just_a_girl (21 page)

When he walked to the Three Sisters carpark he was disappointed to find it already full of Chinese tourists. They stared at him. He felt hot in his suit and the suitcase was suddenly heavy and out of place. He had thought it would be quiet so early on a Sunday morning. He wanted to find a shady spot where he could picnic alone with Mika.

He sat in the cafe and ordered an iced tea and the waitress with a sad face talked him into a piece of carrot cake he didn’t really want. It was cooler inside. The suitcase sat quietly under the table and he fingered its little keys in his pocket, teasing himself with the possibilities of opening it soon. A small silver cat ring sat on the table in front of him. He’d found it under a pillow in the cottage after the girl from the train had left. He wanted to give it back but was unsure where she lived. He might be able to find her. But he didn’t know her last name. Just Layla.

He put the ring in his pocket, paid his bill and left a large tip before walking quickly past the carpark, wielding the suitcase as if it was an extension of his own body. There were too many people. When he reached the bush fringe he ducked in and started going cross-country, using the suitcase to bash his way through.
Sorry Mika, hope you’re not getting thrown about too much.

He kept going off-track, heading down steep inclines, hoping to create some distance between them and the noisy crowds. He looked down and noted his suit was getting torn and dirty. He hoped Mika wouldn’t be embarrassed to be with him; he had dressed carefully for her. After what felt like a marathon he reached a clearing where tall fronds of ferns framed a river, still deep from a few weeks of recent rain. Nearby a small cave offered protection from the heat and a perfect place to picnic.

He opened the suitcase and straightened Mika out, elegant in her blue summery dress. She looked hungry so he lay the picnic rug on the cave floor and set up his camera on the tripod next to them, keen to capture her reactions. He poured her a cup of tea and every now and then snapped her photo. She seemed content and dreamy in the images. He could see she was at last happy to be out in the open air and not hidden away.

He put out food on the rug, giving her small tastes. From a tupperware container he had some tuna sushi rolls. He got out a small bowl and used chopsticks to mix the wasabi and soy sauce. In his measured, well-rehearsed movements were the memories of his mother’s hands, doing the same things daily. From a thermos he
poured soft noodles, the smell of ginger filled the cave.
Itadakimasu.
He smiled at Mika and slurped his noodles loudly. He offered her some but she didn’t want any.
Are you still on your diet,
he laughed. It was the first time he’d felt relaxed in months.

When he’d finished and tidied up, he walked slowly down to the river on his own. His mother would have loved this place. He could see her here, sipping her tea in the cool dark of the cave. He often wondered if she and Mika would have got along,
bonded
was the term they always used at work. They were both self-contained and quiet but with strong opinions. He secretly liked the idea that they would have fussed over him, out-manoeuvring each other to make him happy.

He had brought the wooden cup that his mother had always used, elegantly tapered at the end of a long handle, and he dipped it into the water to wash his hands. His mother had shown him what to do when visiting a Shinto shrine. It was like a dance, the slow movements of scooping the water, first with his left hand, then his right. He poured water again into his left hand then lifted it to his mouth. He gargled and spat the water out, then slowly scooped and trickled water over his feet. He turned the cup over and washed it one last time.

He peered into the river. The Kappa was always on his mind, lurking in the shadows. He bowed twice as if meeting someone on the other side. Then he clapped twice, but not too loudly as he saw that Mika was asleep, resting against her suitcase. He bowed once again, then found some coins in his pocket and threw them carefully in the river one by one.

The sun’s rays pounded through the scrubby brush, just touching the water. The cicadas screamed as he took his clothes off and folded them carefully on a rock. He looked down at his body, thin like a gecko’s. Peering out into the milky darkness of water, he felt suddenly numb. It took him a long time to wade in, never able to jump and take the plunge like his schoolmates used to. He waded waistdeep and stood still, splashing his body quickly, the water thrashing his back and legs, icy whippings over body heat.

Mika seemed to call for him and he sprinted naked back to the cave, grabbing his baked clothes in passing, but when he got there she was curled on her side facing away from him. She was so still, and he wished he could simply pick her up as she slept and carry her back to their accommodation, like a husband in the movies lifts his bride over the threshold, leaving the suitcase behind.

She stirred and he again offered her soup and sushi and told her of his mother’s plate and his family history. It was soothing to finally have someone listening to his stories. The plate was soft green decorated with beautiful cherry blossom. He cuddled his cup of tea. It had the warm, creamy taste of barley. He had brought along a small thermos of sake and took a mouthful. Sharp like needles, as it reached his belly it became a cosy fire, warming his naked skin from inside out. Like a bed of silk in his stomach.

