Desert Fish (4 page)

‘Oh, Creighton, she hates those,' Mum told him through a cloud of Capstan.

‘Yes,' I said. ‘I don't like these, Daddy. They stick my teeth together.'

‘Well,' my dad said, ‘I'll have to get you something different next time, won't I?' He winked at me, then picked up the two-stroke and took it out the back.

Is it at the edge of the motel pool for nearly half an hour, resting one foot on the rungs of the ladder, swishing the other in the water. The skin on my toes is beginning to wrinkle when a woman emerges from Room 11. She unties her dress and folds it over a table, then stretches out on a deckchair. Her hair is platinum blonde and she flicks it over her shoulder. She wears a pale bikini that makes her skin look richly tanned and she smiles in my direction as she retrieves a pair of sunglasses.

I'm careful not to move awkwardly when I rise, but she's lying back and I guess her eyes are closed behind her sunglasses because she doesn't notice me until the frame of the deckchair beside her creaks beneath me. Then she lolls her head to the side and removes her glasses.

‘Hot day,' she murmurs and stretches her arms out in front of her, turning them to expose the insides to the light. ‘Got to get an even colour. I hate a patchwork tan. Aren't you sunbathing?' she asks. ‘It's the only good thing
about this place. I could go home and say I'd been in Tahiti and nobody'd know any different.'

‘I don't tan,' I tell her. ‘Just burn.'

‘Oh. Pity.' She looks at me. ‘Are you sure? Maybe you're just using the wrong lotion.' She picks up a brown bottle and up-ends it into her palm, squeezes. There's a smell of coconuts and frangipani flower. Her skin shines as she oils it.

‘My husband comes here all the time,' she says. ‘For work. The smelters. It's a hell hole, but there's no way I'm going to let him travel on his own. They can't resist temptation, the men, can they?' She raises her eyebrows and gives me a knowing look, as though this observation doesn't bother her. ‘And my husband, he's a real red-blooded male, let me tell you.' She replaces her sunglasses and sighs. ‘At least they have a pool here.' Turning her feet a little, she bathes them in the light, stretching her arm out to me as if to signify we're still having a conversation. ‘What are you doing here?' she asks.

I'm conscious of the bulk of my waist and how my skin puckers and rolls beneath my T-shirt. I notice the freckles on my arms. ‘I'm with my husband too,' I tell her. ‘We're just passing through. I've never been here before.'

‘It ain't much to look at,' she says. ‘And there isn't much beneath the surface either. Except minerals.' She pushes her sunglasses up again and looks at me. ‘You're young to be married. When did you get hitched?'

‘Only this year,' I tell her, without hesitating.

‘How romantic,' she coos. ‘Newlyweds.'

‘Well, not anymore. We've been married a few months now.'

It feels good to be talking to someone after the weeks and months of keeping myself to myself. She seems like the kind of person who'd speak to you about anything. She'd tell you if she had her period, or if she made love with her husband before he went to work. She seems like a safe person to chat to and talking like this feels like breathing out after holding my breath for a long time.

‘What do you do in a place like this?' I ask her.

‘Not much.' She laughs. ‘Read magazines. Sunbathe. Make cocktails if it's late enough in the day. Wait for Trev to come back.'

‘You don't mind? You don't get bored?'

‘Oh, I do get bored, of course. But I don't mind.' She giggles. ‘It spices things up.' She winks. ‘He won't get bored of me, I can tell you that.' She takes her sunglasses off and dabs at a mark on them. ‘It's nice to have someone to chat to,' she continues. ‘Sometimes the hours go so slowly. I watch the clock like a shiftworker.' She laughs. ‘Where's your husband?' she asks.

‘Oh, he's inside. Asleep.' I trace the top of my thumbnail, examining it closely. ‘We set out really early today.'

‘Really? Have you come a long way?' she asks.

‘Oh yes, we've come nearly two thousand miles,' I say, with ease.

‘But not since this morning,' she says, laughing.

‘No, of course not. We've been travelling a while. Days.'

‘It's tiring in this heat, isn't it?'

