Portraits of Celina (18 page)

But sadly for Deb and Suzie, my plans didn’t include them
.

It’s taken about a week, but I now have the timing down to perfection. It’s 5.25 am and I am creeping down the stairs, joggers in hand, careful to avoid the dodgy third step and intent on not waking anyone up – especially Mum. That would only ruin everything.

Once out in the fresh dawn air, I slip on my joggers, press my iPod earbuds into my ears and I am away.

It feels good to be jogging again. Strange good, but good nonetheless. I love the routine of it, the way training shapes my day – and my body. I can already feel my fitness building.

By the time I pass the jetty and am on the track beside the lake, I have settled into a good rhythm. I don’t need to rush. I have plenty of time. Plenty of time to rack up the kilometres and plenty of time to be alone with my thoughts.

I’ve been thinking about Celina a lot on these morning runs. I keep imagining her in her school uniform, schoolbag slung over her shoulder, walking down the gravel drive and out the gate. Hear the cry of a whipbird crack through the morning air as she strolls along the road, scuffing up dust, the sun slanting through the trees, her hair shining. She is smiling, a curly contented smile, and she is thinking of Robbie, her heart light at the thought of them being together.

In the dark of the scrub to the right of her, I see a shadow lurking. Sense, rather than see, I suppose. A presence. Someone watching her. Following her. Stalking. Waiting for the right moment.

I shudder – wonder if this scene I keep imagining is another “vision” from Celina. Regardless, these are not the best thoughts to have when you’re out jogging by yourself in the middle of nowhere and my eyes sweep the paddocks to my right.

I hope it wasn’t too gruesome for her. I hope that it was over quickly – one swift blow to the head or something.

One swift blow to the head
. My thoughts divert to Dad. I guess in a way he was lucky. Not lucky to have died, but lucky that his death was swift and unexpected. That he was happy at the time. That he didn’t have to face the agony of saying goodbye nor that of a long, painful death.

Such horribly morbid thoughts! I turn up my iPod and I try to think of something pleasant – like Oliver.

At last, the back end of the lake opens up before me. And there he is, striking the water with his usual strength and purpose. He sees me too, waves, and rows towards the shore.

Tiny butterflies thrum their way into my heart.

We meet at a bend in the shore that is sandy and sheltered by a small grove of willows. Oliver wipes the perspiration from his face, arms and chest with a towel, then chucks it back into his kayak and grabs out a beach towel and a plastic bag of food.

“That was so good,” he says. “Sprinted the last two laps. It killed but I’m so pumped.”

I recognise the satisfaction on his face. Oliver gets it. And it’s great to be with someone who understands. Even Loni used to rib me about my obsession with training. No one, except Dad, understood how intoxicating it is to work your body to the max, to push through the pain barrier, until you feel as if you can do anything. It’s better than sex even. Apparently. Training becomes a part of you – as essential as breathing. And I am very glad to be back.

I flop onto the towel the moment Oliver has spread it out on the sand. “What’s it today?” Already it’s become a routine, this early-morning picnic.

“Cheese and crackers,” is Oliver’s reply as he sits beside me, eyes gleaming.

“Your mum must shop a heck of a lot.”

“I eat a heck of a lot.” He tosses a cheese cube into his mouth and washes it down with a swig of some kind of energy drink.

“That’s stuff is so not good for you,” I say. “Filled with chemicals and far too much salt and caffeine.”

“And you’re the expert, eh?” Oliver leans back on his elbows and stretches out his legs in front of him. “It’s on my list from my coach, so it’s okay with me.”

“You have a coach?”

“Sort of. An online one anyways. He used to be my coach at St James. When I moved back to school here, he kept in touch. He sends me a monthly diet and training plan.”

“That’s pretty cool.”

“Yeah. He’s a cool dude. He’d invested a lot of time in me at St James. He was gutted when I told him I was leaving. I kind of feel I owe it to him to keep to the plan.”

“Sounds like pressure.”

“No pressure. I want to do it. And I have no excuse – what with the boatshed fitted out as a gym, and this lake ten paces from my bedroom, I’d be a bit of a dickhead if I didn’t give it a proper shot.”

I grin. It’s almost like Oliver is two people: the nut who acts like some kind of adorable labrador puppy; and this driven, focused athlete who has his whole future mapped out. I can’t help but lean over and kiss him. Oliver responds hungrily. We lie together entwined and every part of me is singing.

Eventually, we untangle ourselves. Oliver reaches for his drink. “Hey, how’re things at home?” he says. “Is it safe for me to show my face yet?”

“Mmm, maybe give it a couple more days. Mum has calmed down a bit, but that’s probably because the place has been overrun with builders and painters – so she’s been preoccupied. Plus she’s had three shifts in a row at the Wok and Roll.” In truth, I am enjoying keeping Oliver as my sweet secret, smug that I am having a life that no one else in the family is privy to – something other than being haunted by a stalker ghost, that is.

“Builders must be nearly finished.”

“Not sure. They’re working on the barn. I was hoping it was going to be a studio for Mum, but first Gran is going to move in for a bit. Which is good. Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“Good that Gran is staying. But bad that Mum won’t have a studio. She needs to get back to designing.”

“I like your gran. She’s cool.”

“Yeah. She helps to keep us from killing each other.”

“Every family needs a rudder.”

“What?”

“Yeah, you know – like in a boat, to keep you on course, in the right direction and all that.”

“Oh, thank you, Wise One! Yes, I guess Gran’s our rudder.” I flip over onto my stomach and swallow the last of my cracker. “So who’s the Mitchell family rudder?”

