Mothers and Daughters (21 page)

There they were. Fiona could just make out Morag, Caro and the three girls at the edge of the ocean, pulling on flippers and rash tops, Janey’s bright hair glinting in the sun. They were welcome to it. There was no way she was going snorkelling, not while she had her period. Every shark in the area would be onto her within minutes. Shit, she was probably meant to embrace that too, wasn’t she? The beauty and wonder of her monthly cycle, the miracle of bleeding like a stuck pig, of cramps that knocked the wind out of her and undies that had to be left to soak for days. Beneath the table, the fish that she’d caught twitched in its polystyrene esky. Fiona kicked the box. Wasn’t it dead
yet
? She hadn’t even gone into the lagoon past her knees, though that black girl had told her it was perfectly safe. Fiona scoffed. She was young but she’d learn. Nothing was safe, never mind perfect.

Amira placed two glasses and a dark green bottle, already sweating, in the centre of the table, then pulled out the seat opposite Fiona.

‘I got some more ice for your fish,’ she said, tipping it into the esky.

‘Good. Hopefully it will freeze to death. I think it thinks it’s coming back with us as a pet.’

Amira sat down and reached for the wine Fiona had poured. ‘Cheers,’ she said, lifting her glass.

‘Cheers,’ Fiona replied. ‘Thanks for staying with me. I’d’ve hated to have to drink alone.’

‘Like that’s ever stopped you before.’ Amira smiled. ‘Did you ring Todd? What’s news from home?’

‘Nah, couldn’t be bothered. I’ve been gone four days and he hasn’t even left a message.’

‘He might be busy,’ Amira said.

Fiona took a slurp of wine and held it in her mouth, cold and crisp, until it made her teeth ache. Who’d choose snorkelling when they could be doing this? She swallowed, the familiar warmth blooming down her throat and into her stomach. ‘Yeah, I bet he’s busy . . . busy lying on the couch, busy at the TAB, busy drinking beer with Dom.’

‘I’m sure he’s missing you anyway,’ Amira said.

‘It’s alright, Amira.’ Fiona held her gaze across the table, then reached for the bottle to top up her glass. ‘You don’t have to pretend. We both know he isn’t. Just like I’m not missing him. I’m glad to have a break from all his shit for a while, if you must know.’

Amira opened her mouth to reply, but just then a football came sailing across their table, narrowly missing the wine. Without thinking, Fiona put up her arms and caught it, the warm leather stinging her palms.

‘Nice one!’ cried the young man bounding to their table to retrieve it. ‘Sorry about that, but it was a good mark.’ Fiona tossed him the ball and he grabbed it, then peered more closely at her. ‘Hey, you ladies were with that blonde girl earlier today, weren’t you? Is she still here?’

Fiona winced.
Ladies
. She hated that word.

‘She’s gone,’ she said. ‘She was taken by a crocodile just after lunch. Tragic. So young.’

The boy stared at her, then laughed.

‘I thought you were serious for a second.’

He was like a labrador puppy, Fiona thought, bouncy and cute and none too bright. A chocolate lab. She stood up from the table. ‘I want to play too.’

The boy had started back towards his mates, but turned around at her words. ‘What?’

‘Kick-to-kick,’ Fiona said. ‘I want to join in. I used to play it with my husband . . . I’m pretty good. You saw my mark.’

‘I don’t know . . .’ The boy hesitated, trying to work out if she was pulling his leg.

‘You would have let the blonde girl play though, wouldn’t you?’ Fiona said. The sea and the cliffs were spinning slightly, sliding into each other in a blur of red and blue. She must have got up too quickly.

‘Probably,’ the boy conceded. ‘If she was still alive.’

‘Hah!’ Fiona barked. ‘I’m in. Just don’t expect me to go easy on you.’ She pulled off her shoes and jogged towards the group of youths on the grass, still waiting for their ball. Lady, huh? She’d show him. And it was true, she had played with Todd, years ago when they were first dating. They’d been on a picnic down by the Yarra with some other builders he’d gone to TAFE with. While Todd manned the barbecue, one of them had pulled out a Sherrin, handballing it to her while she stood watching. Fiona had three older brothers and she’d kicked it back without thinking, a long low drop punt that streaked through the air like a missile. Todd had put down
his tongs and whistled appreciatively. It was one of the last times she could remember impressing him.

‘You go up that end,’ the young man said as they reached his teammates. ‘Guys,’ he called out, ‘we have a guest. This is . . .’ He looked at her.

‘Fiona,’ she said, panting slightly. She really had to get back to the gym.

