by Donna Mazza
Isak turns the music loud and sings with the children. The forest greens as we drive, broken only by occasional side roads, marking the turns in to small towns, all ending in ‘up’. Rivers marked with bilingual signage—all ending in bilya.
At last we turn from the highway and follow a wide curve through sparse bushland, scattered with houses. The road opens out on the horizon and we all gasp. Stare. The car slows and layers of coast and water are stacked beyond in a wide panorama.
A warm, settling feeling glows in my stomach. Birds and shining winter sun and a broad stretch of tea-coloured water capped with slow-moving sprigs of foam. A single gull suspended in the air, wings unmoving, is held high by currents and we, suspended here for a moment, buffeted yet calm and sure.
Round a corner, we trace the bank of the estuary. Gentle curving road amid a natural trellis of old trees, peeling papery bark and up on the right, overlooking it, are houses, spaced apart amid tuart and peppermint trees. The GPS leads us to a banner of leaves in the wind, which marks our driveway up to a new house.
The air is briny and cold and the kids jump about in the back seat like a chemical reaction until they are released. Asta is quiet and watchful and I upload a photo of her to BubBot.
I can see why they chose this place for us. Primordial with its entwined paperbarks, gnarled as wizards. The brownish water, fringed with broad beds of reeds and tea-tree. Birds of all kind—black swans, pelicans and cormorants, gulls and ducks. Lizards no doubt and hidden possums. The water quivering with life. And across from us, a broad bank of sand dunes, protecting us from the coast beyond. The beach audible from here on a big day.
I know this is where I will stay.
ONE
Their first day in a new school and they rush from the car in raincoats. Windscreen wipers beating madly and Asta tucked in the back seat in a low beanie. I want to walk with them in the sunshine to meet their new teachers but I am left here to wonder in the rain. To hope for them. I park outside the school for a few moments, not sure what to do with my day. Asta drifts to sleep in the warmth of the car and I drive into the town, up to the lookout on the beach.
Veined with sea foam, the waves curl and crash, spraying high into the wind. Mist hurls back, dampens my shaking car. Black coastal rocks bathed and tangled in a lacework of foam. An endless race of breaking water headed for the coast one after another. A great queue out there across the expanse.
The sea has risen with the storm, grown as if there is more of it. It triggers images of the future. Perhaps somewhere across the ocean there is a coast depleted when we are overwhelmed.
A band of sunlight falls on the green horizon, distant flecks and sprays of white-capped waves tell me this churning will go on for a few hours yet.
The car windows have misted over with our breath. The lovely child fills her baby seat with her broad body. She sleeps soundly, her wide lashes fanned against her pale cheeks. Mothers with blond children walk by, their little ones packed tight against the wind, and she is here, hidden from view in the still-cold air of the car.
Sunlight reaches us at last, despite it the sea is roaring and lumpy, crashing white across the black rocks. It is as if some great, multi-limbed beast is crawling across the sea floor raising up the surface, showing me what it can do—how the ocean knows, that the tide comes in to meet her and witness her return. Those same droplets and molecules that drifted along the European coasts of her people, that bathed their broad feet and gave them crustaceans and molluscs of inordinate size and plenty. Yet here, now, it is dark and wild. It tears at the living and delivers its dead to us, tumbled carcases, weed and retching stink, laying like aftermath all along the coast.
Leaving Perth, after living there for eight years, was almost unremarkable. There were removalists early in the morning and a last walk around our park. I stopped under the she-oaks, thankful that our new home would have nicer places to walk. The swamp-hens and coots went about their daily routine and Emmy and Jake said goodbye to their playground.
‘Do you remember that day we had a picnic here and that kid Elijah rode off on Jake’s scooter while we were playing?’ She’s been crying at school about leaving.
‘Yeah, I see him at school sometimes,’ said Jake. ‘He’s mean.’
