Portraits of Celina (6 page)

It was Celina who decided upon their name and persuaded them that the Age of Aquarius was still alive and well, even in the Seventies. She inspired them; she was infectious. And you couldn’t help but follow her and get caught up in her plans
.

As soon as they finished school, the Peace Sisters were going to travel the globe: singing folksy ballads about peace and love, trekking through forgotten lands, saving the planet
.

I laugh, remembering how excited and gushy Deb was as she told me about the Peace Sisters’ grand plans – it all sounded like something from some old movie.

But of course that changed on that awful morning when Celina O’Malley walked out her front door, across the pebbly driveway, along the dirt road and down to the main gate to catch the school bus and was never seen again …

I shudder.

I recall Deb’s shock when I walked into her shop. Do I really look that much like Celina?

The photo album! I had almost forgotten about it. I leap off my bed and rummage through the contents of the peace chest to locate it.

But my fingers strike a hard edge below the album. I put the album on my bed and then dig out the object lying flat on the bottom of the chest. It takes a bit of effort, but when it lifts up, I am astonished to find a framed artwork. A collage made of bits and pieces. As I hold it with outstretched arms, I see it is a face. The tufts of long dark curly hair seem to be made from short snips of real hair; the eyes shaped from dozens of tiny pieces of icy blue crystals; the skin made from the odd mix of translucent insect wings and the fluffy bits of dandelion heads. And I wonder if it’s a portrait of Celina.

Whatever it is, it is beautifully strange but also strangely spooky. I put the picture facedown, back into the bottom of the chest and turn my attention to the album.

The pages are so brown and murky they appear tea-stained and are stuck together at the edges. They make a ripping squelch as I pull them apart.

The first shot is a small back-and-white of a baby in a long white frilly dress and knitted bonnet, smiling out of a wicker pram with gigantic wheels. A scrawling handwritten label underneath says:
Celina, six months and three days
. There are several baby shots, some with her parents, I guess – Uncle Pat and Aunty Mary? – holding her with obvious love and pride. Small tears form at the corner of my eyes. This is too sad. All of them gone. How could such happiness end in such tragedy?

I work through the album, scanning the school photos of unruly kids outside a small weatherboard classroom until I spot the girl with wild hair who I imagine is Deb. I wonder which one is Celina and which is Suzie.

By Year Six, the photos are in colour, and I almost whoop when I see the wild hair is flaming red. Yes! It is Deb, for sure. Beside Deb is a girl with a wide grin and a devilish sparkle in her eyes. Her hair is dark and curly, held off her face with a white headband. Celina? I flip through to a colour snapshot of a girl about thirteen in a crisp new school uniform standing on the front verandah of this house. The caption reads:
First Day Tallowood High, 1971
.

The resemblance is uncanny. I have a photo of me on my first day at high school that is just like this. I flip through the next pages, my heart thudding harder and harder with each page as I witness Celina growing up before my eyes.

The last photo is of three beaming girls, standing on the end of the jetty, which is painted a glaring lime green, cheekily holding their fingers up to the camera in peace signs.
The Peace Sisters: January 1975
. The tallest wears a stripy bikini with a white shirt thrown over. Her orange hair is twirled on top of her head and I identify her easily as Deb. Beside her is a girl with a shy smile, large floppy hat and huge sunglasses. She is shorter than the other two and needs to stretch to sling her arms around the others’ shoulders. Suzie, perhaps? Then my eyes lock on to the image of the girl on the right – Celina – and study the long wavy hair, the round face and dark almond eyes, the smattering of freckles across the nose, the slim shoulders and long skinny limbs, the way she tilts her head to one side and tucks her thumb into the belt tab on her shorts. No wonder Deb got such a shock. I stare into Celina’s eyes and feel as if I am gazing into my own. And with a sickly feeling, I realise that there is no denying it: I
am
Celina’s double.

As I let this sink in, the photo seems to come to life in my mind. I see the three friends jostling for space, wiggling and giggling, screeching when they nearly step off the back of the jetty.

“Ow, that was my toe,” laughs Suzie.

“What’s your toe doing under my foot?” Deb shoots back, poking out her tongue.

“Hurry up, Robbie!” cries Celina. “Take it, for God’s sake, before these two drag me into the lake.”

