Mothers and Daughters (17 page)

Even Morag had made an effort—Morag, who was the most likely of them to turn up to school drop-off in her slightly damp running gear, and to still be wearing it at pick-up six hours later. Today, though, she had put on a dress. Amira hadn’t known that Morag even owned a dress.

‘You look nice,’ she’d said as Morag climbed into the front seat beside her.

‘Huh.’ Morag had exhaled so heavily that her fringe rose in the updraft. ‘It’s my last taste of freedom. Thought I better
make the most of it.’ She looked at her watch. ‘What time did you say the mail van gets in—around four? I’ve got five hours left. Step on it.’

Amira had backed carefully out of the community car park, swung the vehicle around, then turned left at the sign pointing to Cape Leveque. As soon as they hit the bitumen she called back to Fiona, ‘Hey, there’s an esky behind the back seat. I thought we could all do with a pre-lunch drink.’

Fiona undid her seatbelt and contorted herself to find it, bottom thrust into the air.

‘Woo hoo!’ she said, coming back up clutching a can of premixed spirits and a bottle of Corona. ‘Gin and tonic—that’s for me. Who else wants one, or a beer? They’re cold too.’

‘There’s some cans of Coke for the girls, and a few bottles of Matso’s,’ Amira called over her shoulder. ‘That’s ginger beer from a little brewery in Broome. It tastes amazing, and it’s alcoholic—it is our day out, after all.’

Fiona yanked back the ring-pull on her can of gin and tonic and took a long first swallow. ‘You’re alright, once we get you away from that place. God, I needed this. Cheers!’

‘Are you going to have anything?’ Morag asked, accepting a bottle of Matso’s passed up by Caro.

‘One of the Cokes, if there’s any left.’ Amira negotiated a cattle grid, then said, ‘So you obviously didn’t change your mind about going to pick Macy up yourself?’

‘No fear,’ replied Morag, twisting off the cap. ‘I s’pose if there hadn’t been any other option I could’ve taken one of the community cars like you suggested, but I didn’t fancy doing that drive by myself.’ She lifted the bottle to her mouth, took
a sip and coughed. ‘Wow—that’s spicy. Good, though.’ She swallowed again. ‘But it wasn’t really the drive, anyway. I mean, bugger Macy, and bugger Andrew too. Why should I waste a whole day racing off to fetch her? I’ve only got a few left. The mail van will be perfect—and if it arrives at Kalangalla before we get back, well, she can just sit tight and wait. It’s not like I’ve never hung around for her before.’

Amira smiled. ‘Andrew’s lucky to have you.’

Morag snorted. ‘Yeah, well, can you tell him that? He thinks I should try harder with her, talk to her more often. Fat chance. When she’s with us she’s too busy teasing Torran, or she’s locked away listening to music. Besides, she doesn’t want to talk to me. I’m just the housekeeper, the one who nags her to strip her bed at the end of the fortnight, or bloody well tell me when she finishes all the orange juice rather than just leave the container in the bin. She doesn’t even recycle!’

Amira had to stifle a laugh. ‘You’re the wicked stepmother, huh?’

Morag stared out the window, the bottle nestled in her lap. ‘Not wicked. Irrelevant. I’m nothing—or worse, I’m just a nag, that shrew that her father’s married to. She adores Andrew and the boys, but I just serve the meals and buy the washing powder. She’s never once asked me about my life, about my job or my mum or anything I’m interested in.’

‘She’s probably the same with Janice, you know. What you’re describing sounds like pretty typical sixteen-year-old behaviour to me. It’s rarely terminal. She’ll grow out of it.’

‘Maybe. If I don’t kill her first.’ Morag sighed. ‘But anyway, it’s different for Janice. She loves her regardless, like you love
Tess and I love Finn and Callum and Torran. It’s so much harder loving somebody you didn’t choose. It’s not impossible—she can be fabulous—but it’s love you have to work at, like practising your French, or keeping up with the weeding, or . . . or . . .’ She cast around for inspiration. ‘Or doing your pelvic floor exercises.’

This time Amira laughed out loud. ‘Sorry,’ she said, glancing across at Morag. ‘So Macy inspires you to clench and release, to keep yourself toned? Andrew should be grateful for that, at least.’

