Borrowed Light (18 page)

‘Was I there, in your first life?' asked Jeremy anxiously. ‘Was Cally?'

‘Why don't you ever go to the conferences with Grandma, Mum?' I asked. ‘Then you could practise your Italian.' And come home a different person. Musical, romantic. Hopeful.

Mum folded the letter into tiny squares. ‘She's never asked me.'

Jeremy jumped up from the table. ‘What makes a bat flit and fly around? Can't guess?
Batteries
!'

He whooped with laughter and began galloping around the table as if it were an obstacle course. Jeremy never waits for you to guess the punchline, in case you beat him to it. He was waving his arms like a bat as he ran, causing a severe gale to blow in our faces.

‘You're batty!' I yelled at him.

‘Sfecular bastard!' he yelled back.

‘Jeremy!' said Mum.

Friday clinic 3.30 p.m.

Gany watches my lips when I talk to him. His big eyes latch on, as if I'm the most fascinating person on earth. I am the first person he saw in the world. I am always here. He loves me more than anyone. Makes me ecstatic and terrified at the same time. He follows my face from side to side, and he laughs, suddenly, like a balloon bursting. I don't know what he's laughing at, but it feels wonderful when he does. I'd do anything to make him laugh. My little one, with that big dimple in his cheek.

He is almost three months old. I think he's very clever, managing to get to this great age! Sometimes he sleeps for four hours at night. I feel almost human the next day when he does that. I put him in the pouch and we march up to the shops. His chubby legs bounce against my stomach as we stride along. I feel so safe and happy when he's there—strapped to my body where I can see him, his legs tapping out our rhythm. He seems to like it
too, because he gurgles and says ‘awaba' only on those special days. Maybe I should wear the pouch around the house, too.

Monday 20 July

Gany's skin is so smooth and clear—almost transparent. There, on his chest, that pale frond of veins. David is in the bedroom, packing. His plane leaves at nine. It's five o'clock in the morning. The sky is pearly-grey, like a sheet of pewter. There is just a hint of gold seeping in, promising more.

‘This is absurd, packing when I should be leaving to catch a plane!' he's complaining. He's rushing around in a frantic way, hurling socks and underpants into his suitcase. Usually he rolls them up in pairs, hard as tennis balls, and they go into the side pocket of the case, so they don't fly around and get out of order. He doesn't have time this morning.

Gany is lying on my tummy in bed. David looks at me in this accusing way, as if I'm some sort of interruption in the flow of life. But his face softens when his eyes move down to Gany. He stands there, hesitating, lost for a moment, as if an invisible thread were tying him to the bed. I wish we could stand holding the thread together.

Last night Gany cried for more than an hour, nothing would console him, and I told David to go to him. He protested, but I kept my eyes squeezed shut, and didn't move, so he went He must have fallen asleep in Gany's room. He didn't get anything done last night, he said. He meant any packing, but I said, ‘You let me get some rest, that's getting something done, isn't it?'

‘I suppose so,' he muttered in a grudging way.

He manages to smile at me, and kiss Gany on his dimple before he leaves. ‘I'll ring you when I arrive,' he calls, as the taxi toots outside. ‘Wish me luck!'

I see him as he dashes past the mulberry tree to the gate, his coat over his shoulder, waving to the driver waiting in the street. He's running as fast as he can out into the world, like a river rushing to join the sea.

My stomach drops as I watch him. Gany begins to whimper. I stroke his head, saying something, anything, because the sudden silence of this room, this house, in which we two are all alone, is frightening. I look down at his angel's face, this little baby sent to me from heaven, and I know, with this terrible knowing, that he is my responsibility. There is no one else here. There is no one else who knows, right at this moment, if we are both breathing. When David goes, there is no one else.

Sometimes I think we're in a dream of mine, Gany and I. I don't like that feeling, because in dreams you're often left stranded. Sometimes you have to scream and no sound comes out Sometimes you have to run, and your legs are rooted to the ground.

