by Donna Mazza
‘I didn’t suggest it. I just said I wondered what it would be like to sleep on the druid’s grave.’
‘That’s not how I remember it. I remember waking up with a sore back though.’
‘And freezing cold.’ He’s cheering me, bringing us closer.
‘Maybe now that we might not be always so fucking broke we can seriously think about going back there.’
Evening cools down the cabin quickly and I get up to close the windows. Wind pushing around the long hanks of peppermint trees. I can hear the sea.
‘We need to get them all passports. Did we get a birth certificate yet?’ Not sure why he thinks I’m that organised.
I shake my head. ‘Did you fill out any forms?’
Isak takes my phone and searches for birth registration on the government websites. ‘They should’ve done it in the hospital. It says the forms are given to us by a midwife, nurse or doctor.’ He opens the BubBot. Uploads a photo of Asta sleeping in the pram. Big sleep. Having a good holiday in Hamelin Bay. Very hungry after the big drive down from the city. Please send us the registration of birth form, we didn’t get one at the clinic.
‘Want to go get fish and chips in Augusta for dinner?’ he calls and immediately the door opens, Emmy runs to the bedside.
She’s bouncing, hair ragged with salty water. ‘Yes. Can we all go? Will Mum and the baby come too?’
‘Okay.’ I nod to her. And we pack them in the car to drive even further south.
Emmy holds the steaming paper parcels on her lap in the car then we set up our picnic beside the beach on a grassy foreshore. Seagulls rally around, in the air and on the grass, one with a missing leg and a couple of terns with red beaks and dark heads, less arrogant than the gulls. The kids throw them our scraps and they circle and squabble. Isak straps Asta into the baby carrier on his chest so we can walk on the beach and the kids run out on a timber jetty. Dead blowfish, scraped scales dry in the sun. I step around the gore of bait and entrails.
Dark brown river gives way to the sea here, creating a place between the two. It is only a short walk to Flinders Bay and the wind-battered lighthouse of Cape Leeuwin. I remember the force of the wind on the coast as a small child. The terror of being swept away into that endless wild sea. Whale-watching tour boats are moored for the evening and we walk along the pathway through a dense stand of stunted peppermint trees, crafted by the harsh winds into a twisted arc. Further on, we find steps to the beach. Wide and white, it squeaks under our bare feet. The kids run in the wind, straight towards the breaking surf. My heart leaps and Isak calls for them to stay out of the water. Jake drapes kelp over his head like a wig. Emmy chases him with a stray claw. Fine white sand is airborne, merging with the mist of ocean spray. There are dogs and people in the distance and the wind pulls at my hair, clears me.
Isak walks ahead, far up the beach with Asta and, though her absence draws at me, I let them go and hope it will be bonding. Sitting on the sand I look out to sea and am sure I see the spout of a whale in the distance.
In the car on the way back to the cabin I check my phone. There is a BubBot message. ‘LifeBLOOD® births are not able to be registered.’ I tap a response without thinking, ‘Why???’ Anger rises up.
‘Fuck, Isak. I sometimes want to just shut out the technology.’ He looks over. I’ve shattered his bliss. ‘They said they can’t register her birth.’
‘Why?’
‘Well I asked them that.’ I check the phone again. Again. Night is deep in the forest and he drives slowly, watchful for the wildlife that hops and runs out onto the road. Check it again. Then it rings and I answer it right away.
‘Hi Stacey, this is Jeff. I’ve just had a call from the office that you had some question about a birth certificate.’
‘Yes, that’s right. Isak and I wanted to know how we could get one.’
‘Why?’
‘Well one day we might go on a holiday and need passports. And, anyway, shouldn’t we get one for when we need it. Whenever, I don’t know.’
‘We can’t register with the government as a birth.’
‘Why?’
‘Technically, she’s not a human birth.’
Silence. Trying to process this statement.
‘Look, she’s not alone. Lots of babies don’t get registered for various reasons.’
The pulse in my ears belts loudly, face prickles.
He continues, ‘You can’t. Like I said, she’s technically not a human birth. She’d be considered fauna.’
The phone shakes in my hand. Want to throw it out the window.