‘I remember,’ I told them and wanted to cry, just for a moment. Emmy remembered the picnic menu for the day, even the sparkling apple juice I had taken with us. I have failed them as a mother this past year. Been so absent.
‘I can’t wait to take Asta for a picnic,’ she said, and tickled her under the chin. She found some of Jake’s old pram-toys when we were sorting out to pack and hung them around Asta’s pram, which now jingles as we walk, and unearthed one of her old favourite hats, which just fit, despite the fact that Emmy had worn it at three and four. I moved a lot as a child, I told her, and never had old things because we always left them behind, so having your brother’s and sister’s things for your own is very special.
I know Emmy will miss her friends so I tried to offer her some extra encouragement to bond with Asta, shared my own experience of being a new kid at school, some highlights anyway. Isak and I had tried to keep it stable for them and we would have stayed there until they finished school, even though we never really liked the suburb, but that has changed now.
Isak is pleased to have the change and it was easy for him to move into the new job with the same company. He had imagined his life as endless days of the same thing in the same place with the same people, but at least this offered something new. They didn’t ask us to sell our house so we are suddenly landlords, after years of living on a tight budget. The title for the farm, as we like to call it, is in our names already. That’s all we can do for your family now, they had said, from this point we will help you with Asta’s needs only. But that was more than we could have ever achieved before, so Isak was happy. A farm, small as it is, is a great symbol of masculinity and adulthood with his family and he is excited about having a few animals. We could plant some orange trees and cultivate our own garden without the burden of debt, he said, or relying on farming for income. We can buy a little boat and take the kids out fishing. There are crabs in the estuary and a good sea breeze in summer. For Isak, this truly is the best of all possible worlds and I have never felt so optimistic about a home in my life.
We took the kids out of school for a few weeks to move and settle into the house and they went back after the winter holidays. Jake’s tablet was left uncharged for an unthinkable number of days while they trekked around our ten acres. Emmy carried a backpack stocked with survival snacks, her homemade first-aid kit, a wand and a jar filled with glittery water. Jake heavily armed, thanks to birthday packages from Isak’s family. I took photos to send our mothers and to Isak at work and Alex. Thirty years ago, that would have been us, without the crossbow or rifle. ‘Did you win the lottery and not share with me?’ Alex messaged back. I didn’t reply.
Hours later, hair flat with rain, they came running across the small paddock shouting ‘Mum, Mum you should come and see what we found.’ A couple of times I followed them into the stands of tuart and peppermints to see what it was—a magical hollow inside an enormous tree, perfect for a cubby; the rusted remains of half-buried farm machinery, which they spent hours excavating; a few twisted old citrus trees still bearing tiny fruit, which I peeled for them and they happily ate, even though they were just so sour. The shelters they had found from the rain—inside a fallen tree, ashy from an old fire; under a few stray sheets of corrugated iron that might once have been a small shed. When summer comes, I told them, this will be somewhere to watch out for snakes. They retracted like city kids at the mention of snakes so I softened it with learning how to avoid them and treat them when you find them. A lesson I learned many times over, spotting dugites here, tiger snakes and brown snakes elsewhere. In winter they’re asleep, I told them and off they went again, more filth on their boots than they had ever seen. Faces shining.
Some days it rained
heavily and they spread toys around their new rooms, leaving partly unpacked boxes and unwrapping familiar things like it was Christmas again.
One of the first big tests, though, is how they settle into school. We booked them straight into winter sports—soccer for Jake and netball for Emmy—to help them make friends. The burden, now, is on me to get them to training and school and do it with Asta. Trying not to overthink, to pre-empt the reactions of parents and teachers and children. Trying not to let myself wind up into a tight coil and hide us from their gaze.
By mid-afternoon, the rain has eased and I pull up a little early at the school, take the pram out of the car and strap Asta into the seat with a blanket and her beanie. My mother, quite unwittingly, sent this one as a gift and it fits perfectly, crocheted in shades of purple and trailing off in a tall point like a pixie. The perfect disguise for her head. We have upgraded her glasses to more therapeutic-looking ones, lightly shaded to protect her eyes, and I am prepared to respond, calm and factual.
