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There’s rain spattering the dust on the windshield, and Jack Johnson is on the radio, singing ‘Better Together’. I think he’s right. Harry takes one hand off the steering wheel and squeezes my knee. ‘Hang in there.’ I wish I could take his comfort, suck it down inside me and use it to quell my simmering nausea.
I look back to Snap who’s fallen asleep on the rear seat with Charlie on his lap. His head lolls to one side and a string of dribble is suspended from the weak side of his mouth. I resist a motherly urge to reach back and wipe it away for him. Let him rest. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Instead, I lower my window and let the wind cool my face.
Mum’s dead. The words keep circulating, trying to find a place to land, to take root and become something real in my mind. Dead. Dead. Dead. I’m officially an orphan.
Jack’s song finishes as we pull up outside a milk bar in some town I haven’t noticed the name of. It’s Sunday afternoon, and the shopping strip looks deserted. Harry picks up his wallet from the console. ‘Thirsty?’
I nod.
‘Maybe some Lucozade or something? You’re looking peaky. Still not hungry?’
I mumble negatives and shake my head. When did I last eat? Lunch yesterday? Probably. My stomach has been a clenched fist since Harry turned up on our doorstep. I thought I’d forgotten something at his apartment, and he was returning it. That was until I saw his face. And his words made everything spin in my head.
Harry gets out the car. ‘Leave it with me.’
The slamming of his door jars. Every noise, every sensation, feels amplified. I should offer to drive some, but my limbs are leaden from lack of sleep. Or fear. I rest my head against the window.
Next to the milk bar is one of those old-fashioned hardware-gift stores with handyman tools in one window, and homey gifts like candles, tea towels and kitsch plastic trays in the other. Maybe I should get some plastic flowers for Samuel’s grave. You’re welcome, arsehole.
Something catches my eye: a crow settling on the edge of a garbage bin. Its spidery claws clutch the rim as it pokes through the rubbish. It stops and tilts its head, one shiny eye glaring at me. I know what you’re doing, it seems to say. Crows. With their oily feathered bodies. Aren’t they harbingers of bad news? Bad omens? He’s a bit late.
I think I’m going to be sick. I push my door open. The crow flutters, then resettles. I swing my legs out and rest my elbows on my knees, head down. I’ve got nothing left to purge. Why won’t the nausea go away? I breathe deeply and let the air out slowly. Again. It helps. I pull my legs back in and relax into my seat. My movements have disturbed the crow again, but it continues to perch warily.
I close my eyes and think of what’s ahead. What will I say? What exact words will I use? Maybe something short, sharp and subtle that causes confusion and a realisation that this is not a homecoming. That this is not a prodigal daughter come to speak at her mother’s funeral. Or shall I go for the jugular and tell them all how it really was?
I picture myself walking up the aisle, standing at the lectern, facing the congregation. I speak slowly, clearly. ‘Let me tell you a story.’
Exactly, the crow says. Tell it exactly like it is.
I open my eyes and stare back at it. ‘I will.’
And then what?
‘What do you mean?’
Nothing will have changed. He’ll still be who he was. You’ll still be who you are.
‘No. You’re wrong.’
Am I?
I want to knock it off its perch. What does it know? And then I remind myself this is Mum’s funeral. Not Samuel’s.
Harry opens his door, startling me, and drops heavily into his seat. ‘Here.’ He passes me a bottle of lemonade and a chocolate frog with hundreds and thousands on it.
‘Thanks.’
‘Who’re you talking to?’ he asks.
‘No-one. Myself.’ I slam my door, and the crow takes flight. I close my eyes, trying to ease the nausea.
Harry’s Coke bottle fizzes as he twists the cap. He gulps a few times, then quietly burps. Polite.
‘You know we can turn back?’ Harry says. ‘Anytime you want.’
‘Yeah. I know,’ I say, eyes still closed.
