Fauna

by Donna Mazza

  It is noisy, the ball thumps back and forth in the children’s hands, the cheering is loud. Asta tolerates the noise, but I have spent so many days listening only to the wind in the trees, the call of birds and her irregular utterances that I feel the rise of anxiety. I push the pram over to the coffee van to get away from them, buy a small plate of homemade slices. Nobody knows me so I don’t get waylaid with conversation and it’s all too quick. The racket continues, so I wander under the trees sipping my coffee. Asta twists in the pram, trying to get out, looking back at the carnival.

  ‘What is it, darling?’ I’m a bit impatient, looking in at her, tightening the straps of the pram.

  ‘Dat.’ She points back to the sports, waves of cheering dulling down as the age groups swap over. Rows of children in blue, red, green and gold line up for tunnel-ball in the sun. She moans and arches her back, trying to loosen the straps. Pulls at them. I know it is cruel to hold her in there so tight, but I can’t risk letting her wander—her thumping step and unusual gait would surely attract questions. Questions I don’t want to answer. So I grab the plate of slices and hand it to her. Asta has not eaten such a thing before—I have kept her to a protein-based diet with vegetables, nuts, fruit—wheat and other grains are off the menu, so is sugar. A piece of chocolate brownie covered in rainbow sprinkles is irresistible to her and she claims it with a firm grip, shoving it into her mouth with gusto and sucking off the icing and coloured dots. It shuts her up but I tremble a little, don’t want to hurt her or make her sick. She is quiet, unified with the brownie while I finish my coffee, not with the peace I had wanted though.

  Dissatisfied I throw the paper cup in the bin and return to the sports just in time to see Jake’s blue team come in last in the wheel relay. He is flushed and looks up at me disappointed, though I clap with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. I stand behind the rope barrier and put the pram in front of me, so Asta can be close to the action and nobody can look in at her. The brownie has left a chocolate smear across her face and her hands are sticky but she waves them around at Emmy, whose senior team is set out for their wheel relay. She looks over at us to make sure we are watching, three ribbons on her T-shirt. I know I have missed events—she has the slightly faraway look that is becoming more frequent lately, the one that worries me because I know she is shifting away. That I have let her down. The siren calls and the crowd starts with the shouting.

  ‘Go Emmy!’ I call, hoping she hears. In a flash it is done and they have come in second. She jogs over with her friend to see me, bends down to Asta. I have not met the other child, but I say hello to her and tell her well done.

  ‘You gave her chocolate? Gosh, Mum!’ I ignore her reprimand, pass the plate over instead and they jog back to their bay, each stopping to bite into the slice.

  ‘Give some to Jake,’ I call after her.

  It is almost lunchtime so I return to my folding chair to find people encamped around it so that I can’t push in the pram. The grandmother is among them and she waves to me, then gets off her picnic blanket to come over. Isak will be here soon and I want him to see that I have dealt with the sports carnival so I don’t turn and leave as I want to.

  ‘Come and sit with us,’ she says and picks up the front of the pram so we can carry it over people’s picnics. ‘Nanny Ray,’ she says, plonking it into a small grassy patch in the centre. The sort that doesn’t wait for an answer—my mother’s generation.

  ‘Hi, I’m Stacey.’ She makes space by the pram, gathering plastic lunchboxes into a neat stack.

  ‘Pop your chair in here, love. Sorry we’ve sprawled out so much.’ Her daughter, around my age, reclines on the grass in a large hat engaged in laughing conversation with a blonde pony-tailed woman.

  ‘Thanks,’ I tell her. The events have paused, people rush past with washing baskets stacked full with lunch orders for the children. My own included. As I watch them pass, Nanny Ray moves her hands in the pram and I jump inside, stand up and grab the handles. She is wiping Asta’s hands and face clean and my heart is pounding. I stop myself from reacting— calm, calm, breathe. She looks up, slightly puzzled.

  ‘Is this okay with you? She’s not allergic to wipes or anything is she?’

  ‘No,’ I squeak the word through my held breath. Waiting for her to notice who it really is in that pram. But she looks up behind me and smiles. Isak is there, baseball cap on and gleeful with a bag of takeaway.

