A Lifetime of Impossible Days Page 2

  As I look at the older child a sudden panic grows in me. ‘She’s lost! Katie, do you see that girl? We have to help.’

  Katie ignores me.

  I don’t know why I say Super Gumboots Willa is lost when she is right here in front of me, but there is a strong tug on my memory. This child and I have met before, I’m so sure of it. I stare at her gumboots, trying to piece something together. I pull my new notebook out of my pocket and flip through the pages, trying to find her name.

  Before I can, the girl’s mother pulls her and the little sister away and then they are gone, disappeared, as if they were never there. The sea breeze vanished with them.

  ‘Where was this box found?’ I ask, but no one answers. ‘Where?’ I stamp my gumboots in the sand. My goodness, that’s a lot more sand than before!

  Katie takes my arm. ‘Now then. Don’t go getting upset. The gardeners found the boxes under the mango tree in the backyard when they were mowing a few days ago.’

  ‘They are two Very Important Boxes. Are we posting them?’

  ‘No need to shout. Returning them, yes.’ Katie tries to pull me towards the car door.

  Gerald walks off with the boxes.

  ‘Wait! I think I need them.’

  He is halfway down the street already. I riffle through my notebook again. Things I Am Sure of. Yes, there it is.

  1. Post two Very Important Boxes on 1 June 2050.

  ‘What’s the time, Katie?’

  ‘Time to get in the car.’

  ‘No, I mean the date.’ I stomp my gumboots again. I knew they were going to be a good investment.

  ‘Ugh. Look, step down here, closer to the car. Put your notebook away. Mind the walker. Mind your – Let me. Just. Would you …’

  ‘Daaate!’

  ‘First of June 2050, so help me God!’

  I’ve done it, then. I’ve posted them. Katie’s worked up to a fine lot of snorting beside the car, where she pretends to help me get in and I pretend I don’t need any help. What a lovely state of being outrage is.

  Chapter Two

  1965

  Willa Waters, aged 8

  It’s her gumboots that I see first, bright yellow. Sunshine on her feet. They are amaze-a-loo! Everybody should wear gumboots like that. A whole world of gumboot people. I wonder if she calls hers galoshes? That was Grammy’s word today, on a folded piece of paper tucked inside my new gumboots.

  ‘Mummy, look!’ I point at the old lady going down the street with her boots on. They make this glump-glump sound as if they are talking to each other. Maybe if I walk beside her slowly the boots would tell me stories.

  Mummy grabs my arm. ‘Don’t point. It’s rude.’

  ‘But she’s wearing gumboots the same as mine.’

  Mummy’s name is Ebony, which is another word for black. It should be a word for someone who spends lots of time reading her Women’s Weekly and going ooh over these new plastic-looking spacey clothes in the magazines and then wears headscarves that cover her ears so she never listens to me.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Willa. There’s no one even there. I don’t have time for mucking around this afternoon. Your father is expecting his smokes, a six-pack in the fridge and a decent dinner when he gets home.’

  There is someone there. I can see her. And I don’t like the word ‘home’. That’s not really what we have. We have four people in a sardine can and Daddy putting dints in the walls.

  I straighten the newspaper crown on my head.

  All around me are schoolkids, bags dragging and socks half-down. A blue Holden ute pulls into a park nearby. A group of men with muck all over their jeans get out. Probably farmhands, like my daddy.

  The old woman stops and stares at me, her boots quiet on the pavement.

  A wild breeze blows my pigtails in my face and the newspaper crown off my head. I catch it in my hand. The air smells like beach, and I can hear seagulls but can’t see any around. The most amaze-a-loo thing is the sand all around the woman’s feet. A cone shell here, a fan shell there. We live in the sticks-outback-of-nowhere, Mummy always says. A tin shack, really, with a drippy roof. A long way from the sea.

  The old lady smiles, her face full of crinkles.

  I wave. She waves, too, and then stops, her mouth moving like she’s talking to someone I can’t see. Her hands shake.

  Mummy pulls me along. ‘Come on, Willa!’

  Over my shoulder, I try to watch her one last time. But she’s gone. Poof. I search the street, but she isn’t there. The wind has whipped all the sand away, too. I put my crown back on my head.

