Dying for cake, p.14
Dying for Cake, page 14
Today Clare brought William to see me again. She knows what she is doing. She knows she is breaking me. I do not speak but with William I do not need to. There is a bond between us. He is so different from myself and my mother. A boy child. A boy child on whom I do not fixate my own self-loathing. He is like Steve, and even now I do not hate Steve as much as I hate myself.
William climbed onto my lap, as he did the first time. The warmth from his body was intense and I fell into it and put my arms around him. I did not look at the shape in the corner which was Clare. I did not give her the satisfaction of enjoying her power. I bent and breathed in the deep, pungent odour of William’s hair as he sat on my lap, sucking his thumb. He had a yeasty smell, like bread. I breathed his smell in and out and I felt my body relax. My consciousness was sliding into my body. Knowledge of myself in the real world made me cry and my tears ran into William’s hair.
William turned towards me and for once I saw a face which was unshadowed and defined by colour. He looked at me with his deep brown eyes. His eyes are his own, they are neither mine, nor Steve’s, nor my mother’s. They are still deep pools where his soul floats softly. He wiped away my tears with the thumb he had just been sucking, mixing them with his saliva. He stroked my face and then the shadow that was Clare stood up to come and take him away. I reached out to touch him one last time but his colours were already vanishing. I saw that he was wearing his old jeans. They were torn and needed mending. His yellow striped shirt had a stain … I reached out to touch … but the white light enfolded him. He and Clare were already gone. The door was closed.
I looked at the shape of the door closed to me and I knew that I was alone. Alone in the white hospital room with the cold steel bed and the smooth linoleum floor. Alone in my body and alone with my grief and my terror. I can no longer feel nothing and that is the worst part. I can no longer feel nothing and I find myself aching for more.
RAIN FALLING
‘Why is Mummy so sad?’ William’s big round eyes trans-fixed Clare’s face as she leant over him to do up his seatbelt.
A frozen moment … and then Clare answered him. ‘She’s not well, possum. That’s why she cries.’
‘Did I make her sick?’
‘No. No, of course not.’ Clare pulled the strap tight.
‘Did Amy then?’
Clare squatted down on the cold bitumen beside the open car door and looked up into the pale sober face of the child. The child registered the pause while Clare thought of the right way to answer his question.
‘No. No, Amy didn’t make Mummy sick. After Amy was born, something got sick inside Mummy’s head. But the doctor will make Mummy better and then she won’t cry any more.’
‘Will she come home then?’
‘Yes. When Mummy is all better she will come home.’ Clare nodded encouragingly and stood up. She closed the door gently and ran her hands through her hair, gripping her skull with her long fingers and massaging her tight scalp. How her head ached!
She sat in the driver’s seat, turned on the ignition and looked in her rear-vision mirror. The child’s anxious face met her eyes, in the smallness of the glass.
‘Will Amy come home when Mummy does?’
How was she supposed to answer that impossible question? The child trusted her to make sense of his world and she was letting him down. Did Evelyn really know what she had done? Clare’s voice trembled. ‘I … I … don’t know, William.’
Tears collected along the rims of the child’s eyes and poised, ready to fall from his long black lashes. He knew. Amy wasn’t coming home. The car pulled out of the car park and he put his thumb in his mouth and stared out the window. It began to rain. The drops wriggled down the outside of the window and he took his thumb out of his mouth and traced the patterns they made on the glass. He was quiet and empty of questions.
The car climbed up the hill in the soft winter rain and Clare took in the landscape as a panacea to the ache in her head. Stepped up the hill, little wooden workers cottages, painted in romantic colours — pink, blue and mauve with white trims — leant into each other, wall to wall, window to window. They were so close together that the occupants could have shaken hands, although Clare doubted that they ever wanted to. Perched along the ridge, on top of tall wooden stumps, were big colonials and Queenslanders with wide verandahs and ample iron roofs. These houses had steep gardens, sometimes terraced neatly against the side of the hill and sometimes full of rambling weeds and self-seeded mango trees. They had city views and Clare imagined that today the inhabitants could see the small cluster of skyscrapers threaded through drifts of white cloud and, through the fog, the lights of the brewery flashing.