He’s watching me. I can feel it. Can picture the concern on his face. He knows me now. Knows it all. I owed him that much. I hated seeing the pain on his face, but he told me he needed to hear it. He’s something, is Harry. Doesn’t have to be here, but his presence is all that’s keeping me together.
He taps my arm. ‘Drink something at least. Get some liquid and sugar into you. You’ll feel better.’
‘Okay.’
I force a few sips of lemonade down, and he’s right: once the sugar fuels me, the nausea eases. Snap has woken with the door slam. Harry hands him a drink and a packet of chips. I don’t have to turn to know that little Charlie is all expectant eyes and open mouth. Are you going to eat that? I smile for the first time in hours.
Another hour on, and we’re into Mallee country. Endless fields of wheat and barley-sown fields struggling through a dry winter. The few drops that do fall are lucky to penetrate the crust of the topsoil. The farmers will be doing it tough again.
Rihanna’s ‘Umbrella’ comes on the radio. The whine in her voice grates on me. No, you can’t be my umbrella. I need to feel the rain.
~
Mary’s porch. You’d think I’ve come back from the dead the way she grabs and holds me tight. ‘Oh, my girl. Oh, my girl.’ It’s all she can get out.
‘Don’t cry,’ I mumble, trying hard to take my own advice, sinking into her familiar bulky softness. She’s still wearing that old apron with its stupid-coloured fruit and leaves.
Fred is hanging around in the background, shuffling, hands in pockets. When Mary lets me go, I give him a kiss on the cheek. ‘Good to see you,’ he says.
I step back to let Harry greet his grandparents. Snap is still back at the car, putting a lead on Charlie. He stands and squints across the road to the remains of Samuel’s house. I turn away. I don’t want to see it. Not yet.
Mary ushers us inside to a Christmas-like spread on her dining table. I smile. Feeding people is what she knows. She questions us on where we’ve been, what we’ve been up to.
‘I was so glad to hear you’re both making a go of music.’ She winks. ‘I always hoped you two would end up together.’
Harry and I exchange looks. I shove a big piece of ham in my mouth, appetite suddenly returned. Actually being here doesn’t seem as bad as the thought of being here. What was I so worried about? I’m surrounded by people who love me.
Snap asks Mary about a recipe for her lamb cutlets. After we’ve all had a giant slice of Mary’s cream sponge, topped with ridiculous amounts of homemade strawberry jam, the conversation turns to the funeral.
‘I hope Wednesday suits you all?’ says Mary. ‘I figured you’d want a couple of days to think about who you want there, who you want to speak, flowers, all that sort of thing?’
‘It’s fine,’ I say, wishing it was actually today so we could get it over with.
‘I wasn’t sure if you wanted an open casket, that sort of thing.’
I breathe out. ‘No. I don’t think so.’
‘Whatever you want, sweetheart. She was your mum, after all.’
I niggle at this. I know she was my mum. I don’t need to be reminded. Guilt. Mary is just trying to make things easy for me.
The guys retreat to the lounge while Mary and I head to the kitchen. Her odd fruity apron doesn’t annoy me anymore. She hands me another, one with rosebuds on it, and we stand side by side at the sink, me washing, her drying. The afternoon sun is streaming through the window, and the backyard looks exactly the way it did when I left. I’m surprised a dog named Toto isn’t sitting at my feet.
Mary doesn’t say anything when one of my tears falls into the dishwater, or when I finally tell her about Samuel. She just listens, like she knew all along. And it makes me wonder why I thought it would be so hard. And I wonder too, what will happen to the dead space inside me, now that I’ve let the air in.
‘I’m here,’ Mary says.
What is it with older women being mind-readers? She tells me to take care of myself because sometimes these things have a way of sneaking up on you when you’re not expecting it, that there’s no shame in asking for help – professional help, that I might still have sad moments, scared moments, but to pick up the phone when that happens. No matter where or when. Always.
