Escape (49 page)

'I can't imagine that pain.'

'No. You should have seen her face when she told me that. She
said she tried to contact James, sent him birthday and Christmas cards,
but he never replied. When she handed him over, the parents had said
they would tell him where and who his mother was, but they never
did. Not until he was old enough, sixteen, I think, and he hunted her
down. He tried to contact Dad too, but Sophia says Dad wouldn't have
anything to do with him.'

'And he's been trying ever since. How sad, I always felt there was
something more there, had to be something more than just a casual
meeting on a summer holiday.'

'Mm.'

We're silent for a while, thinking. 'I'm glad you got that phone
card, Clara. I wish you'd done that before.'

'Yeah, and I've still got two hundred and eleven minutes left . But
it's been good writing these emails. And you don't get so distracted by
other people's reactions.'

I snort. 'Your overbearing mother's reactions, you mean.'

'Yeah.' She laughs. But I know that laugh. There are tears in it,
somewhere at the back of her throat.

'God, I wish I was there to give you a motherly hug.'

'Me too. But I'm okay. Just kind of shocked. But okay. It's amazing
to have these weird longings confirmed somehow.'

'I know what you mean. And Guido, why did he choose Australia,
what was that about? The Red Brigade – it can't be true!'

'Well, apparently Dad was mad about some girl, and she was a
militant kind of communist – heavily political. She was a member of
the brigade and she was implicated in the placing of a bomb on a train.
Guido was at her apartment when the police came. She'd used his
typewriter and get this, his father's
stationery
with letterhead and all,
for her correspondence with the top brass of the brigade. Dad had no
alibi about the night of the train and the bomb, and so he was arrested
along with her. When his father came to the lockup, he presented
Guido with the choice of going away and taking on a new identity,
or doing time. Sophia says that Guido jumped at the first option –
or that's what she imagined. Guido hadn't spoken to her directly for
about five years before then. She said she felt as if he'd just taken a
pair of scissors and cut her out of his life. Apparently he did that to a
photo she found in his room. His aunt Clara and Sophia and Guido
were standing in front of the Duomo here in Florence and he cut his
mother off the end, leaving just himself and Clara. She never saw the
photo again, she supposes he took it to Australia.'

'So Clara, at least, was real?'

'Yeah. Dad did leave home at sixteen – he was uncontrollable,
Carlo said, so he was sent away to a boarding school. He wouldn't stay
there either, though, so Clara was asked to look after him. Sophia was
really doubtful about it but it seemed there was no other option.'

'And what was Clara like? Your father described her so vividly
when we first met, I felt like I knew her.'

'She was quite strange, according to Sophia. Hummed to herself
continually, even in company, performed lots of magic rituals, wore
this sort of beatific smile. But Dad idolised her. Sophia got choked
up when she talked about it. She thinks Dad responded so well to
her because she let him do whatever he liked, always smiled at him
no matter what, and there was probably so little warmth in his life, he
confused love with benign neglect.'

I take a moment to breathe. 'That's so sad.'

'Mm.'

'But what I don't get is why he would choose this country – so
far away from everything he knew? A different language, culture, a
twenty-four-hour flight. Did his father suggest it?'

'No, it was Guido's choice. He said he wanted to get as far away as
he could from the
bastardi che lo hanno messo al mondo
.

'What does that mean?'

'Oh, Mum, it's awful. The bastards that bore him.'

We're quiet again. The words ring between us.

'He must have been so angry.'

'Yeah, I guess.'

'And hurt.'

'Mum, aren't you angry any more?

I hesitate.

'Mum?'

I'm looking for the anger. But I'm thinking about Clara, and how
she needed to go away, about myself at her age and how I
should
have.
Everyone needs a journey to take their own measure,
Maurizio once
said. 'No, Clara, not at the moment. I certainly have been angry but
I don't know, maybe I'm a bit like you – it's as if something has been
confirmed that I've always suspected and I just feel grateful right now
to know that I'm not insane, that I wasn't imagining it.'

'But your whole marriage—'

'Yes, I'm angry about that, it's true. What makes me most angry is
that he never loved me. That part makes me feel as if I've been hit by a
car. A hit and run.'

'But, Mum, you don't know that!'

'Yes I do, he wrote it. My fault, I went sneaking in his drawer after
he left . Eavesdroppers never hear good about themselves, do they? I'm
sorry, I shouldn't have told you that. I haven't told anyone. But why
did he choose me then?'

