Portraits of Celina (19 page)

My head is thrown back. Invisible icy fingers clutch my hand and forces it back to the page.

I felt ripped off, if you must know, Bayley. Dying that young, when I had everything to look forward to – my whole life ahead of me. And it was going to be such a good life. I had so much passion, so much I wanted to do, to achieve
.

But the worst part was knowing how everyone suffered so horribly after I was gone. It’s one thing losing a loved one; it’s a part of life – death. Isn’t it? Death you can cope with eventually. But not knowing, that’s the real killer. That’s a never-ending nightmare. And that’s what drove Robbie away from the lake – away from me. I tried to call to him, to tell him to stay, not to go. But he wouldn’t hear. Couldn’t hear. His grief was too loud
.

The not knowing is what sent Mum and Dad crazy as well. That was hard to witness
.
I don’t think you’ll be surprised to hear it was no accident that their car crashed into a tree on the night of what would have been my twenty-first birthday. They planned it. Made it seem like it was some freak accident, so the family wouldn’t be shamed by their suicide, so the saintly Catholic O’Malley clan could deal with this additional tragedy without getting caught up in that fires of hell and damnation nonsense. That’s what kind of people they were. Totally brilliant
.

But their pain, and Robbie’s, was too great, Bayley. And I could feel it. Deeply. That’s why I’m still here. I knew one day, I’d get the chance. I just had to be patient. And then you came, like I knew you would
.

When you opened the peace chest, that night, I was past excited. There you were, and almost my clone. But it was more than that that made you special. Because inside you, Bayley, you were all hollowed out, like an empty shell washed up on the shore. You were perfect. There was plenty of room for me to come and go and I knew the time had come. My time had come. My determination and patience had paid off. It took quite an effort to distract Aunty Maree so that she left the peace chest behind. But I needed it. It kept me company through those lonely years, and reminded me about what I’d lost. And it was all worth it
.

HE has to pay, Bayley. He has to pay for the pain he caused. And really, my sad little cousin, it is up to you. Make him pay, Bayley. Make him pay
.

I’m depending on you. Now you know. Peace sister
.

Why are tears salty? Why can’t they taste like chocolate or honey? Instead, they spill onto your lips and sting, leaving a bitter aftertaste to remind you of your misery.

I wipe my face on my pillow and try to pull myself together. I don’t even know what I am crying about. Am I crying for Celina? For me? For what she is asking me to do? How am I going to make him pay? And who is
he
? Is Celina ever going to tell me that part? Or do I have to figure it out myself? Was it some random stranger? I don’t think so. I sense the person is still alive and still in the area.

My mind keeps coming back to Oliver’s pop. And it sickens me to think that he might be the one. It can’t be him – that is too horrible. I pray that I am overreacting and judging him wrongly because he frightened me and he’s a little odd.

“
Peace sister
,” I mutter to the chest. “
Peace sister
.” How can I get any peace with the burden of Celina’s words pressing against my ribs?

My door flings open and I leap up, the notebook hurtling from my lap to the floor.

Amelia staggers into the doorway, the candlelight making her face appear distorted and shadowy.

“Bloody hell, Amelia,” I hiss. “What are you doing?”

“Me?” she slurs, and sweeps her hand theatrically in front of her. “Me? What’s all this? Having a freaking seance or something? Peace, sister …”

“You’re drunk.”

“And you’re a freak.”

I pull her inside, close the door and switch on my light. “Shh. You’ll wake Mum.”

“Yeah right. You’re so clueless. She’s been knocking herself out on pills for the last week or more.” Amelia laughs an ugly laugh, and in the brighter light I can see that her lipstick is smeared across her face and her hair looks like birds have been calling it home.

“Where have you been?”

“As if I’m going to tell you.” Her eyes lock on the candles. “You little thief.” She blows out the orange one and swipes it from my desk.

“You can talk,” I counter pointlessly.

