The Bay (22 page)

Bonnie looked up as Tina put a cup of tea in her hands. ‘Drink this and go back to her. Her father says she's asking for you.'

On the Cape, above the sweep of The Bay, the lighthouse beam was dark for an instant, as if missing a beat.

Kimberley was tired. The shock of Erica's death had galvanised The Bay and the township of Brigalow.
The Beacon Bugle
screamed from its front page: ‘Why Are We Losing Our Children?'

Members of Bonnie's family were starting to arrive, Kimberley had found them a house to rent and stocked the kitchen with food. Amber spent as much time as she could with Bonnie in between keeping the Beach Hut open and fobbing off curious and nosy people who wanted to know all the gruesome details.

Matty trudged home from school. There'd been a special assembly about Erica. Everyone was asking what had happened. There were whispers she had intentionally started the fire. Matty noticed her mother's car wasn't there. She was glad her mum was keeping busy and helping Erica's mum. And she was also pleased to have some time alone. Everyone had been smothering her so much, afraid to leave her on her own, when what she really wanted was time and space to think through this huge, sudden loss in her life.

The garbage can was still out the front, several days newspapers littered the driveway and mail spewed from the mailbox. Matty threw the papers in the bin and wheeled it to the mailbox to toss in the junk mail. There were some letters in it as well as the coloured advertising pamphlets – one addressed to Kimberley, a postcard from her father in India, the telephone bill. And a letter to Matty. She recognised the writing instantly and her hand shook.

It was from Erica.

T
HE DAY OF
E
RICA'S FUNERAL DAWNED STORMY GREY AND
windy. Bonnie had been surprised and touched by the stream of visitors, heartfelt expressions of grief, compassion and support that had swept her along in a wave of love. Many people she'd had little contact with and some she had never even spoken to before were now embracing her, somehow wanting to share her grief as if old friends, but she struggled to put names to many. Those closest to her and Erica were grappling with their own pain and anguish, made worse, if that were possible, by the knowledge that Erica had taken her own life. For it had been determined that the fire was the deliberate result of drugs, candles and curtains. Fortunately no one else had died, but the question – why? – hovered in many minds.

Bonnie's family from Melbourne – her parents, her former husband, Stephan, and a cousin – had stayed as if on an island, clinging together, marooned in the tide of Bonnie's new life. Stephan, shattered at Erica's death, thought this world of The Bay was all a bit odd. He had found it hard to come to terms with the fact that his former, proper corporate wife was looking so very different. He couldn't imagine how she had been living, and he didn't want to think about it in case he became overwhelmed with anger that her lifestyle could have contributed to Erica's death. He tried to tell himself that Erica had gone, and the nightmare of her going would soon pass. He knew he had to be seen to be doing ‘the right thing', but behind the veneer of sympathy whatever happened to Bonnie now was of little interest to him. He respected her parents, though, and didn't want to add to their grief by losing it with Bonnie. Her parents were also finding this community very strange compared to their more conservative friends in Melbourne.

While Stephan thought that Bonnie's acquaintances here were an odd bunch, he was relieved they had taken on some of the burden of comforting and caring for her. Bonnie had no close friends during their marriage. She'd been one of those ‘ladies who lunch' so often reported in the social pages, and was in a circle of wives obliged to entertain each other and visiting high-flyers. The rest of the time, it seemed to him, she spent tending the roses and watching television. Now here was Bonnie, on the morning of their daughter's funeral, being swept off by a strangely garbed woman called Lynn who was giving her a massage!

He was feeling dreadfully lost and wished he'd brought his new young wife to comfort him. He went outside to call her on the mobile in private.

Lynn's strong bony fingers seemed to find every twisted knot of tension in Bonnie's body. Firmly she kneaded and stroked, steadily easing what felt like great lumps of metal in Bonnie's shoulders and neck, along her spine and the backs of her legs. The smell of the musky oil, the gentle ambient music from the CD, a peaceful combination of sounds of the sea orchestrated with flute and harp, sent Bonnie drifting into a purplish hazy dream.

