‘All right.’ Marcus was plaiting the green stems, loosely so as to leave room for the gerbera stalks. Swathes in town, is she? Or Swathes at Eastlands?’
‘Town,’ said Dad. ‘Or somewhere on the way. Or she might walk in at any minute, and think it’s funny that we’re worrying. Keep going, though.’ He set off through the house to the front. Marcus heard him on the porch, on the path, heard the gate. He heard, almost, Dad’s head turning as he checked up and down the street. Plait, plait. This would be an interesting wreath—a bit odd-looking, but it would hold together well, these good strong stalks with their regular sprouts of little leaves along them. In springtime they had yellow flowers, funny shaped, like some kind of pea-flower, Mum had described them once, but it was winter-time now, and they weren’t even beginning to bud up yet.
Dad came back. ‘We taking the train in?’ said Marcus.
‘I thought we’d drive. Be quicker this time of night.’
‘That’s not the way she would’ve gone, though.’
‘I figure, we’ll go up the railway station, ask if there are any delays on the line, then drive into town and check Swathes.’
‘You reckon she’d stop the train?’
‘Someone’d press the emergency button, for sure. Don’t you reckon?’
It was a shame to have to wake Lenny and put her in the capsule, but she settled back to sleep pretty quickly once they started driving. Marcus sat in the back with her; he didn’t want to take Mum’s seat in the front. He just put the gaudy wreath there, in its cloud of aftershave. The smell had got on his hands and stuck there, despite a quick scrubbing with soap-in-a-bottle (lavender, chamomile and orange). Now his hands carried two little clouds of powerful scents, and felt slippery-dry.
It was a long drive; he could have slept, but he wanted to keep Dad company, so he made himself sit up straight and watch the suburbs tumble past, the freeway roll smoothly by. It was a fine clear night, and everything looked cleaner under only streetlights and neon, kinder, more mysterious. The lights went over Lenny’s sleeping face like cloths stroking her, her woolly hat, her fanning eyelashes, her mouth so small and perfect, like the bud of some strange flower, or maybe a faun’s hoofprint in snow. Marcus laid his perfumed hand on the blanket tucked over her stomach, and watched out the windscreen as the night and lights rushed on at them.
The first time, only Dad had been there—well, Marcus had been, but he’d only been tiny, so he didn’t remember any of it. Scared the geewhillikers out of me, Dad said. It had been in the laundry, which in the old place—Marcus knew that house as another land, the land of his babyhood, entirely built of Mum and Dad’s stories—had been a separate little hut, in the back yard. Dad had gone looking for her, and at first he hadn’t checked in the laundry, because she always made a good racket out there, and once it started, of course, she was dead quiet. When he found her he’d called and called, panicking, he said, and hung onto her, and finally she’d softened, and floated down and landed beside him, and let out this big sigh, Dad said. She could have been glad to be back or sorry—I couldn’t tell. I didn’t want to ask. Didn’t want to know.
Marcus had nodded when Dad told him this. That was his instinct, too, to stay closed-lipped about it. Not just to not-mention it to anyone except Dad—that went without saying—but to not bother Mum, either, with all those questions that bubbled up. They’d had their talk about it; they were taking action; there was no need to bring it up at all, with Mum or with Dad, no need to worry aloud. He’d taught himself to banish the thoughts from his mind if he ever felt too worried, at night or on bad days.
The last time it happened—ages ago, more than a whole year—he’d been right there with her; she’d been pregnant with Lenny then. It was a rainy day, and she was showing him how to make a wreath, from her days in the florist shop. She’d stood up quietly, preoccupied, and he’d kept on poking the lavender-stems among the plaited circle of potato-vine and making them firm, and the next time he looked up she’d risen and was motionless on the air, and the room was full of a wonderful peace. She’d looked so comfortable. The bump of Lenny wasn’t bothering her, wasn’t squirming and kicking her under the ribs and making her gasp. Marcus remembered how unafraid he’d been. He could see that she was happy. Not that she was usually unhappy; it was just that her happiness usually showed in smiles and hugs and such, going out to people; this happiness had flowered inside her, and was held completely within her, and went on and on, smooth, uninterruptable.
