Peninsula, page 11
‘It’s all right boy,’ she whispered. Milo let out a couple of sharp barks. They sounded like a rebuke. Mel went into the bathroom in search of painkillers.
For the next twenty-four hours, the news spread the story in the manner of a low-flying top dressing plane dropping its cargo of dark grey superphosphate. The loud drone impossible to ignore, wiring her nerves, giving rise to itches that refused to abate. One of the blokes died from his burns, the other remained critical.
Months later at a party Mel remembered her comparison with top dressing. She mentioned it to her mate Willy Carlton.
‘At least with top dressing, the noise and dust results in a subsequent boost in grass growth.’
A month after the explosion, the boys came home for the school holidays. Melissa took some time off intending to hang out with them. At first Milo regarded them with suspicion, nipping their outstretched hands and growling. He needn’t have bothered. Whether it was boarding school or teenage hormones she wasn’t sure, but something had changed in her boys. They’d grown a coat of bland politeness she couldn’t seem to penetrate. Both were unmoved by her spa stories, unresponsive to her questions about their lives in the city, showed zero curiosity about Daryl’s farm deals. Their eyes glazed over when she suggested activities.
Once Milo got used to them they took him for walks, but otherwise they seemed content to mooch around the house. They clearly missed their Auckland friends, never letting their phones out of sight, checking for messages, or forever on their iPads, gaming, lost in their own worlds for hours. They had a way of communicating with each other and the wider world that only heightened her feeling of exclusion. She found herself taking more pills than usual, washing them down with white wine. The time when her boys had needed her were fading. Like she’d been made redundant and had slept through the notice period.
She mentioned her feelings to Dana.
‘I’m a bed and breakfast provider. Except no breakfast, they sleep in till noon.’
‘It’s a phase,’ Dana said, with a wave of her hand. ‘Teenage thing, they’ll be more attentive in a few years I reckon. You pay much attention to your olds at that age? Don’t think I did.’
‘Maybe. They aren’t keen to visit Mum and Dad either. Always on their devices.’
Dana raised her rainbow eyebrows in Mel’s direction. ‘Little junkies eh.’
‘Don’t say that!’
Dana was right. The Barclay household was in a state of constant craving, a den of iniquity, a soap opera that should have been canned a few seasons back. The boys primed for the next electronic notification, her for the next sweet chemical high, Daryl always working. Even Milo got angsty if he hadn’t been out for a walk for a few hours. Realising this didn’t dampen Melissa’s disappointment. Preoccupied, she forgot meals. Marty and Lucas deployed their recently acquired independence by making themselves nachos and toasted sandwiches.
‘I can’t compete with Minecraft. I expect you and Dad are in the same boat,’ Melissa told her mother, when she asked when the kids were popping over to visit.
After they’d returned to Auckland, Melissa went to a party at the Rugby Club. She looked around for Simon, something she did automatically now, though she hadn’t seen him since her first encounter. She knocked against Willy Carlton.
‘Shit, sorry!’
‘No worries, Mel.’ Willy grinned at her. He looked the same as always, skinny and freckly, pretty good skin, Willy, considering he didn’t take care of it.
‘Hey, seen your other half?’ He was checking out the room, same as she’d been.
‘Not for a bit.’ She was surprised, didn’t think Willy had any time for Daryl. She’d had a few yarns with him at parties when they were both outside enjoying a vape. He tended to be a bit dark on those he called ‘wankerpreneurs’. Once, they’d argued about whether Daryl counted. ‘Daryl works for the man, so he doesn’t count,’ Melissa said.
Willy had shaken his head. ‘Daryl,’ he drawled. ‘Taking into account his extracurricular activities, career adjacent business interests – definitely a classic wankerpreneur.’
Now she looked at Willy more closely, and felt tension lurking behind his smile. He touched her arm. ‘Never mind. Stay safe chicky.’ She watched him stride off, then finally went in search of a drink.
