by Lizzy Barber
The sound of her name is like a shooting star, exploding me into life. ‘Stop.’ Palms outstretched, I force him off me and roll onto the floor, clutching my clothes and myself into a ball by the side of the bed. Tears spring into my eyes as I slam on the bedside light, plunging us into brightness. ‘Were you ever interested in me?’ I ask. ‘Or just my sister?’
He doesn’t answer.
My breath catches in my throat as I wrench myself off the floor and stumble out of the room, down the stairs, blindly feeling my way with arms reaching out as I knock against the walls, skewing photographs and tripping over empty cups. I clamp my fists over my ears, voices fuzzing indistinctly around me.
In the open air, I push past the people spilled out onto the front drive. The street is quiet. There are a few lights on in the surrounding houses, but most are dark. All that can be heard is the indistinct whomp of music at my back, mingling with my own dry heaves. I force my hands against my mouth, muffling the hurt and the anger that desperately want to escape, squeezing my eyes tight shut to force the tears from them. I lash out at a lamp post, kicking it so hard stars of pain dance up my leg.
Footsteps behind me. A hand on my shoulder.
‘Rosie? What’s the matter? What happened?’ Keira.
I open my mouth to speak, but can’t stop the primal wail that escapes instead.
‘Oh, Ro.’ She pulls me to her. I struggle to breathe – my lungs feel like they’re squeezed between two fists – and I open and close my mouth wildly, trying to force the air in. And Keira does nothing but hold me, not saying anything, not moving, as I press my face against her, tears and snot streaming from my eyes and nose and wetting her shoulder.
Eventually the shaking subsides and I start to regain control of my body, my breathing slowing to ragged huffs. Keira strokes my hair and pulls away from me, the worry scored into her clenched lips, her knotted eyebrows. ‘Rosie, you have to stop doing this to yourself.’
I hang my head, feeling the alcohol and the pain fighting biliously in the pit of my stomach.
Mum. The trust. Emily. Three balls juggled in the air, and I can’t catch any of them.
‘I know.’ A residual sob, like an aftershock, cracks in my throat. ‘But what other choice do I have?’
ANNA
7
We walk to church. Lately, Mamma believes it’s the only true way to arrive there. Didn’t Jesus walk, after all? I don’t point out that this has only been a recent occurrence, since her car broke down, and that surely even Jesus would have been annoyed by the lack of bus routes.
The walk lasts about an hour, but it feels longer in the heat. Even though it’s early, the sun beats down on our backs and saps our energy as we stride past the fields and farms that line our trail to the United Methodist church.
I do my best to forge a path between garnering information and alerting Mamma to what I’ve uncovered so far. All night, I was certain that the pendant would shine its light through its hiding place beneath a loose floorboard under my chest of drawers, and expose itself alongside my other bank of treasures – the Astroland entrance ticket, the card – and I kept waking to check if it could be seen.
Once upon a time I’d never hide anything from Mamma; now my secrets, like these objects, grow numerous by the day. Half-formed thoughts and half-filled memories flicker then extinguish, like the candles on a birthday cake Mamma would think it too frivolous to have. I parse each one. The voice, Emily? Emily? The carousel spinning, then slowing to a stop. And then something else: a hand reaching out, a blue whirl of cotton candy. I take it. The voice fades. Someone replaces it, leans towards me, and I breathe in something that reminds me of bubble baths, and something else, something sharp and chemical, that now, at the thought of it, pulls at some indistinct recollection. And then they come closer, and I see the flash of a pendant dangling on a chain: a cross, encircled with a flower. A lily.
‘Mamma …’ I tilt my face into the sunlight, try to keep my voice smooth as a bird on the breeze, ‘where did we live before here?’
‘Georgia, Anna.’ She gives me a stern look, picks up the pace. ‘You know that.’
‘I know but …’ I scurry to catch up. ‘Where, exactly?’
‘Why are you asking this, Anna? You were barely three years old – why does it matter?’
‘I just … wanted to hear more about what it was like when I was little. Like …’ I’m teetering dangerously close to the edge now, but I can’t help myself, ‘where did we go to church?’