The car wound through the back streets, where the boundaries of city council parks were politely defined by the modest iron fences of postwar homes. They stopped at a traffic light, which blinked one red eye through the mist of rain collecting between the slow strokes of the windscreen wipers. And then they drove on. William saw the corner shop where he used to walk with his mother for iceblocks. He saw the lonely grey gum at the top of his street and watched its torn and tattered coat of bark flapping in the wind. He saw his driveway with one gate open and the other gate leaning against the fence, waiting, as most things in his house were waiting, to be made well again.
Clare pulled the car into the Easterns’ yard and parked it out of the rain, in the dark under the house. She climbed out and hunched her back, to avoid hitting her head on the overhead beams, while she opened William’s door. ‘Are you hungry, Will?’ William nodded. ‘Let’s go upstairs then. I’ll make you a hot Milo and we’ll see if there’s some cartoons on television. Okay?’
She led the child by the hand upstairs, through the enclosed verandah which smelt dank and mouldy even though Susan had cleaned it thoroughly. She swung open the heavy front door with the leadlight panel of entwined roses and they walked up the worn Persian carpet runner into the lounge room. Clare flicked the light switch and frowned at the darkness. Steve still hadn’t changed the light bulb. She walked into the kitchen and stood on her toes beside the open pantry. Her hand groped across the top shelf and grasped the cardboard casing of a new light bulb. She pushed a chair into the centre of the room, stood on it to change the bulb, then flicked the switch again and watched the hard white light flood the room.
‘There. That’s better, isn’t it?’ she said to William, who was snuggled under an old crocheted blanket in a rainbow of colours. She turned on the television for him and watched a cat chase a mouse across the screen. Thank goodness for the distraction of cartoons on wet Saturday afternoons, she thought.
‘Now, let’s see if I can find you something to eat.’
Clare opened the fridge. It was full of dubious-looking boxes and containers from various fast-food outlets around town. She thought, guiltily, that she ought to run up to the corner shop and restock the fridge with some fresh eggs, butter, cheese and apples. Maybe she should make a double quantity of bolognaise sauce tonight and bring it around so that Steve and William could have some supper together …
She opened the lid of one of the plastic containers and peered inside. Something vile and green was growing across an ancient takeaway chow mein. She recoiled in disgust and threw the box into the bin. Then she pulled out all the other boxes and containers and jammed them into the bin as well. At least there was some fresh milk — but only because she and David were paying for the delivery, and in the mornings, when she collected William, she brought in the cartons from the steps outside.
Clare poured some milk into a mug and spooned in some Milo from the tin in the cupboard. The tin was nearly empty and she had to tip it up to fill her spoon. She heated the milk in the microwave and found a couple of biscuits in a jar at the back of the pantry. She took the snack out to William.
He had fallen asleep on the couch with Steve’s old tomcat curled up against his back. Clare watched the blue light from the television flicker across William’s face. She put the mug and the biscuits on the little side table and tucked the blanket around him. The cat was purring, lying on its back and dreaming through its slit eyes. When she breathed in she could smell Steve on the couch — he was the smell of car oil and sweat and cheap aftershave lotion. She wondered if he slept here with the cat, rather than in the big double bed he used to share with Evelyn. Anyway, where was Steve? He should be home by now. He’d promised to look after William tonight while she spent some time alone with Sophie and David.
She went back into the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea and stood looking out the window while the kettle boiled. The rain was still falling. She shivered. It was cold in the house. She made her tea and stood by the window, holding the mug between her hands, letting the steam warm the tip of her nose.
Clare saw him beside the back fence, digging in the compost heap in the rain. Steve was gardening? She had never seen him working in the garden before. She watched as he lifted the shovel and brought it down again into the soft mulch, twisting it and breaking it apart and loading it into the wheelbarrow. His shirt was wet and it clung to his back so that she could see his muscles ripple under the wet cotton when he thrust the shovel into the dirt.