At one point Lynn's hands seemed to burn and Bonnie could feel heat reaching into her vital organs. She had been feeling numb, as if each nerve end in her body had been blocked. Now she experienced a white flash behind her closed eyelids and then her body went limp as though everything had been washed out of her. But, painful as it was, she felt she was alive again, even though her skin felt raw and exposed.

Then, slowly, as Lynn continued her smooth, powerful ministrations, Bonnie felt a tingling warmth flow through her; it was as if she was coming back to life again. Tears poured down her face but it was a cleansing cry, soundless and almost unemotional.

When an hour or more had passed Lynn rested her hands on Bonnie's feet, her fingertips finally trailing off her toes, as if pulling the pain and sadness from her body, then she quietly left the room. ‘Come out when you're ready.'

Bonnie lay there for another ten minutes, thinking the last few days were a dream. That she'd get up and Erica would be there and they'd go to the beach, have a coffee, hang out, go shopping.

Gradually, consciousness took over and she opened her eyes, looking at the unfamiliar wall with the picture of a bearded Indian man wearing a garland of flowers and a poster of a whale throwing itself backwards into the ocean. Suddenly the awful reality of where she was, why she was there, and what had happened flooded over her and she curled on her side and began to sob.

Hearing the deep, racking cries, Lynn waited a few moments, then went in and leaned over Bonnie, holding her in a protective embrace. Bonnie stopped sobbing and began to shake, then slowly sat up, wiping her face with the edge of the massage towel. ‘I thought this was all a dream. I can't stand this pain. Why, Lynn? Why did she do it? What did I do? Am I so bad? Why didn't I die instead?' She covered her face with her hands, and Lynn was stunned at her next words, ‘Damn you, Amber. Damn you.'

Lynn decided it was not appropriate to ask Bonnie about this remark, though she might ask Amber. She smoothed Bonnie's hair and handed her a glass of water, which Bonnie gulped. ‘I don't have those answers, Bonnie. Don't torture yourself by asking. It was Erica's choice, she never stopped loving you. She doesn't blame you.' She wanted to tell Bonnie to be strong. But then thought better of it. ‘Cry all you want. If you want to yell and scream, do it. You're safe here.'

They sat quietly together until Bonnie shook her head and took Lynn's hand. ‘Thank you,' she said simply. ‘I really think I'm going to cope much better with the day now. I have to be brave and not let her down by going to pieces, right?' She stretched her lips in what she thought was a smile, which tore into Lynn.

By the time she was dressed and had tidied her hair, Bonnie stepped out of the small room looking almost composed. ‘Lynn, what was that music, those sounds?'

Lynn picked up the cover of the CD. ‘It's “An Odyssey of the Sea”, whale songs. Mitchell lent it to me. Those whale songs that seem to echo around the underwater world are actually a language. Some people now believe whales have their own literature; their own
Iliad
, their own songs and stories. They change their songs every few years.'

‘How do we know that?' asked Bonnie. ‘It sounds too wonderful.'

‘We're learning. Slowly, we're learning.'

‘I wonder if Erica ever heard a whale sing? She would have liked that‚' said Bonnie softly.

By sunset the weather had cleared and the group had gathered on Tiny Bay Beach. The closed coffin on the sand was shaped like a small white boat. Planted beside it was a long bamboo pole with a canvas sail. Friends and family had painted the sail with messages and pictures for Erica. Mourners were dressed in colourful, ‘happy' beach attire as Bonnie had requested.

Matty had put together a large board covered in photographs and memorabilia she knew were meaningful to Erica. From Bonnie's mother came the teddy bear that had passed from Bonnie to Erica and had been in the grandmother's care. It sat on the coffin with flowers and a pile of letters held down by a stone.

Bonnie asked Amber to stay close to her as people came up to her to offer sympathy.

Frances, the warm and attentive funeral company representative, had smoothed everything. She'd discussed arrangements with Bonnie, who confirmed the stories everyone had heard now about Erica's dream of one day sailing around the world. She'd also talked to Matty and other girls in the class about Erica, her life and the funeral.

‘We're comfortable doing things differently here,' she'd gently advised Bonnie and her family. ‘You tell us what you want. It's a time to reflect on who Erica was, what she gave to everyone, a time to honour her. No need to rush these things. Have everyone involved as much as possible, take as much time as you need.'