Mamma stops so abruptly I nearly slam into her, her face so close I can see the beads of moisture forming on the pale hairs on her upper lip. ‘Anna Montgomery, stop this pestering. I don’t want to talk about the past.’
‘Sorry, Mamma.’ I bow my head, and seeing this Mamma gives a small sigh.
She huffs, ‘You know I just can’t talk about that time – there are things that happened that I don’t want to remember. That I don’t even like thinking about. You don’t understand – that time, that period of my life was …’ She falls silent, and I think about coaxing it out of her, even mentioning something about the pendant. But then she stiffens, speeds up again. ‘Come on now, we’re going to be late.’
When we arrive Mamma is puffing, and I can see the darkening patches of sweat forming like ink blots under the arms of her navy shirtwaist dress. She even accepts a glass of water from the outstretched arms of one of the church wardens, despite inspecting it before she allows the rim to touch her lips.
‘It’s a scorcher today, Mrs Montgomery, isn’t it?’ The woman, who is about her age and who I dimly recall is called Glenda, gives her a friendly nod.
‘Yes, yes,’ Mamma says, draining the glass and setting it back on the round wooden table. She gives her a terse nod, then walks into the main body of the church. Mamma doesn’t like small talk, or the cheery congregation members she calls ‘busybodies’.
I take my seat in the choir stalls, and my body feels heavy in the pew, as if at any moment I could sink off the smooth wooden seat, fall to the ground and rest my head against the floor’s cool flagstones. Last night’s broken sleep, and the blistering walk, are catching up with me.
The air is cold, despite the dappled light that floods the room from the stained-glass depiction of the Annunciation, and I suck it in, hoping the rush of oxygen will power me through the service. From my position in the choir stalls I look across at her, seated far enough away from the nearest congregation member that there is no chance their body will touch hers. Her hands are folded neatly in her lap, and she wears the same look she always gets in church: blue eyes imploring, dewy and wide; lips open in a silent gasp, head tipped upwards, as if her whole self is begging to receive the Holy Spirit. I’ve always assumed this anxiety is simply Mamma’s yearning to demonstrate her faith to the Lord, but now I can’t help but think there may be something else at play here. Emily, the lily cross, Astroland – could they somehow be connected?
Pastor Timothy delivers a sermon on forgiveness. His voice is deep and tuneful, commanding a powerful spell over the listening crowd. I can sometimes pick out his particular lilt above the swell of the congregation’s hymns and know that’s who William must get his pleasant singing voice from.
‘Let us pray; and remember the Lord, in His infinite wisdom, is always open to forgiveness.’
As I bow my head, I watch Mamma fervently clasp her hands in her lap as her lips begin a silent prayer. Do I forgive Mamma, for keeping me both at arm’s length and never far from her side? I’m sure any other girl would just tell her about what happened, ask if she knows what it means, but the threads of it all are still so frayed – where do I even begin?
‘Amen,’ Pastor Timothy concludes his prayers, and motions to the choir. We rise, and the opening strains of ‘Guide Me, O Thou Great Jehovah’ swell from beneath Bob Hanson’s fingertips on the battered piano in the corner. As we sing, I search the wide walls to find some trace of Him; someone or something that could guide me through this. T
he Bible talks of the Holy Spirit working within you; of it acting or speaking to believers in their time of need. Internally, I search with careful fingers for the edges of my soul. Can I tug on it? How do I know if it’s there, if it will guide me now?
My solo approaches, and I fear I won’t be able to find my voice; that I’ll have forgotten the words or that they’ll come out a jumbled mess. I manage to force the words out across the pews; thin at first, but growing stronger as I allow the lyrics to carry me, their beautiful melody stirring my heart.
When I tread the verge of Jordan,
Bid my anxious fears subside;
Death of death and hell’s destruction,
Land me safe on Canaan’s side.
Songs of praises, songs of praises,
I will ever give to Thee;
I will ever give to Thee.
Mamma loves me. Even if she doesn’t say it, I know. I catch her sometimes, staring into the very core of me. Whatever this is about, whatever I discover in the mess of my mind, I must remember that. Even if she sometimes makes it difficult to.
