Portraits of Celina (2 page)

Seemingly unconvinced, Seth takes the glass, just as Amelia appears at the kitchen doorway in her pink dressing-gown and fluffy slippers, looking like a giant fairy floss, but not nearly as sweet. “Okay, Mum, tell me I’m dreaming. This is some freakish nightmare, right? We haven’t really moved to this dump in the middle of nowhere, have we?”

“Mum’s not here,” Seth says.

Amelia flops into a chair. “Great. Bet there’s no food either.”

“OJ’s out,” I say, pleased that Seth had the dregs before Amelia got her hands on it. “There’s some bread on the bench.”

“Bleh,” says Amelia. “I’m so sick of toast.” She gazes around. “Besides, who could find the toaster in this mess? Where is Mum, anyway?”

Seth pulls at his ears – the other habit he’s come to rely on more and more these past months.

“Leave your ears alone,” snaps Amelia. “They’ll end up dangling below your knees if you’re not careful.”

“Shut up, Amelia,” I say. “He’s worried about Mum.”

“She didn’t leave a note,” adds Seth.

A shadow of worry momentarily darkens Amelia’s face but quickly morphs into annoyance. “That’d be right – she brings us out to the sticks and then abandons us without any food. Hansel and Gretel revisited.”

Seth leaps up, his chair thudding backwards onto the floor. He glares at Amelia then runs off, black cape flapping.

“Well done, Amelia,” I say and storm out to find Seth, who is in the Norfolk pine that stands outside my bedroom window, climbing steadily up through the branches.

“Come down, Seth! Don’t listen to Amelia. Come on, mate. You’re making me nervous.”

Seth settles on a branch level with my window. It rocks under his weight.

The screen door slams shut and Amelia bustles out onto the verandah, her dressing-gown flying open to reveal two large black-and-white eyes staring out from her stomach – black-and-white eyes that belong to
my
T-shirt!

“That’s mine!” I snarl. “It better not be ruined. Loni gave it to me.”

“
Loni gave it to me
,” Amelia mimics with a scowl. “Get over yourself.” She leans across the verandah rail and twists her head upwards. “Come down before you break that scrawny neck of yours and I get the blame.”

“You could try apologising,” I say.

Amelia screws up her nose and looks at me with contempt. “What are you wearing, anyway?”

I glance down at my clothes, and am immediately aware of their musty locked-in-a-chest-for-forty-years smell. I had forgotten about putting on Celina’s jeans and T-shirt. Blood rises to my face, and I turn to Seth, my neck craning, my hand shading my eyes from the sun’s glare.

“Come down, Seth. Please.”

“This is ridiculous,” Amelia snorts, then heads back inside, dressing-gown fluttering.

Seth wraps the tatty cape around his knees and nestles against the trunk. The wretched kid seems to have settled in for the long haul.

I bite at my lip and peer out towards the lake. Something catches my eye. Something is moving in the shimmer of the water on the far side. I strain to bring it into focus. Too big to be a waterbird, it moves smoothly, parting the lake before it. A boat? Mum? In a boat? I spy the old rower still marooned beside the jetty, as it was yesterday, and discount the notion.

My eyes latch back onto the approaching vessel and its rhythmic glide draws me towards it. Who could it be? Why is it coming here? I stumble, barefoot, vaguely aware of spiky tufts of grass scratching the soles of my feet, gathering momentum until I am almost running.

“Where ya goin’?” Seth yells from his perch.

“Stay there,” I call back. “Wait.”

I stop at the edge of the lake, mud oozing between my toes, staining the bottom of the jeans. “Hey!” I call out. “What are you doing?” It sounds lame, but I don’t know what else to say. The boat – white and slender like an arrow – doesn’t break a beat. “Hey! You in the boat!” I try, realising – no, worrying, more like – that a stranger is approaching and we are stuck here, alone.

“Who is it?” Seth appears beside me.

“Don’t know.”

“Hello, boat!” Seth shouts, cupping his hands around his mouth. For a little guy he has a loud voice and his words echo across the lake.

The boat stops abruptly. An oar flails in the air, then is dipped back in the water. A figure – male – breaks into a wide smile and waves. “Hey!” he calls. “Hi.” He gets to his feet and the boat rocks beneath him. He holds out his arms to balance himself and the boat steadies.

