Marlowe

My stomach lurched as I turned the corner from the departures hall into immigration.

Don’tlookbackdon’tlookback, a voice inside me repeated. As I watched the queue of slow-moving bodies in front of me, I kept picturing Olly as I had seen him only moments ago. His solid hands were sunk deep into his pockets and his shoulders were hunched. There was a hole in the sleeve of his thick maroon sweater. His wide green eyes were gazing at me intently. I could feel myself blush. I was sure he must be seeing the ugly emotions I wanted to keep hidden – the shame, guilt and grief I felt whenever I had to leave someone I loved.

Olly took off his jumper and pulled it over my head. It was still warm from his body. I held the sleeve to my nose, catching traces of his peppermint shampoo. It was comforting to know my olfactory perception could bring me closer to him, even when we were miles apart. From that point on, I vowed to avoid exposing his jumper to strong smells, to preserve the scent of him.

It’snotgoodbyeit’snotgoodbyeit’snotgoodbye. A mantra to suppress the sadness that was making my limbs turn cold.

As I walked through the body scanner near the on-board baggage check, a security officer asked me to remove the sweater and put it through the X-ray machine, then pass through the scanner again. Reluctantly, I did as I was told. When I was finally cleared, I quickly pulled Olly’s jumper back over my head, gathered my things and strode past the duty-free shops and cafes, searching for somewhere quiet to sit. A baby was howling in his mother’s arms. An urgent voice sounded over the PA: ‘Mr and Mrs Williams, travelling on CX flight 161 to Sydney, please make your way to the departure gate.’ A group of Chinese tourists were shouting at one another, competing with the sound of canned music, also much too loud. The noise threatened to overwhelm me. I placed my palms over my ears, much like Harper would, but quickly lowered them when I realised what I had done.

I’m not my sister. I’m not my sister.

Noise was never something I paid attention to until Harper was born. When Mum used to turn on the hairdryer, Harper would scream, place her hands over her ears and lie flat on the ground. ‘Sensory overload,’ was how Dad described it. Very quickly, I began to develop a heightened sensitivity to her triggers.

Breathe, Míng Yuè. Mum’s voice felt like a whisper over my skin.

I stopped trying to outrun the noise and found a seat beside an oversized fake pot plant.

Breathe, my mother said again, and I did, inhaling and exhaling until I began to feel calmer. Then I opened the locket I wore on a chain around my neck. Inside was a photo of Mum and a lock of her hair. The image had faded, but I could still make out the dimples on her cheeks as she smiled. If only she could have stayed like this in my mind forever. But my last sight of her always intruded.

Yellow satin sheets were twisted around my mother’s emaciated body.

‘Ma!’ I climbed onto the master bed. I was nine, with legs long enough to earn me a new nickname: xiǎo zhà měng, Wài Pó called me.

I took Mum’s hand in mine and stroked her damp, marked skin. ‘Ma!’

She did not respond. All I could see was the slow rise and fall of her chest. A faint rattle followed as she took a breath in and let it go. No longer afraid of the ugly, bleeding marks that scarred her body, I kissed the spots that I was sure were hurting her the most. Skin to skin, I searched for her smell, which was like sweet milk and lavender. Instead I found the sour odour of decay, musty and thick.

I turned on the radio. Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto No. 1 was playing; I recognised it from one of her concerts. How beautiful she had looked that night, her gown decorated with gold and blue flowers that twinkled under the lights. On stage, she was no longer my mother but ‘Wáng Hùi Fāng, the award-winning pianist with hands of gold’.

My fingertips danced over her thin wrist. Her left eye opened first, and then her right. She looked at me, but it felt like she was looking at a stranger. I kissed her again on the forehead and she relaxed. A smile formed. Dimples pricked her sunken cheeks.

‘Mā ma, the music.’

She nodded slowly, her jaw chattered feverishly as she stared into the distance, then her eyes closed again. The music drifted through the air. I snuggled closer, and my arm wrapped itself around her waist.

‘I’m glad you’re home,’ I said. ‘Soon you’ll be all better and we can pick roses in Daddy’s garden again.’

I lay next to her, watching her chest rise and fall – a slow and dependable rhythm – until the light faded and the air became cold. Suddenly, she opened her eyes and, with an unexpected burst of energy, slowly pulled herself upright in the bed. The orange bandana that was wrapped tightly around her head unfurled and trailed down her back, just like her long hair used to. Startled, I sat up to meet her gaze.

‘Míng Yuè! I have something to ask of you.’ The effort of moving had made her breathless. ‘I need you to make me a promise.’

I bit my lip. I was never very good at promises.

‘Darling.’ She stroked my forehead, palm soft and clammy. ‘You will always look after your sister, won’t you?’ Her eyes were red. Switching to Chinese she said, ‘Tā xiàn zài gèng xū yào nĭ.’ She needs you more now. Her voice was softer, sweeter, when she spoke in her mother tongue. It reminded me of when I was small and she used to sing to me in Chinese. It made me feel safe; the language lulled me to sleep.

‘Yes, of course. We will all look after Harper.’

‘Here.’ She pulled open the drawer of her bedside table. Inside was a box, wrapped in pink.

I tore away the paper and lifted out a necklace with a small gold pendant.

‘Open it,’ she said.

Inside was a photo of her, dressed in yellow.

‘I’m always with you now.’ She fastened the locket around my neck, then subsided against the pillows.

The necklace was uncomfortable and I wanted to take it off. I waited until her eyes were heavy and her breathing was rough, then I climbed off the bed. Standing, I wrestled with the clasp, wondering about the promise she had asked me to make.

After a long struggle, I gave up. I couldn’t undo the necklace. It felt heavy around my neck.

My mother died that night. We never got to pick roses together again in my father’s garden.