Descended, page 9
“Indigo,” she’d said calmly, “focus on me. Deep breath in, okay? Just like we practiced.”
He’d looked at her feral-eyed and shaken his head stubbornly.
“Indigo.”
He’d gazed at her forlornly, then attempted a shaky breath deep into his lungs.
“Good, baby, that’s good. Now another,” she’d coaxed, over and over until he was calm. “You control your breath, you control your body,” she’d reminded him. “Now tell me, what happened to the note your school sent out about Mother’s Day?”
He’d stuck his bottom lip out. “I put it in an envelope and my teacher helped me post it to Bernadette’s house in LA. She didn’t write back, but I thought… I thought she might come. That she might surprise me like the mums do on TV. They always come. But not my mother. I hate her, Sarita! I hate Bernadette!”
“I’m sorry no one was there for you today,” she’d told him, “but this mother of yours, you know you were born unto her for a reason. We’ve talked about this, haven’t we? To hate is a waste of energy.”
Indigo nodded. “I chose my mother and father before I was born because this is the life that will help me… become who I need to be.” He knew the words by rote. But he didn’t fully believe them. Why would anyone choose parents who would make them feel so sad inside?
“You’re exactly where you’re meant to be, Indigo, and you’re doing so good. And tell me, darling one, what if you’d given that note to Edita?”
He’d screwed his face up for a moment, then said, “She would have come.”
“Why?”
“Because she cares if I feel sad.”
“Why?”
“Because… because she… she loves me a little, I guess.”
“As do I. And Edita – well, I know she doesn’t always show it, but Edita would lay down and die for you.” She’d smiled her beatific smile then. “Beautiful one, I know how much this hurts, but all these feelings, all these experiences, they’re going to make you so strong and so wise, and that strength and that wisdom are going to help make you into such a special person.”
“But why don’t I have a family, Sarita? Everyone has one but me – a mummy and a daddy, and brothers and sisters.” It hurt his heart so much that his father didn’t want him, that everything in the world was more important to his mother than him.
“You do have a family,” Sarita told him. “You have us.”
Sarita, she just knew things. She was the wisest person he’d ever met. She always knew just what he needed, when he needed advice, when he needed her comforting silence. Sometimes she’d tell him tales of adventures she’d had, so many adventures it was as if she’d lived a thousand lives.
As Indigo grew older, Sarita stopped only coming at night. The sunny backyard of the Van Allen Estate had gardens to rival the Botanic Gardens and a lawn the size of a park that overlooked the harbour below. Indigo loved to lie out on the grass with Sarita and watch the little white boats straining at their moorings, the seagulls coasting over the waves; the children crouching in the lapping tide with their buckets and spades. He found if he lay perfectly still bees, ladybugs and sometimes even dragonflies would come and land upon his hands. He would watch them in silent fascination as they crawled up and down his arms, their tiny wings and legs tickling him as he suppressed his giggles. In summer, the cicadas would arrive; his favourites.
By the time he was seven, Indigo had gotten used to seeing his mother just two or three times a year. He no longer sobbed when she left, with no more than an air kiss goodbye. She never hugged him for fear he’d wrinkle her couture or mess up her blow-dry.
The year he turned ten, she’d flown home to spend the holidays with him but had gotten a better offer the day before Christmas when the director she was dating sent a private jet to whisk her off to Hawaii. Indigo had sat at his bedroom window watching Lukas load her matching Hermés luggage into the car.
“It’s okay to feel sad, my dear one,” Sarita had said, appearing at his side to lay a gentle hand upon his back.
“I’m not,” Indigo had shrugged, staring blankly out at his mother climbing into the car, her blonde French twist disappearing from view as the driver closed the door behind her. And he meant it. When he looked at her now, he just felt nothing. He was done trying to please her, done with all the activities she demanded he do, the tennis lessons and the guitar lessons and the singing and dancing and acting classes she insisted upon like some absentee stage mother forcing him to be what he wasn’t. The last thing in the world he wanted was to be anything like her.