Frances had listened and then guided them towards the ceremony on the beach. ‘It seems to me that is how Erica would have written the script,' she had said to the family when they were planning the details. ‘It is symbolic of her dream, and her character, isn't it? A celebration of her life really, a spirit setting sail.'

Bonnie had reached out to Erica's father in a moment alone together. ‘Stephan, I want you to understand that I don't know why she did this. Please don't blame me. We were happy here. As much as Erica was ever happy,' she said sadly.

He put his arm around her shoulder. ‘She always was such a serious little girl. I never felt I understood her. I'd hoped, as she got older, we'd come closer . . . ' He choked up and couldn't go on for a moment. Then, drawing a deep breath, he added, ‘I don't blame you, Bonnie. I don't blame myself, not personally. I blame what's happened to all of us. Nothing seems the way it used to be.'

‘There isn't anything I wouldn't have done to change things; to stop this happening,' said Bonnie, adding in a sudden flash of insight, ‘There is no blame. Erica did this. Not us. It's up to us to deal with it as best we can.'

Being so close to Bonnie brought back too many memories that were now painful: Erica's birth, their dreams for the future. Stephan never imagined their marriage falling apart. He never imagined losing his daughter. He never thought they would be one of a mounting statistic. This agony and shame happened to other people, not us. He gave Bonnie an awkward pat and fled. He couldn't bring himself to show the emotion he felt. It frightened him. This was the most intense feeling he'd ever experienced and he wanted to push it far down inside himself. He knew it was okay for men to cry, show their feelings, be sensitive and New Age. Like the men up here in this community, he supposed. But where he came from, how he was brought up, no one gave in to their feelings. It made other people feel uncomfortable, embarrassed. So you covered up and put on a brave face. His gut and head ached and he wanted to cry like a baby or punch something long and hard. These feelings confused and frightened him. Bonnie might be the one person he could let down his guard to, but he was too scared to do so. His new wife hoped he was ‘being strong for everyone'. But, by Christ, it was hard.

So here they were gathered on the empty stretch of beach, wrapped in a sunset that had broken through the clouds. Eddie unobtrusively videoed the proceedings as Bonnie had wanted.

The youthful minister, known for his folk songs, led the traditional proceedings, then asked the school choir to sing. Next he asked those who wanted to express their feelings to stand up and say what was in their heart.

Mac spoke first, briefly, but it was a warm and tender recognition of Erica's short life. ‘So young, so much lost. All the potential that we can only imagine. Yet something of her will live on in all of us because, in ways perhaps difficult to define today, the dream she had is symbolic of the dream we all have – to sail towards new horizons with a sense of adventure and an open mind. I think, despite her youthful years, she would approve of the following lines from Psalm 90:10–12:

The days of our years are threescore and ten,
Or even by reason of strength fourscore
Yet is their pride but travail and vanity;
For it's speedily gone and we fly away . . .
So teach us to number our days,
That we may get us a heart of wisdom.'

Kimberley then gave Matty's hand a supportive squeeze and stepped forward. She looked around the faces watching her. She'd never spoken in public before, but her voice was firm and steady.

‘Erica has given us a difficult and challenging gift. Even as a mother, and one who shared mothering time with Erica, it is very difficult to imagine the depth of anguish Bonnie and her family must be suffering. But Erica was not a child in the normal meaning of the word. Erica, frustratingly at times, knew where she was going and what she wanted from this life. She was born an old soul, and she seemed to know her time here would be brief. She came among us to teach us hard but necessary lessons.

‘It is too easy not to hear the cries, to mutter platitudes, to wait for someone else to do something. It is only when something tragic, drastic, despairingly sad happens that we pause and look around us. Our children are crying out for help. We aren't living our lives as we wish. Greed, selfishness, laziness can be levelled at us all. Somewhere we have lost touch with what the family is about. The family of the home, of the community, the nation, the family of all humanity. Erica sometimes sang of this in her own songs, words that spoke of her own searching. How much worse do things have to become before we hear and understand the cries of our children? Perhaps her memorial will be in our hearts and our heads, giving us a greater awareness of the need to look after the world we're building for the children of today, and tomorrow.'