‘God,’ I say. ‘I feel like I’ve been angry my whole life.’
~
Harry and I sit on Mary’s front porch. The funeral was exhausting, but good, as funerals go, I guess. Snap is in the kitchen with Mary, trying to steal some more recipes. I keep glancing across the road.
‘Time for a stroll?’ Harry asks.
‘Maybe.’
We sit a while longer, watching a couple of noisy miner birds scratching underneath a straggly lavender shrub. Slim pickings. Along Mary’s fence line, orange rosehips, like spherical lollipops, cling to the ends of dead-looking branches. The chill of the wind is familiar here, but the anger and disillusionment have slipped away. Coming back isn’t what I thought it would be; I’m not sure what I was expecting – a confrontation? With whom?
So much time wasted. I have to start putting things right in my life. I look at Harry in his cosy wool jacket, his five o’clock shadow darkening his chin.
‘I’ve been trying to sort my head out,’ I say.
Harry nods. ‘Hmm.’
‘Harry?’ He turns to me. ‘I want you to know that I’m grateful for all you’ve done.’
He smiles, takes my hand. His face is so open, concerned, so beautiful.
I know what I want now. But I struggle to get my voice out. ‘This music thing. What if it’s over?’
Harry looks away. He doesn’t want to hear. But he has to.
‘I’m not sure I have what it takes.’
He shakes his head. ‘Don’t say that. You’ve got more talent—’
‘It’s not enough.’
‘But—’
‘Shhh. Let me finish. Yes, a good voice, but I don’t have a fire inside me, and it shows. Yes, I love to sing ... but I’m scared of putting myself out there. It hurts. At least ... at the moment.’
I wait. There’s a muscle twitching in his jaw. His eyes are focused straight ahead.
‘You could learn.’
I sigh. ‘I have other things I need to learn first. But you. You’re the one with real talent. I’ve always said that. You have to keep going. Keep writing. Finish your degree.’
‘Uh huh.’
‘And Harry?’
He won’t look at me. His face is set. Steely. I bite down on my lip. ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Let’s take that walk?’
He doesn’t say anything, but he stands, still holding my hand, tighter. We walk down the steps, through the garden and head out the gate.
Samuel’s place. I can see from here that there’s not much left. Mary said most of the wreckage was cleared – a danger for inquisitive kids. As we get closer, I keep my eyes on the road, the loose gravel at its edges, the dandelions in the nature strip, the footpath, until we reach the gate. I look up. Another false expectation: I thought the ground would still be blackened from the fire, but seasons and nature have rubbed away the ashes. A few scorched bricks, the cement steps, bits of unrecognisable rubble sit in the red dirt.
I lean on the fence, taking in the debris of my past.
‘Okay?’ Harry asks.
‘Yep.’
I’d always pictured myself hyperventilating at this point. I’m not. I open the creaky gate. Push through. Past the remnants of foundations, Mum’s cement tubs. I point. ‘Mum’s swing chair was there. We spent hours watching the stars.’
Down by the back fence, the fruit trees have survived. They’re all winter-bare except for the lemon tree. It’s flourishing, white sweet-scented blossoms unfurling and a few fallen fruits at its base. I wouldn’t be surprised if Mary’s been watering it – it’s the only piece of yard with a decent patch of grass. We head over and sit beneath it.
‘There’s nothing left,’ I murmur.
‘Well, you did a bloody good job,’ he says.
‘What?’ I look at him, shocked, then laugh. And we laugh together until my stomach hurts and tears run.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says.
‘For what?’
‘For ... everything. For this. For you. For us. For what he did to you.’
I nod. ‘Me too.’
I tug up a bit of couch grass and rub it between my fingers. ‘He was all I had left, with you gone, Mum gone ... well, her mind, at least. I trusted him. I think that’s what I don’t know if I can forgive. The trust.’
