The Family Tree (14 page)

It was a rather depressing thought, even though she didn't really want to be that age again. Rather it was the passage of time that was disheartening, and what she had accomplished in the meantime. Kate shut the front door behind her and then hesitated, gazing up the staircase to where her computer awaited. She sighed, and abruptly decided to go for a drive instead. Clear her head, get the thinking cap on, find some inspiration. Get started on something, before another twenty years passed and she was still no further.

Shelley and Bronte had disappeared by the time Kate reversed her car up the driveway, but Sherry's stroller could be seen neatly parked outside the front unit. Kate took off down the street until she reached the main road. Then it was just a matter of about a few kilometres. She pulled up outside the weatherboard house and turned off the ignition.

After a few moments Kate got out and locked the car. She walked up the driveway and through the gate to the lemon tree and the old wrought-iron setting, where she settled herself, dropping her handbag down on the ground.
Corroded Motherhood
was still there, just slightly less brown than it had been at the beginning of the month, as the lack of rain had left it baking in the sun each day.

She laid her head down on the tabletop and, blurring her eyes, tried to conjure up her father once more. But this time the image refused to formulate, and the harder she tried to recall his features, to put them into place, the more difficult the task became. Her eyes became teary with the effort and she blinked and closed her eyes.

‘Dad?' she whispered, her breath seeping through the lacework. ‘Are you there?'

‘As always.'

Kate relaxed as relief surged through her. ‘I thought you were gone.'

‘Actually I am. You of all people should know that.'

‘I didn't mean . . . I meant here – for me.'

‘I'll always be here for you, girl. That's a given.'

‘Good. Because I need you. I can't work out what to write about.'

‘And you think I can? Well, I'll tell you something for nothing, you're not going to get any help from a dead man, are you?'

Kate's eyes flashed open and she stared across the table towards the overgrown backyard, viewing it as if on a plate. She stared blankly for a few moments and then sat up straight, rubbing her eyes. The backyard glittered blurrily and then slowly came back into focus, still overgrown and still empty. She tried to imagine what the property would look like when everything was replaced by Sam's block of units. Concrete driveways, neat crisp brickwork and identical façades. It was impossible to picture. Impossible to accept. Apart from the year she had spent overseas, and maybe the odd other exception, she had visited this house every single weekend throughout her adult life. It had
always
been here. But then again, so had her father.

Kate let this notion permeate for a moment, almost enjoying the shaft of pain it brought. Then she pushed it away with frustration. Why couldn't she let go? Not erase, never that, but just let
go
? Isn't that what normal people did? Move methodically through the stages of grief instead of being stuck somewhere in between like a psychological wedgie. Kate thought back to her uncle's death and wondered whether Angie had ever experienced anything like this. With a jolt, she realised that she had never asked.

Uncle Frank's death had been so sudden. Even though there had been that minor heart attack the year before, no one had seemed to take it all that seriously, mainly because
he
hadn't taken it seriously. Still always with a hand-rolled cigarette in his mouth and a few beers in the afternoon. Strong and fit and
there
, but then suddenly gone. Just a blink between life and death. Now, in middle-age, Kate knew that the doctors must have given him some warning, or at least some preventative advice that he had chosen to disregard. For starters, even in those days they would have strongly encouraged that he give up smoking. The fact that he hadn't changed his lifestyle at all filled Kate with a sense of fond irritation, but at least it had been his choice. And she both admired and envied him that.

She had a tapestry of memories from that time, but two in particular stood out. The first was the night before the funeral, when she and Angie had sat together in their bedroom and talked until the early hours of the morning, just as they had as girls. But this time there had been no smothered giggles, only a hoarse conversation of loss punctuated by ready tears. And Angie, who was then midway through her business degree, told of her decision to move in with her mother's sister in Ballarat for a while. To get away from it all, and maybe learn more about that side of the family.

Then she had gone on in a half-embarrassed whisper, not quite making eye contact, to tell of the fantasy she had developed in the three days since her father's death. That at the funeral, now only hours away, she would feel a hand on her shoulder and would turn, only to be enveloped within the arms of her mother. Returning to the fold when she was needed the most. Kate could still see Angie's face clearly as she had said this. Pale, with red-washed eyes and a sheepish smile that already acknowledged the inevitability of disappointment.

The second memory was of the weekend after the funeral, when she had come back to keep her father company. The house had been so incredibly empty. Each room larger than it had ever seemed before, and more stifling. Just her father left behind, working all hours in the garden to avoid spending time inside. And for the first time Kate learnt that the absence of a voice has an echo of its own.

She stared out at the backyard, remembering how it had been and realising that as empty as it had seemed then, it was now infinitely worse. A small starling swooped over the back fence and flew up to the washing line, where it settled on one of the sagging wires, looking beadily down into the weeds. Kate watched it for a while as she wondered whether, as in Angie's case, the echo was even louder when there was ambiguity surrounding the absence. Like with her mother. How on earth must that
feel
? At least with Kate's mother she had known exactly what had happened and, because her father had so many stories, it had been almost like she was still there. Or at least would have been if she could. But to not even know whether your parent was alive or dead, or
even whether they paused, every now and again, and spared a moment to think about you. To have such obscurity shadowing your childhood, and then still
never
have it resolved.