After the service, Pastor Timothy stands on the lawn, his back to the modest white church’s facade as he greets the congregation. His family are gathered with him: William’s mother, Hilary, in a blue frock the colour of the sky peeping through clouds; his twin sisters, like a short chain of paper dolls, identical in starched dresses, neat plaits tied with sharp white bows. William stands a few feet apart from them, embarrassed by all the attention on his family. The congregation come up one after another to shake his father’s hand and glean a few words from him, commanding his attention for as long as they can.
His mother spots us, and gives me a wave of her fingers, calling us over. Mamma seems intent not to say a word to me, hasn’t done since the abrupt end to our conversation, but I know she won’t give up the excuse to speak to the pastor’s wife.
‘Anna, honey, how nice to see you. Mary, thank you for coming.’ She pulls me into a hug and I try not to flinch. To Mamma she extends a hand. Hilary shows affection without even thinking about it, but even she knows how to read my mother.
I watch Mamma’s visible discomfort as she accepts Hilary’s hand, wondering how she’ll react. She won’t like the unprecedented touching of flesh, but she won’t want to risk offending her; not The Wife Of The Pastor. Sure enough, as their fingers unclasp, her arm falls stiffly to her sides, her hand held away from her dress, as if she is afraid it might now be contaminated. I see her steeling herself, the stiffening of her spine as she wills herself to overlook it, and then she mumbles, almost shy, ‘It was an excellent service, Mrs Sail.’
‘Why, thank you!’ Hilary beams at her, flashing perfectly formed teeth. ‘I’m sure that Tim will be pleased to hear it.’ She looks across at her husband, engrossed in a conversation with an elderly couple, each touching a patch of his upper arm, as if in doing so they are touching godliness. ‘And you’ll be joining us for dinner tomorrow night, Anna? Your birthday celebration. I haven’t forgotten.’
Her words suck all the moisture out of the air. My body prickles cold, as if someone has blown out the sun and plunged us into winter.
I forgot to ask Mamma about dinner.
I glance over at her. The expression on her face seems placid to the casual observer, but I know well enough to see the rigidity carved into it; the smile is a little too fixed, her eyes just that bit too glassy. Hilary’s expression falters, and I can see her working through what she could possibly have said wrong. Mamma’s opinion is voiced in her silence. Hilary’s gaze flickers to Pastor Timothy, as if she’s hoping to catch his attention to relieve her from the conversation.
‘Mamma, would it be all right if I have dinner with Mr and Mrs Sail tomorrow night?’ I bleat, finally, the sentence stretched out in a single, desperate breath.
Mamma’s voice comes out of the ether, mechanical and flat. She doesn’t look at me. ‘Why, yes, of course, Anna.’
I can see Hilary doesn’t buy this resolution. Her mouth opens as if to say something helpful, but then she appears to change her mind, and instead gives me a weak pat on the arm. ‘Great. Well, come over as soon as you can; we’ll be waiting.’ Then she leans across to Pastor Timothy and touches him lightly on his back. ‘Tim honey, look: I think Mr and Mrs Jones want to talk to us about the fundraiser and they’ll be wanting to get back.’ She gives us a bright smile, mouths ‘Excuse me’, and then expertly manoeuvres herself and her husband away from us.
Her disappearance creates an open path between me and William. He motions as if to come towards us, but I give him a look and the subtlest shake of my head, and he backs off. Don’t make it worse than it already is.
‘Come, Mamma, let’s head home.’ I want to take her hand, to link an arm into hers like I’ve seen other girls do with their mothers. Instead I wait, and when she moves I follow.
Mamma is silent on the walk home. She huffs as she pounds her feet on the dry ground, forcing herself to keep up a racing pace as I half walk, half skip to stay beside her. When we arrive at the house she goes straight through the kitchen and then out into the backyard with her gardening tools. I hang back, wondering what course to take, before scrubbing my hands at the kitchen sink, grabbing my gloves and rubber boots from the plastic tub by the back door and joining her.
Outside, she’s already bent over the geranium bush, a pair of clippers in her hand. I hear the rhythmic snip before I see her, a pile of pale pink petals surrounding her feet – their tips tinged beige as though they’ve been dipped in tea – expertly pruned away from the healthy heads.
