The Beloved (15 page)

I began to retch. The world was turning indigo. My lungs were bursting and my ears were filling with the sound of a roaring wave and on the wave, an echo . . .
You strong, Bertie, like Solomon.

I lifted my booted foot and rammed it between Charlie's legs. Piss-ugly, but useful.

He fell back, clutching his balls and howling. I scrambled up and took off.

Back at the house, I bolted myself in the bathroom. My chest ached. My scalp was on fire. I shook from head to toe but inside I felt worse. I'd trusted them. I'd trusted
him
– Maurice – because he was my cousin. I'd ignored his colours and my gut feelings because I wanted to be wanted, boot and all.

I tugged off my clothes and stepped under the shower, careful to avoid the mirror and my stupidity. I washed Maurice's horrible hand from my mouth but as the water hit my scalp I gasped. Charlie must have ripped out handfuls.

Oh, CP, what happened to your beautiful hair?

Oh, Dad.

Tears leaked down my cheeks.

You strong, you got Solomon heart.

Solomon had killed to defend his twelve-year-old niece. I didn't have Solomon but I had his heart. I had colours and I had my instincts and from now on I'd trust them. No looking to other people. No more fake friends and absolutely no more tears. I soaped my body and tipped shampoo onto my screaming scalp. No-one would know anything was wrong. Wash up. Wise up.

For the rest of the holidays I avoided my cousins and stuck close to the cottage.

‘What's with you?' Laura demanded.

‘Nothing. I just want to draw.'

‘
Draw
. You're a sap, Roberta, you know that? A dull, boring cannibal-country sap.'

Mama and I sat on the porch swing, sipping Kay's homemade lemonade. My mother was still thin but her skin had regained its dark glow and the whites of her eyes were white again.

‘You're very remote, Bertie. Is anything the matter?'

Nothing I couldn't handle myself any more.

‘No. I missed you, that's all. I was worried because I didn't know what was wrong with you. I still don't. What happened, Mama? What made you so sick?'

‘Malaria.'

‘Grandpa said you had women's problems, something as big as a grapefruit. What was it?'

Mama stared into her drink. ‘A growth. It's gone now.' She looked up, her cheekbones and chin like three points of a triangle, and put her hand over mine. ‘I missed you too, sugar.'

Through the kitchen window, Uncle Bill waved at us and pulled comical faces. Mama poked out her tongue. Kids, they were, the way they carried on. I looked at them, Uncle Bill so fair, Mama so dark. Nothing alike. My heart gave a weird little twist. I looked at Mama again.

‘Mama . . .' I swallowed. ‘How come you don't look like Uncle Bill . . . or Granny Davina, or Grandpa?'

She stared through the window at her brother. ‘Because I'm not their child, Bertie. I was adopted.'

‘
Mama!
'

‘Sorry. Sorry it came out like that, love.' She rubbed her hand over my back. ‘I did intend telling you when we got to Granny's but, you know, I got sick.'

‘
Adopted?
'

‘Yes.' She drew her knees to her chest and hugged them. ‘When I was about three – maybe three and a half – someone found me sitting on a bench at Edmonton railway station. Nobody knew how long I'd been there. No-one knew who'd left me there, or why. My picture was circulated in the newspapers. Little Miss X. No name, no age, no nationality even. They tried hard to find out who I belonged to, but . . .' Mama shook her head, ‘ . . . they never did.'

I felt weak. ‘Mama, that's terrible.'

‘But I got a family in the end. I was eighteen months in a children's home, where they gave me the name Lily May because it was May and the lilies were out. How stupid is that – naming a child with my skin “Lily”? Anyway, one day polio came into the home and your grandfather was called. I liked Doctor Lindsay.' She paused. ‘He had gentle hands and a smile that made me feel safe. When I was called to the office a few days later and told he wanted to take me home and be my papa and live with him forever I was . . . happy. Your granny wasn't quite so happy.' Mama's eyes went distant. ‘She and Papa already had Bill and he had polio and the last thing Mama wanted was another child, especially someone else's. Still, she made the best of it. They gave me a birthday, a surname, a home, an education, and even love. Mama does love me, in her way. Papa certainly does, and Bill. Yet for all that, I never felt I belonged. It wasn't their fault; I just looked so obviously different.'

