Allegra in Three Parts, page 19
I can’t stand this. I can’t stand this anymore. I can’t stand this sadness throbbing inside my body, hurting my head and pounding my soul.
The mother angel is pulsing hard.
Three dots, three dashes, three dots.
She is sending me a message. What does the mother angel want me to do?
Three dots, three dashes, three dots.
‘Stop! Stop, both of you,’ It’s Rick. My dad is in there with my grandmothers at Number 25. ‘First you don’t bloody speak for years and finally when you do . . . this crap! No wonder Al’s shot through. You might like to remember where I fit it in. It’s my daughter who’s missing and I’m going to get on and find her.’
For a moment that silences both of my grandmothers.
‘Look,’ says Rick, sounding like he’s taken in a deep breath. ‘She might be at Wendy’s. She knows that Wendy helps girls in strife, maybe she’s gone there.’
‘How on earth would Allegra even know where that is?’ Matilde demands.
‘She’s been there with me – a couple of times,’ Rick confesses without remorse.
‘What! She has been there to that crazy woman! You are both . . . both . . . unbelievable! Take me to this place, Rick, immediately. I need to get my daughter’s only child.’ Matilde is demanding this of my dad. Joy is sobbing that she’s going with them, to bring her granddaughter safely home. And before there could be time to catch any tears in little glass bottles I hear the van doors slam and the sound of its motor whiz down the drive. I am alone in the dark with the mother angel and her off-beat pulse.
Three dots, three dashes, three dots.
She is pulsing harder now.
S . . . O . . . S
Save Our Souls
Three dots, three dashes, three dots.
She is feeling hotter now.
Three dots, three dashes, three dots.
What am I to do now?
Three dots, three dashes, three dots.
S . . . O . . . S
Smash Our Sadness
The mother angel wants me to smash our sadness. I have to smash those dirty labelled bottles. I have to smash Joy’s emotions and Matilde’s bottled-up anger. I have to smash it all . . . I have to smash BLAMED FOR BELINDA.
Simone de Beauvoir pops up from her pond as the mother angel and I burst through the brown gate. She follows us into Joy’s glasshouse. I work hard at the cupboard under the sink until it springs open, revealing the thirty-two bottles labelled BLAMED FOR BELINDA. And now the mother angel is swinging at the bottles, swinging hard, smashing them one at a time in all directions, spraying coloured glass and tears and emotions into the air. They are all over the walls, dripping down the windows and shattered across the floor.
DEVASTATION, the mother angel decides, has to be smashed too. There it is, high up on the shelf, a whole row without a story, obscured by SELF-ACTUALISATION.
And down it comes . . . smash . . . smash . . . smash . . . into a hundred tiny pieces.
DEVASTATION is released – everywhere – and now it is nowhere.
The mother angel’s pulse is quickening but it no longer has a pattern. Dots and dashes, daaash, dot, dot, dashes and dots. It’s pounding, missing beats, racing ahead as though it has an end in sight.
My muscles are weak, my flesh is hot and my bones feel old, achy and tired. My eyes aren’t working the way they usually do. And now I am falling . . . falling . . . onto my knees . . . falling . . . onto my elbows . . . falling . . . onto the floor. The mother angel and I are lying on the lino surrounded by shattered glass and released emotions and bottled blame with Simone de Beauvoir coming in and out of focus nuzzled into the crook of my arm.
‘Hold on, Allegra, hold on,’ whispers Simone. ‘You can transcend this disequilibrium.’
My heart flutters. It misses a beat. It races towards another . . . and it stops.
Chapter Twenty-three
Something is pushing from behind my eyes and after a couple of shoves they open against a heavy load. My mind tries to find the right channel. It lands on a fuzzy white room.
I’m floating on a bed in that white-room ocean. The outline of Matilde is at my side and a statue of Rick is on an outcrop by the window. There’s a pulsing, a whooshing and a mid-range beeping. I want to call Matilde and Rick in, let them know I’m still on the surface, but the weight of outside wins out and pulls my eyelids down.