He lay down beside Mika and touched her cool forehead. He closed his eyes and the words came to him with the ease of a lullaby. He chanted with the soft rhythms of a drum.

I humbly beseech the kami to cleanse me of all impurities I humbly beseech the kami to cleanse me of all impurities I humbly beseech the kami to cleanse me of all impurities

As he lay on his back to sleep, holding Mika’s hand, he saw them surround him, from beneath his half-opened eyelids they glistened, the cave walls covered in a thick layer, the ceiling above smothered like a blanket, bogong moths huddled in the soft light, their wings fluttering gently around one other.

I’ve been praying all night to try and gain some understanding, you know, I had the shock of my life when I found him sitting there and washing himself in our bathtub, I mean, when I got home from dropping Layla off at the formal I felt like a long soak to remove the daily grime, and then I walked in and there he was, perched in the dark and naked with an expectant grin, and I turned on the light so I could see him more clearly and I felt so excited that he was there waiting for me, and he said,
Fancy a dip?

And for a moment I wanted to strip off and jump right in, you know, wash away all the years of sadness and have him hold me again, but when I looked at his eyes in the light they clouded over as if he was suffering, and he lay down and covered his face with his hands and seemed to collapse back into the water, so I sat there on the toilet trying not to peek at his body, and he was hunched over looking so vulnerable and it seemed the right time to confess, you know, and so I said I loved him and would do anything to help, and I kneeled down next to him and held his
wet body tight, and I told him that when I pray to the Lord it’s his face that I see, and how much he has helped me in the past years of recovery, and then he started to cry silently and it wasn’t exactly the response I was hoping for, and I thought perhaps he was feeling guilty for being here in my house and in my arms, so I reassured him that together we could take things slow and that whatever the pain was, with the Lord’s help it would turn out fine.

But then he turned away from me and whispered that it was Layla he had been waiting for, and he said it so softly that at first I thought I must have heard it wrong, but then he repeated it, said she’d arranged to meet him here tonight, and I stood up and walked right out of the bathroom and then turned and walked right back in, and I wanted to lay him back down and push his head under the bathwater and hold it there until he stopped breathing, then he confessed that he had been in love with Layla for some time and that he was even contemplating leaving Chelsea, and I’m thinking,
For Layla? For Layla? For my little girl?

And I felt this strange sense of deja vu, that I was stuck in the same cycle, the men in my world revolving around me, tumbling out of reach, and that it was time to press the stop button, and rather than reach out and try to talk to me he closed his eyes and prayed for the Lord’s forgiveness, rather than mine, and said that he was truly sorry for his lies, and that he was in the end only trying to protect Layla, but for the first time his words to Jesus seemed empty and they flapped on the wet floor like dying fish, struggling to fill the silence of the bathroom, so I left him there floundering in the bathtub, and I locked the door to my bedroom and pulled the doona around me, a tunnel of warmth to soften the blow.

And as I lay down still, I realised that all I wanted was to talk to Layla, to find out where she’s been hiding and to tell her she’s okay without him, without all of them, that she’ll get by no matter what and that she doesn’t have to run any more, and so I called her mobile and got her answering machine, and I said I hoped she was enjoying her formal after-party, and I didn’t leave a longwinded message, just a quickie to let her know I’m here.

As I work out how to unlock the car Marco races down the driveway. Grabs the keys from my hand.

—As if I’d let you get away that easy, Miss Layla. You were obviously never a Girl Guide. Hopeless knots.

He pushes me into the passenger seat.

—At least I’ve got my P plates. The wine should have worn off by now.

I’m all hyped up. I’m ready for a fight. But Marco seems to know. How to calm me down. Quick.

—Hey, listen, you wanna get something to eat?

It happens. So easily. I smile at him and he’s forgiven.

—I’m starvin marvin.

The engine guns in early morning air. It sounds like hoons doing blockies around Penrith. He tries to let it idle more quietly. We inch into the fog that’s just starting to lift with the light. Marco drives like he dances. Careful and correct. Like a granny. He even indicates when there are no cars around. I want to grab the wheel and go
wild. Marco turns the radio on. Triple J has a special on Peaches.