Slowly, as she mused over this, the nucleus of an idea formed and then gradually enlarged. Kate's eyes widened. It had been there all along – a full-blown mystery with all the trimmings. Angie's mother. The actual disappearance, framed by the past and the future. Maybe told from the perspective of a relative, or just an onlooker, or even a child. She could use the structure to build a fictional story, or go for broke and make it factual all the way through. Regardless, she now had her idea. And it was
inspired
.

Furthermore it had been Angie herself who had suggested that Kate write about what she knew, maybe even find, somewhere, the hint of a mystery. And there it was – tailor-made. She grinned at the irony and then the grin faded as a worm of doubt raised its head. But would Angie be in favour? Or would she flatten the proposal at the outset? Kate thought about their argument yesterday, when she had angrily thrown at Angie the very idea that she was now exploring seriously. But then she had used it as a weapon, almost unthinkingly, and it had not been so much the concept as the
intent
that had been designed to wound. Surely Angie would have recognised that? Because why, after all, would she object to having her mother's story investigated? Maybe she would still get that hand on her shoulder, even after all this time.

Nevertheless, after some thought, Kate decided that she would keep it to herself for now. The story might turn out to be a dud, in which case there was no point concerning Angie at all. And besides, even though she was quite sure her cousin would not object, Kate simply didn't want to take the risk. So she'd first do some preliminary research, start to understand the background, and
then
present Angie with her discoveries and ask permission to continue. After that, and only after that, would she begin the actual writing. Develop the story-line, build the book. And she knew, already, that she'd found exactly what she needed, and it was going to be great.

K
ate hit save and then took a deep breath as she pushed her chair back from the desk. It had been a week since she had come up with her brilliant idea and she had been unable to move much further than just the essence. A phone call from the main publishing company she freelanced for had forced her to prioritise a backlog of work and it had taken her all this time to work through it.

The only day she took off was Friday, when she babysat Emma at the Lysterfield house and worked her way through Sam's paperwork instead. At least that meant meeting up with Sam himself, and whilst
their scrupulously polite conversation hadn't repaired any bridges, it had at least retained the connection. But it took all her willpower not to straighten the cushions or at least unload the dishwasher.

She had also managed to renew connections with her sons, as both Jacob and Caleb had been sprawled across the lounge room floor when she arrived, playing some strange 3-D game on the Playstation. One which apparently required frequent yelling, the occasional muttered obscenity and a large amount of fist-pumping.

Nor, as with all their disagreements, was there much effort required to mend fences with Angie. There was too much history between them to let a few harsh words do a lot of damage. Kate just made an especially nice meal for the following evening and slid an apology into the conversation relatively quickly. Then they moved smoothly on, chatting about children and life in general. The one thing they hadn't touched on, mainly because Kate hadn't raised it, was her epiphany.

This in itself had been quite frustrating. Because she would have loved to discuss it with Angie. But the worm of doubt ensured her silence. She simply couldn't take the risk, small as it might be, that Angie would refuse permission.

But this morning marked the end of her frustration. With all extra commitments taken care of, she was now able to start her research. She began by making a list while drinking her morning coffee. Avenues of exploration, directions of research, people to question. A priority, she decided, were names. All she had at the moment was Sophie Painter, but she also needed a maiden name, in case she had reverted, and also the real name of That Bugger she had run off with.

Accordingly she spent some time at the computer, first checking that the name of Sophie Painter didn't appear anywhere in cyberspace. Once she had established that it didn't, Kate turned to title searches to best discover the identity of That Bugger. However, as the land had been subdivided, this proved rather complicated. Finally, after a few frustrating phone calls, she contacted a firm which specialised in title search and commissioned them to do it for her.

There was one obvious place to start looking for background
information but the thought brought with it a mix of feelings. Excitement because she would definitely find some clues; dismay because it would be a long and dirty job; and trepidation because it meant facing something she had been putting off since last June. Which was going through all of her father's worldly goods and possessions.

It wasn't just his possessions, either. When her uncle died, his furniture and personal effects had simply remained in place. Nobody had ever asked or offered to change matters and it wasn't as if her father needed the space. It had simply been understood, tacitly, that everything would be sorted after his death, when she and Angie would be equal beneficiaries. So, after the events of last June, came the distress of not only clearing out his bedroom, but also Uncle Frank's, which was a virtual time capsule.

Oscar and Sam had done most of the work, packing and storing everything under the Lysterfield house for the time being. And, except for the desk that Kate had recently extracted, that's where it all remained. She knew she had a choice now. Move forward, face a few demons and hopefully get some results, or forget about the whole thing right now. If she made up her mind quickly, she could even phone the title-search firm to cancel her payment.

Kate sat up and massaged her neck. The truth was there
was
no choice. It had been so terrific to stumble across a concept that actually excited her, there was no way she was giving that away at the first hurdle. She would just have to rely on motivation to help her get through. Tomorrow, or maybe even the following day. But definitely one day this week. Definitely.

Later that day, while passing the lounge room window with her third cup of coffee, Kate happened to glance out and see the elderly lady from next door setting out on another walk with her dog. To postpone returning to her computer, where she was trying to establish a half-fleshed family tree, she leant on the back of the lounge chair and watched the pair walk briskly up the driveway and turn right towards the little park at the end of the road.