I have become a hot climate: a furnace hovering just above the earth, heating cold deserts and warming all oceans. My blood is a river of embers, my throat a burning pipe and my fiery fingers aflame.
Joy is a torch: a humming, singing, scorching torch, caressing and weeping white-light love.
Coming up again. It’s dark now. I am alone. The room is slightly aglow. A silver figurine is shimmering from the other side of the window. It’s the mother angel. Her lips are moving, they are forming a heart shape. They are whispering now with the words coming towards me in engraved running writing.
I want to follow the mother angel into the night.
But Patricia has arrived at the door, standing firm opposite the silvery window. She is a plaster mould but feels real in the room in flesh and blood and future. She is holding a book with blank pages and waves at the angel outside. The angel’s smile sends back a million glass pieces from shattered bottles that light up the room. She speaks now in capital letters:
OUR SADNESS IS SMASHED
The sun is pushing out the last of the dark, the mother angel has gone and I’m here in the damp and cool. And with me, asleep in chairs either side of the bed, are Joy and Matilde. Rick is curled in a ball, anchoring my feet to the bed. We are all together in the one room.
‘I’m thirsty,’ I say to no one in particular.
I don’t have to choose between them: Joy and Matilde have taken each of my hands. Rick is on his feet and reaching for a glass.
They are not livid or disgusted or looking at me as though I’m a Riffraff. But they have glistening eyes that seem to have gone back to loving me, in their separate ways, and in this small space they have no way of avoiding each other.
‘Arrhythmia,’ says a man dressed like a doctor with a serious frown. ‘Her heart rhythm remains irregular; profoundly so, I’m afraid. Did she have a fever in the past week, or was she taking any medication?’
‘No,’ reply Matilde, Joy and Rick all at once.
‘Or was it ever suggested, when she was born, that she had any type of congenital heart defect?’
‘Certainly not,’ clips Matilde as though that would be some fault on her part.
‘She’s was born a picture of perfect health,’ Joy chimes in proudly.
‘And she’s been fighting fit ever since,’ adds Rick.
‘Well, it’s a puzzle, especially in light of all that. And the fact she’s been so unwell here for days.’ He takes the stethoscope from around his neck. ‘Mmmm . . . a bit of a mystery, really. Sometimes in children it can be caused by an imbalance, some sort of chemical imbalance, but that’s rare.
‘Allegra, I’m just going to listen to your heart again, is that all right with you?’
It takes some effort but I nod and the doctor warms the metal end of his stethoscope in his cupped hand and places it against my chest. I can see in his eyes as he listens that I’m still not right.
‘There are medications we can try but of course they come with side effects,’ he says, and by the looks on their faces, just the thought of that is giving Matilde, Joy and Rick side effects too.
‘I’ll write something up to start this afternoon and we’ll see if that makes a difference. It might take a bit of trial and error. Meanwhile she’ll need to stay in, with plenty of rest, at least for another week or so.’ The doctor takes the clipboard off the end of my bed and disappears into the corridor. I can’t keep my eyes open any longer and sink back into a deep sleep.
‘Twisties for breakfast, that’ll sort you right out.’ Patricia is here, really truly here. Not a cold plaster mould but my best-ever friend, with a pleased-to-be-here grin and hair smelling reassuringly of Green Apple Shampoo. She’s telling me that she’s managed to sneak in – and what’s more, find me – before visiting hours have even begun.
‘What time is it?’ I ask, my eyes feeling crusty and voice husky.
‘Almost seven-thirty,’ she says. ‘In the morning, in case you’re a bit muddled up. I came straight from Central Station; Mum put me in a cab as soon as the overnight train pulled in. Cost me a fiver, good thing I’ve been babysitting a bit lately. Mum and I were coming down from Armidale next week, but she said we could bring the trip forward by a few days after Wendy rang up and said you were real crook.’
I take a Twistie from Patricia’s outstretched hand but just hold it for now, saving it for later.