Harry’s knee is resting against mine. I like it there. He puts an arm around me, and I lean back into him. It’s nice. A sad nice.
‘It’s funny,’ I say. ‘As much as I’ve tried not to think about it, to block it out, there’s something I remember. When Samuel was ... on top of me, I could see the mantelpiece, and there was Mum’s ceramic vase with its little cherubs on either side. It had a crack running up its centre from when I’d knocked it over as a kid. Dad glued it back together. I don’t know why I noticed it. Maybe it was the glow from Samuel’s digital clock. And ... well ... the cherubs on the vase were smiling down at me, as if to say it doesn’t matter, we all get broken at some point.’
Harry’s quiet. He doesn’t know what to say.
‘Are we broken?’ I ask.
‘I’m not sure,’ he says slowly.
‘Do you think we could find some glue to fix us? Put us back together like Humpty Dumpty?’
‘They couldn’t put Humpty back together again.’
‘Bad analogy.’
‘Very.’
We’re quiet for a while. A beetle appears near my foot, struggling through the blades of grass.
Harry shifts. ‘I’m confused. I thought you didn’t want ... us.’
I turn to him. ‘Us? No, no, not us. It’s the music I don’t think I can do. I want us. I just ... wasn’t sure if you wanted us ... without the music.’
‘Oh.’
I can look him in the eye now. Now that he knows everything. Everything. He seems older than back in February when he grinned at me in Bob’s bar. Did I do that? Is that what love does to people?
I speak slowly, clearly. ‘I. Want. Us.’
He nods, leans in. And here is the kiss. The one that feels like home. The one that makes me want to fold myself up into something tiny and hop into his shirt pocket so he can carry me around near his heart always.
He pulls back, and there it is at last — I’m the girl who makes him smile.
‘There’s one more thing,’ I say, then lean forward and reach into my back pocket. Samuel’s letter. I hold it in my lap, looking at the worn envelope. Déjà vu.
‘It’s lost its power,’ I murmur. ‘I can’t believe it. I’ve been letting this stupid piece of paper hold me hostage. I thought as long as I didn’t open it, I was the one with the power. Because he couldn’t say sorry.’
‘Are you going to read it now?’
‘I don’t know. What’s the point? Nothing will change if I do.’
‘Maybe. Maybe not. I still think you should.’
I sniff. ‘I noticed there’s a new plaque outside the post office. It’s dedicated to Samuel.’
‘Yeah? How do you feel about that?’
‘Spell ambivalent.’
He squeezes me. ‘You’re allowed to say it sucks.’
‘Okay. It sucks.’
He chuckles.
I say it louder. ‘It sucks. SUCKS!’
‘Feel better?’
‘Not really.’
I stand up and reach into my other pocket.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Finishing this.’ I show him the lighter.
‘Oh shit.’ Harry scrambles to his feet and backs off, but he’s laughing. ‘Let me get a safe distance.’
I straighten out the envelope and flick the lighter. The paper catches and flares.
‘Samuel Barnes,’ I yell. ‘You lonely, sad, drunk, pathetic man. I forgive you. You hear me? I don’t care what your letter says. I forgive you. Not for you. For me.’
I hold the burning envelope, charred pieces fluttering, becoming airborne, ashes rising, then floating back to earth.
I’m not stupid. I’m aware forgiveness isn’t that simple. It will ebb and flow. Maybe there’ll be times when I’ll regret this ... this letting go. Times when I’ll want to claw back my anger. Those times will pass. Right now, I need this unburdening.
Soon the flame is reaching my fingers, so I drop the remainder on the grass and glance up at the lemon tree. I choose a large, juicy fruit and snap it off its branch. I dig a hole in the peel, then squeeze juice over the smouldering cinders.
‘What are you doing?’
Samuel would get it. ‘Spell congruous.’
My beautiful, beautiful girl
What have I done?
Damaged you beyond
Repair and now I leave
The coward that I am
Forgive me.
