Lost & Found (24 page)

M
illie wakes up. Pinches herself. She’s not dead. She looks at Manny. He is all melted. She runs her fingers over his face. His shirt is stuck to his body. She holds her beer cozy in front of her and stares at it. Traces her finger around the edges of Australia. She wonders where she is right now, and imagines a pulsing red light blinking at her on the beer cozy, and a neon sign:
You Are Here.
She gets out of the car and walks around it.
Karl?
she says, looking under it. She climbs onto the roof.
Agatha?
she says.

The sun is starting to light things up. They’re parked near a huge cliff. She stands at the cliff edge, and feels the wind so strong against her clothes, rippling them like water. Her cape flies out behind her, and she sticks her arms out in front of her, like she’s preparing to fly. The drop to the ocean is so far below. There is so much space out here. The sound of the waves against the cliff and the rocks is deafening.

She’s surprised to see a man on the edge of the cliff, about fifty meters away. He’s facing away from her and hits golf balls into the water. She watches him for a few minutes. Watches him swing far up behind his shoulder, and follow through, watches the ball move so far, so high, and then drop, all the way through that space, and into the ocean. She wonders what it would feel like to be that ball; she imagines flying through the air, her cape billowing out, and then dropping, dropping, so fast, losing her stomach, and plunging into the ocean, the water swallowing her up.

She walks up next to him.
You’re gonna die, you know
, she says.

Shit!
He jumps, turning toward her, his golf club raised.
Bloody hell, love.
He scans the area behind her.
You just crash-land your alien ship or something?

No. How long till Melbourne?

Where’s Mum and Dad?

How many kilometers? Exactly?

Oh, jeez, love. Ages. I dunno—about fifteen hundred k’s?

Will you take me there? I have something very important to do there today.

Nah, love
, he says.
Goin’ the other way.

Okay
, she says, sighing, turning, walking away, because she is SO SICK of grown-ups and their promises and the fact that they never do anything for you, and she decides that she is most definitely going to do every single little thing on her own,
because she is the only one she can trust, and she knows that whatever she says in her head she will do, and that words people say can go either way, they can be true or they can be false, she is sickofit sickofit SICKOFIT. She knows Karl and Agatha have gone off somewhere and left her, she knows her mum doesn’t want to be found, but she doesn’t care, she is Captain Funeral, and she is the boss of herself.

You orright, love?

Where’s Mum and Dad?

They’re dead

You wouldn’t know

You’re just an adult

She opens the car door and climbs onto Manny, kissing him softly on the forehead, like her dad used to do to her, and she drags him out of the car and toward the edge of the cliff. His body makes lines in the ground, and red dust sparkles in the morning light. She is going to fly him to Melbourne, she will do it, she will do it right now, because no one else is going to do it, no one else is going to help her; she is going to have to be strong, she will hold him under one arm, and she will jump, and she’ll fly up in the air like the golf ball, but she’ll keep going, and Karl and Agatha and her mum will be sorry, they will be very, very sorry, and they will all say,
SORRYMILLIESORRYMILLIESORRYMILLIE, WE ARE SO SORRY, MILLIE.

K
arl and Agatha return to the car like teenagers. Karl actually slaps Agatha on the bum. And she actually giggles. They are caked in red dirt. Their hair sticks out at odd angles. The air shakes between them when they look at each other, and Agatha feels like women would be jealous of her, and really, that’s all she’s ever wanted.

But then.

Millie?
Karl says when he reaches the door. He turns around.
Millie?
he shouts.

Agatha puts her face against the car window.
Millie?
she breathes into the glass.
Millie!
she yells in the other direction.

They run around the car in circles, checking underneath it and on top of it. They both keep saying,
Millie
as if it’s the final word in a magic spell. She’s nowhere to be seen, and it’s so flat out here. Agatha turns around and around on the spot, scanning the landscape, willing Millie’s shape to appear in front of
her. Agatha looks toward the cliff and has to lean onto the bonnet of the car for support because the thought has arrived in her mind with a knee-collapsing suddenness:
That’s it, out there, that’s where she is, that’s the only place
. The unsurvivableness of out there is what makes her knees buckle.