‘Oh, you,’ Morag said, but she was smiling too.

Bronte was the first out of the car when they arrived at the resort.

‘This place is amazing,’ she said, looking around. ‘Those cliffs—they’re so red. And the beach. It’s just beautiful, and there’s no one on it!’

‘That’s the western beach,’ Amira said. ‘It’s a bit dangerous for swimming—strong tides and deep water—but it’s great for walks, and there’s wonderful snorkelling just around the corner on the eastern beach.’ She paused while the others climbed down from the troop carrier. ‘We’re on a point, the very tip of Cape Leveque. The restaurant and some of the campground is here, but the other accommodation is up the hill, below the lighthouse.’

‘Wajarrgi,’ said Bronte, reading the sign. ‘But you just called it Cape Leveque.’

‘It’s the Bardi name for this area,’ Amira said. ‘They’re the local tribe. The community at One Arm Point just up the road owns this place. A lot of them work here. The plan is that one day it will be wholly Aboriginal run.’

‘It isn’t now?’ Bronte asked.

‘Not yet. You’ll see lots of Indigenous staff, but the management are still white. It all takes time.’

‘Oh, thank
God
,’ shrieked Janey, gazing at her phone. ‘They have wifi here. It’s working! I can check my emails and update Facebook.’

Immediately Caro, Fiona and Morag were fossicking in their bags, while Tess craned her neck to see what Janey was doing. Out of the corner of her eye, Amira caught a glimpse of movement, a flash of black and white. She turned her head towards it, gazing out over the ocean. There it was again . . . a whale, probably a humpback on its annual migration, breaching far out to sea. ‘Hey!’ she shouted, but nobody looked up. They were too busy checking their phones.

Caro excused herself and moved to the furthermost edge of the deck where they were sitting, checking the reception on her phone as she went. One bar, two . . . that would do. Fiona had tried to stop her, had poured a glass of wine and held it out invitingly, but Caro had pushed in her chair and walked away. The wine could wait. Speaking with April was far more important.

The line was engaged. ‘Damn,’ Caro muttered under her breath. Who could Maria be talking to? She never used the phone much, too conscious of her limited English, and seemed to be becoming even more afraid of it as her hearing failed. Caro made a mental note to take her to the audiologist when
she was home again. Maria would probably be too vain to wear a hearing aid, but Caro still had to try, didn’t she? It wasn’t as if Alex would do anything about it. She selected the number again and waited, palms sweaty. Still engaged. Caro felt her chest tighten. She just wanted to talk to April. Was that too much to ask? It had been three days since she had seen her. They’d never been apart that long before. She’d checked her messages as soon as she’d arrived at the resort and there were none from Maria, but that didn’t mean everything was OK. April would have to be lying unconscious in a hospital bed before Maria would think to try to contact her. The thought sent a wash of nausea through Caro’s gullet, and sweat broke out on her forehead. She could see it so clearly: April pallid and unresponsive, a bandage wrapped around her scalp, dotted in places with blood, her blonde hair shorn off so that the surgeons could get to her skull fracture.
Stop it
, she told herself, pinching the inside of her wrist. It was a trick her therapist had taught her, the idea being that the pain would return her to reality, derail the escalating anxiety. Yet the image of April remained—inert, all alone in a cold white room while a heart machine beeped accusingly beside her. In desperation, Caro bit down hard on her tongue. That was her own trick, the one she kept for when the pinching didn’t work. The rusty tang of blood spread through her mouth, making her gag, but she was calmer now. She was just being stupid, she told herself, dialling again. April would be fine.

This time the line was free, and after four rings Maria picked up.

‘
Pronto
,’ she said.

‘Maria, it’s me. Who were you talking to?’ Caro demanded, suddenly furious at her for not answering her when she’d first called. As she spoke, a fleck of blood flew from her mouth onto her arm. Caro licked her index finger and rubbed it away. Thank goodness it hadn’t landed on her white shirt. She had to be more careful.

‘Ah, Caroline,’ said Maria. ‘I have been speaking with Alessandro. He a good boy, he ring his mumma.’