'Because you got pregnant with me, that's why! You probably
wouldn't have—'

'Don't you ever think that! I wanted you before I even knew
you were there! And I adored your father. I was so happy when
I knew for sure I was pregnant. You were the best thing that ever
happened to me. To your father, too. So see, there was a purpose to
it all.'

'It's strange, I'm mad as hell at him, but I've always felt he loved
me. As much as he could. Even now, when he doesn't write back.'

'I think he's scared, Clara. He's trying to cut you out because
he can't face you. It's as if, I don't know, he'll be revealed to himself.
Maybe he feels he won't survive that. As if he's an illusion that only
exists as long as everyone believes in him. Like the emperor's new
clothes. It must be frightening to live like that.'

'I suppose.'

We're quiet, trying to imagine this person we've never known.

'I'm sure he loved you as much as he can love anyone, Mum.'

'Mm.'

'Oh well, it must be getting late there now. Have you had dinner?'

'No, I'm not hungry. Not yet, anyway. It's good to talk about more
ordinary things, though. Let's do that for a sec. How is Lucia? Does
she know about all this? What does she say?'

'Oh she's fascinated, can't believe it. She says she saw a miniseries
once involving the Mafia and a man who came back from the dead,
went into witness protection or something. Anyway, she reckons this
is the closest thing to it.'

'Hardly a miniseries. This is our lives!'

'
The Days of Our Lives
. . . Oh Mum, there's no need to get all
snooty about it. She's not inside it like we are. And anyway, she's been
really supportive. Kept telling me to ring you, even before I got the
phone card.'

'And what about Marisa, have you told her?'

'Yes, she's been great. It's helped to make it more real somehow.
You know, Mum, for all the awfulness of it I feel this kind of thrill,
well, not a thrill but . . . You know, that all of me is awake when a lot of
me used to be asleep. It's painful and strange but it started even before
I found all this out. This stuff about Dad has just enhanced it or made
it gallop to the surface, laid it out clear. It's something about dealing
with the truth, facing it, do you know what I mean?'

'I think so. It's scary, but it makes you feel stronger, doesn't it? I
mean, it's one thing to distance yourself from the past, it's another to
have the courage to understand it. For most of my life I've just been
drifting around on clouds of unknowing.'

'But you couldn't have known!'

'Oh, Clara, there are so many things in life that can squash you,
not just one. I mean, look at it this way. You've got this chance now
to uncover the people who are your family. You can see the parts you
like, the parts you don't – what's their stuff , what's yours. Seems the
more clearly you see patterns of the past, the more you get to choose
how to live your future. You can have a voice. I lost mine, but lately I'm
finding it again. You have to take care of your voice, Clara. Don't lose
it. Even if you have to hide it under something sometimes, don't forget
where you put it.'

There's silence again. We're both breathing, thinking. It's a nice
kind of quiet, I don't mind it. I don't mind it at all. It's not rustling with
little creatures with bad wings. It's peaceful, truthful.

'I think you and Sophia would get on well,' says Clara. 'We spent
the past three days just talking, like this. Mum, do you think you
might come to Italy? I always thought it would be Dad, but somehow I
reckon it would be more important for you.'

'Maybe. I'm doing all kinds of new things. Guess what, I'm going
to be the magician at Saraah's twenty-first party! She says hi, by the
way.'

'See? I always told you. Of course she had no idea what you were
like to
live
with! Just kidding, Mum. Well, I guess I better go to class.'

'Yes. And Clara? I love your writing. I think you're wonderful.'

'Thanks, Mum.
Buona notte
.'

'And Clara? Well, I was thinking, you could take a couple of the
characters from your Book Club notes and follow them into their lives,
so there'd be interwoven stories of travelling and discovery—'

'Mum? Let's just leave it at
buona notte
?'

I walk along the bush track that overlooks the bay. There's the smell of
eucalyptus, a whiff of cinnamon as leaves crush underfoot. I don't need
to run, I take my time. The track winds round the edge of a cliff , walled
with vines and peppermint trees. At the lookout I stop and close my
eyes. I take gulps of crystal air and tear a new leaf from a gum, crush
it in my fingers and smell the lemon. It shoots up my nose in a spray,
making me sneeze.

Simon told me about this track. I'd seen it marked on maps before,
and Doreen had mentioned it years ago when the girls were little.
Somehow I'd never got around to exploring it.

The path leads me on, down to a slatted wooden bridge and I stop
halfway to look at the creek trickling under my feet. A water dragon
rustles the bushes, quick as a wink. You can stand on this bridge
leaning your arms comfortably on the rail and look through the trees
to the water. You can just stand and lean and watch. You can use all
the minutes and the hours of your life, the gift of time we are given.
Sometimes, now, I notice the hours and live inside them, right inside
the earth and sky and cinnamon air, instead of skating on the surface,
expecting disaster, listening to the voice.