  ‘I bought us both some lunch,’ he says. ‘How’s it been?’

  I give him an account of the races I have watched, leaving out any talk of missing events or feeding Asta chocolate brownie. He crouches by the pram and hands her a few chips. Kisses her on the forehead. A siren sounds and the kids disperse for lunch, gravitating to their parents in tight-knit groups. Emmy and her friend are swift, making space between Nanny Ray and the pram. The friend kisses Nanny Ray, who hands her a lunchbox. Jake joins us with his lunch mostly gone already. I take a bite from the burger Isak brought me but Jake is still hungry so I hand it to him. Soon it is gone.

  After lunch, the kids return to their groups, preparing for running events. Isak chats to Nanny Ray about the girls having a sleepover, apologising for not doing it earlier. I try to catch his eye, but he studiously avoids me. The child, Milly, is now staying with us for the night. Parents shift to the sideline of the track now, and Isak pushes the pram over. I don’t want to be there and am happy to escape the anxiety and noise.

  ‘I’m going to get a cup of tea, want one?’ He nods and I am free for a moment to be alone. The day has made me tired. Chest hard, coiled tight inside and winding ever tighter. I am spring-loaded and ready to launch, the tension of it ringing in my ears, high frequency. I look up at the languid eucalyptus trees and let the lump dissolve into hot tears.

  After the presentations and final cheers for the reds, golds, greens and blues, Isak volunteers to help the girls dismantle marquees and return equipment to the sports shed. He chats with another man, a soccer dad apparently. I am eager to get home, though Asta is asleep in her pram and I disrupt her, rushing into the car. Wave a cursory goodbye to Nanny Ray.

  Isak is much more comfortable explaining away the ‘rare genetic condition’. I feel the lie of it, the words like stone in my mouth, weighing me down. Exposure is what I most dread; what might happen if she is discovered. What might happen if it’s my fault for saying the wrong thing. For not deceiving as well as I should. The tearing apart of our lives here, the necessity to move away. Once our burrow is revealed, our safety is compromised. The media will descend and write exposés on the strange family with their prehistoric child. Our faces will be inscribed on the national psyche, forever tarnished. We might change our names and go to ground to no avail. A change of hairstyle or name can’t deny the truth. Even if a dingo never took her baby, nobody will ever forget her face or her name. Or the name of her baby. That will be me and Isak and Asta, our children the innocent bystanders whose lives are displayed on screens across the world, shared in social media, like so many wonders of the world. The shifting focus of clicks, which magnetise and drive global thoughts and conversations this way and that, from viral dancing goats to the de-extincted wonders that appear in news feeds. Great auks, the whimsical Atlantic penguin, are returned to the wild, even though all around its once-habitat is in decline. The argument of why swallowed in the Mexican wave of the event. I trail off into our driveway, released at last from being found. My muscles let go of their tension, triggering an impulse to shake.

  When she wakes from the car, Asta cries unusually and I carry her inside, rocking her on the couch. She points at her stomach. Jake watches the television, gets himself a snack. She fills her nappy and he looks over at the rumbling sound that comes from her. He pulls a face.

  When Isak returns with Emmy and Milly, he has been to the shop and lights his barbecue in good cheer. Asta is still grizzling and in pain but at the sight of the girl in our house I cover her in a bunny-rug and hold her facing my chest.

 
; ‘You’re not, are you?’ He slams the fridge door, seeping his irritation.

  ‘No. My milk’s gone. I wouldn’t try and start her again, Isak.’ I’m defensive, clip my words.

  ‘Is she okay?’

  ‘No, she’s in pain and sick in the stomach.’ I look at him accusingly. ‘The chips,’ I lie, out of earshot of Emmy.

  ‘Fuck, sorry. Look, I bought some venison sausages for her. That might help.’ He shakes his head and wanders out to the patio.

  Deeper again, I plunge towards my mother.

  I put her to bed, retreat into the garden to feed the chickens and walk out under the trees, where the leschenaultia is in bloom.

  On the surface, the ground is still even, but each day, I excavate a little more from the bedrock, hoping it won’t become unstable. I hold a teaspoon of the crisp rock in my hand, toss the crumbs into the air and let it spray into the eyes of my children. I save the most jagged pieces to rub into my own eyes, scratching them raw with each spoonful I scour from the depths.