When he had finished loading the tray, he threw his shovel on top and trudged, with his barrow, around the side of the house. Clare heard the wet leaves squelch underneath his heavy work boots. She finished her tea, put on an old grey coat of Steve’s that was hanging beside the back door, and walked down the back stairs into the rain.
The grass was long in the backyard and it wet the bottom of her jeans. She looked up at the jacaranda tree, which was devoid of leaves or buds, its branches naked and dead against the grey August sky. She walked around it and brushed past the washing, soaked with rain, hanging on the Hill’s hoist. Surely he could have taken the clothes down. She had hung them up three days ago and it had only started raining today.
He was in the front yard, pulling up weeds in the rose garden that had once belonged to Evelyn’s mother. He ripped the weeds out of the ground and threw them angrily at the fence so that the dirt around the invasive root systems came away and scattered in the grass. The earth gasped as the weeds were pulled out and Steve methodically uprooted everything, even the sinewy crabgrass that clung around the root systems of the rosebushes.
She saw that the bushes were old and gnarled but still green. The trunk on each plant was thick and twisted and determined to remain alive, even at the expense of blooms. Clare remembered that pink and yellow roses had poked their heads through the weeds a few months ago, but when she had looked at them closely, they had turned out to be contorted and diseased, brown with decay and covered in aphids.
Several times Steve appeared to cut his hands on the rose thorns as he tried to pull out the weeds wrapped around the old bushes. He wiped the blood onto his shirt. He didn’t wince. He almost seemed to enjoy the pain, for each time he cut himself, he attacked the weeds with renewed vigour.
‘You ought to be careful with those,’ she said. ‘You can get blood poisoning from rose thorns.’
He didn’t look at her. ‘Damn things,’ he said. ‘Evelyn never looked after them but she wouldn’t let me take them out either. They could have looked nice with a bit of care. They might have bloomed properly, but no, she never let me touch them.’
‘Why not?’
‘Buggered if I know. Something to do with her mother, I suppose.’ Steve began breaking the hard soil around the roses with the edge of his shovel.
‘I’ve always hated this garden,’ he said. ‘It’s so ugly. It’s like it’s … got death in it.’
Clare moved closer to him and put her hand on his arm. ‘I’ve always wondered why you and Evelyn stayed. Here, in this house. It’s full of so many bad memories.’
Steve threw down the shovel and leant over to grasp a runner from some crabgrass. He pulled and tore the runner out of the ground. ‘She wouldn’t move. That’s why! Once her father died, and the house was left to her, she wanted to stay. At first I thought it was a great idea. The old place had potential to be renovated and it was debt-free. But Evelyn would never let me change anything. After a while I gave up. What was the point? If she wanted to live in a wreck, that was her problem. I’ve never been very domestic anyway — as you’ve probably realised.’
‘Mmm. I was going to make some spaghetti for tea. I’ll make extra and get David to drop it round.’
Steve found another runner of crabgrass and jerked it out of the soil. He didn’t look at her but focused on the garden instead. ‘Thanks,’ he said flatly. ‘William only gets takeaway when he’s with me.’
‘I’ve noticed.’
Someone walked towards them, sloshing through the wet grass. ‘Hello, Clare!’ called Wendy from the fence. ‘What are you two doing out in the rain?’ They turned to watch Wendy, obviously pregnant now, walking through the front gate. She wore a stretchy black top and Steve looked thoughtfully at her round belly. Wendy blushed and swallowed. So he was wondering, she thought. He’d never said anything. Good. It was better that way.
‘Steve’s decided to fix up the rose garden,’ answered Clare.
‘I’ve always wondered if those plants could be salvaged once the weeds were pulled away.’ Wendy stood next to Clare, sheltering her with her blue umbrella, feeling the air cool her face back to pale.
‘It’s hard to grow roses in Queensland,’ Clare said. ‘I planted some years ago but they were always covered in black spot. The climate is too humid here. Roses take a lot of care. I remember that Evelyn’s mother was always working in this garden.’
Steve pulled out the last of the weeds and began digging in the mulch from his barrow.
