Nona and Me (21 page)

The memories are flowing back now. A whole cascade of them. “And remember when we stole Barbies?”

“That was your idea!”

“It was definitely yours.”

Rripipi says, “I believe Rosie. Nona always did everything first.”

It was a family joke when I was little. I arrived in the world five days before Nona, but she beat me in everything else. She smiled first, laughed first, took her first steps months before me. She learned multiple languages while I struggled with one.

Nona smiles, “Hey, I didn't know it was stealing. We were only three or something.”

Yumalil is listening with big eyes. “What happened?”

Mum says, “I remember that. Your
ŋama
l
a
and I went shopping at IGA. You girls were cruising around. Then we all climbed in the car. You were playing happily in the back seat. We were almost home, and you'd been so quiet. We thought,
What's going on?
We looked around and there were half a dozen Barbies back there! You must've just walked out with them because you were so short!”

Kaneisha has been listening from my lap. She pipes up, “You got Barbies?”

Guḻwirri shakes her head. “Kaneisha, don't get any ideas!”

We all laugh. We laugh together.

*

Nona looks exhausted. Heat shimmers over the
buŋgul
ground.

Mum says, “Why don't you go to our house for a bit? Have something to eat, some cold water and a lie down.”

Nona nods, appreciative.

“Rosie will take you.”

Mum drops us down the hill, then drives back up. We're left alone. Nona climbs the stairs and enters our house. She looks around. I try to guess what she's thinking. “Been a long time since you were here.”

She nods.

“Does it feel strange?”

“
Yaka.
It feels … happy. Lot of memories.”

She smiles.

I turn the fan on and get the cold water from the fridge. We sit, nursing glasses of cool liquid on our knees. She is in the same armchair her brother sat in.

I say, “He came here, you know. Your
wäwa
. A couple of months ago. He had Kaneisha with him. He seemed happy … well, maybe not happy, but fine. I never thought …” My voice breaks. I start again. “Do you know why? Did he give any signs?”

“Don't know. I've been at Gikal.”

There is the longest silence. It is steeped in loss and regret. I'm comfortable enough to sit with it, and let it linger.

Eventually, I move back to the kitchen to make us lunch. By the time I finish, my
yapa
is dozing, her head slumped back on the chair. I sit opposite her and eat my cheese and tomato sandwich. Her face is soft and unguarded. She looks exactly like she did when we were kids, apart from the protruding belly that rises and falls with each breath. In, out. In, out. She's so lean it looks like she has swallowed a basketball.

I can hardly believe it's real.

Nona wakes and eats lunch. We walk slowly back up to the
buŋgul
ground. The heat clings like a second skin. We pass frangipani trees with fragrant white flowers that smell of honey in clumps as big as my head.

I say, “I think I saw your baby kick, while you were sleeping. Your stomach moved, kind of like a little person jabbing from the inside. Is it possible I saw that?”

“Maybe. I feel it … but from outside I'm not sure.”

“When are you due, again?”

“February.”

“I can't believe you're going to be a mother.”

A confusion of emotions flits across her face. “
amaḻa
says she'll look after it for me …”

I'm surprised to hear this. “Do you think she will?”

I don't want to admit it, but the idea makes me anxious.

Nona says, “She's drinking less. And she's come to all the appointments.”

Her voice is hopeful, like she's searching for a way out. But I sense she knows it's not a long-term solution.

We cross Balnguma Road. A flock of black cockatoos rises screeching from a nearby tamarind tree. The
buŋgul
ground is in sight. A collection of dusty parked cars and tents. People bunched in the shade of quickly made shelters. The enormous banyan tree draped in shadecloth, like mourning clothes, stretching its arms high and wide. Camp dogs strut around. Two race past us, snarling. Nona's hands subconsciously move to protect her stomach, as she shoos them away. “Tsa! Tsa!”

After a few more steps, she says, “I like going to the hospital, seeing those nurses. I started thinking maybe I could do that. Be a nurse. It would help, you know. Help me look after this baby. And help
Momu
. She's getting old, too old to look after the smalls. If I had a job I could do that.”

I hear the weight of responsibility in her voice. I feel for her. Ache for her. I say, “Nurse Nona. It makes sense. You always said … when you came back from Darwin …”

She looks down, embarrassed. “I haven't even finished school.”

And suddenly there's a wall between us again. A deep, gaping wound. A festering silence. Something inside me screams,
Just tell her you're sorry!

But I don't get the chance. Lilaba races towards us. “
Go.
We're going to
Momu
's house.”

“Why?”

“Women's dance.”

I'm suddenly nervous. “I'll just watch.”

Lilaba shakes her head, firm and decided. “
Momu
said to bring you too.”

*

We sit outside Rripipi's house in her newly fenced yard. I watch as the smalls skip away to line the side of the road with wreaths and flowers. We sit for ages. One of my knees is touching Nona's. I want to say something, but the moment has passed. There are too many people here now. Too many ears listening. I don't want to embarrass her. I don't want to embarrass myself.

The afternoon greys into evening, then glows into dusk.

Finally, the men approach, playing
yiḏaki
and
bi
l
ma
and singing. Nerves kick in as the ladies stand and start to dance. My hands are shaking. Nona gestures, indicating for me to follow. I try to copy her movements, flicking my feet in the warm red dirt. My hands make small dusting motions as we walk down the street. Before I know it, we're back at the
buŋgul
ground, but this time I'm on the stage. Me and the ladies. Fluorescent lights illuminate our every move. They're so bright that I can't see beyond them, but I know there are hundreds of people watching from the darkness.

