The Beloved (28 page)

Dad stood at the sink mixing me a Milo drink. Too much Milo, not enough powdered milk. ‘Wrap yourself around that,' he said, and picked up his beer.

Dusk; the familiar rise of guilt. ‘Mama said she's going back to Canada.'

‘Yes.'

‘We can't let her go.'

‘We can't stop her.'

‘We have to.'

‘No. We have to start living our own lives, each of us. If I'd done it years ago you wouldn't have had to sneak off to Helen's to paint.'

‘You
knew
?'

‘Yeah, Helen told me. She felt somebody should know. I thought your mother would come around eventually. She didn't, but I couldn't bring myself to stop you doing what you loved.'

‘You didn't . . . You weren't . . . ?'

‘Ah, come on, CP.' He held his beer up to the light and I watched the bubbles rise to the surface and break into foam. ‘I've hardly laid eyes on Helen in two years.' He smeared the damp glass with his thumb. ‘But not a day's gone past when I haven't thought of her. And not a day more will pass that I don't see her. That's what I told your mother the afternoon of the accident. That's what started it all. I told her I was leaving.'

A surge of heat peppered my skin. How easily our bodies betray us, even without colours. Tears, sweat, snot – emotions for all to see. Yet part of me had always known this was coming.

‘I'd come home early to get started on that paint job I'd been putting off and your mum turned up. Her flight to Tapini had been cancelled – problems with the aircraft. She'd been lunching with work mates and if I'd known how much she'd had to drink I'd have kept my mouth shut. But I didn't know, and I told her. She leaped to the conclusion that I'd been seeing Helen all along and she went crazy, pulling out drawers and chucking my stuff everywhere. Then she dragged the suitcase from the top of the wardrobe to fill it with my things and bingo, your painting fell down.'

‘And then she took the bike.'

‘
She
took the bike, CP.' He put his beer down on the sink and took my hands. ‘Listen, this has been a long time coming, but your ma and I have finally run out of puff. We tried to make our marriage work, we wanted it to work, but it didn't. It won't. You can't force some things. Your mother's beautiful and brainy and talented and she'll always be special to me but it's Helen I love.'

Dad loved Helen.

I loved art.

Chris loved Diane Rudge. I hadn't believed him when he insisted his feelings had nothing to do with my foot but now I knew it was true. If you loved somebody or something, you were stuck with it. I'd known for ages Mama and Dad didn't love each other but it hurt to hear Dad say it out loud. Even with its tensions and secrets our life as a family had gone on. Now what?

‘Does Helen know about the accident?'

‘Of course. All Moresby knows.'

‘Does all Moresby know you're leaving us?'

‘No. And they won't, either, until your mother's ready for it. And, CP? Remember I told you once I'd never leave
you
? I meant it then and I mean it now. I never will.'

‘Seen your hero lately?' Mama asked.

‘No.' Unfortunately.

‘It's easy to be a hero when you're not a mother. Girls your age look for heroes and you found one who paints. Well, one day you might ask yourself what kind of woman encourages another woman's child to deceive her mother. People show their true colours in the end.'

True colours. What did Mama know about true colours? All colours are true, even if some are not so pretty. I watched her, head slewed sideways, mind picking angrily at her thoughts. The livid purple around her eye had faded; it was more the colour of the sky the day my father forgot us. She shifted her hips and clutched the chain over the bed.

‘See if you can get me something stronger than aspirin, will you? A whisky would be nice.'

I went to find a nurse and bumped into Dad on his way in.

‘Ah,' said Mama. ‘Jolly little group. Since you're both here you may as well know. The doctors are a-twitter. The skin on my fingers isn't growing back and the blood supply to my foot is lousy. They're worried about . . .' her voice thickened, ‘gangrene. They might have to . . . to amputate.'

No
.

‘One more course of the sulfa drugs and if that doesn't work . . .'

Please God, no.

She looked at Dad. ‘For heaven's sake, don't look at me like that. The last thing I want is pity.' Her shoulders slumped, as if anger had emptied her. ‘I just want a pill. Someone get me a pill.'

Dad went for a doctor.

‘You got a stomach ache, Lindsay?'

‘No, I'm just . . . what you said . . .'

Gangrene. Gone green. I felt like puking. Chopping off her fingers and foot? I looked down at my boot. Mama followed my gaze. ‘If losing my foot makes you appreciate yours, it might be worth it.'

‘Don't say that!'

‘Wake up. Get out of those smocks. They don't hide anything. Accept what you've got and be glad.' She tugged angrily at her hospital gown. ‘Oh, shoot. Next time you come, bring me something bright. I'm sick of wearing this crap.'

Dad came back with a doctor. He was dark and handsome and young. ‘How's the foot?'

‘Throbbing. My fingers are worse.'

‘I'll organise something for you, dear.'

‘
Dear
,' murmured Mama, watching him go. ‘Cocky young thing. If he knew I still felt a twitch or two, he mightn't consider himself so safe.'

If my mother lost her foot, she'd lose her career and her independence. How could
she
be so cocky?