She snorts, yanks open the door and marches out, tripping over her own feet as she stumbles up the hall.

I blow out the remaining candles, turn off the light and flop onto my bed. I only last ten seconds before the darkness starts to creep me out. I switch on my bedside lamp and stare at the wall.

My long day is going to be followed by a very long night.

My room is warm and stuffy.

I am thinking of the beach and Loni. I can smell sunscreen, salty seaweedy air. Hear Loni’s rolling laugh and nonstop commentary. The sand is toasty beneath my feet. It is delicious.

I sit upright.

What an idiot. I’ve slept in.

I fling on my clothes, jam my feet into my joggers and dash down the stairs, nearly turning my ankle on the dodgy third step – when are the builders going to fix that? – and narrowly avoiding a collision with Mum as I sprint for the door.

“Hey, what’s the hurry?” she says, spinning on the spot as I fly by.

“Going for a jog – before it gets too hot,” I say and bound down the verandah stairs.

Mum follows me out onto the verandah. “Bails,” she calls.

I turn round, jogging backwards down the drive. “What? I’m in a hurry, Mum.”

“I can see that,” she says. “It’s just … it’s just good to see you running again, that’s all. Good for all of us …”

Wow, where did that come from? I turn back round and take off across the paddock, emotion blurring my vision.

Less than a kay in and already my right side kills and my lungs are burning, and if those rotten flies don’t stop buzzing around my head, I swear I am going to scream. I am running far too fast, but I put my head down and run through the pain.

I realise that I am doing a fine job of working myself into a stew, but after last night, the need to see Oliver, to burrow into his arms and feel their strength around me, is all consuming.

A quick scan of the lake and there’s no sign of him. I suck in a couple of deep breaths and concentrate on getting there.

I finally turn the bend before our meeting spot – in time to see Oliver paddling off, about fifty metres from the shore. Panting, I stop, cup my hands around my mouth, and go to yell out, but something catches my eye and his name evaporates on my tongue.

Out from the cover of the willows, a bent figure scuttles across the sand. Bud. He drops his sack and strides to the shoreline, then starts brushing the sand with his boot. He works his way purposely along, his boot scraping back and forth as he goes and it is soon apparent that he’s scrubbing something out. A message from Oliver perhaps? What did it say?

Part of me wants to charge down there and demand he stop – to challenge him, strike out at him. But I don’t, because I can’t move. My thoughts turn to Celina and my heart thuds so fiercely, blood bellows in my ears. I slink back behind some bushes, out of sight.

Celina, I refuse to hear you
. Seriously, I don’t want to know.

The night is balmy. The half-moon throws spidery shadows from the Norfolk pine across the front of the house. I steal into the soft darkness.

Once clear of the driveway and into the dip of the paddock, I flick on my torch and welcome its golden beam marking the way ahead. My stomach churns with nerves. This is so not a good idea, but then again, sleeping in my room with the ghost of Celina doesn’t really appeal either.

“Tonight. Meet me at the jetty,” Oliver had said this afternoon when he called. He was inexplicably broody and miffed, and he didn’t seem to believe me when I told him how Bud had scrubbed out his message in the sand. And I was left feeling confused and uneasy.

At the jetty, Oliver is already there, waiting, and my jitters melt away. “Hey,” he whispers, and the moonlight shows the shine in his eyes. “You made it.”

He takes my hand and helps me into the rower. With a nod of his head, he indicates for me to sit, before giving the back of the boat a powerful shove that launches it off the sand. He jumps in, reaches across me, takes both oars and rows gently, almost noiselessly, away, the boat gliding across the silky water.

“Where are we going?” I ask once we are well away from the shore.

“Don’t know. Where’d you like to go? The Circle?”

“Okay.” I take one of the oars and together we head towards the craggy northern side of the lake. It is exhilarating.

Neither of us speaks, and there is pleasure in this silence, neither of us feeling the need to fill it. I focus on matching Oliver’s strokes, keeping the rhythm, and listening to the gentle lap of the water under the boat, the spasmodic humming of the frogs.

