Mary had met a man. Well, of course she had. She always did. Charlie shaded her eyes from the afternoon sun and watched from the window as her mother climbed into his battered old Buick. It was disgusting to see her giggling like a girl, flirting and simpering with ponytailed Carlos. They’d met at the hospital and bonded over cigarettes smoked outside on the street. It was a perfect match. Two ageing hippies, behaving like teenagers, not realising how pathetic and embarrassing they were.
The car drove off. It grew smaller and smaller, turned left around a corner and vanished. Charlie grabbed her giant soft-toy frog and collapsed on the bed in tears. She’d imagined that life in this East Melbourne apartment would have been a big improvement on the hospital. No more gowns or masks or over-the-top hand-washing. No more endless waiting: for engraftment, for blood-cell counts to return to safe levels, for side effects to lessen. But she’d been wrong. This lonely hole in the wall was worse than a prison.
Who would have thought she’d miss the nurses and doctors at that damned hospital? She even missed Colleen bossing her around, fussing like a mother hen. Here in the apartment she saw nobody but Mum. Oh, and Carlos, of course. She knew the drill. She should, after all these years. Carlos trying to be friends, laying it on with a trowel for her mother’s benefit. How many times had she been through this? It could be worse, she supposed. Carlos was a dork, and a massive pothead, but aside from that he was inoffensive enough. Some of her mum’s past boyfriends had not been so harmless. A suggestive comment here, a hand on her thigh there, gifts of money or alcohol behind her mother’s back.
Charlie’s phone rang. She lunged for it. ‘Sam?’
No, just her mother, asking how she was and whether she needed anything. Charlie braced against the surge of disappointment. ‘Shit, Mum, you just left. What could have possibly changed?’ Charlie threw down her phone and it slid under the bed. Good fucking riddance.
She put on the kettle in the kitchenette and searched through the tea bags in the pantry. Just as she thought – every herbal concoction under the sun when what she really wanted was an old-fashioned cup of plain black tea. No, what she really wanted was a beer. Well, why not? Mum probably wouldn’t be back for hours. She’d gone ostensibly to buy a second-hand laptop from some dodgy friend of Carlos’s. A present, Mary had told her, so Charlie could keep in touch with friends, and download music and movies, that sort of thing. First, she didn’t have any friends. And second? It was more than likely that the pair would end up in a bar, forget all about the computer and not return until late at night. City living wasn’t good for her mother, Charlie had decided. Too much temptation.
On impulse Charlie found her wallet, slipped out the door and descended the steps to the lobby. Though well enough to leave the hospital, she was far from recovered. Some days she still felt too weak to do much more than sleep, sit up, and walk a bit around the apartment. Her only outings so far had been back to the hospital for tests.
According to Professor Sung, it could take six months before she was ready to fully resume normal activities. ‘During this period, your white-blood-cell count may be too low to provide normal protection against the viruses and bacteria encountered in everyday life,’ he’d explained. ‘You must therefore restrict contact with the general public. Crowded movie theatres, supermarkets, department stores – these are places you should avoid during your recuperation. Often patients like to wear protective masks when venturing outside the home.’
Fuck that. Charlie emerged from the double doors onto the street. At first the rush of human traffic made her dizzy, and a little afraid. There was nobody to lean on. But bit by bit, she found her land legs. The late-afternoon sun shone mellow and bright. It relieved the constant chill that still plagued her bones. Her reflection in the mirror of a shop window was frightening in its frailty. Look straight ahead, aim for that bottle shop on the corner, she told herself.
‘I’ll need some ID, love,’ said the attendant. Charlie grinned and fished around in the wallet for her learner’s permit. Her first legal purchase of alcohol. It was wonderful to be treated as a normal person again. She bought a six-pack of beer, headed for a park beyond the bottle shop, and removed her shoes. The grass was soft between her toes. She lay down and buried her face in the soil. It had no fragrance. Chemo had destroyed her sense of smell, perhaps. Or was it the city smog that rendered the natural world odourless? Whatever the case, this artificial patch of green, surrounded by countless square hectares of concrete, had no discernible scent at all.
Charlie approached a stunted Eucalyptus ficifolia, a red-flowering gum tree in sparse bloom, its trunk ridged and deformed by a tight cement collar around its base. Charlie stroked its rough bark and plucked a leaf. The scent of eucalyptus was faint and far away. ‘Like your home forest,’ she whispered. Charlie settled down, beer in hand, with her back propped against the sad gum tree. It must have been peak hour, to judge by the increasing flow of pedestrians on the street. ‘Well,’ she said companionably, draining the first beer and opening another. ‘You might be a sorry excuse for a ficifolia, but you look a damn sight happier than those buggers.’ She toasted the tree.