‘Fiona,’ he repeated, ‘and she’s got good hands, so watch out.’ He tossed her the ball and she grasped it deftly, conscious of the twenty or so pairs of eyes on her. Fuck, she hoped she could remember how to do that drop punt. She walked back to the edge of the grassed area, trying to recall what her brother Stevo had taught her.
Take a few small steps, arm raised for balance . . . drop the ball straight down and meet it with your foot . . . follow all the way through.
As soon as her foot made contact with the leather she knew it was good. The kick was hard and straight, made the distance and then some. A spindly boy at the other end rose up from the pack as if on strings and plucked it out of the air.

‘Alright,’ grunted the player next to her, then moved to take the mark as the footy flew back. He passed it to her and she kicked again, bare skin stinging as it smacked the red leather. It hurt, but Fiona didn’t care. Alright? She was bloody fantastic. If only Todd could see her. She still had it; she’d show them all a thing or two.

The next thing she knew she was flat on her back, staring up at the sky, her mouth filling with blood. The good-looking boy who’d come to their table was bending over her, face anxious.

‘Are you OK?’ he asked. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have kicked it so hard. I thought you’d mark it again, like you did last time.’

Mark it? Fiona closed her eyes. She hadn’t even seen it. Her tongue probed for the source of the wound and came up against something gritty. Oh, fuck. Please God, not her teeth.

Someone thumped down beside her. ‘Fiona!’ Amira shrieked in her ear. ‘Are you alright? Do you need a doctor? Can you sit up?’ She started tugging at Fiona’s blouse and Fiona pushed her away, scared she was going to tear it.

‘I’m fine,’ she said, struggling to rise. A trickle of blood seeped down her chin and she swiped at it with the back of her hand, embarrassed.

‘We need to get you back to the table so I can have a look at you,’ Amira said, hauling her to her feet. ‘Do you want me to fetch Bronte?’

‘What use would she be?’ Fiona snapped. She allowed herself to be led away, careful not to meet the gaze of any of the development squad.

Amira eased Fiona into her chair, then dabbed at her mouth with a serviette. ‘I think it’s OK,’ she pronounced. ‘You’ve cut your top lip, but everything else seems intact. Have a rinse with this so I can be sure.’ She handed Fiona a glass of water, and Fiona took it obediently, swishing the tepid liquid around her mouth, then spitting it onto the ground.

‘Are my teeth all there?’ she asked, leaning across the table and opening her mouth as wide as she could.

‘They’re fine,’ said Amira.

A surge of relief washed through Fiona. It must have been dirt she had felt, or sand or grit, something off the football.

‘God, I’m an idiot,’ she said. The relief was quickly ebbing, replaced by shame. ‘Fuck, I thought I was so good, mixing it with the big boys.’

Amira allowed herself to smile. ‘You
were
good. Right up until the moment you got one in the gob.’ She reached for Fiona’s hand. ‘It must have hurt. Are you sure you don’t want me to find Bronte? We can get going if you like.’

Fiona shook her head. ‘I told you, she’s no help. She’d only get all upset and go to pieces.’

Amira sighed. ‘You’re too hard on her, you know. She’s a lovely girl—clever, attractive, caring.’

Fiona laughed, then winced. Her lip was throbbing. ‘She cares too much, that’s her problem. She’s always mooning over books or pictures, or fretting about something someone said to her. She couldn’t sleep last night, and when I told her to stop tossing and turning she said she kept thinking about what your friend Mason said yesterday, about what happened to his wife’s mother.’ Fiona peered around the table. Bloody hell, had the waiter cleared the wine while she was off being Jesaulenko? ‘If I’m hard on her, as you say, it’s because she needs to toughen up. Otherwise the world’s going to eat her alive.’

With her free hand, Amira rolled the bloodstained serviette into a ball and dropped it on the table. ‘Maybe she needs to find that out herself. Maybe she’ll surprise you. And maybe, too, the world would be better off with more people like Bronte in it, people who give a damn.’

‘I’m just thinking of her,’ Fiona said stubbornly. ‘She’s smart—she’s really smart, you know that. She got that scholarship without even being coached for it, without me
lugging her off to Kumon every week like the Asians do with their kids. I just don’t want her to waste her opportunities, to end up spending her days caring for sick kittens or homeless people or something, or with a huge mortgage around her neck like us. She’s better than that. I want her to have it all.’

‘Yeah, but what does
she
want?’ Amira asked. ‘If it is to look after sick kittens, what are you going to do? You can’t change that. Kids are who they are. We all are.’