Even from this distance, I see he is about my age, maybe a little older. He is shirtless, wearing only a pair of dark shorts. Tanned and athletic, his shoulders are broad, his thighs strong and muscly. I blush – embarrassed at the way my eyes linger, appraising this stranger. I am unsure of what to do.
Where is Mum?

“Wha … what do you want?” I manage to stammer.

“Hang on,” he calls back. “Can’t hear properly.” He slides back into the boat and manoeuvres it expertly in our direction. In seconds he is walking through the shallows in front of us, an oar in one hand, the other guiding the boat towards the shore.

Protectively, I take hold of Seth’s hand, but he pulls free. “Cool boat,” he says.

“Thanks, Batman,” says the boy and slaps Seth’s hand in a high five.

I raise my chin. “What are you doing here?” It’s an attempt at assertiveness, but my voice squeaks, mouse-like.

He places the oar onto the muddy shore and flicks his fringe out of his eyes. He smiles up at me. His eyes are the same blue-green as the lake and his smile is wide and open. For a brief moment I am hypnotised.

“Just training,” he says, breaking the spell. “I live across the lake. We’re neighbours, I guess.” He points to the willow-lined far bank.

Neighbours? This is something I never considered and the reality of it stings. One of the scant attractions of moving here being the inherent isolation: the chance to be away from the sympathetic faces and the claustrophobic surround of wellwishers.

“Sorry. I’m …” He seems far less sure of himself now that he is on dry land. He rubs his scalp, then holds his hair back off his face with both hands. “I’m Oliver. I knew someone was moving in – seen the tradesmen working like crazy, hey, fixing the place up, but I didn’t think it was ready yet.”

It’s not
, I want to say,
obviously
. But all I manage is, “We moved in yesterday.” Then I spy Seth splashing around the kayak, one leg over the side, trying to get in. “Seth, get out of there.”

“He’s okay,” says Oliver. “Would you like a go, mate?”

“No!” My voice is fierce. I grab Seth by the arm and pull him out, my jeans now soaked to the knees. “Come on,” I say. “We have to go and get breakfast.”

“But there’s no food,” says Seth. “And Mum’s not–”

“Shh,” I warn. I can barely breathe, filled with the overwhelming need to get back inside.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean …” Oliver starts. “I guess … I better get back to it.” He picks up his oar, pushes his kayak off the shore and slips into it with ease. “See you,” he calls and rows away.

Seth watches him go, shoulders slumped.

My heart thumps in my chest. I feel exposed. Vulnerable.

Seth turns to face me. “What’s wrong with your face?” he asks.

I touch my cheek. “What?”

“It’s gone red and blotchy.”

“It’s hot, okay? Come on, let’s go and rustle up something to eat.”

“And find Mum?”

“Yep. And find Mum.”

I stride off, not daring to look back.

It is almost lunchtime and Mum still hasn’t made an appearance. My emotions swing like a giant pendulum from worrying to seething and back again. Sad thing is, this is nothing new: same old, same old. So much for our fresh start.

A gust of hot wind rushes into the house. The back door slams shut, and specks of plaster and muck rain down onto the kitchen floor. The ceiling is water marked and bulging, with an ugly split right above me. I can’t imagine what the place was like before the builders invaded more than a month ago. It is barely habitable now.

“Hey, you in the Batcave,” I call to Seth, who has spent hours inside an empty packing carton. “One box to go. What do you think is in this one? Maybe the Riddler’s hiding out. Or the Penguin. Want to come see?”

Seth doesn’t answer. He is morose and whiny, his ears red and swollen from constant tugging and I know that with every passing minute, he is becoming increasingly anxious.

Finally, tyres crunch on gravel.
Mum. At last
. The Batcave is flung to the ground and Seth shoots out the door.

I plop onto a kitchen chair, arms folded, note the thud of the car door and Seth’s voice demanding: “Where have you been?” I don’t hear Mum’s answer. Nor do I want to.

Mum walks in laden with plastic shopping bags; I turn my back to her in a rare act of defiance.

“Wow, you’ve been busy. Thanks, love,” Mum says. She hauls the bags onto the bench. “There’s more in the car, Bails.”

I don’t shift.

“Come on, the quicker we get it in, the quicker we can organise some lunch,” Mum encourages. “Seth tells me you’ve all been starving to death.”

I get to my feet and shove the chair back under the table. My body is rigid with hostility.

Mum rubs my shoulders. “What’s wrong with you?” Her voice is unusually light, laced with laughter.

“What do you reckon?” I say and shrug out of her grip.