Caro did a quick calculation. It was early morning in Rome. A good boy? Huh. She wondered when he was planning to ring her. There hadn’t been a message on her phone from him either.

‘He had dinner with Tony last night,’ Maria went on. ‘He wanted to tell me about it. You remember Tony, he married to Teresa, my sister’s second girl. They have three children. Alessandro said they went to a very nice place—’

‘Is April there?’ Caro interrupted. She wanted to scream. She didn’t care about any of it, she just wanted to speak to her daughter.

‘
Scusi
,’ Maria said with an injured air. She let the silence between them hang for a moment, in case Caro wanted to apologise. When it became clear that this would not be forthcoming, she went on, ‘April is at Natarsha’s. The one from her class. They are having a play date.’ She pronounced the last two words slowly and carefully, clearly pleased with herself for remembering the expression. Caro barely heard her. Hot tears sprung to her eyes. She blinked furiously, staring unseeingly at the red cliffs edging the ocean. It was silly to be so upset, but she missed April. She adored Janey every bit as much, of
course, but somehow her love for her younger daughter felt easier, less fraught. Maybe it was just that April was still a child, had not yet been overthrown by adolescence; maybe, she admitted, it was because April still told her she loved her, still wanted to climb into her bed and cuddle up with her, didn’t wince or pout or sigh every time Caro spoke to her.

‘Oh.’ Caro swallowed. ‘I was hoping to talk to her. How is she? Is she OK?’

‘She fine. She good girl. Good eater.’ Maria paused, then added, ‘It is very nice to have her. You don’t bring her here enough.’

Caro’s temper flared. Right, because she had so much time to be lugging April across town to visit Maria, what with her work and Janey’s swimming, and running the house and Alex never home . . . Alex, she thought, Maria’s precious Alessandro. Didn’t he have a role to play in this? She could bet Maria hadn’t spent her phone call to her son ticking
him
off. Alessandro could do no wrong.

‘She should stay more often,’ Maria continued. ‘It is better with her here. The house is . . . happier.’

And just like that, Caro’s anger evaporated. Maria was lonely, had been lonely and aimless and bereft ever since Alex’s father died two and a half years earlier. Caro knew that, she just didn’t like to think about it too much. She was too
busy
to think about it. If she acknowledged it she’d have to do something about it, and ignorance was easier to sustain than guilt. She should make more of an effort with Maria, she really should; the woman was old and isolated, and she wouldn’t be with them forever. But Jesus, she thought, clutching
the phone, Maria had two sons. Why should it fall to her, the barely tolerated daughter-in-law, to look after their mother? Why did anything involving caregiving automatically become the domain of women?

Caro promised that she would bring the girls over more often, then mumbled her goodbyes and ended the call. It had only been three or four minutes, yet she was utterly exhausted. Conversing with Maria invariably left her like this: drained, irate, found wanting. She needed to sit down; she needed that wine. Caro started back to the table. Did Maria feel the same? she wondered. Did she also hang up feeling frustrated, misunderstood, and not quite sure why? It must be tough watching your child fall in love with someone else, witnessing the transfer of their allegiance. Being a mother was hard enough; she wasn’t sure she could cope with becoming a mother-in-law. Still, Caro realised as she rejoined the group, the alternative was worse. Her own mother had never had that option.

‘Sorry I was so long,’ she said as she sat back down at the table. ‘Have you ordered? I hope you didn’t wait for me.’

‘Not yet,’ said Amira. ‘We’ve been a bit distracted.’ She tilted her head slightly in the direction of the adjacent table. It had been empty when Caro left to call Maria, but it was now crowded with men. Young men. So was the one next to it, Caro noticed, and also the long table at the front of the deck overlooking the sea . . . In her absence, the tiny restaurant had been overrun by flashing grins and broad shoulders and large strong hands lifting glasses to mouths.

‘Lordy,’ she said, looking around. ‘We’re outnumbered.’

‘Isn’t it great?’ said Fiona, fanning herself with her menu. ‘You didn’t tell me lunch was going to be a smorgasbord, Amira. I think I’ll just pick the dish I want. Or dishes.’