Fiona risked a glance at the footballers. They’d gone back to their game, leaping and spinning as gracefully as if they were in a ballet. ‘I wanted to study volcanoes when I was fourteen,’ she said eventually. ‘I thought they were fascinating. Still do. The way they just erupt like that and no one can predict it. I told my mum when we had to choose my subjects for year ten, and she laughed at me. Said only really smart people got to do stuff like that, and that I should learn typing instead because it would always come in handy.’ She picked up a wine glass although it was empty. Her mouth stung. God, she needed a drink. ‘I didn’t get a choice, and sometimes I still wonder what would have happened if I had. I’m not going to let Bronte waste hers if it kills me.’

‘Oh, Fiona,’ Amira said, still holding her hand. ‘What are we going to do about you?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Fiona said. She felt stupidly as if she might cry. It must be the sun, or the knock to her mouth. ‘Maybe open that bottle in the esky for a start.’

Thursday

Thump
.

Macy’s eyes flew open. Something had knocked into her bed. She lay in the half-dark, ears pricked, trying to work out where she was and what was going on. Was it her dad’s place this week? In that case it was probably only Torran trying to climb in beside her to snuggle up. Callum and Finn had long since grown too old for that, but while she sometimes pretended to complain whenever Torran came creeping under her doona to wake her up, she was secretly glad he still did it. It felt good to be loved like that, so simply, without strings, to lie in the warmth of two bodies, an arm flung around you, without having to think about how you were going to get home afterwards and if this really was such a great idea.

The room was still. Perhaps she’d dreamed it. Macy closed her eyes. She was just drifting off when it came to her—she wasn’t at her dad’s or her mum’s, she was in Broome. Some
place near it, anyway, though ‘near’ was a relative concept given that interminable red road she’d endured yesterday.

There was another thump, this one heavier.

‘Ow!’ hissed Morag, then added ‘Sorry.’

Macy lay perfectly still, pretending to be asleep, in case Morag thought she’d woken her and took the opportunity to talk. She heard Morag breathing softly, in, out, as she hovered above her in the shadows, then she quietly left the room, latching the screen door behind her.

When she’d gone, Macy turned over, trying to get comfortable. Did the woman ever relax? She’d probably gone for a run, even though she was on holidays. In all the years she’d been spending alternate weeks at her father’s house, Macy had never once got up before her stepmother, had invariably sloped into the kitchen with sleep in her eyes to find Morag showered and dressed and just about to put out the second load of washing for the day in between making the boys pancakes. Pancakes! What was wrong with toast or Weetbix? Why did Morag always have to go the extra mile? Once when Macy had returned from her allotted seven-day stay still smarting at some now-long-forgotten rebuke from Morag, she had told her mother about the pancakes. Her mother had sneered, as Macy had known she would, but then added, ‘She’s probably only doing it to impress you, you know.’ The idea had stunned her. Why on earth would Morag be trying to impress
her
? Macy wasn’t anyone Morag needed to impress. She was just the stepdaughter, an irrefutable reminder that Morag’s husband had once loved—and slept with—someone else. Macy should
probably be grateful Morag wasn’t chopping her up and mixing her into the batter.

Still, Morag was alright, she thought, pulling the sheet around her body, twisting it tight across her breasts and about her shoulders. She liked it like that, liked the sensation of being swaddled, constrained, gently held in place. Morag was driven and way too neat and got her knickers in a twist about them all having dinner together every night, but otherwise she was OK. She gave Macy her space; she didn’t arc up at the smallest thing. Not like her mother . . . Macy clenched her teeth as she remembered the scene of two days previously. So she’d missed her cue. It happened—and it was only a rehearsal, anyway, not the real thing. She’d been getting ready to go on when she’d suddenly had a fab idea about how to end the number. She knew she had to tell someone right that minute or she’d forget, so she’d started looking for the music director. He was usually backstage, watching in the wings like she was, but for once he wasn’t there, so instead she’d gone to find Micah, who she knew was rehearsing in the boys’ dressing room, awaiting his own call. Micah was cool. He got her, and he loved her idea. She knew he would. They got so involved in talking about it, trying out different harmonies, that she forgot to go back in time. The look on Miss Bateman’s face when she found them together . . . silly old cow. It wasn’t as if she and Micah had been doing anything other than singing. Everyone knew Micah was gay. Alright, she’d been caught hanging out in the boys’ dressing room once before, and yes, that time she was smoking, but chillax! It could have been worse. At least she
wasn’t going down on them one by one, as she’d once seen Leisa do.