I just can't understand why David has to set up this business now—in a country that's seventeen hours away. He has a family, a wife who never sleeps, a little baby who needs him. That other firm wanted him. Could have had a fantastic salary, come home every night, bringing take-away Chinese and maybe a video.

I want to do something creative, he said. You've just made a new baby, I told him, what's more creative than that? He just rolled his eyes. He doesn't bother explaining himself to me. He thinks he lives on another planet where the words are different.

What's so creative about buying and selling? I ask him.

He rolls his eyes again. I read in the Herald that if a couple roll their eyes at each other more than five times a day, it means the marriage is over. Eye-rolling signifies contempt and unwillingness to consider the other's point of view.

David stays in dingy little hotels when he travels. He doesn't buy and sell enough to afford rooms with reliable electricity and clean sheets. Once he found a dead rat under the pillow.

There are terrible things going on over there. At night, when I'm walking the floor with the baby, I carry the newspaper with me. I read what happens there. I read about young children being taken away from their families and never heard of again. I read
about raids on houses in the middle of the night, and sons being shot infront of their parents. When I cut out those clippings, of children's faces pinched with fear, David crushes them up in his fist. I rush to rescue them. I smooth out the paper on the desk. I want to smooth out their hurt. I run my palm over their faces, trying to take out the creases. But they look back at me, with their injuries and their creases that will never disappear. I hate him when he does that. He has no mercy.

‘It's not my fault,' he keeps shouting at me. ‘I'm trying to do something about it, in my own small way. This company I'm building is giving money to those artists, money they'd never see otherwise. But you never worry about me—your husband—only those damn children.'

Well, you're white. No one's going to arrest you in the middle of the night.'

‘No, but I could get mugged any time. You think it's peaceful on the street at night in Johannesburg?'

When David goes, I have this feeling that Gany and I are on an island. The rest of the world is very far away. We can only see the top of its head.

Mother comes around sometimes. She brings provisions. She brings things from the outside.

You get skinnier every day,' she says in this disapproving tone. Her eyes run over me as if I'm a bruised peach she'd rather not handle. ‘Why aren't you looking after yourself? If you're not strong, you can't be a good mother for your baby, can you?'

She doesn't wait for answers. She just delivers her missile and moves on. But I think about what she says. Maybe she has no idea of the power of her bullets. I don't know why I'm no good at looking after myself. We're on this island, Gany and I, and I wish one of us were grown up enough to crawl off it.

If Mother would only come and show us what to do. She could make up Gany's Milton sterilising mixture scientifically. She wouldn't forget how many level spoonfuls of formula she'd
already put into the bottle. It would be like being in the hospital again, with meals appearing out of nowhere, and an expert always around to give advice.

But I'd never dare ask her. I couldn't.

J
EREMY WOKE ME
up on Saturday morning, jumping onto my bed like a great puppy. He licked my cheek and barked till I opened my eyes. I could smell milk and cornflakes where his tongue had been.

‘Ugh!' I pushed him off me. My heart was still banging with fright, but he looked so ridiculous hanging upside down like that, with his tongue hanging out and his hair drooping over his eyes like an offended spaniel, that I had to laugh.

‘You need a haircut,' I said sleepily.

‘I'm Batman's dog,' he announced. ‘Did you know Batman had a dog, Cally?'

‘No, fancy that.'

‘Well, he does.' He paused a moment, his mouth open in concentration. I closed my eyes. A tide of nausea was rising up into my throat. I had to lie very still and wait for it to ebb.

‘Actually,' Jeremy went on, crawling further up the bed and arranging a pillow behind his back, ‘it's Robin who has the dog. Yes, Robin has this yappy little terrier that goes everywhere with him. And when Robin's in danger, the terrier races to get help. I can just see him, Cally, can't you? He's pulling at Batman's sleeve with these white little teeth, he's barking like a maniac, and Batman bends down and says—'

‘Shut your trap, you dumb dog, or I'll shut it for you.'

‘
No
!' Jeremy thumped me on the leg. ‘You're the
dummy
! Batman would never say that.'

Jeremy looked so outraged, I felt ashamed. ‘I'm sorry.' I patted his head and said, ‘There's a good boy,' and pretended to give him a dog biscuit.