“Is that really how you feel?” she’d asked, looking deep into his eyes.
“She doesn’t feel sad, so why should I?” he’d said vacantly, his attention drawn back outside. Although he’d never been able to feel how other people felt about him, in his mother’s case, it was more than obvious.
“Darling boy,” she’d said, “it’s important you acknowledge those feelings, but know they are not yours.”
He’d torn his gaze then from the car disappearing round the bend and merely shrugged at her. “It’s easier like this,” he’d scowled, shrugging Sarita’s hand from his back. “Lemme alone,” he’d whispered, refusing to look at her again. She’d left. Not for good that time. He hadn’t known then their days together were numbered. Or that she’d leave because of him.
When Indigo arrived at the Carlisles that afternoon, Cordelia was lying out on a bohemian looking rug in the front garden, making the most of the spring sunshine. She was sprawled on her stomach, long shapely legs bent up, bare feet dangling. Open in front of her was one of the Sebastian Winters novels Scarlett was always going on about.
“Hey, you,” he called, ducking through the banana palms and birds-of-paradise to join her on the small patch of lawn.
“Hey, Inds!” Her whole face lit up as she sat up and pushed her cherry-red sunnies onto the top of her head. She looked super cute in cut-off denim shorts and a black and white polka-dot camisole, her wild hair swept over one bronzed shoulder. She dog-eared the page to mark her place before chucking the book aside. “What’s news?”
“I broke up with Harper,” he announced, sinking down opposite her on the rug, leaning back on his hands.
“Oh no,” she said, tenting her hand over her eyes, “are you okay?” Her full lips turned down at the corners as she gazed at him.
“Yep, totally, it was time,” he said, launching into a blow-by-blow.
“And what, you’re just gonna let her get away with telling people she dumped you?” she asked when he’d finished.
He snorted. “I couldn’t give a shit what she says. If that’s what she feels the need to do, then whatever. She can tell people what she likes.”
“She might start spreading rumours you’re a really bad kisser,” she teased, a smile blooming at the edges of her mouth. “Or worse!”
He grinned. “Maybe I am a bad kisser,” he said, nudging her foot with his.
“That’s not what I’ve heard,” she giggled.
“What have you heard?” He cocked an eyebrow at her.
“Let’s just say your reputation precedes you.”
Oh shit.
She thought he was a sleaze.
“Oh my God, Inds, we all know you’re amazing at everything,” she teased, hitting him on the shoulder. “Word is you’re perfect, right?”
He wasn’t perfect.
Far from it.
She knew that, didn’t she?
The smile faded from her lips. “What’s wrong?”
He realised his face had tensed up. “I-I uh, I wanted to tell you something, Cora,” he blurted and he must have looked serious because she leant towards him, those angel eyes intent on his. “Listen, it’s about the other day… That stuff you told me…” he trailed off, chewing the inside of his cheek.
“You can tell me anything, you know that, right?” She placed her hand lightly on his. It tingled where she touched.
He knew that. So he did. He told her about feeling everyone’s feelings. About the voices that’d come and gone his whole life, about how they weren’t that bad anymore because the bubble, it’d been holding fast for so long now.
When he was done, she stared at him thoughtfully. “So I gotta ask,” she finally said, “how am I feeling right now?”
Without hesitation, he described everything he felt in her down to the tiny papercut in the crease of her right index finger. She was quiet for a while and then she had more questions. Of course. Questions about the feelings and emotions and pain. And then questions about the voices.
Were they inside his head or outside of it?
Both.
How many voices were there?
So many. Too many.
What sort of things did they say?
Anything. Everything. Sometimes they told him about shitty things they’d done. Sometimes they told him shitty things about himself. Sometimes they just talked shitty, endless nonsense.
How come they come and go?
No fucking idea.
Do you talk back to them?
As if! He’d almost given himself an aneurism trying to ignore them.