  The next day Emmy is pleased that her friend has slept over without a major incident. She rewards Asta by letting her sit between her and Milly on the couch watching kids cartoons while they eat breakfast. They paint her nails and I watch carefully as they hold each finger and toe in turn, examining and discussing her features. I can’t hear what they say over the cartoon but I see their exchanged glances, laughing, tickling Asta, whose nails roam everywhere, still wet. They will never guess—I am sure it will not even occur to Milly, and I expect Emmy has said something about her sister. Letting someone into our domestic lives, even a child, feels like a big move to me. Makes me watchful and anxious.

  Isak takes them to soccer and netball through all of winter. I had to stop. Sometimes I could watch the soccer from the car but netball means being courtside with Asta and the parents started coming to talk to me. I am sorry they have gone without me. ‘I’m worried about you becoming too much of a recluse,’ he tells me. I still refuse to go but I miss them.

  At the end of the school year, Isak buys two kayaks and a canoe from one of the soccer dads who’s moving up to a bigger boat. I see his envy about the boat but he hauls the kayaks home on a new trailer, reversing in jagged lines up to the shed. Asta and I watch them scrub out the dry mud and leaves.

  ‘Asta come?’ Jake says to her. ‘Boat. Go in boat.’

  ‘Don’t speak like a baby to her, Jake,’ I snap. ‘She’s two now.’

  He is silent and sprays the hose onto a kayak so we have to step away.

  ‘We have to get some life jackets first, mate,’ Isak says to him, shooting me a reproach. ‘But you’re a good swimmer. We can go and test them out first. Make sure they’re safe. We’ll have plenty of time now it’s school holidays.’

  They turn their backs to me. Even though we all live together and they are my family, I feel like I am only partly in their lives. It is all changing and I can’t quite hold it firm.

  THREE

  The paths around here curve in wide arcs through low rambles of reed. I am often fixed on the distant view, watching for those eyes that peer into my life. People with dogs. I avoid eye contact. Asta rides slowly on a chunky tricycle we bought her for Christmas, concentrating on the pedals, slow and heavy footed. She meanders a little, tracing her way back to the centre, veering a little to the right then stops suddenly. I walk right into the back of her, attention out there on the horizon. She watches the reeds and points but I see nothing, so I bend over and part the grasses a little. Inside a bobtail goanna is curled and slow moving in the pale sun, filtered through the strands of reed. She stands beside me and looks in at the speckled creature.

  ‘How did you know it was there?’

  ‘Shhh.’ And she points to her ears. She bends to touch it, runs her finger lightly over its crenulated back. It turns quickly and opens its mouth wide, hissing, its tongue threatening. She starts back, grasps my hand.

  ‘Goanna.’ I crouch down and look into her intense eyes. ‘G-g-g. Asta say it.’ And I wait, holding her hand. ‘G-g-g.’ She stares at me, knows I want her to do something.

  ‘Gogog.’ She smiles wide, her crispy unused voice surprising her.

  ‘Gogog, yes, Asta. You’re so clever.’ And I hug her. She rides off down the path, slowly turning and twisting the bike, babbling ‘gogog’ to herself. I take a video of her and message Isak to tell him. Upload it to BubBot.

  Autumn rains began so I made a cake on the weekend. Gluten free of course, sugar free with dates and honey to try and treat her. The constant cramps and diarrhoea. Poor little thing. Our natural is her processed and not much I do can remedy it. We stick with goats’ milk. Nuts. Eggs from our chickens. Only a little bit of butter triggered her. The crack and moan of her stomach. Curled on the couch under a blanket. I know she hates the humiliation of it but I had to put her in pull-ups. I draw on the skills I learned from my mother and make aromatic tea. She sucks it avidly from a sipper cup.

  ‘We’re back, Mumma!’ First games of the new season.

  Her face lightens. The kids, galumphing through the house, make her laugh.

  ‘We got you a lollipop, Asta.’ Jake hands it right to her.

  ‘It’s only a little one, she’ll be okay if you ration it.’ Isak kisses me lightly on the cheek. A little lacking in conviction. I slice cake and boil the kettle.