A few weeks later someone broke into one of Hamish’s barns. Her father heard them, got out of bed and drove down. Whoever it was fled when they saw his headlights. Nothing was taken. The would-be burglars left some lime-green tags on the side of the shed.
‘What did the cops say?’ Melissa asked her father.
‘Said there’s been a few break-ins. Hoons looking for drugs. Chap told me not to go confronting them, too dangerous. I’m going to get alarms for the sheds, same as the house one, don’t want machinery going missing.’
She was glad she had Milo, her small parcel of comfort she could open when needed. She was trying to ration her other comforts but it was proving difficult. She was driving miles out of her way to find new pharmacies that would sell her painkillers. Consulted several different medics to obtain the necessary scripts. Daryl was out at night more often than he was home, and when he did return he’d sit in his car talking on his phone before coming inside to shower and head back to work. He carried his phones with him everywhere, along with his various laptops. Seemed distracted, irritable and distant. It had been going on for weeks.
Dana was applying for jobs. She had a Zoom interview with a recruitment agency in Sydney, then handed in her notice at the spa. Melissa cried when Dana told her, but she was angry too.
‘Everyone’s leaving me!’
‘Don’t be silly. Change is all. Once I’ve settled in, you can come over for a visit. Even if Daryl is busy. Come yourself, before the school holidays. Change of scene. And don’t tell your parents, they’ll try to stop you.’
Melissa thought about it, but she couldn’t leave Milo. She didn’t mention it to Daryl or her parents.
Then Daryl announced he was going up north for a week or so, however long it took. Urgent business, some wrinkles with a sale that needed to be sorted. He needed to be on hand 24/7. Place was remote, accessible only by boat, no cell or Wi-Fi. In disbelief, she watched him throw a few clothes into a suitcase.
‘I’ll call you when I can babe. Don’t worry. Go hang with your olds if you get anxious.’
‘I’m not a child. What’s going on? Milo and I could come as well.’
‘No. You’re better off out of it, you’d be bored. And you’ve got work remember? It’s nothing, babe. Nothing that can’t be sorted.’
She cuddled Milo as she watched Daryl leave. When she set him down, he ran outside, chased Daryl’s car down the drive. It was only later, in her darker moments when she was hating herself for being so weak, stupid and blind, that she imagined that Milo was trying to protect her from Daryl.
She has only the haziest recollection of the months after he left for good. Some of the time was lost to self-medication. She stopped turning up at the spa and stopped answering her phone. The local police searched the house and questioned her endlessly. She could tell them virtually nothing. Eventually they gave up, warning her they would keep her under surveillance but she wouldn’t face charges. She talked to the school, along with her parents, to make sure the boys were okay. They wanted to stay in Auckland and everyone seemed to think this was for the best. Stability, routine, minimum of disruption.
Asking her parents to take Milo was a turning point of sorts. She had no energy for walking him, was too nervous to leave the house to buy his food. Jennifer insisted she see her doctor. And counselling twice a week. Melissa hated it, but her mother made it clear they would only take Milo if she complied. Her parents paid for the counsellor to come to her for the first few weeks. She agreed to do it for the boys. When Dana or anyone else tried to call or text her, she told them she was detoxing and getting her shit together, that they should stay away. She turned off her phone. If anyone came round, she didn’t answer the door.
Gradually her pain and cravings subsided. She started leaving the house for counselling and to get groceries. She talked to the boys twice a week. She learned her parents had given Milo away. On top of losing Andy, Daryl and Dana, it was too much to bear. Her counsellor told her dwelling on loss was unhelpful, not that she put it as bluntly as that. She was paid big bucks to let her clients come to their own conclusions. Melissa came to the conclusion her counsellor also had an eye on who was paying the big bucks. Melissa was not the only one relying on her parents for financial support. She decided she’d had enough counselling.
It’s the day after the dinner with her parents. She’s spent the night staring at her bedroom ceiling. It’s close to 5am when the dawn light reveals the first hint of its shape. She blinks, feels the faint brush of her eyelashes against her skin. With each blink the ceiling gains a little more focus. She breathes as she blinks, open and shut, in and out. Through her open window she hears a distant barking and for a moment she holds her breath till she remembers Milo is with Frank. Her rhythm is broken so she decides to go to the beach.