Karl spots a man, a golf club resting on his shoulder, walking toward them with a relaxed gait that seems disrespectful.
Excuse me
, Karl says and runs over to him.
Have you seen a little girl?
He holds his hand out to his side to indicate her height. In the wind, all Agatha can hear the man say is,
Melbourne
and
odd
and
draggin’ somethin’ toward them cliffs
.

She watches Karl grab the man’s collar and say,
Why didn’t you stop her?
and the man push Karl in the chest and say,
Hands off, mate
. So Agatha takes a big breath and walks toward the cliff edge.

Agatha walks as fast as her fear will let her. She can hear the men yelling at each other behind her and she is tired of yelling, so very tired of loud noises coming from people’s mouths, especially her own, and the ocean is so enormous in front of her, it is so endless; even when it looks like it ends, she knows it doesn’t. She stops a couple of meters from the edge, kneels down, and lies on her stomach. She pulls herself forward, feeling the gravel scraping her legs. She grunts with the effort. She grabs the edge with both hands and peers over it.

Millie
, she calls, but it’s lost in the wind. She says it over and over again, as if trying to wake Millie from a deep sleep. Agatha
scans the ocean for any signs of her, but there are none, and she has killed her, she has killed this tiny girl, and it is her fault, it is her fault, and she buries her face in the dirt and sobs.

But.
Agatha?

Agatha shoots her head up, looks toward the voice, there is something there, but without her glasses she can’t make anything out properly.
Millie?

Agatha
, someone replies faintly, and it has to be Millie’s voice, so Agatha crawls along the cliff edge toward the voice. And then she sees her, clutching that plastic man, standing on a small ledge jutting out from under the cliff edge like a sulky bottom lip.

Millie
, Agatha doesn’t know what else to say. What do you say? How do you ever know what to say?

Millie looks up at her. She’s crying. Agatha has never seen her look so wild.
Rack off, Agatha
, she says.
I don’t need you. I’m fine on my own.

I’m sorry, Millie
, Agatha says, crawling closer. The ledge looks unstable, like it could break off at any moment.

No you’re not.

Don’t move
, Agatha says. She looks behind her for Karl’s help but he’s still arguing with the stranger.

You’re not the boss of me, Agatha Pantha
, Millie says, turning away from her.

No
, Agatha says.
I’m not.

You’ll just leave me.

Agatha looks toward the car again, wishing Karl would come, wishing for his help. The drop to the ocean is making her dizzy. Forcing herself to look down, Agatha says,
That’s true. I will one day. That’s what life is, Millie
. The air is crisp and cold and the noise of the ocean is so overpowering.
But while we’re both alive, wouldn’t it be nice to be friends?

I’m doing it, Agatha
, Millie says.
And you can’t stop me. No one can.

No, Millie
, Agatha says, and she doesn’t even think, her body just does; she will think later, is that what it feels like to have a child? To do without thinking? To be so outside of your own body and so inside of theirs? She slides herself down onto the ledge, scraping her legs and arms, but she doesn’t feel it, because she’s trying to keep her eye on Millie, trying to grab her, just to get to her, but Agatha is so far away, she will never reach her, she’s on her hands and knees and she tries to yell out to her, but the words won’t come, her throat feels like it’s closing, and she watches helplessly as Millie hugs that stupid plastic man to her and takes a step toward the ocean, and Agatha shuts her eyes and stops breathing altogether and hopes you can die from making yourself stop breathing because there’s nothing else left to do.

But after a few long seconds of holding her breath, she feels a warmth next to her. Agatha opens her eyes, and Millie is there, standing right next to her, looking down at the ocean. Agatha follows her gaze and it’s that plastic man, falling,
falling, falling. Millie’s cape is tied around his neck and for a moment it looks like he’s flying. He hits the ocean with a tiny splash and then bobs to the surface.

Agatha sits up and takes a deep breath, one that inhales and doesn’t just breathe; one that takes in all the atoms from this moment and keeps them in her lungs.

Millie wipes her eyes with her sleeve and sits down next to Agatha.
What does abandoned mean?

There’s a smattering of peaks in the ocean like a classroom of children raising their hands. Agatha pauses. Every thought, every breath, every movement feels so important in this landscape. Words seem to count more.
Left behind
, she replies.