‘Don’t go too close to the root area, Steve! Roses don’t like having their root systems disturbed.’ Clare offered her advice heartily. It was enjoyable, watching Steve do some work around the house.
Steve grimaced and kept on churning in the mulch. He wished the women would go and leave him in peace. He was beginning to feel like a freak. Why did women always stand around watching the moment a bloke tried to do something?
‘It’s a wonder these plants have survived so long,’ Wendy remarked. ‘They must be a very hardy variety. Every spring they try to flower but the flowers usually drop as soon as they open.’ Wendy watched Steve’s breath form little white clouds in the cold air as he pushed his weight into the earth. She saw the flesh beneath his shirt and longed to reach out and touch it. Instead she clasped her hands so they did not give her away.
Steve thrust his shovel deep into the soil but the blade met with some resistance. ‘What the hell?’ he said as he scooped up the earth.
‘What is it, Steve?’ said Clare. ‘I told you to be careful of the roots!’
Steve dropped his shovel on the ground and kneeled on the dirt. He brushed the soil away gently with his hand.
Clare and Wendy leant over him from behind, trying to see what he saw. A tiny hand rolled free of the soil. Its fingers were spread wide.
‘Oh my God!’ Wendy sunk to her knees on the ground and covered her face.
Steve reached into the earth. He fumbled around with his hands, scooping the dirt away, and pulled up the naked body. The rain washed the dirt from the stiff little limbs and it trickled like blood onto the grass.
Clare could hear Wendy retching over her swollen belly but she did not move to help her. She stood watching events unfold as if from a distance. She felt nothing, just a sensation of numbness and a strange tingling along her spine.
Steve put his hand on Wendy’s shoulder. ‘It’s alright,’ he said. ‘Look!’ he gently laid the torso on the ground in front of her. ‘See,’ he said. ‘It’s a doll. It’s just an old doll.’
The numbness left Clare. ‘Let me have it!’ she said, leaning over and scooping up the bedraggled doll from the wet grass. As she held it, the rain continued to wash away the dirt. The blonde hair had disintegrated and the little holes where the hair had been rooted were filled with dirt. The blue eyes were caked in mud and rusted over; the plastic was discoloured and one hand was missing, where the doll had been struck with the shovel. But it was. It had to be. She was sure of it.
Out of the sensation of numbness grew the rage. The anger surged within her, and when she spoke, her voice was bitter and cold. ‘It’s not just a doll,’ she said. ‘It’s my old doll. It’s Cry Baby Sue!’
If Clare had seen the faces of Wendy and Steve as she tore out of the garage that day, she would have seen two faces totally perplexed by her behaviour. It wasn’t like her to swear and curse. And over what? A doll? A decayed relic of a toy with a plastic body that perished as they touched it, pieces peeling off like dead skin.
Clare had thrown the body of the old doll into the car, climbed in beside it in her wet clothes, and sped off up the street as if she were on a vendetta. And indeed she was. After twenty-five years she finally had the evidence with which to confront Evelyn. Let her try to avoid the consequences of her actions now!
Clare thundered across the car park, her eyes dark and furious, the doll tucked under her arm like a lightning bolt. She still wore Steve’s grey coat, soaking wet and smeared with mud and streaks of rust leaking from the sockets of the doll’s eyes. The large glass doors of the hospital slid open automatically as she approached the threshold and pushed past a group of visitors on their way out. An elderly woman with a stiff hairdo clutched her husband’s arm as she sidestepped Clare and muttered, ‘I’m not sure I like the way they let the patients wander in and out these days. That one nearly bowled us right over.’
‘Excuse me!’ The balding attendant at the main desk, peering over his computer, popped up from behind the huge vase of blue irises on the counter. He tried to attract Clare’s attention as she passed. ‘Excuse me,’ he yelled, waving his hands, ‘visiting hours finished at three o’clock! You will have to come back!’ The flowers trembled and a deep blue bloom dropped on the floor. There was a chink and a gush of water as the vase spilt its contents over the computer. ‘Oh shit!’ The attendant tore off his navy jumper and started mopping up the mess. ‘Nurse!’