Shadows lengthened. Occasionally Charlie moved around the trunk to a new spot, seeking out the low slanting rays of the descending sun as it swung westwards. It would be lost below the city skyline soon, well before it set. She removed her headscarf, exposing her fuzzy scalp, and swigged the beer. Passers-by cast disapproving glances her way. She smiled and raised her bottle. ‘Cheers,’ she said loudly, enjoying herself for the first time in a long time.
Charlie cracked another beer. ‘Where are your birds?’ she called. ‘What sort of a park are you, without any birds?’ How long had it been since she’d seen a bird? Charlie didn’t count flying rats like Indian mynas and sparrows and pigeons. The city was infested with them. She meant real birds.
As if summoned by her thoughts, a ragged black bird alighted on a rubbish bin just metres away. Charlie knelt up, with a sharp, excited sigh. ‘Are you a crow or a raven?’ she asked the inquisitive corvid. It responded with the characteristic call of the raven, an almost human sounding aarr, aarr, aarrrrr, the last note long and drawn-out. ‘Hello, Mr Raven. You remind me of a very good friend.’ The bird hopped to the ground, walked closer, and inspected her with its startling ivory eyes. It looked so much like Condor. For a moment Charlie believed that by some miracle he had found her. But when she reached out a hand, the raven flew away.
Charlie hurled the bottle after it and stumbled to her feet. ‘It’s easy enough for him,’ she complained to the tree. ‘He can just fly away whenever he likes, back to the bush.’ She gave the tree trunk a swift hug. ‘Not so simple for us now, is it?’
‘Are you all right?’ asked a dreadlocked young man who’d stopped to watch her.
Charlie grabbed the three remaining beers of her six-pack. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m not.’
The man walked over, retrieved her scarf from where it lay on the grass and handed it to her. Then he picked up the scattered empty bottles and threw them in the bin.
‘You know what?’ said Charlie, rewinding her scarf and giving him the once-over. ‘You’re pretty hot. Want to go for a drink?’
It was after nine o’clock when she finally arrived home. Mary was furious.
‘Where in heaven’s name have you been?’ she demanded to know. ‘I’ve been worried sick!’
Charlie wondered how long her mother had even been home. Not long, she thought. There was only one butt in the ashtray.
‘I’ve been for a drink,’ said Charlie, ‘with ever-so-nice a young man. It was fun.’
‘You’re drunk,’ said Mary.
Charlie ignored the comment, although there was plenty of truth in it. ‘Did you get my laptop?’
‘No’, said Mary, sounding cagey. ‘Something came up. Carlos will bring it round tomorrow.’ Charlie knew exactly what had come up. She could smell the dope on her mother’s clothes. Mary lit a cigarette, stood back and took a long look at her. ‘You’re not supposed to go out yet. You know your cell counts are still low. Did you kiss him? What if you catch an infection?’
‘No, Mum, I didn’t kiss him. Shit, I only just met him. Who do you think I am? You?’
Mary frowned, pursed-lipped. She was such a hypocrite. About men, about everything. How could her mother have the nerve to lecture her about health when she smoked a pack a day, and the rest?
‘Suit yourself,’ said Mary, looking wounded. ‘Next time, although I hope there won’t be a next time, take your phone with you.’ Charlie looked around for it. ‘It was under your bed,’ said Mary, taking it from her pocket. ‘Sam’s been ringing. We had a lovely chat, although she was worried about where you were, of course. She said she’d ring back later.’
Charlie snatched the handset from her mother, just as it rang. She marched off to the bedroom, with the hard kernel of a headache germinating within her skull. She’d had some monsters lately, and all that beer could only make matters worse. She really was an idiot. Charlie checked the caller display. It was Sam.
‘Hi Sam, how’re things?’ she asked, picking up. ‘No, I’m fine. Surely I can go out once in a while, without everybody making a big production out of it? Tell me about Brumby’s Run. I’ve been dying to hear.’
She listened to her sister’s excited stories of life back home: of working with Bushy and the six mares from Jarrang’s mob that had been purchased by the Brumby Coalition, of trying out the Mitchell horses, a different one each evening.
‘Drew was right,’ said Sam. ‘They’re all great rides, quiet and responsive.’ She was positively gushing. ‘The two ponies are a little stubborn at times, but that’s safer for kids than being too speedy.’ The beer buzz was like a haze in Charlie’s brain, a dense swirl of confusion. Sam kept talking. ‘Jarrang and Tambo are terrific, although Jarrang is obsessed with the new mares.’ The pounding in Charlie’s head made it hard to hear. ‘You should see him prancing about, so full of himself, showing off.’
