Jac opened the double doors to the back verandah and saw the sun glistening off the dew-soaked grass. ‘Good morning,’ she said.
Ma was sitting on one of the outdoor chairs in her fluffy bathrobe, facing the backyard, steam rising from a mug of tea cupped between her hands. On the table beside her was a plate with a portion of fruitcake left over from the wake.
‘Morning,’ Ma answered without turning her head.
She would tell Ma what she’d found out about Dad’s past, but not just yet. She had something else to say first.
Jac lowered herself into the vacant chair. ‘I’m sorry about the tour,’ she said.
Ma looked at her. ‘What tour?’
‘The revival shows when Josh was in high school.’
‘Oh, that,’ Ma said, waving it away with a sweep of her hand. But then her voice softened. ‘I wanted to go.’
‘I know.’
‘But I was scared.’
Something clicked into place then—like a DNA profile that sits in a police database for years before finally hitting on a match.
‘It’s agonising,’ Jac said, ‘to let yourself be happy for a minute when you know it’s not going to last.’
‘That’s true, but that wasn’t it.’
‘No?’
‘No.’
Jac readied herself for an excuse—maybe Ma would say she didn’t want to be around her former bandmates or that she couldn’t bare bussing across the country with a bunch of yesterday’s pop stars.
‘I should’ve said yes,’ Ma said. ‘I gave up my last chance to feel that way again.’
‘What way?’
‘Wanted.’
Jac felt a pang of recognition. ‘You were wanted here.’
Ma smiled. ‘It’s kind of you to lie.’
‘What you do for Dane, looking after his kids all the time . . .’
‘It’s penance.’ She took another sip of her tea. ‘I didn’t agree to the tour because I was too worried about it never getting off the ground or slow ticket sales or cancellations. Then there’d be no doubt about my . . .’ She held her mug to her chest. ‘I preferred to hold on to the fantasy.’
Few drugs must be as addictive as fame, Jac thought. Or as destructive. But then again, it could be like an elevator—one of the ways for women to gain power and a voice in a patriarchal world.
Maybe she’d misjudged Ma. And Tabeetha.
Ma continued to stare across the backyard. ‘Maybe saying yes would have tied it up for me,’ she said. ‘I could have finally let go.’ In a tree overhanging the verandah, a magpie collected twigs for a nest. ‘I thought it was all worth it—that I gave up music for a good reason. Your father. You kids. But I stuffed that up too.’
Jac closed her eyes then opened them again. ‘It’s a big ask to live up to someone’s expectations.’ The attentive mother, the idealised daughter, the father with no frailties. ‘But none of that matters now,’ she said. ‘What’s important is what we do next.’
Ma collected her plate and mug and stood, looking at her a moment, deciding something. ‘I’m glad you’re marrying Gil. I like him. I hope you’ll make each other happy.’
That possibility felt much less like a hope now and more of a matter of course. She was no longer settling for a payout but taking home the whole prize pool.
As her mother headed towards the door, Jac said, ‘Ma?’
Her mother paused, turned.
‘There’s a revival of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof opening in Sydney next month,’ Jac said. ‘Want to go?’
Ma smiled. ‘I’d like that.’