And Marcus had been happy too, because Mum was, and everything felt so right and in place. He’d continued with the flowers, as she’d just taught him. He was rather glad, in fact, that she wasn’t there giving him more advice; he was sure he could work it out for himself; he knew what looked right, and how to space the flowers out and mix them evenly.
And then Dad had come in, and the sight of Mum, and the feeling she gave off, certainly hadn’t made him happy. How long has she been like this? He’d thrown his work bag down. If Marcus had been able to be frightened, there within the cloud of Mum’s happiness, Dad’s face would have frightened him. He’d never seen such wide eyes on him before, such a ragged-looking mouth, like a baby’s squaring up to cry. Dad’s voice would have frightened him, all high and thin like that.
I suppose you’re wondering what that was about, what happened yesterday, Mum had said to Marcus next day, as they set off for school.
I suppose I am, he’d said, because he could see she wanted to talk about it. Although he hadn’t been wondering. He’d closed it away in his mind along with all the other mysterious things grown-ups did, and he didn’t particularly want to take it out and look at it.
I was being called, she had said. From afar. From above.
He’d waited for more, but none came. Her face had glowed, a little the way it had glowed the day before while she hovered. Who was calling you? he’d asked.
Her usual, thinking self had slipped back into place behind her face. Marcus had felt bad to have dismissed the glow from her, the lovely memory. Who? she’d repeated. It wasn’t really a who. Or it was so much bigger than, you know, than a single … than a person. Than any-old-person down here.
Why were they calling you? He’d taken her hand, even though way back at the beginning of kindy he’d told her he was too big to hold hands with her, now that he was a school boy.
I don’t know. They thought I could help somehow.
Help with what? And then he’d said something she often said, in quite her own tone of voice: You’ve got enough to do.
She’d looked down and seen how frightened she was making him. That’s right. She’d squeezed his hand and swung it. You lot keep me busy enough. And soon there’ll be another one of you. And she’d patted her Lenny bump, and they’d walked on into the normal day.
But he’d heard her talking to Dad in the kitchen one night as he passed the closed door on the way to the bathroom. There’s a place for me there, she’d said.
There’s a place for you here! Dad had said. With me! With your kids!
But I could do so much more from there, and not just for you and Marcus and Lenny. It’s bigger. It’s more. It’s closer to the centre of things—I don’t know how to explain. It’s another level.
I want you on this level, darl. I want you to stay here, and to be able to touch and see you, and talk to you, and the kids to be able to too, and—
I won’t be going anywhere. I’ll still be here. The air you breathe, the water you drink, the weather, the ground—
Marcus had let the bathroom door close with its usual loud click. He’d crossed to the toilet, and tried to drown out any sound of their voices with as rattling a pee as he could manage.
Dad had been good; he would wink at Marcus if he caught his eye; he would wrestle the same after tea on the lounge-room floor. (You boys—Mum would pretend to sound tired—Why do you have to be so boysie? And Dad, pinning Marcus down and laughing, would say, We just do, darl. Don’t we, mate? Don’t we? Don?
??t we? With every don’t he would dig his big strong fingers into Marcus’s side. Marcus hated it, loved it, didn’t quite know how he felt.)
But Dad had bought the phones, and some of their talk about the phones, and the rules about them, had leaked out where Marcus could hear. He remembered the importance in Dad’s voice: At all times, all right? And Mum saying, I heard you the first time, crossly, as if Dad was making a fuss about nothing. It’s not going to happen, I tell you. I’ve got a baby coming.
You had a baby this time. They’d both looked at Marcus drawing a stegosaurus for his homework at the kitchen table, and looked away again. You had a baby both times. Does that make a difference to them?
She’d turned away to the sink, started hissing water onto vegetables to make dinner. They didn’t take me, did they? she’d said in an only-to-Dad voice. There’d been a hint, in her voice, of wishing, of thinking she’d missed out on something. Marcus’s head had popped up and his gaze had quivered like arrows stuck in both of them.
