1

 

Lauren stood by the bed. She noticed that her mother’s skin, once brown and wrinkled from hours spent in her garden, had paled and shrivelled. Her arms and legs were stick-like, jutting out from the edges of her thinning flannel nightgown. Her round stomach sat heavily over her hips. Lauren bent down to kiss her mother’s dry cheek. Gisella’s lips puckered the air. Her smell was stale, not like the fresh air aroma she once carried. The scent of dirt and fresh green grass was gone, replaced with one that Lauren couldn’t quite grasp. It was a worn-out type of smell, of waiting too long. Like someone at the airport, between flights.

‘Still cold outside?’ her mother asked.

‘It was foggy this morning. I think it’ll be a nice afternoon though. You should get out for some fresh air. Do the nurses do that?’

‘Do what?’

‘Take you out?’

‘For what?’

‘A walk, Mother. Do the nurses take you out for a walk each day?’

‘Can’t afford to get sick.’

‘They should.’

‘Should what?’

‘Take you out for a walk.’

‘Can’t afford to get sick.’

‘Okay Mum, have it your way.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Nothing, I just thought a walk would be nice for you. You used to love the outdoors.’

‘What walk?’

Lauren didn’t respond, instead busying herself with straightening up the room. Not that there was much to straighten. A pillow plumped. A spare blanket folded. A newspaper closed. Lauren allowed herself to momentarily wonder how much of her mother’s vagueness was from the drugs she was given, and how much was a deliberate attempt at avoidance. Suddenly she needed to pee.

‘Okay to use your bathroom Mum?’

‘It’s not mine.’

Lauren took her response as a yes. She moved to the ensuite, locking the wide door, though there was no need to. Her mother could no longer even get out of bed without assistance. She leant her hand on the cold silver bar beside the toilet. Everything within the white-washed bathroom was a reminder of her mother’s ineptitude at doing anything for herself any more. She blew her nose, peed, and washed her hands. Her pale skin, and wrinkles that had just begun to form on her brow in the last few months, stood out against the glaring fluorescent light. I should start wearing makeup, she thought.

‘It stinks of antiseptic in there. I should bring in some aromatherapy oils to burn. They’re very calming.’

‘Make me sneeze, that’s what they’d do.’

Lauren sat in the bucket chair beside her mother. She felt too low next to the raised bed, but standing was no good either. She flipped through the newspaper she’d just closed.

‘God, it’s like reading a tabloid these days. Where’s the real news?’

‘Too depressing. No one wants to hear it.’

‘I s’pose.’

She put the newspaper back on the side table and felt a cold hand descend on her warm one. Lauren stared at her mother’s hand on top of her own. The paper-thin skin that covered her veins looked like it might break with the slightest movement. So Lauren held still, her back bent over the chair uncomfortably, while her mother spoke in a raspy, thin voice.

‘There’s something I want you to do for me, Lauren.’

‘What Mother?’ Lauren said.

‘The houseboat. I want you to sell it for me.’

Lauren fought the urge to pull away from her mother and storm out, leaving her to fend for herself. Paper-thin hands. She reminded herself that her mother had always done what she thought was best. Words she said to herself almost every day. Lauren remained held by her mother’s weak hands.

‘Why, Mother?’

‘No need for it anymore.’

‘Yes, but why now?’

‘Good a time as any.’

‘But it’s been years. Decades.’

Lauren heard her mother’s breathing quicken as she tried to sit up. She leaned over, her sour breath close.

‘Decade. Not decades. Don’t be so melodramatic. It needs to be sold. That’s all.’

Her mother’s hand felt heavier on hers now. Lauren looked uncomfortable as she leaned sideways across the bed. She knew her mother couldn’t be stressed in any way.

‘I’ll put in an ad tomorrow,’ Lauren said.

‘No!’

Lauren felt her mother’s hand begin to tremble.

‘I need you to fix it up first. Clean it up. Make it nice. So you’d want to buy it yourself. Like it used to be. You remember how it used to be, don’t you?’

‘Of course I remember. How could I forget?’

Her mother ignored the implication. They didn’t talk about the past.

‘Then you’ll go? Tomorrow?’

