line of gawkers formed behind us. When the store manager was finally satisfied I hadn’t shoplifted, the look Ivy slid my way told me she already knew.
And now I see nothing’s changed. In fact, it’s probably worse than ever. Ivy blames me for Henry running away.
I blame myself too, but not for the same reasons as Ivy.
My phone dings with a message. It’s from Sabeen. I read it as I’m walking back out to the street.
Helping Uncle Bernie today. Tea break at 10.30. Meet me at the Bakehouse?
I chew the inside of my lip as I reply that I’ll be there, hoping she’s decided to share whatever she and Raf are keeping from me. I head straight to the café, even though I’m fifteen minutes early, so I have a chance to clear my head before she arrives.
The Bakehouse used to resemble a quaint French patisserie with cream rendered walls and green striped window awnings. But severe hail and wind gusts on the night of the storm damaged the shopfront and shredded the matching topiaries on both sides of the door. A microburst, the Bureau of Meteorology called it, where destructive winds are dragged towards the ground by rain and hail during a thunderstorm. They affect an area of four kilometres in diameter or less, and unfortunately for The Shallows, this intense downdraft hit pretty close to the centre of town. Like other shopfronts along the main strip, the Bakehouse’s awnings are long gone, permanent water stains seeping down the walls like mascara on tear-soaked cheeks.
Locals, however, seem unfa
zed by the café’s dishevelled appearance, with most tables full and a decent crowd queueing along the glass cabinets at the front of the shop. I take a seat at one of the remaining tables, a used cup and saucer pushed off to one side. From the corner of my eye I sense a waitress approaching with a dishcloth.
‘Let me get that for you,’ she says, reaching across to remove the cup.
I glance up. ‘Rina?’
Her eyes widen at her name. ‘Chloe, hey!’ Her initial surprise soon dissolves into uneasiness. Our argument from New Year’s Eve surfaces again and bobs awkwardly between us. ‘Um, you look really different.’
I’m not the only one. Usually heavily made up, Rina’s face is stripped of all decoration, like the Bakehouse’s facade, scrubbed clean and slightly puffy around the eyes. Her curly hair is scraped away from her face in a severe bun, a smattering of angry red pimples glowing on her chin.
‘Mum mentioned you’d arrived for the school holidays,’ she says, wiping the table down in a jerky motion. ‘Sorry I couldn’t make it for pizza last night.’
She doesn’t elaborate and I don’t press her for details. Mason is a subject we should probably avoid. Instead I say, ‘I didn’t know you worked here.’
‘Just since February. To save up for travelling.’
‘You’re going away?’
Rina’s lip curls and she averts her gaze. ‘Not anymore.’
It doesn’t seem like she wants to talk about it, but she hesitates as though she’s expecting a response.
‘That’s a shame,’ I manage.
She frowns, mildly irritated, like I’ve failed a test. ‘I’ll get you a menu.’
‘Two, please,’ I say. ‘Sabeen’s on her way.’
‘Oh, okay.’ Her face hardens. ‘How nice.’
I instantly feel bad for excluding her even though I only found out about this five minutes ago. I know she and Sabeen have become closer since I started living in Sydney, and I suspect Sabeen picked this café because Rina works here and she thought it’d be a good way of spending time with us both. She hasn’t factored in that we’ll be sitting here socialising while Rina has to wait on us. Or the fact that Rina probably resents how much time Sabeen spends with me every time I’m here.
Rina mumbles something I don’t catch and slips away towards the kitchen.
It’s another ten minutes before Sabeen shows, and I find myself feeling moody when she breezes in, even though she’s right on time. I watch from across the café as she greets Rina with a hug and they lean close for a moment, talking solemnly. Sabeen raises a comforting hand to Rina’s shoulder and squeezes. It seems like Rina might be about to crumple, but she manages to hold it together long enough to point me out.
‘Everything okay?’ I say to Sabeen as she approaches the table.
‘Poor Rina,’ she replies. We both watch her hurry towards the kitchen with her head down. ‘I hope she and Mason work things out.’
‘Maybe it’s for the best.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Sabeen says, laughing off my comment.
Another waitress comes to take our drinks order, and Sabeen uses it as a chance to change the subject. I listen politely while she tells me about helping out Tom and Uncle Bernie in the second-hand shop, how she’s offered to declutter the basement while they concentrate on the shop floor. I’m dying to ask her about what I overheard last night, but then she’ll know I eavesdropped on her conversation. I don’t want that getting back to Raf.
Rina appears with a tray of hot drinks and places two on our table before moving across the room. I wait until she’s out of earshot before I lean forwards.
‘Mason smashed a window at the motel the night before last.’
Sabeen’s mouth drops open. ‘Whaaat?’
‘A big one too.’
‘Oh my god. Is he okay?’
I scoff. ‘He was fine. The window wasn’t.’
‘How did it happen?’ she says. ‘Did he fall through it?’
There’s a whole unspoken conversation here we don’t need to have. We both know Mason has been binge-drinking far too much in the last year. Dad told me Stu Macleod almost sacked him for regularly turning up to work still drunk from the night before.
