A way home, p.16
A Way Home, page 16
‘Mum,’ I sang out. ‘I’m making breakfast.’
I wandered down the hallway to her closed door. The smell was stronger beside it and when I cracked the door open, a stench punched me in the face. I grimaced and lowered the grocery bag to the floor. Mum’s bedroom was dark and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust. Then I spotted the crooked shape of her, hair dangling over the side of her bed into a puddle of vomit. Two empty pill bottles on the floor nearby.
I gasped, rushed over and slapped Mum lightly on the face as I called to her. When she didn’t respond, I bolted down the hall and out of the house to the Malloy’s.
‘Call an ambulance,’ I yelled, banging on their front door with my fist until Mrs Malloy opened it.
‘Mum’s dying,’ I gasped. ‘Call an ambulance.’
Mrs Malloy’s face was a white streak as she dialled triple zero on her mobile.
It wasn’t the first time this had happened and as I watched Mrs Malloy rush to our place in her slippers, I realised it wouldn’t be the last. I slid down the wall as Mrs Malloy disappeared into our house to save Mum – because someone had to and this time it wasn’t going to be me.
My eyes stung but when I wiped them, they were dry. I recalled Mum’s lips on my hand the night before, a false promise. Nothing was going to change. Mum would always be up and down like a yo-yo, while I tried to keep up. I pulled my knees to my chest and dropped my head to my forearms. Stayed that way as Mr Malloy hurried past, towards our house. When our front door slammed shut, I jumped to my feet and took off down the street as fast as my legs would carry me. I sat in the phone booth around the corner and watched the ambulance come then go –Mum stretched out in the back of it.
I waited for the sun to set, then snuck back to our place for my backpack. I stuffed it full of clothes, passed the piano on my way out, then hurried down the street towards the tram without a backwards glance.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Louie gives me a sharp poke in the back so I turn to glare at him. ‘What?’
He rolls his eyes. ‘Go on. I’m not standing here all day.’
I huff, even though I’m glad he came to the care unit with me. He wanders to a garden seat, sits and yanks a crumpled tube of lifesavers from his jacket.
‘Fine,’ I say, adjusting my backpack as I take the gravel path towards reception. I’m sure Eddy will be waiting to shout my name victoriously, but I plan to sign the visitors’ book and run before he gets talking.
Spring has well and truly sprung. The scent of freshly cut grass lingers in the air and the sun’s actually shining.
I’d called yesterday from the library to book the piano in the community room. Eddy had slotted us in between a scrapbooking session and a yoga class. He told me he’d make sure we got the place to ourselves for a full hour, because, ‘he understood the healing power of music.’
Despite this, and the hours of practice I did last night, I’m nervous. What if Mum’s upset I didn’t knock on that dressing room door? What if I can’t convince her we’ll make it on our own? What if we don’t? Then I remember there’s no guarantees in life. There are friends, though, and the library, and Nan even. There’s the fact I’ve survived this long on my own. There are the services, too, that I’ve avoided until now, which might be able to help me and Mum get a house to move into.
I recall the press of Mum’s kiss on my head last time I visited and the doubt dissipates. I can’t make Mum better, but I can keep moving forward.
I clear my throat and hurry towards reception and Eddy. The closer I get, the more eager I am to see Mum. I burst through the doors and call ‘Hi’ loudly at Eddy who’s standing in front of the reception desk. When he turns, I come to an abrupt halt.
‘Gracie…’ Nan emerges from behind him in sensible navy shoes and a light green cardigan.
So, she found the place. Found Mum. My heart contracts at the sight of her and for a moment, all I can do is stare. It’s been almost three years but Nan’s hardly changed a bit. There’s the same silver hair pinned into a neat bun at the back of her head and the same slightly stooped shoulders. She’s blinking back tears. And although I wasn’t planning on her being here, I’m so glad she is.
‘Darling.’ Nan steps towards me as Eddy moves aside.
And before I can make sense of the fact she’s really here, she wraps her arms around me. I soften into her hold, let her familiar scent wash over me and hug her back before pulling away.
Nan’s crying.
‘Have you seen Mum?’ I’m taller than Nan now and look down, rather than up, into her face.