So
different. Why hadn't I seen it earlier? I could see colours but not what was right in front of my eyes. Mama . . . adopted.

‘This is a shock for you, Bertie. I'm really sorry.' She put her hand over mine and I looked at them together. Where had we come from? What unknown parent, grandparent, cousin, aunty or uncle was walking around with our hands?

‘At least now I know why Granny Davina doesn't like me.'

‘It's not that she doesn't like you, Bertie, but that you remind her of me and everything she and Papa did for me. Everything they wanted for me. Everything I gave up.'

‘You mean medicine?'

Mama swallowed noisily and a grey film trickled down her throat. She opened her mouth to speak and the way she groped for words reminded me of a bird picking the right pieces for its nest.

‘Most orphanage children don't get the opportunities I had. They're pulled out of school at fourteen to train as maids or cooks, or typists, if they're lucky. When Papa chose me, it wasn't just because he liked me, but because I was bright and different and he wanted me to have a chance. He said if I worked hard and made a career for myself I could thumb my nose at people who thought they were better than me. I wouldn't have to take whatever was offered; I could choose what I wanted. He was so happy when I chose medicine. Even Mama conceded that all the money and effort they'd spent on me might not be wasted after all.'

‘Why didn't you become a doctor, Mama?'

‘Oh . . . the war. The wretched war. It changed everything.'

‘Are you sorry you stopped?'

‘Yes.' Mama nodded. ‘I'm sorry. Which is exactly why . . . oh, Bertie, don't look like that. I don't regret having
you
, silly, or Tim. Having a career needn't stop you having a family. Even your granny knew that.'

‘Maybe Granny Davina doesn't think of us as her family.'

‘I don't believe that. She cares, in her own funny way. Even for people who shoot all her jam.' She gave me a wry smile. ‘Very dramatic
and
very naughty. It's Grandpa who suffered, you know; he loves his jam. Let's not have any more of that, okay? It's not like you.'

It is like me, Mama, me taking care of myself. ‘I'm not a baby any more.'

She smiled. ‘You're still my baby, and from now on I'm going to make sure things get back to normal.'

I watched Kay peeling carrots and chatting to Aunt Jean. Uncle Bill levered a cork from a bottle and put out glasses. Normal. Normal was what I wanted, yet normal was elusive. Things kept changing and you had to keep up. Normal this week wasn't normal next. You knew things you didn't know before. Normal didn't last.

We moved back to Toronto mid-September. We'd have been back in Moresby, except for Mama's illness, and she still wanted to spend time with Uncle Bill. I went to school with Laura. Correspondence had set me up; I had no trouble managing, even in math. But something inside me was cold and tired. I kept to myself. At lunchtime I sat in the gymnasium watching October leaves dip in the wind outside; red, gold and crusty. I drew pictures and thought of Dad, Tim and Josie, of my friend Stefi, and of my home, far away.

Chapter Thirteen

Port Moresby, January 1960

It was only seven o'clock in the morning but already the sun was strong. Scents of frangipani and copra drifted across the water as our ship, the
Bulolo
, skirted the tufty headland of Paga Hill and slid into Fairfax Harbour. Black bodies moved about the wharf, red-roofed houses peppered Tuaguba Hill; the familiar sights of home.

We nudged the dock and a sailor threw a rope over a bollard. As the gangway was lowered I saw a jeep speed along the wharf and pull up hard. Two figures sprang out – Tim, tall and gangly with monkey-long arms, and Dad. They looked up, shielding their eyes from the sun as I hurried down to familiar arms and the warm smells of Old Spice and linen.

‘Oh, CP. You've
grown
.'

‘It's been nine months, Dad.'

‘Crikey,' said Tim. ‘You sound like a Yank.'

Mama gaped at him. ‘What happened to my little boy? You're taller than I am! I suppose you're too old to want a hug from your mother but you're getting one all the same.' She nodded at Dad. ‘Ed.'