I try to speak but my voice cracks, ‘You and I both know—she’s human.’
‘Yes we do, of course we do, Stacey. Just not the same kind of human as everyone else.’
Isak pulls the car into the park beside our cabin and takes the phone from me. I realise the kids have heard everything.
‘Look, Doctor—Isak here—I think we need to sort this out.’ He is silent. The chirp of Jeff’s voice on the line. Can’t make out the words. He is nodding. ‘Right. Well I guess there’s nothing we can do about that.’ Nods some more, the chirping of Jeff goes on a while, softened now, ‘Well thanks for calling us back.’ He ends the call.
He looks at me and shakes his head.
‘It means so much though.’ School, bank accounts, passport. ‘I even had to have it to register Emmy and Jake for basketball.’ Passport. I don’t say it—it will rise up, engulf me when he realises.
‘I know,’ he says flatly. The enormity of it suffocates our conversation and we stare into the narrow strip of glow from the headlights.
In the night long branches of peppermint trees sway and dip in the wind. A piece of thick rope hangs, its end broken into a ragged fray. It moves back and forth. I feed the baby in the dark on the couch while they sleep. Watching through the glass door. The silent tents. Waves break and hiss across the dunes. Trees creeping with invisible life.
Next day we drive to an ice-creamery popular with tourists and their children. Isak wears the baby carrier and tucks Asta in facing towards him, a soft hat pulled down low over her head. It is her eyes that are most remarkable now. Babies so often have long heads from birth that it’s not so strange but her eyes are a sure sign that there is something unusual about her. I press into the layers of people and order ice-cream and eventually we find a shady place by the little creek and relax for a while, kids busy in the playground.
‘I think she needs some sunglasses,’ he says. ‘Some dark ones that’ll shield her from prying eyes.’ I like that he is protective. It’s a good sign.
‘Ask them on the BubBot report.’ I try to comfort him with my willingness.
He nods. ‘I think they make them like goggles with a strap around them. For babies.’ Isak dips his finger into the pistachio ice-cream and puts it in her mouth. Laughs when she responds with excited suckling.
I shake my head to scold him but have no heart to make an issue of it. Across the creek are several penned emus so we walk across a small bridge to see them while the kids enjoy their play. Two emus follow us along the fence, necks dipping. Their eyes always seem to suggest they have been deeply offended. I try talking to one but the offence seems to worsen and it thrusts its beak towards me through the wires. Asta is awake and watching, hands beating excitedly.
Isak pulls her from the carrier and faces her towards the bird. ‘Look, Asta, Mummy is scaring the emu.’ Her broad mouth stretches into a huge smile, toothless and astounding.
The proximity to the beach has filled our new car and our ears with sand. Even Asta has grains of it in her ears. She pulls at them occasionally and calls to me as we pack the car for the drive home. I carefully clear the sand with a wet tissue. And give her a final feed before we head off. Isak takes the kids for a last walk to the beach. By mid-morning we are on the road. The days are hot and we are glad of the air-conditioning and shades of the new car. Isak diverts to a side road and follows the signs to a chocolate factory. Emmy notices we
are going a different way but he won’t tell her where. There are squeals of delight when we pull into the crowded car park. My heart races with the thought of the people and heat inside.
‘Isak, I don’t want to disturb the baby. We’ll wait in the car.’
‘I’ll bring you something.’ He leaves the car running with the air-conditioner on.
I unclip the seatbelt and lean over to check her. She is a little sweaty and red-faced so I turn up the cold. Kids return with chocolate moulded into shapes and smothered over pretzels. The sweet density of it hangs in the air. We return to the road, meandering through new ways. Isak follows signs to small towns and we find ourselves eventually in Nannup. I am suspecting he has an unspoken plan.
‘Where are you going?’ I clip at him.
‘Home—eventually. I thought we’d go through Balingup. Weren’t you living there when you were little?’ The road bends back and forth, tracking along the river.
‘Yes, very little. You know that.’ It feels familiar though, the uneasy stomach lurching as we curve left and right, left and right.
He looks at me, glassy-eyed, a little shattered I know. ‘I’ve never been there. I thought we could check it out.’ I have not been back since I was about five, even though Dad lived there, last time I spoke to him.