  ‘The offside rule seems to have a very loose interpretation with some of those linesmen. And he was just a young ref too so he couldn’t stand up for himself. Lost two nil. Should have been a shoo-in. They were third on the ladder and us second so now we probably won’t make the finals.’

  ‘Jake played well though?’

  ‘Like a hero, eh, number eleven?’ Isak bites into the cake with frenzy. ‘Oi! Socks, shin pads, strip—in the washing machine. No stinking up the house with your sweaty soccer gear.’

  ‘How was netball?’

  ‘She played like a demon, didn’t you, Emmy? Wing attack for three quarters and on the bench for one.’

  ‘They win?’

  ‘Thrashed them. Again.’ The tea is scalding and he blows steam across the top of the cup. ‘How is she?’

  We both look over and there on the couch she holds out the chewed lollipop and a tooth. Silently she lets blood leak down her chin. Looking in amazement at the tooth. A pain in my chest—this already. It’s too soon.

  ‘Asta, the tooth fairy’s gunna come for you tonight!’ Emmy is so gentle with her. Wiping her face with a tissue. ‘You can borrow my fairy box and we can draw a picture for her.’

  Asta lights up, looks up at her with wide eyes. Total devotion. Following her every move. Emmy takes the tooth from her sticky hand, wipes the blood from it gently with a tissue and places it in the fairy box. Roots down. The girls work together with crayons, heads together and intent.

  I have strict instructions for when she loses her teeth so I record it on my phone. Close-up of the tooth, avoiding any association with the lollipop. Send it right away. My phone pings with a now rare BubBot message: When the ‘tooth fairy’ comes tonight collect it with sterile tweezers, place it in a sample bag and keep in the refrigerator. We will send a courier. A week later a posted package arrives with a special envelope for biological substances.

  Isak wheels the kayaks down our driveway and across the road to the water’s edge. We all trail down there. The shallow water is warmed by the sun and circles my legs, fine weed brushes my skin. Asta wades beside me as Emmy paddles out, quickly mastering the pattern of the stroke. Isak squeezes in with Jake and the two of them row quickly out, waiting now and then for Emmy to catch up. They move rapidly further away, birds rising in their path. This part of the estuary is a wide arc where the water terminates against the causeway that connects us to Leschenault Peninsula. It is a still, quiet haven for black swans, who gather here in enormous numbers, some trailing large cygnets still grey with down. Asta waves at the kids but they don’t turn to see her.

  She holds my hand and we wade through the
water, enjoying the thick mud rising between our toes. She smiles, lifts her foot and shakes it in the water to rinse off the grey sludge.

  ‘Poo.’

  ‘Not poo—mud.’ She is slower to speak than Emmy or Jake but she is learning. Small, simple words we use all the time are the ones she has mastered. She nods but doesn’t repeat ‘mud’, although I prompt her. A cloud of waterborne dirt and weed is agitated by our footsteps and it slowly settles in our wake, hiding the pockmarked bed of the estuary. Small, sharp mysteries poke occasionally at the sole of my foot. Stones, perhaps, or the abandoned claw of a caught crab. Sometimes the remnant cap from a beer bottle, or a strange shell, long hollowed. Asta bends towards the water and lifts an aged fence post up, releasing a cloud into the water around her. She laughs, squealing a little, and dashes her hand in to lift out a clear prawn, flicking its tail, a spray of water in the sun. I stride to her, the water heavy around my legs.

  ‘Wow, well done, sweetheart. It’s a prawn.’ Its companions flick against my legs and Asta drops the post with a great splash back into the water. I can see by the residue on it that it was buried in the mud and must have been heavy.

  ‘Are you going to put it back with its friends?’

  Asta holds the flicking prawn, looking close at the dark orbs of its eyes, close to the barbs on its face.

  ‘No. Mine.’ And she grips it tight in her fist. Flicking against her with all its might, there is no mercy for the prawn and it slows into a stiff arc.

  The children have begun to notice her strength. Wrestling things from her grasp is a great challenge for Jake, who is happy to rise to the occasion and tap into his ferocious core. Emmy surrenders, wise enough to know when she is beaten, and wily enough to hide anything precious.