This time Lauren did pull away. But gently. Paper-thin hands. She sat in the chair opposite and stared out the window, stained with dirty raindrops. She crossed her arms, trying to block out the memories, not wanting to remember. She hadn’t thought of her sister for months. She had managed to block her out almost entirely now, so she didn’t see Trina in the mirror anymore. And it had taken a long time. At first she remembered only their similarities. The same ski-jump nose, the same dimple in their chins, the same wispy ash-blonde hair. But then she managed to focus on their differences. The mole on Trina’s left ear. Long nails compared to her bitten ones. The front tooth that had been chipped the time Trina crashed into another child at a party. And then, finally, she didn’t think about her at all. In the mirror was only Lauren.

‘Lauren. Lauren.’

She turned back to her mother.

‘It’s time to get rid of what’s passed. I need you to help me.’

Lauren answered by lifting herself from the chair.

‘Look at that nightgown. It’s had it. I’ll be in tomorrow. I’ll bring you a new one. Size 10? We’ll talk more then. Okay?’

Lauren kissed her mother on the forehead before she could reply.

 

2

 

Trina loaded her leather overnight bag and toiletry case into the boot of the Saab. Graham struggled down the stairs with everything else. He dropped the luggage and looked disapprovingly at the way Trina had arranged her bags. He removed her belongings and proceeded to re-arrange the boot, squeezing in each item like they were pieces of a jigsaw.

‘Right. We’re all set,’ he said, clapping his hands in satisfaction. ‘Heater off? Lights out?’

‘I’ll double check.’

Trina ran up the stairs. Heater’s off. She quickly scoured the upstairs rooms. They were all dim, with just the muted rays of sunlight filtering in. Lights are off. She pulled the edge of the doona, straightening out a narrow crease that ran from corner to corner. Back downstairs she flitted in and out of rooms to ensure nothing was amiss. She checked that the answering machine was on. The red light flashed three times, paused, and flashed three times again. The rhythmical blinking was like a lighthouse, its fluorescent beacon a warning to stay away. But somehow Trina had been continuously drawn to it. Over the past two days she had replayed those messages so many times she knew the words by heart. This time she did not press play. Instead, she held the stop/pause button until the light became constant. The words erased.

Trina opened the Saab’s passenger side door and climbed in. She reached across the centre console and kissed her husband. She felt his lips, warm against hers, and knew he sensed her fear.

‘Thanks,’ she said.

‘What for?’

‘I don’t think I could do it on my own.’

‘You sure you want to do this?’

Trina had never been so unsure of anything in her life. It had taken her years to remove herself completely from the rest of her family. She’d moved to the other side of the city, established a life that didn’t leave much room for visitations, and formed a relationship with Graham, so that she need never feel lonely and want to go back. Though she visited her mother twice a year and spoke to her on the telephone, it was always superficial talk about gardens and work, and Trina liked it that way. At first her mother had spoken to her about Lauren. She had told Trina that the two of them should ‘patch things up’—as though it were as simple as sprinkling lawn seed in the front yard and waiting for it to grow, filling in the bare patches of earth. But eventually she had stopped mentioning Lauren and things had been easy after that.

Until now. Until her mother’s messages, pleading with her to go back. Trina was not sure she wanted to do this. In fact, she was entirely sure she didn’t want to do this. She was still unable to explain it to herself. Perhaps she felt guilty, or just plain tired. Maybe her mother’s nagging had finally worn her down.

If Trina had been willing to be honest with herself, her decision may have been different. She might have been able to admit that she was doing this because, despite everything her mother had done to her, she still wanted her approval. She still wanted to hear her mother tell her she was proud of her. Instead Trina answered her husband as well as her conscious thoughts would allow, though the slight tremble in her voice and the tightness in her chest betrayed her.

‘I’m sure I want to do this, Graham. It’s something I need to do.’

‘For your mother?’

‘For me.’

Graham nodded, but Trina could see he didn’t understand that parents weren’t always on your side.