Dad's lips stretched. He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. ‘Hello, Lily May.'

Lily May? Was that it? What happened to Bean? Where were the hugs and kisses?

‘I'll get the luggage,' Dad said.

We crammed into the jeep and headed for Ela Beach. All I knew from Dad's last letter was that we'd moved from Six Mile because the owners of the house wanted it back. Josie was waiting for us in a simple three-bedroom house perched on the side of a hill opposite the beach, just around the corner from Dad's office. Wooden steps led from the back door around the side and down to the road below. Josie had filled the living room with flowers and made frangipani leis for Mama and me.

Mama hugged her. ‘Thank you, Josie. I missed you.'

I investigated our new home. Gone was the high, lumbering bed from my parents' bedroom. In its place two single beds were separated by a chest of drawers and reading lamps.

My room was beautiful; large and airy, with a glorious view of the sea. Someone – Dad or Josie – had put Moose and Molly on the bed but I was too bothered by Mama's and Dad's strange reunion to fully enjoy either my old toys or my new view. I opened my case and took out a puzzle of Vancouver and the nurse's outfit Mama had given me for Christmas ten days before. White cap, red apron and a bag of toy instruments: thermometer, syringe, stethoscope and bandages.

‘But Mama,' I'd said, stunned, ‘I'm nearly twelve.'

She'd looked dented. ‘You're still only eleven.'

I'd wanted to reach out and touch her, to say I could still love her and grow up too, but she'd been so quiet. A letter had come from Dad just before we sailed from Vancouver and whatever was in it had flattened her. She wouldn't tell me what, only that it was nothing she couldn't handle.

I changed into an old smock, now terribly short, and went into the kitchen. Dad was hacking a loaf of bread for sandwiches, holding it so hard he'd squeezed it out of shape. A hunk of corned beef sat on a plate. I picked off a piece and chewed. ‘Did we buy this house, Dad?'

‘No, just renting until April.'

‘What about after that?'

‘I don't know yet. Things have to be sorted.'

‘What things?'

He tried to ease the bread back into shape and then began scraping it with butter, hard from the fridge, gouging holes. He always was a terrible sandwich maker.

‘Go and sit down, CP.' He brought the food to the table and yelled down the hall. ‘Lunch is on!'

We gathered at the familiar laminex table. Mama and Dad were quiet. They didn't look at each other. Something was wrong.

‘What needs to be sorted, Dad?'

‘Things, CP. Eat your sandwich.'

‘Is Stefi home?'

‘No, she and Magda have gone South for a couple of weeks.'

‘We'll be in grade seven this year, Dad. How will I get to school from here?'

‘Ela Beach School is just down the road. You might go there.'

‘No!'

‘It wouldn't be forever.'

‘I
won't
go to Ela Beach.'

‘You'll go where you're bloody-well told!'

I stared at my father. Who was this man? Wasn't he glad to have us back?

Mama pushed away her plate. ‘I'm going to unpack.'

I followed her to her room. ‘What's wrong with Dad?'

She picked up a dress from her suitcase and arranged it on a hanger. ‘Guilty conscience, I expect. Don't worry, Bertie, I'll sort it. Now buzz off and let me finish this.'

It started with a crack, one hard crack from Mama, and then it gushed out like dirty water.

Cheat. Liar. Adulterer.
Every night since we'd come home.

Her name was Helen.

‘I've sacrificed everything for you,' said Mama. ‘My country, my home, my career and this is what happens. You take up with a tart. If you think I'm going to let go without a fight, you're wrong. I didn't spend almost three months in hospital with malaria, a miscarriage and a hysterectomy to come home to this. Don't you care?
Our
baby, for God's sake.'

I sat up in bed.
A baby
?

As big as a grapefruit
.

Just a growth
.

A baby. Why?
Why
wasn't I told? A baby brother or sister . . . gone, before I even knew it existed. I turned on my side and pulled the pillow over my head. Where was it now, my little grapefruit-baby brother or sister?

‘I heard you, Mama. Last night, talking about the baby. Why didn't you tell me?'