Dad had winked at him, but there’d been no smile in his face to go with it. Not all the way, no, he’d said quietly, to the side of Mum’s bent head.
I need you to do something for me, Marcus.
He and Mum had settled themselves in Eastlands food hall with thickshakes. He’d felt so carefree, just before. It wasn’t as if he didn’t worry; it was just that the worrying part of his life flowed on separately from the rest, like the Blue Nile river-water moving alongside the White. He didn’t want them to meet and mix up with each other.
Dad won’t listen, Mum went on. He won’t do it. He doesn’t want to be ready because he doesn’t want it to happen. And maybe it won’t.
He tried to read from her face what she wanted. She looked around at the other tables, and he examined them too, the people putting chips into themselves, the food shops sleek and bright, some of the family-owned ones messier with signs and hanging pans and plastic fruit or flowers by their cash registers. He saw that a person who had been lifted off the ground by happiness could be unimpressed with the food hall. For Marcus it was a place of wonders—all he could think about here was how long he could stay, how much he’d be allowed to eat, how much of that could be treats and how much would have to be healthy food.
But somebody needs to know how to do these things, if it does, Mum said. He watched her from behind his thickshake, knowing what she was doing, knowing that the shake was a giant white bribe. Just in case, Mum said. I’m not saying it’s going to happen tomorrow or anything.
His hands folded themselves in his lap. It was a lot she was asking of him. Dad wouldn’t be happy.
The way I think of it ... She pushed her shake aside and leaned at him, so friendly and comfortable he knew he was going to do what she asked. The way my luck goes, I’ll get you all prepared and nothing’ll happen. But if I don’t, if I just let things go on as normal, I’ll be taken—all the way up, all the way away—and you and Dad’ll be left useless. You won’t be able to feed yourselves. He’ll panic about money. The house’ll be filthy.
He met her eyes, her serious smiling. Couldn’t you just say no? he said.
Her smile went, and the face behind it was written all over with guilt. He was sorry, straight away.
You were there, she said softly. You felt some of it, didn’t you?
He nodded, giving in, watching his hands in his lap. One was a tight fist, and the other was wrapped around it—kindly, warningly, or perhaps just to cover the sight of it.
She slid her shake back in front of her and sucked on the straw. She glanced around the food hall, letting the rest of the world back in. And anyway, they’re life skills. It’s not as if you’ll never use them, even if I stay.
So now Marcus could cook. Marcus could vacuum and dust and wipe down benchtops, and keep the bathroom clean. Marcus knew how to look after Lenny, what to watch out for, what to make sure she ate, now and in the future, how to get through the illnesses she had to have in order to build her immune system. She’s only small, Mum had said. Things can happen very quickly with her, so you need to keep an eye on her, and act fast if it’s something dangerous. He knew all about the little phone and the numbers Mum had put in it. He knew how the money worked, how Dad should move it around when his wage came in, when the bills arrived.
Mum had taught Marcus all this secretly. Dad would have been upset to find out about it. He’ll learn it soon enough if I do ever go, Mum had said, that day at Eastlands. He won’t expect you to do it all. But he won’t learn it from me, so you’ll have to pass it on for us, Marky. Her cheeks had caved in as she pulled on the thickshake, it was so thick. And at the beginning. You might have to do it all for a little while at the beginning. If it ever happens. It might never happen.
Marcus had been interested to learn how life worked, and pleased to be able to do grown-ups things. He’d been proud to know more than other kids at school did, and to keep that knowledge quiet. It was only now, flying through the night towards town, with Dad holding onto his panic in the front seat and Lenny unaware under his hand, that Marcus felt how sad it was, that he realised he’d been working with Mum towards this moment. Had he made it possible for her to leave by being such a good boy, by carefully soaking up her instructions, by practising and getting better at things? If he’d been a hopeless cook, or a sloppy cleaner, or an idiot with numbers the way some of the kids at school were, or if he’d just been moody, or if like Dad he’d dug in his heels and refused to believe it was ever going to happen, would she have been unable to go? Should he have made her stay and do the roasts and bills and vacuuming, and the sending of Christmas cards? Should he have folded his arms and stuck out his lip and said No, I won’t learn?