My stomach is churning. I've never been a performer. When we were little, Nona used to make up dances with Sheree and Minhala and other girls after school. Sometimes they'd perform them before the football games. I was given the job of operating the CD player. I'd stand back, happy to watch Nona shine. Her choreography was passionate and fun. She could do an incredible Michael Jackson impression. Her performances drew small crowds.

And now here I am on the
buŋgul
ground beside her. Someone shoves a wreath into my hands, and the clapsticks change from slow beats to a frantic hammering, faster and faster. The smalls and Nona take off, running, crouched low, their hands twisted in front of their faces. I have no idea what's going on. I try to shrink back, hiding behind the old ladies. I spot my mum, but she's over on the other side of the huddle of dancers.

Nona darts back in next to me, indicating the shelter with her lips. I realise she's telling me I have to put the wreath out there. It suddenly looks miles away. I start to panic. Nona's eyes are kind but amused. She gestures again. I tell myself it's okay. I'll just go quickly. I dart forward and hear Rripipi yell, “Wait! It's not your turn!”

I blush, embarrassed, before realising she's yelling at the other girls too. I've been concentrating so hard I hadn't noticed. From the outside, these dances look harmonious and calm. But here, in the middle of things, it is busy, chaotic and loud. Instructions fly, crashing into each other mid-air.

Rripipi yells at me again, “Mätjala! Now!”

I rush forwards and hear her holler, “Dance properly!”

I try to mimic the other girls as I dance to the shelter and deposit my wreath. Some of Nona's cousins are there to receive it. I spot Nona and hurry back to her side. She gives me a small smile of approval. I feel warm inside.

The music changes. The beat slows. The
yiḏaki
sends out mournful vibrations. I realise the older ladies have rocks in their hands. They must've picked them up while we were dancing. I can't help staring as they start bashing the rocks on their heads in time with the
bi
l
ma
. I see blood. I look over at Nona, alarmed, but she's in her own world now, hitting her bowed head with a closed fist. It's the same action as the old ladies but not as brutal. I start to copy her, and we sink down to the ground. We sit cross-legged, thumping our skulls.

And then I hear it: the sound of a soul tearing into the night. A cry pierced with grief. I don't need to look to know it's Guḻwirri. From beside me, I hear Nona join in. The sound is terrible and primal. An aching, keening question to the world:
Why?

I feel their pain inside me. I feel it exploding. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Rripipi throw herself forward onto the ground. It is like when Bolu died, but worse. Her body hits with a sickening thud. Women help her up, but she throws herself forward again and again and again. Her body lies, looking soft and broken on the earth.

And then the music stops.

*

Sand thumps onto the coffin. The minister, Stretch's dad, says soft prayers in a blend of Yolŋu Matha and English. Song pierces the still evening air. The men's voices are thundering and deep; the women's, high and warbly. I remember what Nona told me when we were kids. They are singing Lomu home. Home to heaven, or his homeland, or both.

Nona sits beside me, her voice blending in and out of the others. Tears stream down her cheeks, dark rivers of sorrow.

I murmur softly. “Wherever he is, I hope he's found your dad.”

A small, sad flicker of memory crosses her face. “Maybe they're fishing together in Bawaka.”

Our eyes meet and, in that moment, we are so close we are breathing together.

The singing trails off. People rise slowly to their feet.

Nona holds my gaze. “See you tomorrow?”

I hesitate, confused. I thought the funeral was over.

She says, “
Buku
l
up
, you know? Where they wet you?”

Hazy memories resurface. “Am I supposed to come? Is it for everyone?”

“It's for family.”

Her voice is laden with meaning. She's giving me a chance to start over.

Rripipi has heard us. “It's not just for family. It's for people who've handled the body. Or anyone who's felt grief or wants to be cleansed.”

I hold Nona's eyes with mine, like two small hands clenched together in the dark.

“I'll be there. What time?”

*

I stand in a row of people, behind Dad, in front of Mum. Jimmy is at the front, holding a long green garden hose. He hollers to Yumalil, who turns it on at the tap. A weak stream trickles out, pooling in the red dirt at his feet.

He yells again.
“Bulu!”

She gives the copper tap a few more twists. The stream becomes a small fountain. The line starts to move slowly forward. One by one, faces and bodies are drenched. Cleansed. The men are first, the pallbearers and dancers. Aiden is amongst them. I watch as water soaks his blond curls. He raises his face to the spray and steps forward, before emerging out the other side, dripping and smiling.

I see Lilaba scamper past and wave her to my side. “Where's Nona?”

“Went back to Gikal.”

“When?”

“Last night.”

I feel myself deflate. I wanted to do this with her, side by side. “But … she said she was going to be here – just yesterday …”

“Her
mukul
is really sick. Too sick to come to the funeral, even. Last night she called. Nona went with Stretch and his dad.”

“What about the cleansing?”

“
Momu
says she'll just have to smoke any meat she eats until she can do another
buku
l
up
.”

In front of me, Dad shakes his wet head like a dog, spraying a shower of drops over everyone nearby. Mum laughs, but I can't bring myself to smile.

A voice says,
“Yapa.”
But it's not the voice I want to hear. It's Jimmy, gesturing me forward. I step towards him and feel the beat of water hit my skin. It's warm from the sun. He raises the hose and lets the water thunder down on my head. It drenches everything, from my eyelashes to my thongs. I feel small rivulets trickle down my body, seeping into every crevice and pore.

I thought I would feel released and whole.