‘Why don’t you take a seat?’ Eddy hurries over to position two chairs for us, but I shake my head. I don’t want to sit down. I turn my attention back to Nan. Her crying makes me uneasy.
‘Nan?’
‘Sit down, Grace,’ she insists.
I frown. Her hair’s whiter than I recall. It clashes with her eyes, which are dark and wet, as if there’s a terrible storm gathering in them. She pulls a hankie from her pocket to wipe them.
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask, a little savagely, as Eddy hovers in the background.
Nan tucks the hankie into her sleeve and reaches out to touch my arm.
I shrug it off. ‘I’m going to see Mum.’
Nan wasn’t around when we needed her. When I look at her again, I see nothing but a sad old woman who didn’t stop Pop bullying Mum about her illness and the way it affected her playing. I don’t have to listen to what she has to say. I don’t want to hear it anyway.
‘Please, darling…’ Nan’s voice grows gravelly, like it did when she used to read me bedtime stories.
Darling. The word strikes something at the centre of me. I let her lead me to a chair, where I sit without removing my backpack, then lean forward, palms flat on my thighs. Nan places a hand over mine. Its floury heat is good. I commit it to memory, because deep down, I know what’s coming. What Nan’s about to tell me. This time, Mum couldn’t be saved.
Chapter Thirty-Six
I see what might be a ghost wrapped tight in a red blanket at the train station. The sight stops me in my tracks. Mary sits royally on a pile of cushions. Two are zig-zagged, while a third is covered in large blue spots. They’re brand new, giving Mary a fresh look. Around her, the station buzzes with commuters heading home from work. They rush less now that the weather’s improving. The afternoon light falls in dandelion-yellow streaks across the wall opposite and the scent of the river drifts up and over St Kilda Road.
I need to look twice to make sure I’m not imagining Mary.
‘Told ya.’ Louie yanks my shirt sleeve. ‘She’s good as new.’
I gawk at Mary. She’s supposed to be dead. She looked pretty close to it last time I saw her. But here she is, wolf whistling a tradie in a pair of stubbie shorts. There’s only one blanket draped across her shoulders and it falls open at the front showing Mary’s less skinny than before. There’s meat on her arms and her face is rounder. Even her hair is presentable, brushed down instead of up for a change.
‘C’mon!’ Louie strides on, shaking his head at Mary who narrows her eyes at him. ‘Say hello.’
But I can hardly put one foot in front of the other. If Mary’s alive, maybe Mum is too. My brain makes odd calculations. Mary was dead. The ambulance took her away. The nurse told me there wasn’t much hope. Yet here she is, healthier than I’ve ever seen her and just as rude.
If Mary’s here, maybe Mum’s still waiting for me in her room at the care unit. Maybe there’s been a terrible mistake. Maybe she didn’t finally do it, like I lived in fear she would. Maybe the man taking his dog for an early morning walk didn’t really find her unconscious on that park bench. Maybe her heart hadn’t really given up in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. Maybe, she hasn’t left me alone after all.
My chest caves the way it does whenever I think of Mum – crushed by grief because my head tells me she isn’t waiting for me, even though my heart says something different.
The day after Mum died, Nan and I had been halfway to the hospital when I told Nan I wanted to get off the tram. I wanted Mum. I wanted her so badly it made me sick in the stomach. Not having her seemed impossible. After turning back from the hospital, a terrible hunger took hold of me. I wanted to stuff myself so full there’d be no room left for thoughts of Mum.
Nan took me to a café and let me go. I ploughed through chips and a hamburger and a large caramel milkshake like there was no tomorrow. Then I went to the toilet and threw it all up again. Nan thought I was starving from being on the street, but the street didn’t leave a hole in me the way losing Mum did. I doubted anything would fill it ever again. It was supposed to be me and Mum and the future I’d started to map out. What if I was only half a person without her?
But Mary is real. There’s no doubt about it. Louie drags me forward until I’m standing right in front of her. The sun plays across her hair and makes her eyes shine when she looks up. She waves a hand to move us – we’re blocking her view.
‘Told ya.’ Louie glares at her. ‘The same old biddy.’