“My,” says Mum, her tone sarcastic, “have you been bitten by the Amelia bug?”

“Where
were
you?” I say. “You disappear at the crack of dawn without leaving a note. The phones aren’t working, we have no way to contact you and you’re gone for half the day. What do you
reckon
is wrong, Mum? Seth’s been so worried, he’s been hiding in an empty box all morning, pulling his earlobes off. We’ve been here less than a day!” I stomp out to the car, wondering why I seem to be the parent all the time.

I tug a bag stuffed with fruit and vegies out of the boot. Mum is suddenly behind me, so close, I struggle to turn round. “Sorry, Bails,” Mum says. Her voice is shaky. “I didn’t think I’d be this long. I ducked out while everyone was asleep to get a few things and …”

I grab another bag, manage to wiggle past her and head to the front steps, my lips pressed together – I don’t trust myself to say anything right now. I might even speak the truth for once.

Mum runs alongside me. “Come on, Bayley. Don’t be like that. I need your support, sweetheart. You know that.”

Don’t I ever? Good old, dependable Bayley, always there for everyone else
. I lug the bags up the stairs, push open the door with my foot and tramp inside.

Mum isn’t finished. “I’m sorry, okay? I lost track of time. What do you want from me? A written apology? Hey, don’t you want to hear my news?”

Exasperated, I drop the bags and rub my eyes with both hands. I hear the fragility in my mother’s voice and it frustrates me. I turn to face her. “What, Mum? What news?”

“I got a job, Bails!”

“Job? What job?”

“There was a sign in a Chinese restaurant for waitstaff. Only casual. But it’s a start. I didn’t think I’d have a hope–”

“Waitstaff?” I interrupt. “What do you know about waitressing?”

“Obviously enough, otherwise they wouldn’t have employed me. I’m not useless, you know.” Mum shifts to the defensive.

“That’s not what I meant,” I lie, pulling cans of tomatoes and salmon and beetroot out of one of the bags and sliding them onto the near-empty pantry shelves. “You’ve never worked in a restaurant before. Will you know what to do?”
And how long will it last before it all gets too much for you? Like everything else
.

“Well, actually, I have. Admittedly, a long time ago–”

“What? When you were at uni?”

“Yes. Does it matter? It didn’t seem to worry the people at the Wok and Roll who have just employed me.”

“What about
designing
, Mum? I thought you said you would be able to freelance. Get back into it – the things you love doing. The things you’re good at.”

“And I will.” Mum feigns determination.

“Mum! You promised. The whole move was our new start – to get back on track and everything.”

“Don’t lecture me, Bayley. Besides, you’re a fine one to talk – what about you?”

“Me?”

“When was the last time you went running, hey?”

“That’s different–”

“No. It’s the same. Talk to me when you’re back training again. In the meantime, let’s drop it, okay? I
will
get back to design, but right now we need some regular cash – we do have to eat. Speaking of which, if you pack this lot away, I’ll get cracking on some lunch. Where’s Amelia? And” – Mum swivels round – “where’s Seth got to?”

“I’m here.” Seth is back in his Batcave, munching on a banana.

“Cheeky monkey,” says Mum, peering into the box. “Why aren’t you helping?”

Seth takes a chomp out of the banana, bares banana-coated teeth and says, “Has Bayley told you about her boyfriend yet?”

Mum pulls a surprised face at me. “Boyfriend?”

“Her? A boyfriend?” Amelia materialises in the doorway, still in my tee, her hair snarled, her eyes blinking. “Yeah right. Pull the other one. Hey, don’t tell me we have actual real food.”

Mum raises one eyebrow and looks from Amelia to me, but her gaze loiters on me. She grimaces. “You still have those clothes on.”

“Yeah, and she pongs like some old dero,” adds Amelia. “Op shop chic is so yesterday, Bayley. You have no idea, do you?”

I rub my hands down the sides of the jeans, searching for some kind of smart comeback, some witty remark to explain myself. But all I can manage to do is sound pathetic with a “Well, why are you wearing my new tee then, if I’m such a dag?”

Amelia counters perfectly. “Yeah. To
bed
,” she says, to prove my patheticness.

“Give it a rest, Amelia,” says Mum, and then turns back to me. “Go upstairs and get changed, Bayley. It doesn’t seem right.”

“Right? What’s going on?” says Amelia.

Mum takes a tomato and starts cutting thick slices. “Bayley found some clothes and things in her room. We think they might be Celina’s – my cousin.”