‘Even if my dad’s still there …’ I don’t want to see him.
‘I know. I just thought it would be nice to see the place. Nice for the kids to make some connection with their history.’
‘Why now, Isak? I’m not my best, emotionally. You know that. You know how it is with my mother.’ But he likes her. Thinks she’s a cool parent, not like his.
‘Calm down, Stace. It’s just a drive-through. We’re in the neighbourhood anyway. We won’t stop.’
I breathe. Try to go with it and not infect the family with my reaction.
‘I’d really rather not.’ The road and river twist in tighter curves, hills rising and falling on either side. Forest and farms. Places selling their own cheese and cherries. We are on our way so I settle back into the seat watching the landscape. Pine plantations and narrow bridges. The sharp descent to the tea-coloured river. There is some faint familiarity as we round a tight bend and descend towards the town. Weatherboard houses. The hot stillness of the air. I recognise the scent and the intersection onto South Western Highway. A small row of colourful shops. The mark of artistic locals. My mother scrawled her own signature on this place, bearing two kids in a fibro cottage in the hills somewhere up a gravel track. There was bush, farm animals that belonged to other people and a lot of long grass bleached pale in the sun and rustling with snakes. We played on a wooden verandah. It was hot or very cold and there were lots of mandarins and apricots. We turn left and quickly leave the edge of Balingup. I stare out the window at the rising hills, the dark patches of forest at their caps.
‘Are you okay, Stace?’ Isak pats my leg.
‘You know, if it wasn’t for Alex I think I would never have survived.’ Tears sprout, trickle. ‘My parents were only interested in themselves.’
‘Sorry for surprising you. It’s a nice little town. Very pretty.’ He has no idea how it felt.
‘Very pretty.’ But we always did live in pretty places. My own children live amid houses and highways. Nothing pretty about it. ‘But that didn’t make it good, not for me anyway.’
We stop in Donnybrook at an enormous playground and set the children free from the car. I set up under a tree with Asta and feed her in the shade. Isak walks across the railway track to the bakery to get something for lunch. In the heat, her skin is rosy and damp. She feeds with desperation, ferocious at my nipple. I take off her hat to cool her and cover us with a cotton bunny-rug, lean back against the rough bark. She quickly exhausts the left and I change her to the right, sitting her up in between to burp. We are like one, choreographed and comfortable.
Isak returns and seeks out Emmy and Jake, who have drifted away into the twists and slides, climbing the pinnacles of rainbow. He hands them each a pie, telling them off for not staying within sight of me. I know his reprimand is also meant for me. Perhaps I learned something from my own mother after all.
‘Emmy, love,’ says Isak. ‘Hold the baby for Mum while she has some lunch.’ Emmy grows before my eyes, thrilled at the responsibility and I can’t help my smile.
‘She’s not finished feeding yet.’
‘She’s never finished feeding. Haven’t you noticed?’ He laughs and reaches for her. I break the suction of her mouth and wrap her in the cotton rug. Hand her over to Emmy, who leans back beside me against the tree. I cover myself and take hold of my own pie. Emmy smug and smiling at the baby, whose wide eyes are fixed on her sister.
‘When will her head go into the right shape, Mum?’
I look at Isak and he clears his throat.
‘It won’t’, he says quickly. Eye contact with me. Waiting.
‘Why? Is there something wrong with her?’
‘No, what makes you think that?’
‘I’m not a baby, Dad, I can hear what you talk about.’
My heart sinks. I let him speak, afraid of what I might say. How much truth I will tell.
‘Yes, there is something different about her, Emmy. Not wrong with her, just different.’
‘Is she gunna die?’ She tightens her grip.
‘No. She’s healthy enough.’
‘Well that’s good. I don’t want her to die. I love her so much.’ Emmy’s eyes fill with tears. So do mine. She holds her close.
‘Don’t worry, Em,’ I say. ‘She’s going to be fine. She just might not be the same as you and Jake.’ How not the same, I don’t really know.
‘You mean like a disability?’ She creases her brow, eyes still teary.