Mary scowls at him. ‘Bugger off, you.’
‘See.’ He raises an eyebrow at me.
Mary’s white hair reminds me of Nan’s.
This morning, Nan had pinned her hair back in the mirror in the hotel room we’ve been staying in as I told her I’d be spending the day with Louie.
‘You’ll be all right?’ Nan took a comb from her handbag and fussed with her hair until it behaved itself.
I stared at our joint reflection, at her solid frame beside my thin one. At the same high forehead and pointy chin Mum had. Nan must have noticed too because she turned and took my hand.
‘You’ll come back, won’t you?’ When she squeezed my hand, I realised how afraid she was of losing me. I’d lost my mum a week ago, but she’d lost her daughter. Or maybe she’d lost Mum years ago.
‘I’ll be back,’ I assured her, picking up my backpack. ‘There’s just some friends I need to see.’
‘Okay, love.’ Nan pressed a palm to my cheek, her face beginning to crumple again.
I lifted it off because I couldn’t bear the weight of her pain on top of my own. ‘I’ll be back for the bus. Six o’clock, right?’
Nan nodded and sucked in her sadness as I left the room.
I have to force a smile at Mary. Not because I’m unhappy she’s here, alive and seemingly healthier than ever, but because there’s no joy left in me. No warm, fuzzy feeling that might turn the corners of my lips up so Mary knows I’m glad to see her. That I missed sitting at her side as she hollered at passers-by.
The darkness inside begins to swirl again. It’s been there forever, an undercurrent that rises to the surface every now and then, on Mum’s bad days and after I was assaulted – sucking the life from me. Sometimes, it left me so tired I could sleep forever. Mostly, I fought it off. At home, I washed the pile of greasy dishes in the sink or picked dirty clothes off my bedroom floor. On the street, I spoke to Louie, Kate and Mary.
The current swirls faster and more ferociously since Mum died, making me shake. Nan takes me by the shoulders when this happens and says my name, or Louie tells me to stop acting crazy. Eventually I stop trying to fight it. Instead I close my eyes – exhale until it passes.
I see Mum everywhere, her red hair amongst the crowd crossing Swanston Street, or her face on a passing tram. I see her in the microseconds it takes my brain to catch up with my heart. Then I realise the woman on the tram isn’t Mum and the hair in the crowd belongs to a stranger. I want to die then too, but I don’t. I’m bustled onwards, until the next time grief hits me.
Louie wanders towards Jenny’s kiosk as I remain standing in front of Mary.
‘Sit!’ she commands finally. Then, ‘Here,’ softly, patting the tiled floor beside her.
I lower my bum to the ground and she shuffles closer, pillows and all, until our arms are touching.
‘What happened to Robyn?’ Mary croaks.
It takes a moment for me to realise who she’s talking about. Robyn and her camels feel like a lifetime ago. The death of Diggity and Mary chucking the book.
I shrug, not sure I’m capable of recalling the end of the story. I’d finished reading it the night before I went to visit Mum to play her ‘Dreams’. It felt apt to reach the end of the book, considering I was about to begin a new chapter of my own life.
Mary’s observes me before dipping beneath her blankets for a bag of salt and vinegar chips. ‘Here. Eat.’ She unrolls the top and hands them to me. ‘You don’t look too good.’
‘Thanks,’ I take a handful, even though I’m not really hungry. Haven’t really eaten properly since Nan took me to the café. Funny, now I have food at my disposal, I can’t eat it.
Mary watches me play with the chips and before I can ask where she went missing to, she says, ‘Please, tell me the end of the story.’
I’m more taken aback by her polite request than her desire to know what happened. But I eat the chips and tell her how Robyn and the camels made it finally to the Indian Ocean. How they stayed there for a week, alone, camping on a beautiful deserted beach and swimming in the sea, before venturing reluctantly back to civilisation.
‘Camels swimming.’ Mary grins and shakes her head. ‘Imagine that.’
I nod, recalling a line Robyn says at the end of Tracks about the first step being the most difficult part of any journey.
This next chapter was supposed to be about Mum and me getting back on our feet, but it has to be rewritten. Once upon a time, I would have been terrified at the prospect, but something’s shifted and I’m not scared anymore.