‘So how are you feeling, Ally? Have to say you look all right!’
‘Okay . . . I’m okay . . . better than before.’
‘Wendy told Mum your heart’s buggered up. What happened?’
‘Oh, it just kind of sped up and got out of beat. And it couldn’t get back . . . into its beat. The doctor says it’s something called arrhythmia. He’s put me on some medicine. But it takes a while to start working.’
‘What made your heart get out of beat? You didn’t bump into that chunderous Kimberly Linton, did you?’ Patricia pulls a face and the sight of her twinkling brown eyes rolling in towards each other in such a funny way warms up my chest and recharges my stomach. I eat my Twistie.
‘Nah, it wasn’t Kimberly . . . I haven’t seen her for ages, thank God. I was in Joy’s glasshouse; with that mother angel I bought at the Mother’s Day stall. Remember the silver statue, holding the baby girl?’ And feeling the tent snugness of just Patricia and me alone in the white room I take a chance and tell her something I would never dream of telling anyone else.
‘It was pretty weird, Patricia – she wanted me to smash those BLAMED FOR BELINDA bottles, you know, the ones we found at the back of the cupboard the day we got the mulberry leaves for Simone. The mother angel wanted them smashed, she wanted me to get rid of them all.’
‘Jeez, Ally . . . a statue of an angel wanted you to smash bottles! That is weird. That is very bloody weird. Don’t tell the doctors, they’ll check you out of here and send you to the loony bin. But you know . . . I kind of get it.’ Patricia hands me another Twistie. ‘Did you smash them all?’
‘I think so . . . I think she did it, mostly.’
‘Well it was always weird, Ally . . . I don’t mean you, I mean all those bottles full of Joy’s tears, kept in that cupboard. You know what? They’re better off smashed.’ Patricia dips into her calico bag and gets out a packet of playing cards. ‘Reckon you’re not up to Spit, but do you want a game of Go Fish?’
‘Okay, if you want,’ I say, pushing myself up with my elbows. Patricia sits cross-legged at the end of my bed and deals us seven cards each. ‘Does Joy know her bottles were smashed?’
‘I don’t know. She left with Rick and Matilde to go off to Wendy’s looking for me. It was pretty late; I don’t remember what happened after the bottles were smashed. I just woke up here.’
‘Do you have any threes?’ asks Patricia, looking up briefly from her cards, then back down. ‘Why were they looking for you at Wendy’s? And why were those three even together, I thought they didn’t speak to each other?’
‘Go Fish,’ I say, and I tell Patricia about Lucinda Lister going missing and her mother going mental and blaming Matilde and maybe me for Lucinda and, get this . . . the death of Belinda. And Matilde going mental and blaming Joy for me going missing and the death of Belinda and guess what? My brother or sister too.
‘Do you have any queens?’ asks Patricia.
‘Go Fish,’ I say, and I tell her about Joy blaming Matilde for the death of Belinda and maybe Lucinda too and Rick blaming them both for me going missing while all along I was hiding in a pouch I’d made with my quilt along the wall side of my bed. I tell her that I could hear all the blame and sadness and pain that they’d bottled up for years, that was out now, out and being hurled around like a weapon.
‘Do you have any aces?’ I ask Patricia, and then I tell her that the mother angel heated right up in my hand and sent me a message with her hot beating pulse, it was completely clear, just like Morse code. She wanted me to take her to the BLAMED FOR BELINDA bottles and smash all our sadness and set free the emotions that had been bottled and labelled and stored away in the glasshouse but were still there in the air at Number 23 – and Number 25 – and even in Rick’s flat, every. Single. Day. And it was there too in their non-speaking language, pulling me and pushing me, until it burst out into the world with a whole lot of yelling.
‘Jeez, Ally . . . that’s enough to bugger up anyone’s heart.’ Patricia passes me an ace. She brings over my water glass and holds the straw while I take a long sip. I lay my cards down and rest back against the pillow, feeling exhausted.