‘Yes. It's nice to be resting here.' I smile. I'm pretty good at this now, stripping the truth down to a neat half-lie, a new reality that can trip off your tongue quite naturally. It's exhausting, though. Thinking it all through after. Remembering what you've said. ‘I really should go inside,' I say. ‘I think I'm beginning to burn. Maybe I'll see you later.'

‘Sure,' she says, resting her glasses on the table and turning onto her stomach. ‘Time to sun my back. Nice talking to you.'

 

The venetian blinds are shut. Thin panels of light squeeze inside but get no further than the slats of the blinds. The air is heavy and finally I feel tired. Pete is lying where I left him, stretched out and snoring softly. Beneath the sheet I can feel his warmth. I lie down beside him and close my eyes.

She appears to me when I'm asleep. When I'm awake, when there's Pete to think of, he's all there is and it's not so hard to put her away somewhere, behind thought and memory. But when I sleep I see her, shrunken and pale, moving in the constant, agitated way that babies do. She doesn't have a smell or a texture, just a slow angry rhythm.

Right after she was born, she filled her nappy with the thick tarry stuff they told me about. They'd put her in the bed with me while they got her cot ready, and I dozed. When I woke, I saw it had spilled out from beneath the cloth and stuck around the insides of her legs.

A nurse found me in the bathroom, lying her in the sink, soaking it away with water and a sponge like I'd seen them do with the other babies. She dipped her finger in the water and tested its temperature.

‘We can clean her for you in the nursery,' she said.

‘It's nearly done.' I lifted the baby away from the sink, held her up. I'd not brought a towel and she dangled there, slippery and damp. My legs wobbled. ‘Can you take her?'

‘Go and lie down,' she said. ‘You shouldn't be up yet.'

I stayed in my bed all afternoon. Later, a dark-haired nurse wearing lipstick came in, bringing me a cup of tea. She put it down beside me and said, ‘You can go and sit with your baby if you like.' I must have looked uncertain because she added, ‘She's in the nursery. If you don't feel up to walking we can wheel you there.'

I watched her lipstick move around the words.

‘Thanks,' I said. ‘I can walk. I'll go in a minute.' I drank my tea slowly. By the time I went in to see her, she'd been given a bottle and put down to sleep. There was a long line of cots and all of the babies in them looked the same, even mine.

I wake before Pete and at first I forget where I am. With its bland beige walls and pin-cord carpet this room could be anywhere. There are furnishings, of course: beside the bed, a couple of vinyl chairs and a small table with a kettle on, a tray with a jar of instant coffee and a caddy of tea, two mugs and some powdered milk. The promised colour television rests on a cabinet opposite the bed. But these things don't add any real comfort. You're not supposed to feel at home here. Instead, you're drawn to the window: there you see the road and think of where you are going.

The only random things in the room are some magazines that lie neatly beneath the table, a
Women's Weekly
and a nature journal. There's a desert landscape on its front, with an image of a fish laid over it.
Desert Fish
, it says, in bold type across the rocks and red sand. I trace my fingers around the picture and wonder if it's a joke, the suggestion of fish in a place like that. I want my desert
to be a still life, with everything squeezed out and baked dry. Pure and empty.

I drop the magazine to the floor and press my palm against Pete's back where I know he will feel warm and dry. There's a firmness about him that makes me feel safe. His skin is that even sort of brown you get when the sun soaks in over time. His hands are smooth with big-knuckled fingers and neat square nails. He even has a taste. I move closer and press my tongue against his back, between his shoulderblades. It's still there. It's just the same.

Pete's breathing changes when I do that. He rolls over and opens his eyes.

‘Hey,' he says. ‘You're awake. Feeling better?'

‘Yeah, lots.'

‘Good,' he says, and sits up. ‘You know, I wasn't expecting that, Gilly, what happened back there.' He speaks slowly and carefully. ‘I didn't know what to make of it.' He turns and props the pillow up, leans against it. He brushes the surface of the sheet with one hand. ‘You're not unwell, Gilly?' he asks.

‘I was carsick, Pete.'

‘It's just … Gilly, there can't be any problems where we're going. It's the middle of nowhere. And to be honest, I'd rather have left you with Nora. It's not too late to change your mind.'