Going to stay with Nan in Mildura is the first step on this journey. Although it’s shaky, it’s a step in the right direction. When Nan suggested I go home with her, I was reluctant. I didn’t want to live with Pop. He was mean and controlling and I was never going to forget the way he treated Mum. Or Nan, for that matter.
‘Your Pop had a heart attack a few months ago,’ Nan tells me matter-of-factly, while she’s making the beds in our hotel room. ‘He insisted on doing laps of the river despite the doctor warning him not to.’
I stare at the floor and tell Nan I’m sorry, even though I don’t really feel it.
‘Well…’ Nan stopped mid-tuck of a sheet and rubbed her forehead. ‘He always was a stubborn bugger.’
And we left it at that. Pop’s gone, and so is Mum.
I rest my hands flat on the tiles beside Mary before curling them into balls. It hurts to look at them. They remind me of the piano. Mostly, I tuck them into my sleeves but they fidget for the job left undone and just like that, I’m plunged back into despair.
I bite my lip. Whatever Mary’s saying washes over me. At some point, she stops talking and leans in. Up close, miniature clouds float across her eyes.
‘My Mum died,’ I blurt with a hot sob, before reining it back in . What’s Mary going to do about it? She has her own problems. I heave with the effort of keeping the sadness in check.
Mary’s gaze doesn’t waver from my face for a millisecond. And I know she sees me this time. Not just the outside parts, but the inside parts too. The sadness that threatens to spill over whenever I’m alone and the anger I’m ashamed I feel towards Mum.
Mary places a papery hand over my fist and tuts softly until there’s a release like a dam breaking and all I can do is sob. She holds me steady until I stop. When I finally emerge, itchy-eyed and huffing, Louie’s gawking at us, a big bag of doughnuts in hand.
I sit up and Mary offers me a corner of her blanket to rub my face. Then she turns her attention to Louie. ‘What?’ she snaps, before catching sight of the paper bag and shooting him a look that says he’d better pass it over.
My last stop for the day is the library. I know I’ll be back, but the thought of not being able to drop in whenever I want to see Kate or browse the bookshelves is sobering. And for a light book, Tracks weighs heavily in my backpack. It’s more a friend than a bound pile of paper. It’s kept me company and provided comfort. A haven, when I needed one.
I’ll even miss teaching Louie the piano. He has ‘Amazing Grace’ down pat and has decided to try his hand at a show tune next. Something ambitious.
‘A song from Cats the musical, maybe…’ he said as we scoured the internet for ideas. ‘I’ve always liked “Memory.”’
I cleared my throat. ‘Are you sure you’re ready for that?’
Louie stopped typing. ‘Is the Pope Catholic?’
I was pretty sure he was.
Louie assured me he’d be playing ‘Memory’ expertly by the time I came back to visit. I nodded and told him I didn’t doubt he’d play it… He seemed happy with my answer.
Strangely, though, I don’t feel the need to visit the piano on the second floor before leaving for Mildura, even though Kate tells me it’s waiting. It’s not that I don’t want to see it, but the pull I first felt on discovering it all those months ago has disappeared. Diminished from a burn, to a simmer, to barely a spark.
‘Will you miss it?’ Kate asks, bending to retrieve a bushy pot plant from the ground.
I shake my head. ‘Nup.’
‘Well, you know where it is if you want it.’
I nod then point at the plant she’s plonked on the counter. ‘Where’s that going?’
Kate gives it a pat, then presses the dirt in the pot down with her fingers. ‘Right here where I can see it, in honour of my favourite reader.’
I stare at the plant, heart in my throat. ‘Don’t forget to water it, then,’ I manage, ‘but don’t over water it.’
‘Oh, ye of little faith,’ Kate smiles. ‘Don’t worry, Sally will make sure I look after it.’ And, from Kate’s expression, I’m sure the plant will be thriving next time I visit.
‘Oh, here,’ I unzip my pack to extract Tracks. ‘I just want to say…’
There are so many things I want Kate to know. How much the library card meant to me and the shelving job, how grateful I was she saw past my grotty exterior. How much I loved chatting about books to her and how welcome I felt in her library.