The path is sandy, strewn with grey-green leaves. I find a yellow
mushroom, round and flat as a table. Clara used to imagine gumnut
babies sitting at mushrooms like these, eating their dinner. Crows
swear overhead, there's the sudden crack of a whipbird. I walk next
to stone boulders 200 million years old, created during the Triassic
period, when there were dinosaurs and jungles of conifers and
ferns. A brachiosaurus might have scraped its claws over a rock like
this.

The stillness here, now, is magical, inhabited, whispering. I
continue along the track, past old man banksias with their lumpy
ancient skin and red bloodwoods and stop to read the wandering
poems of the scribbly gums.

Wooden stairs lead down to the bay. Rocks to sit on, emerald
moss and yellow lichen. So smooth, the bay, laid out like silk. There's a
houseboat to the left , a chair on the deck, a pillow. What a dream place
to live. I slip off my shoes, hike up my skirt and wade in. The water is
soft around my knees like a sigh. I can see down to the bottom, the
wrinkles of sand worn by the tide. I have wrinkles like that, but they
are not the essence of me.

'I no longer look like myself,' Rita moaned to me yesterday. 'I had
my glasses on in the bathroom and discovered a whole new sag under
my chin. I'm not good at coping with change.'

'Me neither,' I agreed. 'It would be easier if we were elephants.
They don't have to adjust, they're born looking old.'

'You sound just like Doreen!'

We were sitting at a new cafe where there is magnificent coffee,
strong not bitter, and you can linger for as long as you like. I appreciate
that and the warm steamy room, the comfort of my friend's face
opposite me. 'You know, I've been thinking, it's like we're getting to
be the elders of the tribe, the ones with the stories. We've earned our
place, haven't we? So perhaps we could spread ourselves around a bit,
share the knowledge? We could do worse.'

'How's that going, with the Sudanese kids?'

'They're gorgeous, I love it. Every Wednesday they come to my
place and we read. Sometimes we go for walks and find leaves and sticks
and things to make into letters. And sometimes I get sad afterwards,
imagining how they feel, going back to a strange new family. But I
can't
imagine it, not really. I've always been so hung up on that – trying to
live inside the heads of other people, trying to fix everything, work out
why, make it better. But you can't, can you? You can't control anyone
else but yourself. It's taken me a long while to see that! You have to
let go, don't you, at least for a while, even with the people you love.
Cut off . I mean, after you've done all you can, you have to draw a line
around yourself. Like a fence.'

Rita sighed. 'Yeah, pity we didn't know that early on. When I got
married, I just gave myself away. Thought I would get
him
, in return.
Such a waste, when I was young and wrinkle-free.'

'Well, it's hard to keep your self as well as a husband. A real
balancing act.'

'I suppose.' Rita laughed suddenly. 'Being busy gives your children
space to breathe, too. I notice how happy Jenny sounds when I tell her
how taken up I am with climate change.'

I laughed. 'Yes, and lately I find it easier to let Clara be away, Guido
go, Harry stay buried—'

'Who?'

'I mean, when I'm teaching, I'm teaching. When I'm reading, I'm
reading. I'm not fantasising so much about what other people might
be feeling.'

'You know, Rachel,' Rita said slowly, 'that doesn't sound to me like
cutting off . It sounds like connecting.'

'Yes, you're right! Me with me, in the moment.'

We sat back in our chairs, beaming at each other. I looked at Rita's
face and felt a rush of fondness. I wanted to say, I like that roundness
under your chin. I've been there with you all the way, and you will
always look like you, to me. Lovely you.

'I had a dream last week that I married myself,' Rita said. 'I was
incredibly happy, in this white dress. I felt sort of holy and blessed,
but my guests stood around looking embarrassed.' Rita grinned. 'I'm
glad I can tell you that, I wasn't going to.' She stretched and sipped the
last of her coffee. 'Good aren't they, our conversations? I wonder how
many we've had over the years, trying to work out our lives.'

'If you want statistics, you'll have to ask Lena.' We laughed then
and I had a sudden thought. 'You know, learning how to let go
and
stay
connected – that's a tricky balance.'

Rita thought about it. 'Balance. It's not easy. My mother used to
say, "Everything in moderation, dear". I don't know what she would
have said about my dream.'

We smiled at each other. I looked down at my empty cup. I'd
already had two coffees that morning, but I decided to have another.
Not
everything
in moderation. Not every day.