You said they don’t really affect you anymore. When was the last time you heard them?
It’d been at least a year, when he thought about it, since they’d caused him trouble. Maybe more. The bubble felt so big these days; them trapped on the outside of it so he barely registered they existed anymore.
Where did they come from? Were they… dead people?
That was the big question, the one he couldn’t answer.
Not once did she ask him if he’d imagined any of it, or suggest there was anything wrong with him. She just listened with an open mind, without judgement.
“So this Sarita,” she ventured, finger moving through the fringe of the rug they shared, “she was the only one you talked to about this stuff?”
He nodded.
“But she’s gone now?
Another nod.
“What happened?”
He took a deep breath. “The last day I ever saw her, I was twelve. It’d been a bad day, that day,” he said, the memory of it bringing a wave of emotion. “Bernadette was meant to be coming home, but she’d just called to say she was going to St Tropez instead. So I took her Porsche out for a joyride – as a big ‘fuck you’ to her I guess – but Edita caught me, went ballistic and sent me to my room where the voices started up again. I’d learnt a few ways to shut them up by then. One of them was by stealing vodka from the liquor cabinet in Bernadette’s room.”
Her eyes widened. He’d realised by then that not feeling, felt good. Blissful even. Not feeling and not caring. Because when he let feelings in, he just felt anger. And sadness. Angry and sad more than he should. Although he’d become an expert at hiding it outside the safety of his room.
“Anyway, I was lying on my bed, totally hammered, feeling pissed off and hard done by and extremely sorry for myself. I remember being pretty pissed at Sarita actually, because she’d been coming by less and less and I took that really personally. I was so out of it I hadn’t even realised she was there until Banjo raised his head from my chest and started to wag his tail.”
“So I opened my eyes to see her standing over me, hands on hips, looking not angry, but disappointed, which we all know is so much worse.” He rolled his eyes. “So she just starts laying into me, telling me I was better than this, that she couldn’t help me when I did foolish stuff like this to myself, that I was destined for much greater things – she’d always had high hopes for me, old Sarita,” he sighed.
“I remember this wave of fury just crashing over me, because of course nothing was ever my fault and the whole world was out to get me.” He forced a wry smile. “So I started mimicking her, which was a totally mature response.” He’d been such a dick back then. “Funnily enough, that didn’t deter her. She sat down beside me on the bed and continued to talk so softly, so calmy to me: This wasn’t who she’d taught me to be, I was behaving like a coward, I’d never learn and grow if I kept this up and so then what was the point, I was wasting my life, all this opportunity…
“But man, I didn’t want to hear it. So I snapped at her to go away, because I was so fucked up she couldn’t help me. No one could. Anyway, she continued to berate me until I totally lost it. I guess I just didn’t want to feel the things her words made me feel. She was like Jiminy bloody Cricket, always chirping at me. It was too much. She was too much.”
“What did you do?” Cordelia asked.
He closed his eyes then as the guilt and shame washed over him. No one knew except him and Sarita.
“I’d like to remind you I was completely plastered,” he said, cracking his lids to gaze at her, “not that it’s much of an excuse. By this point, I was so consumed with fury I was actually seeing double…”
“That could’ve been the booze,” she murmured with a weak smile.
He chuckled. Even at his lowest point, she could coax that out of him. But he grew solemn again as he braced himself to finish. “I screamed at her: ‘Fuck OFF Sarita! I don’t want you in my fucking life anymore!’” His hands clenched into fists as he added in a small voice, “and I pegged the empty vodka bottle at her.”
Cordelia was just staring at him. “Wow,” she finally managed.
“It didn’t hit her. But yeah,” he shrugged, “it worked, because she left. Left for good. Left me with Edita and Lukas and every so often Bernadette, but I couldn’t talk to any of them the way I’d been able to talk to her. And that was that.” He didn’t tell her that Sarita’s voice of reason didn’t leave. He saw her in his mind’s eye, her mouth wide and smiling, her clothes wild and colourful, fuchsia, violet, lilac, magenta. In his mind, she never changed, never grew older. Sometimes he wanted to beg her to come back to him, but he never did. He couldn’t stand how wildly disappointed she’d be in what he’d become.