‘Now stop joggling me,' I told him as he wriggled and panted over my knees, ‘and go and get me a cup of tea. Earl Grey, the tea bags are in the yellow packet by the sink, you know.'

‘I can't because I'm a dog. Dogs only understand certain words, like “go”, “fetch”, “sit” and “stay”.'

I sighed. Everything took so long with Jeremy. You had to have this whole story, a novel almost, surrounding every domestic event. It was very tiring, especially when you thought you might throw up at any moment.

‘All right. What's your name, little doggie?'

‘Grayson.' Jeremy lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘This is just on the side, Cally, but the reason I'm calling him Grayson is because Robin's real name is Dick
Grayson
, see?'

‘Okay, Grayson, come here.'

Grayson came.

‘Go … fetch … tea … kitchen.'

Grayson went.

I pulled the covers up and sank back into the pillows. The buttons on my pyjamas scratched my nipple. It stung savagely. Through the window I could see a shimmery blue sky weaving between the trees. It would be fine tonight at the Observatory. That was a piece of luck. A mild piece, but it was something. Maybe it was a ‘sign', as Mum would say, ‘good weather ahead'. God, it must be catching, this superstitious stuff, especially when you're feeling fragile. I'd have to watch it.

Jeremy came back carrying the newspaper in his mouth. I told him he was a very talented dog, juggling a cup of tea in his paws as well. I didn't mention that half of it was in the saucer.

The phone rang at lunchtime. It was Tim. He was at Byron Bay, and they'd just set up their tent. The weather was fine there, too.

I got such a shock to hear from him. I don't know why, since he'd only left a couple of days ago.

‘It took ages to put the tent up, because José didn't bring enough pegs,' Tim said. ‘Can you believe that guy? He wants Tito to sleep in the tent with us—he reckons someone might steal him otherwise. I told him, who'd want to steal a mangy old dog like Tito? He's full of fleas and he farts. He's got bowel trouble, José said, it's not his fault. So, how are you? Have your periods come?'

‘No,' I said.

‘Oh.' There was a pause then, like the obligatory minute's silence we used to have at the school memorial on Anzac Day.

‘It's all right, I'm going to handle it,' I said briskly. It was ‘the voice' again, and I felt grateful to it. It put full stops wherever I wanted them.

‘Oh, okay,' Tim said. He sounded relieved. I think he liked full stops too. He didn't ask me
how
I was going to handle it.

Jeremy kept popping into the kitchen, like annoying ad breaks in a movie. He was mouthing something to me about how I should stop twisting the cord. ‘Remember what the man said,' he reminded me.

Once we'd had a faulty line, and we had to call in a phone man to fix it. ‘All that static you're getting is due to someone twisting the cord,' the man explained. When he said ‘someone', he'd looked at me specifically, in a suspicious, Spanish Inquisition sort of way. ‘Teenagers are often the culprits with this kind of thing,' he told Mum. ‘They stay on the phone for hours, and fiddle with the cord. It makes our job very hard.' Mum had to give him a cup of tea to calm him down, and it turned out he had a teenager at home, too, and he was at ‘his wits' end'. She did her comforting routine, and in the end we didn't have to pay for his visit. He went out the door whistling. I bet he would
have joined her Thursday group as well if she'd invited him, only he was the wrong sex.

I felt quite unreal, sitting there on the stool in the kitchen, the telephone cord twisting in my hands. I tried to imagine Tim in his tent, with the dog and all, but it seemed like a dream. It was like talking to someone who didn't exist any more.

‘I hope you have an absolutely fabulous holiday,' I told him earnestly. I really meant it. I felt sorry and guilty and regretful and determined. Maybe he did too. I never really knew the inside of Tim Cleary.

J
EREMY SPENT THE
afternoon asking me every five minutes what time it was. Why couldn't Jupiter Night be in the morning? He couldn't believe how long Saturday was taking. ‘Time stretches like chewing gum,' he concluded at four o'clock. ‘It loses its flavour and gets boring in just the same way.'