The path into the school is lined with roses, recently pruned into tortured stumps and leafless from winter. Orange school buses queue like a rack of sliced loaves. I walk quickly in the cold and wait in an undercover area, scattered with picnic tables. It is quiet and several people arrive to collect their children, waiting outside classrooms. Despite my efforts, I notice my breaths are short and a little panic has crept in. A digital bell sing-songs and a ripple of movement surges through the classrooms. I can see Jake on his knees looking out for me, his teacher doing final goodbyes, dismissing small groups of them at a time to quell the grabby rush for schoolbags. Only three of them are left on the mat and she comes to the door with them, searching the parent group so I approach her with a smile.
‘Hi, I’m Stacey, Jake’s mum.’ I offer her my hand and she shakes it quickly. She has the neat dress and styled hair of a good teacher.
‘Nice to meet you, Stacey. I’m Isabelle Harper. I guess you’re wondering how his first day was?’ I nod, peer over my shoulder. ‘I won’t keep you because I know Jake’s sister is here too, but he had a happy day and seems to have connected with the boys who play soccer.’ She looks down at Asta, who is smiling and watching all the kids rushing around with purpose. I turn the pram away, face heating slightly.
‘Well I’m glad to hear it, thanks for letting me know.’ And I take Jake’s hand, leading him away a little too quickly. ‘Where’s Emmy’s class?’ I breathe, trying to soften the panic.
‘Over there, Mum.’ He points up a narrow walkway and I push the pram against the flow of parents and children. Most are absorbed in their own lives and no one makes eye contact with me. I can stay a little anonymous. Emmy is the last one left in her class and is helping the teacher with a small row of aquariums at the back of the room. I park Asta on the verandah, facing out towards the garden and order Jake to look after her for a minute so I can meet the teacher. Emmy drops what she is doing and dashes over to me, grabs my hand.
‘Mum, this is Miss B and she’s got some mealworms and some eggs for silkworms and we’re looking after them and waiting for them to change into something else and we’re all guessing what they might be and what they might look like when they change. We’re just checking them before we go home for the day.’ Her exuberance and anxiety are yoked together, much like my own.
‘Nice to meet you.’ Miss B wipes her hands on a towel and squirts antibacterial gel on her hands. ‘How was your first day, Emilia?’
‘Good. Miss B is really nice, Mum, and my group is closest to the aquariums, just here.’ She taps the lid of her desk.
‘I gave her the job of worm carer to help her settle in. I thought it would give her a sense of belonging and she has to nominate a couple of helpers every day so she will get to know the kids.’
‘Thanks, that sounds good.’ I don’t know what to say so I step back as if to leave and it gives the signal to Emmy, who collects her bag from the rack outside and takes hold of the pram, kicking off the brakes. Miss B follows me to the door.
‘Looks like she’s a great helper with the baby.’
And Emmy turns the pram to face Miss B. ‘This is Asta, she’s my little sister.’
My palms sweat, I battle an urge to react.
‘Hello Asta,’ and she steps towards the pram.
My breath is shallow and fast and I take the pram from Emmy, pushing it slightly away to signal our need to leave. I know I am rude. ‘Sorry, I have to get home. See you again.’ I smile awkwardly at her.
‘See you tomorrow, Miss B,’ Emmy calls and we stride off. In the undercover area I leave the kids with Asta for a moment, parking her again to face into the garden.
‘Just don’t let people mess with her, please,’ I hiss at Emmy, jamming the pram brakes on hard. I breathe deeply, then go into the school office to organise more uniforms and get details for the bus and canteen. My eyes pivot to the children too much and I know I am not calm. Not dealing with it as I’d hoped and not ready for parents and questions. Less ready to offer an explanation for Asta.