*

The water in the bay is so still, the swish swish of my legs the only
movement. A school of silver whiting flick past my toes. I stop swishing
to get a better look. Gone. The bay opens out into the flat blue sea.

On the horizon a crowd of white boats rock, their masts lit by the
sun like candles on a birthday cake. A solitary dinghy weaves its way
through the masts, and I follow it with my eyes, counting the candles,
all through the years. Maybe they're not wasted, the years that seemed
so useless, trying to make something out of nothing, love out of stone,
magic from mud. If I can have this.

I stand with the water lapping about me and think how in a couple
of hours I will see Maria. Last night, before I went to bed, I spoke to
her on the phone. 'I'm sorry I didn't come to the funeral, Maria,' I said.
'I went to the wrong one.' When she finished laughing I told her about
my sliding sensations that have almost gone and Clara's going away
and the discovery of Guido's living relatives and how strange it was
that I was no longer angry. She told me about her variety of careers
after teaching – actress, singer, celebrant, which is what she is doing
now.

'What do you celebrate?' I asked.

'Oh anything – births, menopause, driving licence, divorce—'

'How do you celebrate a divorce?'

'They're often the best parties. You know how women do things.
Solidarity, loud music, dancing,
talk
. No wonder men are scared of us
as when we come into our power. Call us old crones—'

'Witches—'

'Bitches. I celebrated a Bitch Coming Out party last year, it was
wild . . . but not bitchy. We often get those things mixed up. That's
where I come in . . .'

We were right back to where we started, connected, like fifteen
years ago.

I wade back to the shore and dry my legs. The sun is warming now
on my skin. I sit on the sand and lean against a Triassic rock, holding
my face up to the sun. Peace. How good it is to let my mind wander
where it likes. I don't have to be careful.

Facing yourself is not the worst part, I think, it's the energy you
have to find, day after year, trying not to. So much energy. I look at the
water and think of nothing. What I notice is the absence. The clear
water, the bare sky. No voice.

Nothing is forever. Now and then the voice returns, like the
vampire in a horror movie. Just when you'd thought you'd struck it
through the heart. But I'm learning to shoosh it away, back to where
it came from.

Guido still hasn't talked to me about his mother. Not directly.
He says living is a subjective experience, and he has his way of
interpreting events, I have mine. He talks a lot about detachment,
which to me used to be like dying, but to him is life. I can see the use
of detachment.
Divorce.
I can say it now. Maria celebrates divorce. A
good divorce is the art of letting go. When you have done everything
you can, you're allowed to escape with your life. That's what Doreen
did, together with her extension cord and her diaphragm tucked into
her sock.

Clara asked me again the other day if I'm angry. Simon, who flares
at even the mention of Guido, is bewildered by my lack of anger. But
he didn't see the wrecked kitchen and the smashed glass all over the
floor. What I've noticed is that the anger tends to evaporate when
you stop seeing someone else as the key to your life and start living it
yourself.

Lately I prefer to uncover spiky historical events that lie under the
sand before I step on them with my whole foot. I don't want a terminal
infection spreading from a single festering wound. But Doreen says one
person or event doesn't have the power to shape us – there are so many
moments, so many possibilities for change. 'Life is a terminal illness,'
she says, with a laugh. I don't think that poet Giacomo Leopardi was
laughing when he said much the same thing.

It's so good to laugh. Better than sex, says Rita. I don't know
that I agree about that any more. We've been practising, as Simon
suggested. I look down at my body, a source of pleasure these days
to us both. There's a small stain on my white top. But I'm fond of this
shirt. I wore it over my holey jumpers each night when I was writing
about magicians. Some things you just have to live with. And it's not
my only shirt.

*

If you saw me, a middle-aged woman walking back along the bush
track, you'd pass me without a glance. A mild person, you might
judge, who does the right thing and puts her paper in the right bin.
But inside, I am luminous. There is the bay with the boats and masts
standing up to be counted like the years, and ideas for magic and plans
for travel, Italy, maybe Africa, and Saraah's twenty-first and Clara with
new words in her mouth that will belong just to her. There is so much
to look forward to. Soon there'll be Maria's celebrations and the children's
progress and Sunday roast at Simon's house. There is Danny not
dead but head waiter at the Park Hyatt and Guido with the script he
has always wanted to write. There are my mother and father with their
long love and my beautiful friends and me being whole and alive and
unplundered, steady inside my skin.

I always thought it would be so big, the moment of being me, but
it's small and quiet, something other people wouldn't notice. They
wouldn't see that I am rich inside, not sliding but still as a stone, and
just for this moment, free.