“Mum, of course.”

I am about to reply, when a strange smell wafts by, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

“What’s that?” I flip back over and sit up.

“What?”

“That smell. Can’t you smell it?”

“Hey. It wasn’t me. It was you, wasn’t it, crazy eyes? Own up.”

“No, serious. Can’t you smell it – like some kind of chemicals or something?”

“You have chemicals on your brain, nitwit.”

There is a loud cracking sound and both Oliver and I leap to our feet.

“What was
that
?”

“An animal probably.” Though I can tell by the way Oliver’s eyes arc through the willows surrounding us that he’s not that certain. Then his shoulders relax, and he points. “It’s only Pop.”

My eyes follow to where Oliver is pointing. A small stooped man with a hessian sack slung over his shoulder is poking around the base of a willow with a stick.

“Hey, Pop!” yells Oliver.

The man swings round, and takes a step towards us, but as soon as his eyes fall on me, he turns and takes off at a startlingly fast pace.

My head is ringing. I know that face, have it etched on my brain. That was the man – the man I saw that night by the lake.

“Silly old bugger,” says Oliver. He sits down and reaches for another piece of cheese.

“Why did he take off like that?” I manage to ask.

“Told you before, he’s a bit wacky – a recluse – you probably scared him off.”

“And he doesn’t speak? Right?”

“Nah – hasn’t uttered a word for about ten years. Which makes for awkward dinner conversation, hey.”

This doesn’t make sense. I am sure he is the man I saw, but that night he spoke. Definitely.
Holy mother of God! Holy mother of God!
I couldn’t have imagined it, could I?

This is freaking me out and then some.

“Hey, sit down, Bails. Don’t let the old guy rattle you. He’s harmless – he’s just collecting stuff for his collages. Does it most mornings, some evenings.”

I can’t sit down. I have a dreadful urge to throw up.

“Nah.” I aim at keeping my voice steady.

Oliver takes my hands and tries to pull me to him. “Come on, Bails.” His eyes twinkle at me.

But I am nauseous and dizzy. I pull myself free. “Sorry. Gotta go – Mum made noises about getting up early and taking a walk this morning.” The lie is out before I even think it through. “Don’t want to get sprung.”

“Tomorrow then?” Oliver’s face is a question mark.

“Yeah. Tomorrow. See you.” And I head off almost at a sprint.

This afternoon Gran stroked my cheek, looked me deep in the eyes, and said, “Are you okay, Bayley? Is there something troubling you, sweetheart?”

I was so touched, I nearly blurted out,
Yes! Yes. Yes, something is wrong
. I longed to tell her everything, to say,
I have a ghost, Gran, a freaking ghost who is telling me stories. Showing me glimpses of her life. A ghost who is messing with my head. Tell me what to do, Gran
.

But I caught myself and fobbed her off, pleading tiredness.

“I want you to know one thing, Bayley,” she added. “I understand what you are going through. Understand everything. Do you know what I’m saying?”

Understand?
For a moment I thought Gran knew about Celina. My mouth flopped open.

“It’s been tough for you all,” she said. “But things will get better. They will. Your mother will find her way and be her old self again. She’s just afraid and confused and … well, I’ve seen a fair bit of tragedy in my life and it’s true what they say about time …”

I hugged my thanks and scarpered away in search of Seth to take him down to the lake, with the sad knowledge that while Gran might have been through a lot, she has no idea about the things that were being thrown at me. And that makes me feel more alone and afraid than ever.

I light three candles on my desk: two are in-case-of-blackout ones from the kitchen pantry, the other, round and orange and sweetly scented, I pilfered from Amelia’s room. I don’t know why I am lighting them, but it seems appropriate.

I open the peace chest and pull out the jeans and T-shirt I wore on that first night, the purple scarf Deb made. Slip off my singlet top and pull on Celina’s clothes. Next, I place Celina’s creepy portrait on the bed. It’s a testament to Bud’s talent, because I am seeing something very different in Celina’s face now: the energy and enthusiasm has gone, replaced with something darker – bitterness perhaps? The Karinya sign and the photo album go beside the portrait, and also the notebook opened to a new page. Now I am surrounded with the things that have led me to some kind of a connection with Celina.

I know this is ridiculous, that I am fooling myself to think that any of this is going to make one scrap of difference, that I will be able to call Celina’s spirit at will – channel her or whatever it is that has happened before. It is obvious she is the one that has been running this show. Like in her real life. What did Deb call her? The hippy sergeant major?

But the time has come. I have to know what she wants. Somehow, I have to persuade her that she needs to come clean, to stop toying with me. And I have to find out why Lakeside and Oliver’s pop make me feel strange and sick.

I pick up my pencil – what to write?
Oliver
. The word is written without me even thinking it. No surprise there I suppose; he is always in my thoughts these days.

Oliver
. I write it again. Say it out loud, feel the way the syllables roll out from the back of my throat, enjoy the way the sound of his name makes me feel zingy.

Focus!
I tell myself.
Concentrate on the task at hand. Be bold. Be fearless
.

I write,
Lakeside
.

Then,
Robbie
.

As soon as the word is on the page, the space around me changes, as if a damp sea fog has rolled in through the open window. My eyes scurry around the room. The yellow flames on the candles seem to grow larger; they sway and smoke, then turn from yellow to blue, and I feel Celina’s presence right beside me, and all around me at the same time. But it’s as though something menacing has tumbled in with the fog. I am beyond scared. What an idiot. What was I thinking calling a ghost?