Chapter Twenty

AS I WEAVED my way through the art room collecting half tubes of discarded paint, I felt Mr Leppington’s eyes on me. I stopped at Willow’s easel. She glanced into the box and struggled not to laugh. ‘You’re a bowerbird,’ she said, helping me carry it to the table. ‘I’m so glad you’re back. It’s been lonely without you.’

‘No talking,’ ordered Mr Leppington, and Willow giggled. ‘He’s a shocker,’ she whispered, shaking her head. ‘Are you sure you’re up to being back?’

‘Yeah, I am. Besides, Dad and I need a break away from each other.’

‘We’re all meeting in the library at lunch. Mr Ace is testing the website before it goes live.’

I took a breath. ‘It’s sad that Mum isn’t here to see it.’

‘I know, Steph.’

The bell sounded and we bolted. ‘Don’t run,’ called Mr Leppington, standing at the classroom door, his voice bouncing off the walls.

A group had gathered in the library. Libby was gnawing at her nail. I reached out, moving her hand away. ‘What’s happening?’

‘Mr Ace and Richard mentioned bugs, whatever that means. Do you have a dress for the opening of the art competition Saturday night?’’

‘I’m wearing the dress that I bought with Mum for my sixteenth.’

‘Your mum would like that, Steph.’

‘Yeah.’

Libby went back to the computer.

‘Hey Willow, can you do me a favour?’ I asked, then wished that I hadn’t spoken.

‘Sure, shoot.’

‘Before we take the painting to the gallery tomorrow, would you mind coming over tonight? Just you.’

‘Yeah, sure.’

Richard left the computer, came over and stood behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. ‘Is the art competition stressing you out?’ he whispered.

‘Yes, it is,’ and I wasn’t lying.

‘You’re brave, Steph.’

I turned my head. ‘I’m far from brave.’

I paced the attic waiting for Willow. ‘Steph,’ called Aunt Cass, ‘can I come in?’

‘No, not now. I’m doing something on my painting,’ I lied.

‘That’s okay. Your dad sent me up to ask if you wanted risotto or sausages?’

‘A toasted sandwich would be nice.’

I re-read the entry form. The painting submitted at the time of entry can change, but must keep the same theme.

Willow walked in. ‘What’s with your aunt?’ she asked, closing the door behind her.

‘I didn’t want her to see the painting.’

Willows eyes filled with curiosity. ‘But isn’t your aunt supportive of your art?’

‘Yes, she is,’ I agreed, and I walked over to the easel. ‘When Mum was waiting for a heart, I was angry.’

‘I get that,’ said Willow. ‘I would be too.’

‘The problem is,’ I said, taking off the sheet, ‘this is what I submitted.’ Willow’s eyes widened. ‘Now Mum’s gone, I’m afraid I’ll hurt Dad and Aunt Cass. I can change the painting, but not the theme.’

Willow moved towards the abstract portrait that I had painted of my mother, using Ms Benetti’s colour scheme of black, white, yellow and red. She gently reached out and touched the thick spaghetti strands of auburn fringe and tilted her head, as if studying my mother’s enlarged black pupils, with eyes the colour of ochre. The tips of Willow’s fingers traced a stream of glassy tears that flowed over sunken cheeks of grey, pooling between darkened lips. I watched Willow’s breathing change as she explored the rawness of the flesh within the hollow of Mum’s core, where slender ribs reached out like human fingers. ‘Shit, Steph. What’s the title?’

‘My Mother’s Journey,’ I said, wiping away the tears.

‘Your blurb?’

‘It’s short.’

‘Short’s good. Mine’s a hundred words of fluff.’

I swallowed the lump building in my throat. ‘A mother waiting for a second chance.’

Willow covered her mouth with her hand.

‘Maybe I just pull out?’

‘No way.’

‘What was your theme?’

‘Organ donation.’

‘Don’t touch a thing, it’s perfect just like it is. What happened to your mum was real. Keep it honest.’

‘You’re so right. Mum would want me to be honest.’

‘Do you want me to stay?’

‘No, I’m okay,’ I said, reaching out and hugging her.

The door closed, and just then my phone rang.

‘Hi, Richard.’

‘How are you?’

‘I’m good.’

‘I’ve got some news. The Education Department gave us permission to add a website link to school sites in NSW. There’s a chance that we can link to schools nationally. My mum said that she heard parents discussing the Living Voice site in the canteen. Two teens have already joined from other schools, which makes ninety-eight registrations in total.’

‘Already?’

‘I know. I think the site is going to be a success.’

‘So do I.’

We stood at the door of the gallery with my acceptance letter to show on entry. Aunt Cass was fussing around me. ‘What’s the gallery owner’s name?’ she asked for the third time as she did up the buttons on my jacket.

‘Louis Beaufort,’ I said, undoing them.

‘Do you know where they’ve hung your painting?’

‘No, I don’t. You’re making me nervous. Can you please relax?’

The lady at the door handed us a catalogue that went from one to one hundred and twenty. I ran my finger down the page. I’m in row C,’ I told Aunt Cass as she read the catalogue over my shoulder.

‘Yours says Not for sale. I thought you wanted to make money from your art?’

‘Yeah, I do, but not on this painting.’

I glanced back as Richard, Kevin, Willow, Grant and Greg joined the line.

Richard broke away and came over. He hooked his arm around my waist and kissed me. ‘Are you nervous?’ he asked.

‘You have no idea how nervous I am. Where’s Libby?’ I asked, gazing beyond him.

‘She’s outside, waiting for Jake.’

‘Richard, I just need some time with my dad and Aunt Cass – do you mind?’

‘Sure.’

‘Row C,’ said Aunt Cass, pointing, and my heart started to race. I hoped that they would see past the anger to the love that was behind each stroke.

Dad’s jaw tightened as he gazed up at the painting. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and blotted away his tears. ‘Steph, your mother would have been proud of you. It’s …it’s …’ he said, and he stopped.

‘Powerful,’ said Aunt Cass. ‘That’s what it is, Steph. It’s powerful, honest and heartbreaking.’ She pointed, drawing my attention to a small plaque that had been placed on the right of the painting with the words Highly Commended. ‘Congratulations, sweetheart.’

I walked into my dad’s open arms. ‘It’s not going to be easy moving forward without your mother, Steph, but I think together we can do this.’

‘Baby steps,’ I whispered, and his hold tightened.