‘Ed,' she said, ‘I want to see Tim.'

Tim arrived back from Goroka and went straight to the hospital. He came home fuming and let fly at Dad over dinner.

‘How could you let Lindsay see
that
woman behind Mama's back?'

‘Helen,' I said. ‘Her name's Helen.'

Dad speared a frankfurter and dunked it in tomato sauce. ‘You're right, Tim, I shouldn't have. I should have stood up for your sister so she didn't have to.'

Tim turned to me. ‘You've stopped seeing her?'

‘Of course.'

‘I know you don't want to upset your ma, CP,' said Dad. ‘But Helen's been a good friend to you. She's part of your future and your mother knows that. You don't have to choose between them. When you're ready, go and see her.'

‘Yeah, go,' said Tim. ‘Rub salt into Mama's wounds.'

‘But do your painting here,' Dad said. He rolled another sausage in sauce and mashed potato, ignoring Tim. ‘Done any lately?'

‘No.'

‘Why not?'

‘You know why not.'

Dad put down his fork. ‘Let's get something straight – both of you. The accident was just that, an accident. It was not my fault and it was not Helen's fault and it was not CP's fault. Stop trawling the wreckage looking for someone to blame. Get back in the cockpit, CP, and fly your ruddy aeroplane. You know what that means. Just do it.'

Dad set a brimming glass of orange juice on the table in front of me. ‘Happy birthday, CP,' he said. ‘Juice, freshly squeezed, all the way from the highlands. See? I remembered your birthday. Fourteen, hey? Old lady. So, what do you want?' He fingered the neckline of my smock. ‘A new dress?'

‘Happy birthday,' said Tim, sliding a small flat box across the table. ‘From Mama and me.'

Inside was a silver bracelet with shimmering blue and green enamel circles. I clipped it around my wrist. ‘It's beautiful, Tim. Really. A terrific choice.'

‘I didn't pick it. Mama did. The jeweller took her a pile of stuff to choose from.'

My nose stung with tears. ‘No card?'

‘What do you reckon, Lindsay? Mama can't write, remember?'

Dad let out a long breath. ‘Okay. Nice gift. Now, CP, what do you want – money for painting clobber from Helen?'

Tim stiffened.

‘No.' I wouldn't do anything to drive Mama back to Canada.

‘You did pretty well out of ten bob a while back. Or maybe this time you really do want lipstick?' Dad smiled.

‘I need new boots.'

‘Not for your birthday. We'll go to Steamies and get you a dress for starters. Something pretty to cheer your mother up. Now, what for breakfast – bacon and eggs?'

After breakfast Dad bustled me into the jeep. Mama's little blue car stood in the driveway gathering dust. ‘If she loses her foot she won't be able to drive,' I said.

‘I know.' Dad slammed the jeep into gear and drove slowly down the road. Outside Helen's shop he stopped. ‘Go on, get yourself something.'

‘No, Dad.'

‘Then just go in and say hello.'

‘
No
.'

‘You'll have to some time.'

‘I know and I will, but not yet.' Not while Dad was waiting. Not until I got used to the idea of them being . . . together.

Dad hopped out of the jeep and disappeared into the shop. A few minutes later he returned with a parcel. ‘Her idea,' he said.

Two books – one on Matisse, another on Chagall; beautiful books that made my heart ache. ‘All right?' said Dad, putting the jeep in gear.

I nodded. ‘All right.'

In Steamies, he ploughed through to the children's clothing department. The saleslady looked me up and down. ‘You're more a young lady, dear. You need ladies' wear.'

Dad raised his eyebrows and followed the direction of her finger. He rummaged around in a rack of dresses and pulled one out. ‘How's this?'

Purple frills with yellow flowers? Paint it – maybe; wear it – no.

‘Can I help you, sir?' Another saleslady, tall and skinny as a rocket.

Dad jerked his thumb at me. ‘A birthday dress for my daughter. Something special.'

‘Well now,' she smiled at me. ‘Let's see. Oh . . .' Her eyes fixed on my foot. ‘You poor thing. You poor, wee girl.'

My jaw dropped.

‘How sad.'

‘Sad?' I said, ‘A
boot
? What's so sad about a damn boot? I'm not a cripple.'

‘No, of course not. I didn't mean to upset you. I think you're very brave. Here, let me—'

‘I'm not brave! It's
nothing
.' I turned and began to sift through the dresses, rage burning my face. Behind me I heard the saleslady whispering to Dad.

‘No need to fuss,' he boomed. ‘She's not made of china and she's not deaf. She's just ignoring you.'

I stifled a laugh. Eventually I found a dress that I liked; blue, green and white vertical slashes that followed the lines of my body. When I put it on, I looked more sixteen than fourteen.

‘You look terrific,' said Dad. ‘Wear it to the hospital.' He laughed.

‘What's so funny?'

‘You are. I was very proud of you, CP.
What's so sad about a damn boot?
'

‘Silly old bat,' I mumbled. On the way out we passed a rack of shorts. Dad stopped. ‘Now if you really want to make your mother happy . . .'