“Say cheese, girls.” Robbie holds the camera to his eye and squints. “Come on, stop moving. It’ll come out blurry.”

“Cheese!”

The camera clicks and the three girls fall backwards into the water, creating a huge splash that swamps Robbie and his camera.

Celina climbs up the ladder and peeks her head over the edge of the jetty. “Whoopsie,” she says. “Hope the camera’s all right, Robbie.”

Robbie dries his camera on his T-shirt. “Me too,” he says, frowning.

Suzie and Deb clamber back up onto the jetty. There is much laughter, even from Robbie, who doesn’t seem too concerned about the camera.

The group walk up a track worn through the front paddock. Robbie reaches for Celina’s hand and she smiles up at him. The sun is shining and a soft breeze mutters through the poplars. The easy sound of someone playing guitar wafts down from the house.

“Dad,” calls Celina, once they have reached the top of the driveway, “can you get us some towels? Robbie pushed us off the jetty.” The girls roar laughing.

“You mean, you lot fell and your splash was so enormous, you wrecked my camera,” counters Robbie, good-naturedly.

There is a feeling of enterprise about the house. A large vegetable garden takes up the space to the side of the barn, planks of wood are stretched across trestles, pots of paint open on the garden table, the smells of sawdust and baking bread scent the air. The Norfolk pine doesn’t yet reach the roofline.

Pat pushes himself out of the hammock strung from the verandah rafters, puts down his guitar and holds onto the stepladder beside the front door. “Reckon you’re all capable of getting towels yourselves,” he says. His manner is relaxed and there is a calmness about the way he moves.

Mary climbs the ladder, a thick blond plait snaking down her back. She carries a short length of decorated timber.

“What’s that?” asks Deb, shaking the water free from her orange mane of hair.

Mary holds it up with pride. “Like it?” she asks. “Made it this morning.”

“Karinya,” Suzie reads the word that sits amid a wreath of painted flowers. “What does it mean?”

“Place of peace,” says Mary. “Now that the house is finally finished, it’s time it had a name, don’t you think?” Mary places the sign above the door. “Is it in the centre?”

“Good enough,” says Robbie. “But shouldn’t it be beside the door?”

“Don’t go there,” says Pat. “My good woman here tells me we must walk under it, so that peace will pass over us each time we enter the house. And who am I to argue with such wonderful logic?”

Robbie? Karinya?
Where did all this come from? I shake my head to free it from my wild imaginings, draw my knees up to my chest, my eyes darting around the room in search of answers. Why do I know these things? How do I know these things? I reel back through the bits Deb told me. She didn’t mention any Robbie or anything about the house being called Karinya. It’s the same as how I knew about Deb and Suzie, when I shouldn’t have known.

“Why? How?” I question the ceiling. But I close my mind to any answers. I push them away – don’t want to know. I slap the album closed and slide it and the notebook under my mattress.

An uncomfortable feeling invades me and I recognise it for what it is. Fear.

It is overcast. The lake as colourless as the sky.

At the breakfast table, Amelia attacks a piece of toast with a butterknife. Seth has his nose buried deep in a comic. Mum, hollow eyes downcast, stares into her mug of black coffee as if it contains some weary secret. Her toast lies untouched on the plate before her.

I slip
The Year in Design
magazine onto the table. “Thought you might be interested in this, Mum,” I say, wondering if anyone will notice the quaver in my voice. My emotions are so jumbled: the visions, the things I shouldn’t know, the unnerving connection to someone long dead are tumbling around inside me.

Mum glances at the magazine and nods. “Oh. Thanks.” She doesn’t even open it.

I feel like screaming. I can’t bear the familiarity of this morning scene. So much for Mum’s plan that a new life in a new house would help us heal. I am beyond disappointed.

“I reckon the lake would be good for swimming,” I attempt, desperate to distract myself from my own agitation. “Maybe we should go for a swim later?”

Amelia shovels sugar into her tea. “Haven’t you seen the weather?” she says. Her spoon spins in violent circles around the teacup. “It’s rubbish. Oh, what joy my life is.”

I could joyfully strangle her.

I grab a banana and head back upstairs. I don’t have the energy for this today – can’t cope with tiptoeing around my brittle family. I throw Celina’s stripy poncho over my head for warmth, fish the notebook from under my mattress and slip down the stairs and out the front door.