  Mummy’s busy telling my little sister, Lottie, not to ask for more sweets. Lottie is walking backwards down the footpath, tripping over her own feet, trying to get Mummy’s attention. ‘Can I have a Cherry Ripe?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A Polly Waffle?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘A Choo Choo Bar?’

  ‘Lottie, I don’t have money for that!’

  All I can think of is that old lady. ‘Do all old people have shaky hands?’ I ask.

  ‘Don’t say that out loud.’ Mummy pushes me forwards.

  ‘How else am I gonna get answers if I say all the questions quiet in my head?’

  ‘Good girls don’t always have questions bursting inside them. Try being quiet for a while. Lottie, get out of that store and put the lollies down!’

  ‘Why don’t good girls have questions? Ow, stop pulling me!’ I say as she squeezes my arm in a firm Mummy-type grip. Daddy’s steps are wide and sound like they hurt the ground, but Mummy’s steps are lots of clip-clops close together. Her feet always running.

  ‘Willa, I have things to do. You know what a mood your father will be in if he gets home to no dinner and I have to go to the butcher and then Lublands, the post office and …’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we have a box to collect – and because I said so!’ Her face is splotchy red. Lottie is still inside the milkbar with a chocolate in her hands. A TV behind the counter is playing an ad. A bunch of teenage girls pretend to faint when they say ‘Paul McCartney’. The girls chew gum and twirl the ends of it around their fingers.

  ‘Lottie, put that down and get out of that shop!’ Mummy walks in and grabs her by the shirt.

  ‘Can I go find that lady wearing gumboots?’ I say. ‘I’ll only be a minute.’

  Lottie starts pulling and it doesn’t take long for her to twist away.

  ‘No – and again, because I said so. Willa, you’re the big sister. Act your age and help me out!’

  I take Lottie by the hand and promise I’ll tell her a really good story later. And I have lollies in my pocket. A trick Mummy should learn. Why do adults think ‘because I said so’ is an actual reason?

  I don’t ask that question out loud because Mummy is flapping her arms, her face looking more and more like Grammy’s pickled beets.

  Chapter Three

  1990

  Willa Waters, aged 33

  Eleven pm wakes me like an itch, or maybe it’s me who wakes itchy. There’s a crawl under my skin, and I have to get up and do something. I’m standing right beside the phone in the kitchen when Grammy calls, and pick it up on the first ring so it doesn’t wake the house. It’s like she knew I’d be standing there. Her word of the day is Burgeon (verb): Begin to grow rapidly; flourish. Ever since I was small, Grammy has sent her words at all hours of the day and night. Sometimes in cards, on scraps on paper, written on paper planes, tied to balloons, with pen on my hand, and once baked into her favourite jam drop biscuits. She sends her love, an undeserved fullness, and her belief that words can change the trajectory of life.

  I don’t tell her that there is nothing burgeoning here, that most nights I twist my hair and fight down the acid in my stomach. Perhaps she knows. ‘Grandmother’ is a word I believe in.

  If I let the stillness in the house lull me, catch me unguarded, my mind will think of two little girls, the beads my sister wore and her Chatty Cathy doll. Maybe t
he day I made her a clover chain, or the year I sticky-taped together a pretend camera out of an empty aspirin box and a toilet roll and then dutifully followed her around drawing pictures of everything she saw. These are dangerous images.

  I’ve made sure that Sam and I raise our family deep in the armpits of Brisbane North, a newish estate less than an hour away from the city’s main hub. Suburbia is a garment, something I have pulled over my very being. Next to my brick box is another one, and then another. These streets are blank places that reek of sameness. I could be anyone here, could have come from anywhere, too. Fences surround each brick box: a way to keep yourself in, a way to hold yourself together. Don’t live anywhere that might identify you, anywhere that might take you back to the past.

  If Sam wakes he’ll find me padding back and forth throughout our brick home, folding washing, folding everything I can lay my hands on by moonlight. I’ll be in my worn bed socks and robe. Sam will say, ‘Oh, it’s only you. Come back to bed, baby.’ He’ll stand there so simply, a hand reaching for me. I’ll try to joke about cleaning fairies, something our little Eli always says to explain why the house is so neat in the morning.