“Um, so yeah,” he said, scrutinising Cordelia’s face, trying to gauge what she was thinking, “I just wanted to tell you… all of that. I kind of felt like I owed you a secret. After what you told me the other day.” He knew he didn’t have to ask her not to tell anyone. She never would.
“You thought I’d understand?”
He nodded.
“I do. And I’m thankful,” she said, “because now you know you always have me to talk to.” And in that moment, his heart felt so full he was almost dizzy. Being around her was just so easy. Like they’d known each other forever.
The next morning he woke up in Robbie’s room, in the bed Scarlett had gone out and bought just for him, with a smile on his face. Yesterday had changed everything for him in every way. Yesterday he’d finally told someone else the whole truth about himself. And he hadn’t been judged, or ridiculed, or belittled. And it felt fucking good.
sixteen months later…
chapter six
perfect day
harbord, new south wales, february, 1992
indigo
“So he was gardening naked?” Indigo said, leaning forward, brows hitched.
“Well, so he claimed,” Joshua grinned, “and apparently, he just happened to trip over a rake and fall arse-first into the carrot patch.”
“Ewwwww!” Robbie cried, glaring across the table from Indigo to Joshua. “Can we just not, over dinner?”
Joshua laughed, reaching to cup Robbie’s neck. “But you guys haven’t heard the best part,” he continued, eyes twinkling, “when we removed the carrot, we discovered that it was peeled.”
“Oh my God, GROSS Dad!” Robbie squealed, as everyone else burst out laughing. “There’s a time and a place for such tales!”
“Never did have the stomach for my work stories, this one,” Joshua said, widening his eyes affectionately at Robbie.
“Yeah, well, butts and guts don’t exactly pair well with roast lamb and carrots,” Robbie grumbled, dramatically dropping his knife and fork and pushing his plate away.
“He does have a point, Dad,” Cordelia chimed in, wiping her eyes. “Your stories are pretty gross. Often hilarious. But always gross.”
“Are you guys kidding?” Indigo cried. “His stories are awesome!” He’d never been able to understand the twins’ lack of enthusiasm towards their father’s tales from the ER and operating theatre. He personally couldn’t get enough; the human body was a fascinating puzzle.
“I think,” Scarlett said, easing up from the table to refill the gravy boat, glancing from Joshua to Indigo, “that we can leave the bowel obstruction stories ‘til after dinner.” She grimaced.
“My own family, turned against me,” Joshua bemoaned, a twinkle in his eye. “Thank God I have Inds or I’d think no one cared about my day.”
Scarlett dropped a kiss on the top of his head on her way back to the table. “I care very much about your day, darling,” she grinned, “once I’ve finished eating. You know my stomach is weaker than usual these days.” He grabbed her and pulled her onto his lap, kissing her cheek and rubbing her rounded belly with his palm.
“May I be the first to say ew, again?” Robbie said, staring at them in disgust. “There are children present, you know?”
“What did your obstetrician say today, Mum?” Cordelia asked, slicing into a chunk of pumpkin.
“Ten tiny fingers and ten tiny toes,” Scarlett smiled, placing her hand over Joshua’s on her stomach. “Our lives are going to descend into complete chaos in just a couple of months.”
“It’s so going to be a girl,” Robbie said.
“As much as I’d love a little sister,” Cordelia said, “it’s a boy.”
“I think it’s a girl,” Scarlett said, smiling up at Joshua.
“Absolutely,” he agreed.
“It’s definitely a boy,” Indigo said, eyeing Scarlett thoughtfully. Ever since she’d announced her pregnancy, all he’d been able to see in his mind’s eye was a baby boy, blond with brown eyes.