I need air. Some space around me. Some time to think, and to sort out what is going on. To rid myself somehow of the fluttery tension, the growing sensation of unease trapped inside my chest.

The morning sky hangs heavy with the threat of rain. It matches my mood. I slide the notebook down inside the poncho and head north to a rocky outcrop, the beginning of the rugged cliffs that plummet into the water on this side of the lake. For the first time since we arrived, the lake is choppy, as if the breeze is giving it goosebumps, and the whole place feels wild and alive.

I clamber up a jagged stand of rocks and sit behind a small bush that has sprung up in a split in the stone. I pull out the notebook, the pages fluttering in the wind, and I read over what I wrote the night before. With each word, the swirling anxiety inside me only intensifies, so much so that when my phone beeps in my pocket, I almost jump out of my skin.

It’s a message from Loni. There has been no network coverage back at the house and I am surprised to discover that I have full reception from this part of the lake.

Hey, Bails! What’s happening? Miss you
.

I go to reply. My fingers hover over the keys, wondering what I should say.

Hey, Loni. Guess what? Made a new friend. Too bad she’s been dead for nearly forty years
.

Or maybe something more to the point.

Hey, Lons. It’s official; I’ve turned into a psycho
.

Or the not so original:

I see dead people
.

Instead, I settle for:

Miss you too. Coverage sketchy. Will Skype as soon as we have internet set up. XXXX

Her reply is almost instant.
Make sure you do. A lot has happened in the 75 hours and 22 minutes since you left me. Have news. Big news. HUGE!

I grin. That is so Loni. I do a mental countdown, knowing that Loni won’t make it past five before she spills with the news. Ten, nine, eight, seven …
Beep
. Impressive – even for Loni.

Yolanda dumped Johno! YAAAAY!!!!! Happy dancing. He’s gonna be mine. We must make plans
.

I would love to be making plans with Loni right now.

Yay, you! Go the Lons
, I reply, and put my phone down, my heart aching.

A gust of wind makes the pages in the notebook flap so much, it looks poised to take flight. I get it under control and try to think back to my conversations with Deb, but my brain isn’t interested; it veers off and an unexpected image fills my mind.

Celina. She’s sitting on the verandah steps eating watermelon. It is luscious and juicy. Pink streams run through her fingers and down her arms. She is laughing hysterically …

Stop!
I tell myself. Enough already.

I pick up my pencil and force myself to concentrate on the things
I know
, the things Deb told me. Maybe if I get it all down, I can be done with it, and then I can move on, forget about Celina O’Malley, forget the visions and the things I shouldn’t know. Put a lid on my fear.

I start to write.

From a very early age, Celina had a great sense of herself: who she was and where she fitted in the world. Born to subsistence farming, greenie, hippy parents, she embraced the whole hippy scene. It suited her perfectly. And as her best friends, who adored her, Deb and Suzie couldn’t help but be swept along by her enthusiasm and passion for peace and love and changing the world
.

While most kids their age were embracing discos and mirror balls, the Peace Sisters gave up meat, became tree huggers, and sang Bob Dylan songs around a camp fire by the lake
.

Celina treasured life; that is why it is such a tragedy, such a waste, that her life was cut short, and why there is no way in the world that she would have taken her own life, no matter what anyone says. Deb was adamant about this
.

Celina bubbled with love. She loved her family. She loved her friends. She even loved cockroaches and bull ants and venomous spiders
.

But most of all, I loved Robbie
.

I? Robbie? Where did that come from?

I don’t have time to think about how strange this is, and I stiffen my body to ready myself for another vision. But no vision this time – my pencil zeroes back to the paper like a dart to a bullseye. The paper tears slightly, but I keep writing, my pencil scarily taking on a life of its own.

Robbie and I grew up together. He was born two months and three days before me, and our mothers became firm friends because of it. Apparently, we spent our first year lying side by side on a variety of rugs while our mothers worked together on a devious plan to try to inject some life into the stodgy old Country Women’s Association. I can’t remember any of this, of course. But all my earliest memories have him there somewhere. Mud pies and bee stings. Cubbyhouses and texta colours. Tea parties and rubber-tyre swings. Endless swimming lessons and bush-bashing bike rides. It was always Robbie and me. Always
.