  I clean our small kitchen, rearrange the cutlery drawer, line up the teacups so all their handles face the same way. How much Tupperware do we need? My life’s purpose is to rid our brick suburban box of any clutter, my racing mind calmed by the act of sorting.

  The phone on the kitchen wall rings again. Twice. On the first ring I launch at it from across the room. At the second ring I pick it up.

  ‘H–hello …?’ The voice on the other end is slurred and distant.

  I live in fear of phone calls. That one call when I find out Lottie has overdosed and been found dead under some bridge.

  ‘Who is this?’ I’m afraid of the answer.

  ‘Big sisss, heeeey,’ she slurs. Music plays in the background, deep bass and a beat that thrums in my head.

  ‘Lottie?’ I should hang up, but I’m held by the sound of her voice. She’s okay – she’s alive, anyway. I haven’t heard from her since Eli was born six years ago.

  Before his birth I was addicted to my sister’s drug addiction. I spent years addicted to driving anywhere she was in the early hours of the morning only to find her squatting on filthy mattresses with needles in her arm, her body so gaunt that her bones were visible. Addicted to giving her bond money and clothes, taking phone calls from police or from landlords who had my name and number on a lease I had never signed. Addicted to finding her jobs she didn’t keep and counselling sessions she never showed up for. Could she borrow money? She’s sober now, could she crash at my place?

  She chose streets and men and heroin and houses that smelled worse than cat pee. I tried carrying her bent carcass out of those hellholes, but she kicked and screamed. In all those moments I loved her and I didn’t stop trying.

  Then I gave birth to Eli, this perfect little life.

  Not long after he was born, Lottie broke in to my house, smashed through Eli’s window. She was drunk. Eli woke, screaming. And I made Lottie go. Told her I couldn’t see her anymore, cut her out of my life. I knew I had to choose between her and my new family.

  ‘Lottie?’ Her name pulses through my veins. I hold the phone to my ear, cradling it like a baby and rocking side to side while I stand.

  ‘Heeey, what’s you, ah …’ She hiccups.

  ‘Are you drunk?’ Lie to me. Tell me you’re getting help.

  ‘Aww, come on, big sis.’

  ‘It’s late. Did you need something?’ It’s a stupid question, but I long ago ran out of helpful lines in this script between us. One time I asked her what she wanted more than anything in the world. Without missing a beat, Lottie said, ‘Heroin.’

  Tonight, her voice wavers. ‘I could really use a story.’

  She sounds like the Lottie of my childhood, whimpering, clinging to me. ‘Tell me a story, Willa.’ And for years I tried. Stories to block out yelling and fists through walls and the sound of Mother’s head hitting the bathroom door. What story is big enough, thick enough, for that?

  ‘I’m hanging up.’ Truth is, I couldn’t separate this phone from my ear if I tried.

  ‘Wait. Willa, I’m pregnant. I mean, I was pregnant, but not anymore. I lost the baby.’ Silence, then rustling. ‘Sorry. That wasn’t how I was going to bloody tell you. Look, I just need somewhere to –’

  ‘Are you okay?’ There should be a phone line you can reach down inside of and pull someone through.

  ‘Things got complicated. My boyfriend, he – Well, there was a fight and … He didn’t mean it.’

  The phone is pressed so hard against my ear. ‘Where are you? Tell me you’re not with Jack.’ The in-and-out-of-jail boyfriend she would return to, who liked to see what a mess he could make of my sister’s face.

  ‘Ugh, I knew you’d be mad. Miss bloody perfect, aren’t you? Like you care where I live.’

  ‘I’m not …’ I was going to say that I’m not mad, but my voice breaks. ‘Are you safe?’

  ‘Look, I was in hospital and now there’s no baby because of Jack and … And now, I don’t know. Dad found me wandering in the city park the other night. I didn’t really have any place to go when I got out of hospital.’

  ‘Dad what?’ At the mention of him I hold my body rigid.

  ‘Can I come over? You pay the cab ’cause I’m broke, but I’m good for it.’

  I try to feel my limbs. They no longer seem to be a part of my body.

  The music on the other end is turned down a bit. Lottie whispers, ‘I’m at Dad’s place.’