‘Not really,’ says Isak. ‘There’s nothing wrong with her. She’s just different. But everything works just fine.’ He thinks for a moment, collecting our rubbish. ‘It’s a bit like we have this fantastic new car and everything works on it and it’s perfect and amazing, and that’s you. You’re like our fancy new car. And Asta, she’s like those old-fashioned cars you see at the show. Vintage cars. The ones that go slower and don’t have air-conditioners. But they still work fine. It’s still a car.’
I look at him, puzzled by his analogy, which doesn’t make it any clearer. Emmy has lost interest in the explanation but he waits for her response. Nothing. She has the baby’s fingers in her mouth. I take Asta from her and she runs back to the climbing ropes.
I can’t help but laugh at him. ‘That was a terrible explanation. You really need to work on something that makes better sense.’ I punch his arm lightly.
‘I know. It was the first thing that came into my head. We’ve got a bit of work to do.’
‘Well you do, that’s for sure.’
‘I didn’t hear you do any better.’ Isak laughs.
We drive without stop for two hours. The landscape dries, paddocks become progressively lighter as if bleached by the sun. The grey talons of dead trees clawing at hot blue sky. Absence of reliable rain again has leached the life from the farmlands on the periphery of suburbia. It is as if they sense the impending doom of development, content to await the bulldozers and heaps of sand. Refusing life. The heat of the city is a membrane, almost visible. A haze of tight particles. We re-enter it, sealing ourselves into the security of its hold.
The kids go back to school for the new year and each day Isak takes them on his way to work and each day I pick them up.
Each day I sit on the couch and feed Asta, which seems to take more hours. I change nappies and upload a brief report to BubBot.
Each day I try to push her needs away from the small nest of time I might have for my own needs. Or the needs of the other children. But her needs surpass those efforts and often I don’t shower. Don’t help with the homework.
I smell of sour milk and a splash of milk or vomit lands on my shoes or clothes and leaves a patch.
Each day I say I will cook a nice d
inner or something at least and don’t.
Each day I hope I can walk into school with the baby and nobody will speak to me or want to look at her. I get there early so I can get a close parking space. Try to avoid the kids’ new teachers and their new questions.
I try to keep her eyes and head covered in public.
I am gradually fading.
Mondays the kids have basketball training. Thursday nights Isak and I take them to their games. It is still light until quite late.
On these days the world is a jury and I am on trial. I cancelled swimming lessons and the cleaning service. Isak said he would cook so we can get back to normal. Try to claim our home back from LifeBLOOD®.
Each day I take her for a walk early in the morning before it gets too hot. Each day, that is the best and most normal thing that happens.
I push the pram around the twisting streets, concentric curves leading to a lake in the centre of our estate. It is a small lowland. Once, perhaps it was the heart of a larger wetland, but now it serves to collect winter rains from the streets and prevents any flooding. It is also a receptacle for any floating or mobile plastics, garlanded around the fringe of reeds and rushes that border the water. They spray for mosquito larvae every year. Despite this, swamp-hens stalk through the grasses like royalty and several wood ducks and black ducks sail slowly through the thick brown waters. Sometimes there are dragonflies hovering at the surface. Movement beneath the oily film. Ripples and rising bubbles. She-oak trees were planted around the concrete pathways several years ago and they have grown quite tall, dropping a mat of needles beneath that suppresses the grass. Under the trees are small flying insects, midges perhaps. When they are very thick we breathe them in and Asta coughs.
Few people walk this path in the mornings except a couple of lone seniors with dogs off the lead. They show no interest in the pram but nod to greet me, so I feel safe to roll back the insect screen, which serves also to hide her from view. She is active then, testing out her voice and calling to the wetland birds. They are impervious to the wonder of her presence and continue to forage, stalk or float. Sometimes I take her to the small hide at the end of the hot path to see if there are more intimate scenes of these birds but it smells of urine and is tainted with scrawled words and empty bottles. I have tried to overcome my aversion to it so we have that other view, but it’s quite awful. We walk past the playground on our circuit of the lake. Empty in the early mornings. What will it be like when she breaks free of her pram and wants to swing or climb or slide like other kids? I wonder if it will be possible, in her dark glasses and hat. A secret agent among the innocents. But she, perhaps, the most innocent of all.