‘He threw something at the glass, I think. I seriously have no idea why. His hands were all messed up, and when I asked about them he lied to my face.’
Sabeen frowns. ‘How do you know he was lying?’
‘He said he slammed his hands under a car bonnet at the workshop, but Sergeant Doherty told me he’d been fighting at the Criterion.’
‘That could have been a bit of shouting. Maybe he really did injure his hands at work.’
‘I could tell he was lying, Sabeen.’
‘How?’ she says dryly. ‘Did his nose grow?’
She picks up her tea and sips it, shifting her gaze to the window. I’m momentarily speechless; I’m not used to this sort of reaction from Sabeen. I expected a little pushback about me criticising Mason, but not this sort of dismissive impatience.
‘Remember when we used to play that game as kids?’ I say. ‘Impostor? We had to figure out when someone was lying?’
‘Yeah, I remember. You always said I had shifty eyes.’
‘Everyone has something that gives them away when they’re not telling the truth,’ I say. ‘I saw it in this crime documentary about how to spot when criminals are faking their reactions and lying. Like this guy in England who went on national television to try to clear his name because he was the prime suspect in his stepdaughter’s disappearance. It wasn’t body language that gave him away, it was biology. When he was being questioned, his ears grew redder and redder.’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘A body language expert in the doco said it’s a sign of increasing blood pressure. Apparently we have these fine capillaries in our nostrils and ears, so when our blood pressure rises this can be the first place we feel it. Like when we experience fear.’
‘Fear of what?’
‘Getting caught in a lie.’
‘So Mason lied to you.’ Sabeen shrugs. ‘He was probably embarrassed.’
‘And so he should be. You think my dad can afford that new window?’
‘I’m sure he’ll pay your dad back.’
‘That’s not my point.’ I scan the café and lower my voice. ‘What I’m saying is, I figured out what Mason’s giveaway is when he’s lying.’
Sabeen smirks. ‘Red ears? I’m not sure it’ll hold up in court, counsellor.’
‘You’re not taking this seriously.’
She leans back in the chair and tucks her long hair behind her ears. ‘I don’t even know what we’re talking about.’
‘I’m talking about the night Henry went missing.’
‘Huh?’
‘When we all went over to the Weavers’ house the morning after the storm and Mason ran through the events of the previous evening. What time he and Ivy went to bed, how they didn’t hear Henry leave.’
Sabeen jerks upright, her frown returning. ‘You’re saying Mason was lying about that?’
‘Ssshh!’ I glance over my shoulder again. Thankfully, Rina’s nowhere in sight. I shift my chair forwards and hunch over the table. ‘I couldn’t pick it at the time, but I knew something was up between Mason and Ivy. I was studying Mason’s face, hanging off every word, hoping for some idea of when Henry might have left and why. I remember the way Mason’s ears were flaming hot. I just assumed he was upset. Probably ashamed.’
‘About?’
‘What happened two weeks earlier, at the reservoir,’ I remind her. ‘Maybe that was Henry’s breaking point.’
And not what I said to him. Please don’t let it be that.
‘Oh.’ Sabeen winces. ‘Right.’
‘Now I realise Mason wasn’t embarrassed. He was lying.’
Sabeen shifts in her seat. She pads slender fingers against the side of her cup, deep in thought. ‘So what exactly do you think he was lying
about?’
I shake my head. ‘Dunno. Can’t be anything good.’
This time Sabeen scans the café for Rina before she speaks, lowering her voice just in case. ‘You do realise we’re talking about our friend Mason here, the guy we’ve all known since we were kids.’
‘Yeah. The same guy who pushed his little brother into the reservoir knowing he has a fear of deep water.’
Sabeen’s forehead creases, imploring. ‘Mason apologised for that – he admitted it was a brain snap. We all forgave him. Why can’t you?’
‘Because I was the one who jumped in and dragged Henry out. I felt the way he was trembling, the way his heart was pounding.’
Sabeen’s mouth closes and she gives me a whisper of a nod. No one likes the idea of Henry in that water. What if he’d gone under for longer? What if he’d hit his head in the fall off Devil’s Rock?
‘Mason’s having a really hard time about Henry running away,’ Sabeen says, her tone softening. ‘He probably feels responsible. I think you could cut him some slack.’
Her words find their mark, burrowing deep into that soft spot of childhood memories when we all bonded over icy poles and bike races and bushwalks up to the old hut. As kids, I was fond of Mason’s understated sense of humour, his quiet watchfulness, the way he hung back without needing to insert himself into every situation. Now we’re older, I view that same demeanour as cold and detached, even deceptive. I can’t tell if it’s because Mason’s become more jaded and untrusting over the years or because I have.
I dig around in my tote bag so I don’t have to meet Sabeen’s gaze. This is where we end up agreeing to disagree about Mason. She doesn’t like it when any of us are at odds; she wants us to remain the tight circle we were as kids. Except the older we get, the more we grow and change. A circle is nothing but a closed loop.
Deep Water Page 6