‘It's nothing to do with you.'

‘It
is
to do with me – it was my brother or sister. Why don't you tell me things? I'm not a little kid any more.'

‘Then stop acting like one.' She hitched her camera strap onto her shoulder. ‘Some things are private. Stop eavesdropping on my conversations.'

‘It wasn't a conversation, it was a fight, and so loud the whole of Moresby could have heard.'

But she was gone. Back to work with the newspaper; out every morning in the jeep with her camera and notebook.

For the rest of the holidays, apart from visits to the beach or the occasional trip with Mama, I was stuck at home. No Stefi. No bike. I missed them both dreadfully. I asked Mama if I could have a bike as an early birthday present but she said no. Everything was uncertain at the moment. A bike was expensive and might not be practical if we had to move. Tim was out all day on
his
bike but even when he was home he was weird. I went to his room one night and found him lying on his bed reading a comic.

‘I'm sick of hearing them fight,' I said. ‘They're so loud I can't sleep.'

‘Who's fighting?' he said, without looking up.

‘Mama and Dad!'

‘Are they?'

I peered into his face to see if he was joking. It was blank. ‘Mama goes on about someone called Helen. Do you know who she is?'

‘No.' His eyes were glued to his comic. ‘Get lost.'

‘Tim—'

‘Get lost, I said.'

I stomped back to my bedroom. I'd already grilled Josie. She'd patted my cheek. ‘Something-nothing, Bertie.'

I'd never known Josie to be less than truthful before, yet it was obvious that this Helen – whoever she was – wasn't something-nothing. But Josie wouldn't be drawn; she was too busy enjoying life with her new ‘husband', Dave, her fourth in five years. Dave had his own pick-up truck and Josie was getting driven everywhere instead of having to walk. She wasn't interested in Helen.

The sound of my parents arguing sliced through my dreams and woke me up. I got out of bed and stumbled down the hall toward their voices. In the doorway, I paused. Dad was sitting at the table, staring into his beer.

Mama paced. ‘You're wrecking everything,' she said. ‘Family. Home. Marriage.'

‘Marriage,' said Dad, his eyes following Mama around the room. ‘Why did you marry me, Lily May? You never loved me.'

Mama stopped pacing. She stared at the floor and rubbed her eyes. ‘I didn't . . . I don't
not
love you.'

‘That's supposed to console me?'

‘Marriage isn't just about love. It's about family, pulling together, children, commitment.'

‘You loved your . . . your
Ex
. You still do, you've never let him go.'

Mama's face went red. ‘Robert has nothing to do with this.'

Dad looked bewildered. ‘Robert? Who's Robert?'

Mama flapped her hand. ‘I mean . . . Henry.'

‘Well, shit, Lily May, who was it – Robert or Henry?'

‘It was . . . both. It was Henry Robert but everyone called him Bob.'

Dad looked like he was about to say something, then he stopped. His face went milky. ‘No . . .
No
. You couldn't. Tell me you . . . you didn't?'

Mama turned away.

‘You did. You
did
. You named our daughter after
him
. Roberta,
my
Roberta.'

Me?
My
name?

‘I didn't . . . It wasn't like that . . . You know, Ed, it was all I had of him. His name was all I could give her. I didn't mean it the way you think.'

‘What do you know about the way I think?' Dad slammed his fist on the table. ‘You named our child after your sainted fucking army doctor. You've never let him die, Lily May. You've never let him die.'

My mother's army doctor. A dead man. I'd been named after a dead man. I wanted to ram her head through the wall. How
could
she?

‘Shut up,' I bellowed from the hallway. ‘Shut up! I'm nothing to do with your army doctor. I'm Dad's. You had no right. I hate him. I hate his name. I'm not Roberta. Never, ever again.' I lurched past them, through the kitchen and into the night, limping barefoot down the stairs and across the road to the beach. I stepped across a carpet of broken shells, each one some creature's long-ago home, and dropped onto the sand. I lay on my side, feeling the grit beneath my cheek, and was suddenly back at Seba Beach, lying on the sand beneath the dinghy, wondering where my father was.