A swift shaft of jealousy pierced the pain. It left Charlie breathless at all that she was missing. Her sister’s voice faded to a background drone. Only the most significant, most important phrases penetrated the fog. Drew had given her a phone … Drew had trucked over hay … Drew had reinforced and extended Jarrang’s yard … Drew had taken her to Bluff Falls … Drew this, Drew that. There were too many sentences starting with ‘Drew’. She tried to focus, tried to inject some clarity into her thinking … ‘The two of us, overnight at Dead Man’s Hut.’ What was Sam saying?
‘Drew told me he loved me, and I think I love him too.’ Sam fell silent.
As her sister’s words sank in, Charlie wailed out loud. ‘You can’t!’ she said, tongue struggling to translate her fear into speech. ‘That’s my life, not yours. I caught Tambo. I trained him. I raised Jarrang on a bottle. That job with Bushy and the brumbies? That’s my job, not yours.’
She heard Sam’s sudden, sharp intake of breath. ‘But this was all your idea. I’ve just been trying to help.’
Trying to help? What a cruel joke! How is stealing somebody’s life helping them? Well, Sam wasn’t the only one who could be cruel. ‘Haven’t you got enough already?’ Charlie spat. ‘With your fancy clothes and overseas holidays and university courses? Do you need to take what little I’ve got as well? Even my boyfriend?’
‘Boyfriend?’ came the uncertain response. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Didn’t he tell you? Do I need to spell it out? Drew. We were tight before I left. You know, we were screwing.’ Charlie knew she was out of control, but fuelled by envy and anger, goaded by alcohol and the skull-splitting ache in her head, she just couldn’t help herself. ‘Fuck,’ she said with a hollow laugh. ‘What a complete bastard. He does one twin, then the other. He’s living every bloke’s fantasy.’
‘But how is that possible?’ said Sam. ‘You never even mentioned him.’
‘Would it have made any difference? Everything of mine seems to be fair game for you, anyway.’
‘Of course it would have made a difference,’ pleaded Sam. ‘I had no idea, and I’m so, so terribly sorry. Charlie, please calm down. Please? When will you and Mary be coming home?’
‘Are you sure you still want me to?’ asked Charlie, her voice cracking as she started to cry. ‘Maybe you won’t like your invalid sister hanging round, cramping your style.’
‘Don’t say that!’ said Sam. Was she crying too? It was hard to say, so hard to make sense of things with this terrible hammer in her head. ‘I’m doing all this for you, for Mary. I can’t wait until you’re home, you must know that. Charlie, I love you, you’re my long-lost sister. I’ll never, ever let anything come between us, I promise. Least of all a man.’
So good to hear those words. So comforting. Sam loved her. Why had she ever doubted it? ‘Love you too,’ said Charlie. ‘But I’ve got such a fucking headache.’
‘Why don’t you go lie down?’ suggested Sam in a soothing voice. ‘Have one of Mary’s famous sleeping tonics. What is it? Chamomile tea with hops and valerian? Is that it?’
‘And a little milk and honey,’ mumbled Charlie. Maybe that was what she needed.
‘That’s right. Hop into bed, and I’ll ring you in the morning.’
‘Promise?’ said Charlie.
‘I promise,’ said Sam. ‘Now go get some rest. I love you, Charlie. Don’t you ever forget that.’
‘I won’t,’ whispered Charlie. ‘Love you too.’
She dropped the phone as her mother came in with toasted cheese sandwiches and a pot of tea. Mary put the tray down, pulled a fresh nightie from a drawer and tossed it to Charlie.
‘Pop into bed, sweetheart.’ She turned on the little television. ‘There’s a documentary about the Spanish Riding School of Vienna. Your sister’s been there, hasn’t she? Want to watch it?’
Charlie nodded and sipped her drink. Aah, Mum’s tea always did the trick. Charlie closed her eyes and imagined herself home in the kitchen at Brumby’s Run. The pulsing pain in her skull eased, but her head was still spinning, making her dizzy. Eight Lipizzaner horses performed in an elegant indoor school hung with crystal chandeliers. Fairytale horses, the last word in animal grace. Charlie’s lids grew heavy. She struggled to hold her eyes open. Sam would like this show. How was her sister going, she wondered? She tried to remember when they’d last talked. It had been a while, hadn’t it? Perhaps she’d better ring Sam in the morning. And as the splendid snow-white stallions danced across the screen, Charlie fell into blissful, oblivious sleep.