  ‘Oh, god. Lottie, no!’

  ‘Yeah. Well. That’s why I’m calling.’

  I stand up, wings spread. I will fly through the night. ‘Okay, I’ll come and get you. I can take you to a shelter or –’

  ‘Or what? You don’t want me bringing my messy self over there, interrupting your whole beautiful life, kids, husband, whatever?’ She draws a sharp breath. ‘You can’t stand me, hey? I’m just a fuck-up to you.’

  ‘Lottie, I want …’ How do I finish that sentence? Of course I want. I want so many things for Lottie I can’t pull them all out from where they are inside me. ‘You can’t stay with Dad. You know what he’s like. Is he there now?’

  Lottie drops the phone and I hear noises, possibly her throwing up. I wait.

  In our bedroom, Sam still sleeps. The whole house sleeps. The dark from outside creeps into my fluoro-lit kitchen.

  Pregnant. Lost baby. Staying with Dad. Dad. These words hang in front of my face, surreal and disjointed in the early hours.

  ‘Are you there?’ Lottie says.

  ‘Yeah.’ I think I say that out loud. Stronger, I say, ‘Yes. Let me come and get you out of there. I can take you someplace –’

  ‘So I can’t live with you? Is that what you’re saying?’

  Eli and Sebastian sleep in their little beds. Only a wall or two separates them from this phone call. ‘I just … I have two boys –’

  ‘You know what, fuck you. I should have known you wouldn’t help!’

  ‘No, Lottie. Okay, you can –’

  There’s a bang. A door slamming?

  ‘Lottie?’

  I can hear a male voice. Someone walks into the room where Lottie is. The music on the other end of the line stops. ‘Hey Dad, I was only –’ The phone is hung up.

  ‘Lottie!’ I try to redial, but in my haste the number she called from is completely wiped from my phone’s memory.

  I stand under the hard light, my shadow falling on my shamefully white tiles. Evidence of my cleaning obsession. I’m aware of how obscene my life is that I think peace comes in a bottle of Ajax. Lemony-fresh bullshit.

  The phone slips from my hands.

  Chapter Four

  2050

  Willa Waters, aged 93

  The snake-print heels join my gumboot collection on the bookshelves in my living room. After the post office adventure, my legs hurt. Back hurts. Everything hurts, a
nd I worry about anything that doesn’t because it’s probably sagged right off my body. My chin is trying to do that. My bottom, too. Katie’s still grumpy but I can’t think of why anymore. She’s banging around in the kitchen. Problem with young people these days is that polar bears went extinct in their lifetimes. You can’t underestimate what losing such wonders will do to a generation.

  I lean back to admire my collection: rows of polished gumboots in all shapes and colours. Ladybug print to camouflage print, all worn at least once. More people should wear gumboots. Everyone is dressed wrong these days. The 1960s brought miniskirts and beehive hair. The ’70s were orange and bold and bell-bottomed. Then the 1980s came, with high-waisted jeans and shoulder pads. People had style. Not like today.

  Rows of gumboots gather in the corners of my living room, on the coffee table, under the lamp. They gaze across at each other with mutual respect. Aren’t we a fine collection of things? The old lady needs us and here we are. Useful conversation starters.

  I’ve tried to pack this house with something other than memories of the scrapes on the floor and the bangs in the walls. If gumboots or heels could start discussions, there are surely enough of them around me that I should be enjoying company every night. But tonight will be the same as the one before. That’s what I believe as the sun falls in the evening sky. Long ago, there was the winter smell of wood burners and roast dinners. Now, Katie likes to zap pre-made food in newfangled kitchen gadgets and leave me to eat alone.

  ‘Where’s Sam? I want to show him my new boots.’

  From the kitchen, Katie says, matter-of-factly, ‘You divorced Sam when your son was little. We go over this all the time.’

  ‘Divorced? I never did!’

  She sticks her head around the corner and I can smell something doughy. She opens her mouth to speak, then sighs and wipes her hands on her apron.

  ‘Are you baking, dear?’

  ‘Of course I’m baking. Every Saturday for eight years, since Eli hired me. I mop floors, reorder piles, and then you have me make these ridiculous biscuits for you. Too full of sugar, I say.’