Lost?

Sort of.
Without looking at Millie, Agatha reaches for her hand and holds it really, really tight.

When Karl finds them, his shirt is ripped and his hair is all mussed up. He helps them climb up the ledge and hugs them both. Agatha relays the fate of his plastic companion. Karl feigns indifference. Millie informs him that they can share Manny’s leg and this seems an agreeable thing to Karl. They all pile into the car and drive away from the Bight, feeling the presence of one another amid the drama of the landscape. Agatha listens to the quiet. Millie puts her hand on her reflection hand in the window. And Karl smiles because he’s written,
WE ARE HERE
in the dust on the bonnet.

T
en years from now, Agatha will sit at Karl’s hospital bed and watch his life end in front of her. Millie will be in a different country and will miss it, but she will return for the funeral. In her eulogy, she will say,
Karl is my best friend
, and she will use the present tense on purpose. Agatha will die three months later, and it will be Millie who finds her, dead in her armchair, and Millie will believe she looks happy-sad. Millie will die, too, eventually, like everything does, leaving behind an ex-husband and two grown children. It will be an accident, it will be quick, and her last thought will not be a thought at all:
What will I—

But they don’t know any of this yet.

Because for now, Millie, Karl, and Agatha drive back the way they
came.

I
know Mum believed moments of thanks between human beings to be one of the most important things. She taught me to write ridiculously thoughtful thank-you notes to everyone for everything they ever did for me. I didn’t understand it then—less time to spend on staring/dancing to Bananarama/writing obvious Roald Dahl nonsense poetry knock-offs, as far as I was concerned. But as you get older, things your mum once said can have such a ring of inevitability about them that you’re not sure how you ever thought differently.

But how do you thank a bunch of people who made you who you are, who made you better, who gave you and your work worth? You just tell them, I guess.

I wrote
Lost & Found
as part of a PhD at Curtin University in Western Australia, so thanks must firstly go to Curtin and its inhabitants. They gave me a scholarship, a space to write, and a heap of mentors and friends whom I plan to bug for my
whole entire life, whether they like it or not. I was an unknown, wanting to make space in her life to write a novel, and Curtin University gave me the social, cultural, and financial permission to do that. I’m so grateful.

More specifically, thanks to my two supervisors, David Whish-Wilson and Ann McGuire. Dave was such a calming presence, pushing me to “cut the cute” in
Lost & Found
, and having faith in my ability when I didn’t. Most of our supervision meetings often descended into dissections of the AFL, and I now deem that to be a vital part in my creative process. Ann didn’t run away when I cried my story to her upon our first meeting, but instead gave me a whole bunch of tissues and made me feel like it was her project too. Special mention must also go to Julienne van Loon, who—although not directly involved—seemed to always have time for me if I needed it.

So many people read
Lost & Found
in its various forms while I was writing it, and then said all sorts of helpful stuff: Jeremy Hoare, who knows the story better than I do, and who is my Ideas Man; Mark Russell, who showed me where all the commas are supposed to go, and said in his polite way, “No one would fit in a ceiling vent, ever”; George Poulakis, who showed me where the commas are supposed to go when I forgot them again; Sam Carmody, who is my other (equally as important) Ideas Man, plus Therapist, plus Food Quality Control Manager; Sarah Hart, who read an early draft when she had more important things going on; Julia Lörsch, my emotional barometer,
who cried reading parts of it; Elizabeth Tan, who gave me such thoughtful notes; James Stables, who spent most of the time reminding me that his tax dollars were going toward its creation; the girls from Beaufort Street Books—Jane Seaton, Geraldine Blake, and Anna Hueppauff—who read it so enthusiastically; Adam Brenner, who told me he thought people would actually buy it; my dad, Ken Davis, who read every draft with an urgency only a proud parent could pull off. He dutifully called it a “masterpiece” and gave me a two-page list of reasons as to why I should take out the swearing; his partner, Lorraine Jennings, whose eagle eye prevented me from making embarrassing errors; my older brother, Rhett Davis, who read many drafts of it, quickly and without fuss, and always gave me important insights; my younger brother, Ben Davis, who read it on his iPad in Romania, and didn’t seem to have much to say about it.