‘I was just carsick, Pete,' I insist, trying not to plead. ‘I didn't get enough sleep and I ate too much too quick. I'm fine now.' The thought of it makes my head spin. Going
back there. I couldn't bear it. And Nora, Pete's sister, with her slow deliberate words and her hold on him.

‘I want to be with you, Pete,' I tell him. I can hear the panic in my voice. I mustn't sound desperate. ‘I've waited long enough,' I say. ‘Don't you think?'

I move right up against him, pushing the sheet down so I can feel his skin. He opens his mouth for my kiss and I'm so close to him like that, it's like I'm a part of him again. I smooth my hands down his back. I want him as near as can be. Lips, skin, touch, imprinted on me. Most girls wouldn't want what I want. Not now, so soon after. But I haven't been able to think about anything else. I trail my fingers along the inside of Pete's thigh, and then I try to guide his hands under my clothes. But as soon as they find the loose skin of my stomach he sits up and reaches for his shirt. It sends things tumbling about in my head and churning in my stomach. I keep my eyes averted, for fear of what will be in his face.

‘We should get something to eat, Gilly,' he says. ‘Reckon you can keep it down?'

‘I already said I'm not ill, Pete.' I toss my hair over my shoulder and try to appear nonchalant.

He smiles. ‘Good girl.' He swings his feet over the edge of the bed and opens a drawer. In it is a pile of leaflets, local information and takeaway menus. Flicking through them, he says, ‘We'll get some Chinese. Bring it back. How's that sound?'

‘Great.'

‘The Chinese,' he muses, ‘great migrators.' He drops
the leaflets back onto the table. ‘We'd only have fish and chips to eat in a place like this if it wasn't for them. You'll get a Chinese restaurant in just about any town over a certain size.'

Pete can make a whole country seem knowable. Dots on a map you can get in your car and go to. We never had a Chinese restaurant in our town. There was the cafe where my mother worked, which did chicken on a rotisserie and meat pies under a hot counter. And a couple of takeaways that did chips, battered fish and oily frankfurters on sticks.

Pete changes into some shorts and a T-shirt, then he searches for his shoes.

‘Can I come too?' I ask.

‘You should stay here.'

‘It'll be okay, Pete. I'm fine now, really.' Secretly I'm worried he'll not come back. But I can't let on. I mustn't sound desperate. ‘And I could do with some fresh air.'

He's silent for a minute and I take it as a no, but after he's found his shoes he turns to me and says, ‘Go on then. Get your gear on. No dramas though, Gilly.'

I pull on my canvas shoes. On the way out to the car I offer my hand, only tentatively, not so it'd be obvious if he didn't take it, but he does, and I turn my face to hide my smile.

 

When we drive back to the motel with our dinner it's properly dark and you can see the neon sign flashing. The
pool area is lit up and the suntanned woman is standing near a barbecue. She's changed into a short frock and heels. Her husband is with her, turning steaks. I can't help staring at him, her red-blooded male. Even in this light you can tell he's a good deal younger than Pete. He's tall and thickset, and his hair curls around his face.

She waves as I get out of the car. ‘You can join us if you like,' she calls.

Her husband looks up and Pete gives him a cursory nod.

‘Who's she?' Pete asks. He cups his hand beneath my elbow, steering me towards our room.

‘I was talking to her today, out by the pool while you were asleep.'

I wave back to her and call, ‘Thanks anyway,' indicating the take-out. ‘Maybe see you tomorrow.'

Pete drops my arm as soon as we're in the room. The warmth of his hand remains there on my skin. Silently he lays our food out on the bedside table. Foil tubs with rice and noodles, meat in a sweet-smelling sauce. He opens one labelled chow mein and I'm suddenly disappointed that despite its unfamiliar smell the vegetables studded through it are merely peas and carrots.

When the silence becomes unbearable I break into it. ‘She's nice,' I offer, ‘that woman. I met her today. By the pool.'

‘Is that right?' Pete murmurs.