You’d think, perhaps, that someone who adheres so strictly to cleanliness would have little regard for gardening. But it’s as if, out here, she has complete mastery over the dirt and earth. Each petal, each frond, is bent to her will, and to her exacting perfection. It is her ultimate expression of control, and the result is breathtakingly beautiful. Compared to the relative plainness of our home, out here, at any given time of the year, the backyard erupts in a blaze of colour. As I’ve got older I’ve learned their names and forms by rote: cheery yellow swamp sunflowers and burnt orange daylilies and pop-star-pink calliandra (also known, so poetically, as ‘fairy’s paintbrush’) were my own way of learning the colours of the rainbow, and of trying to find a way to get close to Mamma. I often tell her she should enter her flowers into competitions, or leave her job and become a professional florist. But she always says she doesn’t want the attention. In fact, she is always looking to escape unwanted attention.
Mamma’s fingers move deftly through the bushes like a harpist plucking strings, searching out the rotten flowers and dispensing with them with a precisely timed cut. Silently, I open up the refuse bag in my hand and move around her, cleaning up the dead heads. She doesn’t acknowledge me, but neither does she turn away, so I take this as a tacit agreement that I can stay.
I often help her like this, receiving a very small allowance in return, just enough to save up for occasional treats, such as the bicycle which ferries me about now the car’s bust, when I’m not required to walk. Now I hope that by performing this ritual I’ll somehow dispel the ill will from earlier.
We work in silence as the afternoon moves on. My stomach rumbles. We ate breakfast before we left for church, and normally we’d grab a light lunch at home after, soup, maybe, or a salad, but Mamma doesn’t mention it so neither do I. The sky knits together overhead and turns a purple-grey, and I can tell it’s going to storm. I had a good idea that it would be coming: the thickness in the air needs to break, and although it’s not yet hurricane season, it’s not unusual to get one or two early reminders.
When the first thick droplets begin to fall, I look over at Mamma. ‘Why don’t I make us something to eat?’
She doesn’t speak.
I pick up my sack, motion encouragingly towards the house. ‘Come on, it’s going to storm.’
‘Anna, leave me be.’ Her voice is as sour as the brightly coloured candies William loves to keep
in his car.
With a sigh I hurry inside. By the time I reach the back door, the rain is falling from the greying sky in a thick sheet.
‘Mamma, you can’t stay out in this,’ I call from the open doors. ‘Please, come inside.’ I see her shoulders knit together, and then slacken as she eventually rises. She stalks past me through the kitchen, pausing only to drop her gardening things into the basket. Puddles of water mark her exit upstairs, and I zealously dry them, as if her unseeing eyes will be moved by it. I do the same to my hands, driven by layers of guilt to scrub them clean under scalding water until they are satisfactorily red and raw.
Giving in to my clenching stomach, I prepare us both something to eat – ham sandwiches cut into meticulous triangles, and a fresh green salad, and glasses of milk filled just so – and sit at my place opposite her empty chair, coiled as a grass snake, my ears trained on the sound of her footsteps on the stairs. She emerges, eventually, and takes her seat.
Grace is perfunctory, but at least she speaks. Then her blue eyes fix themselves on the midpoint between our plates, where her gaze remains for the rest of the evening. The sound of chewing is the backdrop to our silent meditation.
It’s when I rise to clear our plates that Mamma reaches out for the vase of tulips and, almost as if choreographed, hurls it across the room in one fluid movement.
The vase hits the oven door full on its side, and sprays across the floor in a mass of colourful petals and liquid that quickly pools along the stone tiles. The noise shatters through the silence. Mamma is poised, half sitting, half standing, with her hands resting on the tabletop and, surprisingly, a look of serenity on her face.
It happens so rapidly, so unexpectedly, it feels like I’ve been plunged into cold water. Fear grips at me with icy fingers, but I force myself to meet Mamma’s eye.
‘Go to your room.’
As my foot touches the first tread of the stairs, I hear the whispering of incantations from the kitchen. I turn back to see Mamma, seated at the kitchen table, her eyes tight shut and her hands clasped together so fervently that I know if I look closer the knuckles will be white. There is a gentle sway to her movement as she recites, in a voice that rasps like scratches on wood, ‘Pure in mind, in word, thought and deed, I ask You, Lord, to pay me heed.’