Thank you also to those involved in the Curtin workshops, who helped me with early decision-making: Eva Bujalka, Steven Finch, Maureen Gibbons, Simone Hughes, Laura King, Kerstin Kugler, Kandace Maverick, Paul McLaughlan, Max Noakes, Ian Nicholls, Rosemary Stevens, Marcia Van Zeller, and Yvette Walker. I feel very lucky to have been at Curtin University during this time, surrounded by such exciting talent.

Is it too much like an Oscar speech to name the teachers who have helped me find out writing was something I wanted to do? Probably, but I’m doing it. To Barb Tobin, whom I still want to impress. I showed her a poem when I was nine and she
pointed to a line in it and told me I’d written a metaphor. I remember what it was but it was pretty average, to be honest, so let’s pretend I don’t. Mr. Robertson, who was so encouraging of me in primary school, and Ms. McCarthy, who gave me my first B in high school English, and consequently taught me not to get complacent. I still think about that B and get a little pissed. At university, Francesca Rendle-Short taught me about experimental writing, and Felicity Packard taught me to be sparing with my prose. And Jen Webb, while I was not taught by her, has always been so supportive of me and my work.

To the cafés in various states and countries that put up with me skulking about their spaces for hours and hours while I sipped at an endless pot of tea. Seriously, I spent ages in those places and barely spent a cent and they seemed to be cool with it. A particular thank-you to the girls at 50mL in Leederville. Your chai and warm hospitality was (and continues to be) so appreciated.

To Denise Roy and Adrienne Kerr for taking a chance on an Australian writer they’d never heard of with such warmth and enthusiasm and for giving
Lost & Found
a North American home.

Thanks to Craig Silvey, who took time out of his much more important life to give me some encouragement, and who pointed me in the direction of Benython Oldfield from Zeitgeist Media Group Literary Agency, whom I must also thank, as well as his European counterpart, Sharon Galant, and their North American compatriot from Foundry Literary & Media Agency, Stéphanie Abou. Thank you all for general awesomeness, and
for helping Millie, Karl, and Agatha find their way in the big, wide world.

I decided I’d like to make a book trailer for
Lost & Found
and mentioned it to a few talented people I know. They were pretty enthusiastic about it and three weeks later—without any prodding from me—it was done. I didn’t expect that to happen. Thank you to my glorious sister-in-law, Tara Coady, for her art, patience, and careful video production; to musical wunderkind Bensen Thomas for making me a whole song; to the brilliant Matilda Griffiths for being the most perfect Millie Bird; and to the too-wonderful-for-words Todd Griffiths for his late-night audio-production efforts and permission to borrow his daughter’s voice, even though she had to say “poop.”

I really, really need to thank the ladies at Beaufort Street Books and Torquay Books. They let me work at their shops, and give me a pretty mental amount of support. My two bosses—Jane Seaton and Rosemary Featherston—work so hard for this industry for little glory and they make me feel proud to be a part of it. Let’s be kind to booksellers and make sure they stick around.

There are people who have shared their grief with me and who aren’t scared when I share mine, and I believe this to be a wonderful thing. I reckon grief can be lighter if there is sharing and listening. I’ve done this with strangers and acquaintances and customers and friends and family members, but I must thank particularly Jodi Ladhams, Jeremy Hoare, and Anna Hueppauff, whose intimate grief I have been privy to, and
whose strength I am in awe of. This book is for Ruby, Cedric, Elli, and Kaiser, too. I’d also like to thank Chris Donahoe, whose emotional support during the early stages of this project (and my own grief) was so important.

Thanks, also, to my grandparents, Ken and Lorna Davis, and Ted and Jean Newton, for your stories and time and care. In your different ways you helped me understand that old people weren’t always old. A particular thank-you to Nanna Jean, who is still plugging away at ninety years of age, even though she thinks my name is Judy, and that I’m forty-five.

And then there are the people who are just there, all the time, even when they’re not. I’m lookin’ at YOU, family, particularly: Mum, Dad, Rhett, and Ben. I am who I am, and do what I do, because of all of you.

But mostly, of course, to Mum: thank you.

This thing (writing a book, being alive) doesn’t feel quite right without you.