 

3

 

Lauren pushed aside the houseboat’s chocolate and fawn curtains. Even now she was certain the thin, squiggly lines formed the shape of chicks. Their heads stretched forward as though in search of the light. When she was a child, her mother had insisted in a bored tone that it was just a pattern. She said there were no chickens. Not even when the curtains were pulled taut across the small window. She said if they were meant to be chicks they would have made the curtains yellow. One time Lauren had instructed her mother that some baby chicks were brown. Her mother had slapped her across the face in response, yet Lauren recalled that Trina had been the one to hold her hand to her cheek for the rest of the afternoon. They had been like that as children; one would often feel the other’s pain and it somehow made the blows seem more bearable.

Lauren wound the stiff plastic handle on the window round and round. The rusted chain lengthened and stretched. She pressed her nose against the fly screen, breathing in the fresh outside air. She opened the rest of the windows until the all-too-familiar smell of mildew had disappeared.

With the curtains open, Lauren could see more clearly. She glanced around at the miniature lounge, bedroom and kitchen. Her gaze held on the tiny sink. The white plastic plug was still attached to a thin chain, as though it were a precious commodity that would be irreplaceable if lost. It reminded her of the pens attached to the benches at the bank. It always annoyed her that the chain of tiny silver balls prevented her from lifting the pen high or using it at the other end of the bench, where it wouldn’t reach. The plug had the same effect. She was never able to have the satisfaction of ripping the plug from the sink when the dishes were finally done. Instead, she could only push it aside.

She finally moved her eyes away from the sink. It amazed her how the boat still looked exactly the same as she remembered, though she hadn’t seen it in almost ten years. What stunned Lauren more was the familiarity of every handle, every ripple in the linoleum, and the feeling of being suffocated that returned to her now. It made her feel as though she was a teenager again, where her life between summer holidays on the boat and now had existed only in a dream. Her head became light and her stomach churned as the thin walls shifted around her. Lauren swung the door open and stepped onto the splintered wooden deck. She bent forward, her neck craning over the edge like the chickens on the curtains. Her vomit splashed into the water and dispersed. Seagulls swarmed and fed.

‘Scavengers!’ Lauren cried out across the empty lake.

 

4

 

Trina grasped her husband’s arm.

‘Pull over,’ she groaned.

Graham glanced over at Trina, frowning.

‘Pull over,’ she repeated, squeezing his arm tighter.

Her manicured nails dug into his flesh and Graham winced before switching on the indicator. He slowed the Saab to a stop, skidding along the gravel. Trina wrenched open the passenger side door and threw up on the ground.

‘You want some water?’ Graham asked, pushing a bottle towards her.

Trina waved him away, her hand flapping up and down behind her.

‘Must have been that burger. Best to steer clear of chicken at roadhouses. Never know how long the food’s been sitting there,’ Graham said, trying to be consoling.

Trina doubled over again.

‘Sorry, guess I shouldn’t be saying that right now.’

‘Just get me a towel.’

Graham hurried to the back of the car. He unzipped his bag, pulling out shirts and trousers before finding a cream bathsheet.

‘Here!’

Trina snatched the towel and wiped her mouth and her chin. ‘I’m alright now.’

Graham pulled back onto the highway. Trina leant her head against the cold, tinted window.

They travelled the rest of the way with few words spoken. As they passed through Rosedale and took the turn-off to Loch Sport, the landscape became flat and lifeless. Dusk brought with it the type of stillness Trina constantly fought off with business appointments, late lunches with friends and the frantic cleaning of her impeccable home. Here she could only be held and forced to be part of the moment. She tried to shift in her seat but remained uncomfortable. She wished she was driving, but knew that would also bring little distraction as the road stretched on and on until she began to wonder if the road led anywhere, or just kept going.

Kangaroos dotted the landscape; black silhouettes against a washed out orange sky. Clouds hung in the air as though suspended on a scrim at the back of the universe’s stage. Fog was dropped in, blurring the edges as Trina stared out the window. As they neared the township, she could recall the soft bends in the road before they appeared, and yet she didn’t remember much about leaving Loch Sport after that last summer, before her final year at high school. All she remembered was sitting in the back of her mother’s beat up old station wagon with the sense of drifting away, becoming enveloped in the fog.