‘Reckon you don’t so much need medicine, Ally,’ says Patricia gently, gathering up my cards. ‘You just need your mob to settle their score and stop revving you up with all their own stuff.’
I doze on and off for the rest of the day. Each time I wake Patricia is still there. Sometimes she’s playing cards by herself on the floor – Concentration – sometimes she’s curled up in the chair by the window working on something that looks like patchwork, and sometimes she’s sitting at the end of my bed smelling the same and looking reliable.
I dream of the mother angel.
She’s holding a cherub – it’s me, with a birthmark on my pudgy left wrist. She tells me the birthmark is on precisely that spot because it’s where she has kissed me one thousand times. It’s her mark of love, not a stain of someone else’s pain.
Now the mother angel is swimming in a rock pool and I’m on her shining-shell back. Her arms are moving through the clear water. Against the sandy bottom I see she has flipper-fins rather than hands. She tells me not to be afraid of the waves or the current or the deep waters below. She urges me to take in all the fresh air I need before I dive down, and to make sure to exhale the old air powerfully when I surface again because by then it’s no longer nourishing my cells.
And the mother angel sings my soul a song.
Inspire, expire, inspire, expire
Balance yourself, Ally
Drawing from within
Expel this expired disequilibrium
St Liberata is playing her lute while the mother angel, wearing white robes, is brushing my hair with long tender strokes. She hands me the brush, and herself as a statue, and kisses my birthmark again, more than twelve times.
Her lips press against my pulse and beat out a message. But it’s different this time, not Chaotic or Confused: it’s Calming, Confirming and Clear.
S . . . O . . . S
you have
Saved Our Souls
by
Smashing our Sadness
now
Sing . . . Our . . . Song
Ally
Sing . . . Our . . . Song
Tell them, Ally, tell them that your soul has a song to sing.
Joy, Rick and Matilde come into the room with different versions of what might bring a heart back into beat. Rick is holding a jam jar of Bondi air and a parcel of hot chips. As he hands me a second chip – salty and warm, dipped in tomato sauce – Joy insists on a few sips of lemon myrtle tea from her old silver thermos and places a large red and green bloodstone crystal onto my chest. Matilde has prepared her liver dumpling soup, which quite frankly has never been a favourite of mine. She’s bringing a third spoonful up towards my mouth when Sister Josepha arrives and saves me from having to swallow any more of the livery moosh. She has brought a scapular of St John of God, the patron saint of cardiac problems, apparently. She leans me forward and positions it around my neck, with one piece of cloth sitting above my heart and the other hanging down my back.
Despite their fussing over me, everyone seems pleased to see Patricia sitting cross-legged in the corner of the room. And they’re all there together when the doctor arrives. He scans the scene, and my chart, and sets up his stethoscope to once again listen to my heart. He looks up and announces, sounding quite disappointed, ‘I’m afraid the medication isn’t doing what I’d hoped. We’ll have to try something else, perhaps even surgery. I’ll confer with my colleagues. We’ll speak again tomorrow.’ Joy gives a small gasp and Sister Josepha bows her head and gently closes her eyes.
‘That won’t work either,’ blurts Patricia, moving forward from behind the adults.
‘I beg your pardon?’ says the doctor.
‘You can try anything you like but none of it’s going to work.’
In the split second it takes for the doctor to settle his stethoscope back into his pocket, his bearing changes from capable-professional-in-charge to bowled-over-bloody-astonishment. He’s staring at Patricia, who is less than two-thirds his size, and she returns his gaze with a bold certainty before she continues, ‘Her heart’s all out of whack because of her mob, this lot in here, and all their stuff they load up onto her.’
While the adults look around at each other, Patricia comes in close and mouths at me: If you can ride a wave you can climb a tree, and if you can climb a tree you can do anything . . . go on, Ally . . . tell them.
My pulse slows down and I’m sucked into the vacuum that Patricia has created. It’s a void, a free space, a chance for my heart to find its own rhythm. And there it settles to a steady beat.