We’re almost in the shadow of the cliffs when a distant rumbling echoes across the lake. I cock my ears, trying to make out what it is.

“Just a car.” Oliver reads my mind. “Probably up on the highway.”

“Really? I’ve never heard noise from the highway before.”

Oliver shrugs and continues rowing. My eyes sweep the ragged silhouette to the north. The noise intensifies and then I glimpse the flicker of lights. Car lights dancing about the bush and heading towards my house.

“There,” I say and point, dropping the oar. Oliver stops, and we sit in the boat and watch the car emerge from the bush and crawl along the dirt road towards the gate.

“What the–?”

“Chill, Bill. It’s probably Lee or Mitch.”

“Lee or Mitch?”

The car stops about a hundred metres before the front gate, semi-hidden by the thick scrub lining the road.

“Amelia’s new buddies. Picking her up.”

“What are you talking about?” Someone jogs out of the gates and up to the car. It is obviously Amelia. I stand up, and the boat sways. Oliver grabs my elbow and yanks me down.

“Watch it,” he says. “You’ll have us both in the drink.”

My heart is flipping out. “What is she doing?”

“You don’t know, do you? She’s a sneaky one.”

I shake my head, feeling like a complete idiot.

“Amelia’s up in town nearly every night. Hanging out the back of the pub, or down by the river with a bunch of the locals.”

“How do you know? And why didn’t you tell me?”

Oliver’s fringe falls across his eyes. He brushes it out of the way and shoots me a savage look. “I live here,” he says. “That’s how. It’s a small town. I’ve seen her. She’s hard not to notice. And I didn’t tell you because it’s not a biggie – though I didn’t realise that she’d been sneaking out.” Oliver laughs.

Frankly, I don’t see what’s so funny, and even his silly hissing laugh can’t shift my anxiety. He grabs my oar and starts to row away, just as the car turns round and heads off back down the road.

“Hey, don’t worry about it. She’s okay. And the guys she’s hanging out with are harmless. Thickheads, but harmless thickheads.” He reaches across and lifts my chin. “She’s only having fun.”

He sounds so like Amelia that my stomach clenches. Why does stuff like this bother me so much? When did I turn into the captain of the fun police? I don’t want Amelia to ruin my night, but I
am
worried about her. I can’t help it. And what worries me most is what will happen when Mum finds out.

“You gonna help, or do you expect me to do all the work?” Oliver’s smile is wide. “Come on.” He changes direction. “Let’s head for the middle. And forget about Amelia – she’s no different to you, out here with me.”

I sigh and pick up the oar. He’s right. Mum would flip out if she knew I was here with Oliver and, perversely, it makes me grin to think of Mum peacefully asleep while both her daughters are out gallivanting. Gallivanting! That is such a Mum word and the thought makes me laugh out loud.

“Gonna share the joke?”

“Nah,” I say. “What’s so cool about the middle of the lake anyway?”

Oliver stops rowing, slides off the seat onto his back and points to the sky. “This.”

I squint upwards.

“Want to watch the show?”

It’s a tight squeeze, the two of us lying on our backs, knees bent to fit in. Oliver threads his fingers through mine and we gaze up at the starry sky, as deep and wide as it is intense. It does my head in, trying to fathom the size of it. Where it starts and where it ends. We watch a satellite journey from horizon to horizon, then disappear into nowhere. We locate the Southern Cross and the saucepan. Hold our breath, waiting for a shooting star. It never comes, but we don’t care.

I am aware of Oliver’s chest rising and falling beside mine. I reach across and trace my finger along the raised blue vein that snakes across his upper arm muscles, savouring the strength in those arms, then spread my hand across the wrinkle of his T-shirt, absorbing the steady rhythm of his breathing. There is something reassuring about it: as if as long as those lungs continue to fill with air, and that heart continues to pump, things are going to be okay.