For our seven months’ meeting, Dimitra has set up a video chat so I put Asta into a jumper, fastened to a doorframe, and turn on the laptop after the kids have gone to school. As planned, at ten the call comes through. She appears, presentable as always, in a clinical office with rows of books over a sink in the background. Everything tidy. A sure sign of someone who is completely demented, my mother always said, but Dimitra seems quite the opposite. Doing her best to hide it, says my mother, her long dress touching my leg.
I turn the webcam to focus on Asta, who is serious about kicking herself off the floor and flies in and out of view. Her stocky legs hold much more force than my other children’s and I have bought her some size two leggings, cutting off half the length to fit her and pinching in the waist to hold them over her nappy. Dimitra watches with an indulgent smile, reaching out to touch her keyboard.
‘I’m going to guide you through weaning her, Stacey,’ she says, although she can’t see me. I sip lukewarm tea, swallow the truth that I have already started. As soon as we left the city I felt like their view was not so close. I bought organic apples and cooked them up myself a couple of weeks ago, sieving them carefully for any seeds or skin. Added some oats one day. Ridiculous, Isak had agreed, you can see the girl needs more than breastmilk now.
‘I’ve ordered you some pre-packed meals and they are being couriered over today. They should arrive in Perth tomorrow and be with you Thursday morning.’
‘What’s in them?’ I wonder how different they are from what I have given her.
‘They are high-protein, Paleolithic foods. We don’t want to shock her system so we are keeping it consistent with what they would have eaten.’
‘What protein is it—mammoth?’ It is meant to be a joke, of sorts, to lighten things a little but it falls flat.
‘High protein designed particularly for her age.’
I turn the webcam to face me. ‘Dimitra, I don’t want to feed her mammoth. Can you please tell me what’s in them?’
‘There are several varieties, designed by a dietitian in consultation with our team. They contain protein sources that were eaten by people at the time, at least the ones we have readily available, like rabbit and venison. I think they included moose, which we imported from Norway especially and there is some mushroom in them. You can also start to feed her a little egg, lightly scrambled without anything added, except perhaps a little breastmilk.’
I’m no mathematician, my mother used to say, but I know a tangent when I hear it, and she’d give me a knowing look. I have mentally ordered venison and rabbit from the butcher in town, buried the mammoth meat in a hole in the garden.
‘We’d like you to get her some pets.’ She changes the subject.
‘Okay,’ stay focused, ‘what kind of pets?’
‘Anything you and the family would enjoy really. We would hope she might have contact with small horses perhaps, rabbits and poultry. You could get her a dog but just a small
one and non-shedding, in case they have some aversion to each other. A poodle or Bichon Frise perhaps. Avoid cats if you don’t mind please.’ She pronounces Bichon Frise with a French accent.
‘Why?’
‘Potential allergens.’
‘Okay. I think we were going to get some chickens anyway. Isak is building a pen already.’
‘Good. Birds are good for her. You want her to be able to touch them and, when she is on her feet, we want her to run around barefooted among the animals. It’s important to build her immune system.’ She taps at her keyboard. ‘I’ve come to expect, Stacey,’ she makes eye contact across the screen, ‘that you never read the website content that we have put up to help you.’ I am a child. ‘But I suggest you do, especially regarding diet.’
I leave her screen, take Asta out of the jumper and put her on a play mat on the floor. Turn the camera on her. Dimitra speaks while I do this.
‘How are the rest of the family settling into the new house and school?’ I imagine she would call this ‘duty of care’. How I hate that term.
‘Fine. We love this house and the land around it.’
‘And how about school. Are you taking them?’
‘I have taken them,’ once. ‘But most days now they catch the bus. It stops down the road for them.’ It sounds well adjusted. Tidy.
‘Okay, well if you could please send me some data for our development records. I have listed the measurements I need in an email, and weigh her please. Take careful note over the first two weeks of her response to solid food. I would like you to put all this into the app. Will you do this please, Stacey?’ Asta is on her hands and knees, rocking back and forth.
‘I will.’