She doesn’t know why she stops by the Four Square, it’s too early for it to be open. She sees a handwritten note taped to the window. Helen is eighty-six and lives in the gated community. She’s had a fall and gets about with crutches, so she needs someone to exercise her poodle and help brush his coat, bathe him, trim his nails. Helen is so relieved and pleased with Melissa’s efforts she tells all her neighbours. Soon Melissa has several dogs to look after.
It’s a part-time gig that only works because her parents subsidise her existence. It’s not independence, but it does afford some freedom. It’s a start. She likes that she got the job at her own initiative. Jennifer, when she finds out about the dogs, offers to ask around to see if other people need help. Melissa begs her not to. She wants to manage things herself, thinks she’ll build up slowly, step by step.
The dog owners are grateful that there’s someone local who can come and take their pets and deliver them back without them having to do anything. The dogs are less demanding and more pleasant to deal with than her former clients at the spa. So long as she establishes a clear hierarchy, with herself at the top, they fall into line. She finds their haphazard chasing after scents endearing, and while it’s tiring, the sense of being worn out is not unpleasant. The exercise is helping her fitness. Dogs and children. She’s a young mum again.
She could post about her services on the community Facebook page. There are probably some stressed-out professionals living locally and commuting who need someone to look after their pets.
She thinks about Marty and Lucas. They stay in touch via text and Zoom. So far, they seem to have taken their father’s incarceration in their stride. The school seems to have done so too. She finds this incredible. It surely cannot last. In two years, Marty will be the same age Andy was when he headed off to university. She lets thoughts of Andy and Daryl come and go, like they tell you to do on the meditations she follows on YouTube sometimes. In good moments she believes she might start doing yoga.
The dogs aren’t allowed near the estuary, but when she tires of the scenic reserve there’s a little bay further east. Ivory sand melts to caramel where it’s stroked by the tide. The tepid water has a light head of froth that bubbles over her feet like warm beer. Once, she finds herself thinking Daryl was right about this place. Its beauty is a sight to behold, constantly changing with the light. She looks towards Maratere. The islands are slightly out of focus as they often are, but she knows where to find them. She can call Dana anytime, but she needs to find her own feet. There are clouds on the horizon. Late afternoon sun is casting a few lines through them, God rays.
All her life she’s stayed here. People she’s loved have gone away. She has her scars and her hopes. She’ll hold on to them for as long as she can. The sun will continue to shine. The clouds will shed their water vapour, gather moisture again and again.
Peninsula
Driving east, the car headlights make little impression on the tentacles of mist conducting a quiet exploration of the valley floor, poking every crevice and groove. Heavy, saturated air languishes near the creek, waiting for the dark sky to lighten. Fog blurs night and dawn, bewitches earth and sky. The sun shakes itself awake with a shudder of warmth, gets its glow on, orange today, and sets about sweeping away the clutter. In a few hours the fog will be gone, though Rachel can’t shake the fog in her own head.
Returning to the valley, one of the most reliable sensations is of the past seeping in and around, sticky, hard to shake off. Coming home, it seemed to Rachel, is instinctual, like opening a hot oven with your glasses on and being surprised when they steamed up. You feel silly when it happens but the insight doesn’t stop you from doing it again.
Like running. Rachel enjoys the way running dependably shifts her mood, enables her to think inside things, while also getting outside herself. It’s hard to put into words. She loves to run in beautiful places where there are forests and coast, but a blank strip of asphalt or the cobblestones of a bustling town are just as good, harder on the joints perhaps but meditative, the endorphins pumping around her brain like oxygen delivered by her blood. Sometimes all she does is ruminate, her thoughts churning over on a feedback loop going nowhere. But on a good run, ideas pop up, new ways of seeing things, a different angle on a puzzle, and she returns with a sense of perspective. People think she runs to escape her life, she’s addicted, crazy the time she spends running when she could invest in relationships, kids, climbing the corporate ladder, saving the world. People can mind their own business.