‘I didn't meet her husband though.' I can hear my voice running on, my words tripping over themselves. ‘He was at work. But she travels with him all the time.
She said it's really boring, but she doesn't mind.' I pause and slow down a little. ‘And I told her I'm like that too. I don't mind at all.'

Pete takes a long time to sort out the plastic knives and forks.

‘You were asleep,' I remind him. ‘I tried to sleep too, but I couldn't. I couldn't stop thinking. So I went out by the pool and she was there. We chatted for a while.'

‘Yes, Gilly, you already said that.'

Pete looks down and scratches his head in a way that's suddenly familiar. It's a disconnecting sort of gesture.

‘You know, Gilly,' he says, ‘I'm not sure what's in your head at the moment. But I'm guessing you need to lie low for a while … I don't know if you're expecting anyone to come looking for you.'

It's like he's stuck a pin in me and burst something. I look down and blink hard.

‘Are you, Gilly?' he persists. ‘Are you thinking someone might come looking for you?'

‘No,' I say. ‘No, Pete, please, don't.' It doesn't seem fair, hinting at what we have left behind when we're on our way to a new life.

Pete scratches the hair at the back of his head now, and rubs his forehead. ‘Chrissake,' he breathes. He picks up a fork and begins portioning meat and sauce over the tubs of rice. Without meeting my eye, he says, ‘Maybe you should avoid making friends, Gilly. Just for now?' He puts the fork down and some rice falls from it, the grains separate and scatter across the table. ‘Gilly?'

‘Yes, Pete. Yes, you're right.'

‘We'll be gone soon anyway.'

 

After dinner Pete watches the colour telly. He lies, not quite stretched but in a relaxed pose on one side of the bed, turned carefully away from me. There are two channels you can watch, and when the first program finishes, he gets up off the bed and switches the channel himself. He doesn't ask me to do it, even though I'm nearby.

I kneel on the floor beside the bed and unpack my suitcase, reminding myself of what I have with me, and sorting out the things that might still fit my unfamiliar body. I repack slowly, putting the clothes that are too small, at the bottom.

I've brought nothing of her with me. While I was in the hospital, I left her things in the nursery, scattered carefully on the white cabinet beside her cot or folded into the drawer. Some baby powder. A blanket. Those romper suits and knitted booties – Nora must have packed them for me, because I was determinedly unprepared. I kept my own things close together and, as much as possible, away from the baby's.

After my clothes are packed there is only that drawstring bag, closed tight around a collection of things that I've kept with me through everything. At the bottom I can feel the key from the tin at the river, and I put my fingers around it, feeling its reassuring shape through the cloth. It's like a charm, that key. I glance up at Pete
without letting it go and he notices me. His look is gentle enough, his face is relaxed.

‘All packed now, Gilly?' he asks.

‘Yeah.'

I put the drawstring bag back inside the suitcase and then I get up on the bed beside Pete. Comforted by his nearness I fall into a doze with the soft flicker of the colour telly softening the darkness around me.

When Pete turns out the light I wake and remember that key. My blood races as I lie there deciding when to move, what to do to make him aware of me. When I can't bear it I roll over to face him but his breathing has sunk into a long deep rhythm and he doesn't stir. I touch his face. He can't be asleep yet, not so quickly, but he doesn't open his eyes. Underneath his T-shirt his skin is warm and promising. I let my hand slip across it, feeling the hair beneath his navel and how it trails thin, downwards. I go there, hoping he will give me a sign that he wants something from me. Anything. I lick my lips.

But he only grunts and turns away from me, rolling over and drawing his knees up. His breathing doesn't shift at all.

Tears prickle behind my eyes. My arms shake. I am too full, somehow. I want too much. But it was so hard to be left waiting. Not knowing when he'd come for me. Or if he'd come at all.

But he's here now
, I tell myself.
He didn't leave me there. He came when I asked, and now we're together
.
Nothing else matters.

With my eyes closed, I can keep the tears in. I can put it all away, safe inside.

I'm a girl who can disappear
, I tell myself.
I'm a girl who can disappear.
Over and over, because I am not the girl I was. I am someone else, in this new life with Pete, and reminding myself of that, I begin to feel better.