I saw Peaches when she toured last year. She had this crazy mohawk and wore a pink glittery bikini with kneepads. She had two dancers beside her. Make that strippers as they were on the floor most of the time. With their legs wide open. Davo hadn’t wanted to see her but he was beside himself.
Take it off,
he kept yelling. I think he kind of missed that it was meant to be I.R.O.N.I.C.
I think she might be a guy,
I said just to stir him up. After that he refused to dance.

Listening to Peaches is like getting a shot of adrenaline in the heart. Like that scene in
Pulp Fiction
that I can’t watch. I’m screaming along while Marco’s doing loops of Leura.
Boys wanna be her!

Marco gets more confident. His corners are smooth.

—Come on. Let’s pretend we’re at Bathurst!

The track gets quicker. We repeat the same loop. He adjusts his speed each time. Concentrating on the gears.

He leans over to kiss me. We’re just nearing the turn across the road from the park. We’re nearly horizontal in the seat now. I like this new speed demon side of him.

His tongue’s in my mouth when I see it out the corner of my eye. Rushing towards me. A flash from behind a camped truck. By the time we’re past it’s too late to stop.

Too late to even scream at Marco.

He leans back into the driver’s seat. Turns the steering wheel to the right and tries to brake. But there’s an electricity pole coming up quickly.

He turns the wheel back and the flash is jumping. Jumping into my line of sight. And there’s nothing we can do.

They say time slows down and it’s true. But not enough for you to fix your mistakes.

The animal’s hit. Out of sight under wheels. A slushy sound. Like a bite into a rockmelon.

He stops the car diagonally. On the wrong side of the road. The street is quiet except for Peaches screaming. The animal doesn’t move.

I step back into my heels. I have to push my door open against its body. Grey furry legs are squashed under a tyre. There’s a streak of blood near the gutter.

As I crouch down the front of its body does a jolt. I jump back and two tiny feet emerge. A joey’s head follows to look at me. The dark eyes stare accusing. I reach out to stroke the ears. But he buries back into his mum’s pouch.

My legs are wobbly as I walk to the park. From the slide I watch Marco kneel down by the kangaroo. He goes back to the car and gets a hoodie from the boot. Pulls it over his head. He reaches in to the kangaroo’s pouch and tugs the joey out carefully. The baby roo just slides into Marco’s pocket. He holds his belly like an expectant mother as he follows me across the slippery grass.

The playground equipment is old and rusty. Covered in dew and I’m in lace. I left my pashmina at Marco’s place. I twirl on the merry-go-round. I like the feeling. Of spinning and letting your eyes blur. Spinning all the bad things away. Like I used to when I was a kid. Standing in the centre without holding on. I’m now a whirling dervish of Red Bull energy. I swagger to the swings and move fast and high. It’s like I’m speeding through space. The cold chains stick to my fingers like gluestick rubbing off. I used to hope I could get so high that I’d do a 360.

I light a clove cigarette. I bought them last week. Thinking they were healthier than normal fags. Because they have herbs and spices in them. But then I found out they have twice as much nicotine. One toke and I get a massive headrush. I need to lie down. I curl up in the concrete pipe and try to get warm. My body’s zooming too fast for sleep. I’m not ready to go back to the car. I can’t face seeing that animal. Pushing her still warm body aside to get back in. Holding her little baby. That no longer has a mum.

Marco heads back to the car and grabs a picnic rug from the boot. His mum’s like mine. Always prepared for everything. He lies down carefully next to me and wraps us all up. We peek in at the joey’s legs sticking out of his pockets like weird claws.

—I didn’t even see her until the last minute. I can’t believe I hit her. Hey, little fella ... You know, kangaroos can tell whether their babies are boys or girls. They like having daughters early and sons later in life, cos the boys don’t stick around long.

—Must remember to tell mum that one.

We both laugh. But Marco’s gone quiet. The joey opens an eye and then two, sussing her new parents out.

—How do you know things like that? All I seem to remember is crap like the name of Paris Hilton’s dog.

—Tinkerbell. Dumb name. Dumb girl.

—God, you’re as bad as me.

He reaches out and touches my face where the bruise used to be.

—Hey, Layla, that guy on the train. Believe me, I never would have just left you there. My dad ... he’s really rough
with my mum and me. Always has been. But not any more. I’m bigger than him now. I’d never just abandon you. You gotta know, I’m not like that.

His arms as thick as logs tuck around me. He strokes the soft fur on the joey’s legs. I snuggle down into his armpit. Plant a kiss on his neck.

The concrete wraps around us like a cold hug.