Willy liked people to mind their own business. After his marriage blew up, he announced he was going to Adelaide.
‘What will you do there?’ Boring question she realised immediately, like asking a vegetarian where they get their iron from. She liked to say she ordered iron filings in powder form online and washed them down in a smoothie.
‘One of me mates, Jase, remember him? He can get me a job at his orchard. Stone fruit, almonds, heaps of citrus, there’s loads of work, better pay, weather’s good. May as well work on me tan, charm a few snakes.’ Willy chucked a tight grin at Rachel. It was higher on one side of his face.
Rachel caught the flatness in his voice, the stiffness in his jaw. He kept his Dirty Dog sunglasses on even though it was dark in the house. His face was a mask where once it was cheeky and open. He’d aged too, or maybe it was the buzz cut. There was a glassiness to him but it was his failure to take the piss out of her for asking the obvious question that broke her heart.
‘Willy the snake charmer. I guess that’ll liven up your CV.’
‘Gotta get away from here for a bit.’ He stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Cuppa, sis?’
She hesitated. His lack of enthusiasm was a clear signal he was trying to get rid of her. She was already fighting a strong impulse to make her excuses and leave. ‘Yeah, tea would be good.’
He glanced around the messy kitchen. ‘Tea bags here somewhere.’
Rachel surveyed the forest of cans on the table and in boxes near the bench. There were even a few balanced on top of the fridge. She retrieved a jar of tea bags, helped herself to two. ‘Any mugs?’
Willy opened the dishwasher, rescued two mugs, rinsed them at the sink.
‘Change will be good.’ Rachel wondered as she said this whether she was talking about Willy or her own job. She’d carried her uncertainty like a poorly adjusted backpack for so long she only recognised the ache in her shoulders when she saw it in others. She pushed the thought aside, conscious of the luxury of her position compared with the stark choices her little brother faced. ‘When do you leave?’
‘Next week. Olds are going ape-shit. You want milk?’
‘No milk. Yeah, Mum treated me to a twenty-minute rant, could not get a word in, I’m walking back to my car, she’s following me still going on about it. Dad didn’t get a look in.’
Willy rolled his eyes. ‘Old man is the same. Doesn’t play well at the golf club when your youngest has fallen off the rails, messing with the evil smokes and drugs.’ Willy tugged at the fridge door and a few cans spilled off the top. He ignored them, pulled out the milk, poured a splash into his tea.
Rachel wrinkled her nose. ‘Remember his thing about John Denver?’
He shot her a sideways glance, and for a second the old Willy was back. ‘Enlighten me. Don’t say he’s been playing his old country and western tapes? Sure sign he’s off his rocker.’
‘No, nothing like that. He was a big Denver fan until he overdosed, then Dad went really dark on him, used to sit on the couch and go on about how he couldn’t understand how the guy could sing about nature while all the time he was taking drugs.’ Rachel realised she’d picked the wrong anecdote but she was committed now. ‘Good old Jim, he took it personally, as if most singers don’t take stuff.’ She blushed into the silence. ‘Will you keep your phone number? I’ll call you, see how it’s going.’
‘Yeah.’ Willy was scowling into his tea.
His edginess had Rachel gulping hers down, burning her tongue.
‘Serves the old man right. Denver’s music, sentimental crap,’ Willy said.
Rachel wouldn’t mind some sentimental crap, better than the Radio Sport blasting out of Di’s car radio. It’s the only channel that seems to work. She fiddles the dials with her left hand, trying to find the off button. The front piece comes off in her hand. Silence at last. She stuffs the plastic moulding in the glove box.
It’s eerie driving the narrow winding road through the mist but by the time she crests the hill the fog has lifted. A few more minutes and it’ll be like it never existed. The ability to move on would be handy. The east coast rises like an invitation. The lines of beach houses don’t spoil the promise from this distance.