But always the little video clip played in his memory, of the rose and lavender wreath coming good in his hands, getting prettier and prettier, while from his floating mum poured down upon Marcus, like the beginnings of a rainshower, like a light sprinkling of gold dust, blessings, wellbeing, peace and perfect happiness. How could he not want his mum to feel those things? How could he deny them to anyone, let alone her?
Because it was so late, Dad could pull up right outside Swathes. Police tape fluttered across the entrance, and Marcus felt sick at the sight.
‘You go and tell them, Dad. I’ll get Lenny out.’ He had a sudden need to busy himself with the mechanics of the capsule, with Lenny’s blanket and limbs, to support her sleeping head.
Dad came back as he was kicking the car door closed, Lenny in his arms. Dad took her up gently. ‘Fifth floor, they reckon. She’s in the Ladies’ loos. There’s a million people up there, they say: Security, and Police, and SES blokes. They’re in lockdown, they say, that floor. They’ve kept the staff there and everything. For your mum, eh.’ He widened his eyes at Marcus, nodded and turned to Swathes’ doors, which were all glass, and big silver handles down the sides, and shiny black stone all around, fine grained, with little glints in it. Marcus fetched the wreath out of the front seat, and followed him.
A policewoman lifted the tape for them to duck under; ‘Ricky here’s going to take you up,’ she said, waving forward a Swathes security guard.
Inside was quiet, alight; people in coveralls, radios spitting and crackling and blurting at their hips, loosely lined the way to the lifts. On the way up, Ricky stood with his feet apart, his hands clasped in front of him, and watched the numbers light up one after another. His aftershave was stronger, and sweeter, than the smell of the wreath in Marcus’s arms. At the fifth floor, he stepped out, and stood aside and waved them out of the lift.
There weren’t a million people there, but enough eyes turned to Marcus for him to wish he was carrying Lenny, to shield himself from all that attention.
‘Across the floor there, mate,’ Ricky said to Dad. ‘Through Books to that EXIT door, and then you turn left.’
They set out through the uniforms, through the watching. Some people looked curious, some looked nervous; all of them were sober and unamused, almost as if he and
Dad and Lenny had done something wrong. Dad took his great long strides, and Marcus hurried to keep up. Halfway across, as they passed the escalators, he felt a soft buffeting in the air, and the light changed, was more muted and yet more lively. They had stepped within the range of Mum’s cloud, of the warmth that fell from her, of the blessings. And they were clear, suddenly, of the crowd; all the eyes were behind them now. The Books section was deserted, two shelves of bright-coloured covers leading them to the EXIT door.
With every step, Marcus needed greater willpower to keep walking, as the feeling grew warmer and brighter. It was strong, much stronger than that day in the kitchen, and the wonderfulness made it hard for Marcus to think his own thoughts, but with the snippet of his mind that was left to him he knew that he ought to be very worried, though he couldn’t worry really, not with all that shining at him.
They stepped through the doorway, out of the store proper and into its back halls, cream-lit, linoleum-floored, with doors off to STAIRS and STAFF ONLY and FIRE EXIT—THIS DOOR IS ALARMED. They turned and forged ahead against the resisting warmth, the resisting delight, of the air in the corridor. Witches hats, and more police tape, and a CLEANING IN PROGRESS sign, were clustered at the Ladies’ door untidily, as though people hadn’t had the time to place them properly.
Dad and Marcus stood at the door. Through everything, it was hard for them, as boys, to push open a door like that. The round-headed lady in her skirt stood on it like another kind of guard.
‘You okay, champ?’ Dad looked down at Marcus through the torrent, around the bundle that was Lenny, sleepily scrambling on his shoulder.
‘I’m good,’ Marcus said, in the flat voice he knew he was supposed to use. He laid his hand on Dad’s back, just above his belt, to let him know he was right behind him.
‘Let’s see, then, eh. What we’ve got.’ And Dad pushed open the Ladies’ door, and they went in.