Portraits of Celina (8 page)

“Bayley, what part of ‘take the chest back into your room’ don’t you understand?” Mum turns to follow me and almost trips over Seth. “Watch out, Seth. Please – give me some room, for goodness sake.”

“I’ll put it out the back somewhere. Out of the way, don’t worry.”

“No. Not out in the weather. Gran needs to see it first. Leave it in your room for now. I don’t have time for this, Bayley. Here, take Seth down to the lake or something, will you? I need to get organised.”

“No,” says Seth and clutches Mum’s leg like a two year old. “I don’t want to.”

“Go on, mate. It’s a beautiful afternoon.” Mum tries to prise open Seth’s grip. “Please let go. I have a lot to do.”

“What time are you going?” he asks.

“Around four.” Mum lumbers back towards her room, Seth still attached.

“What time will you be home?”

“Not sure. When you’re asleep …”

Their voices fade as I heave the chest back into my room.

I stand hunched over it, wiping the moisture from under my nose, frustration and anger and confusion molten in my veins, and I kick at the stinking thing, stubbing my big toe.

The pain is welcome.

Sitting at the end of the jetty, my bare feet dangling over the edge, I tune into the lap of water as it hits the pylons below, the buzz of a dragonfly skimming the surface beneath my feet, the crackle of a breeze through the triangle of reeds jutting into the middle of the lake. Even with Amelia flapping about, pretending she’s an Olympic swimmer, the lake is wonderfully peaceful. I will my mind to rest, to mirror the lake’s tranquillity. But it refuses. It churns with thoughts of Celina.

Where did you disappear to, Celina?
Is your body out there somewhere rotting in the bush? At the bottom of the lake? What would a body look like after forty years of decomposition? A skull? A few bare bones? I give a shudder.

I scan the cliffs to the north of the lake, the gully beyond the cliffs thick with wild scrub leading off to nowhere. I try to distinguish where the entrance to The Circle is and my cheeks flush as I am reminded of how much of a fool I made of myself there. And all because of Celina – a presence that won’t leave me. She may have been a peace-loving hippy chick, but she doesn’t seem to want to give me any peace.

I slap at a fly that is intent on resting on my lips and flop onto my back. It is too hot! How could the weather change so radically in one day? It is almost eight and nearly dark but the air is thick and burning.

Amelia splashes her way to the jetty and climbs up the wonky steel ladder on the side. “Not quite the surf at Elouera, but better than a cold shower, I guess.” Wrapping her towel around her, she lies on her back beside me, her breath heaving. “Whoa, that was hard work.”

“You were only in for a few minutes.”

“We’re not all fitness freaks like you, you know. Most of the world doesn’t happen to get their kicks from running for hundreds of bloody kilometres every week.”

I feel like I’ve been stung by a scorpion’s tail. Could Amelia really be that wrapped up in herself that she hasn’t noticed I haven’t even put on my runners let alone run anywhere since Dad died? I slide my hand across my stomach. It is soft and squishy and I mourn the loss of my sixpack, that hard ripple of strong stomach muscles. I probably couldn’t run more than ten steps without wheezing.

Amelia throws her arms onto the jetty and stretches out like a star. “Mum thinks she’s the clever one,” she says, “thinks this place is going to make a difference. Well, it’s not. It’s gonna kill me – even with this lake.”

“We know,” I say.

Amelia ignores the jibe. “God, I need a drink.”

“Go get one. And see if you can drag Seth away from the TV while you’re there.”

“I’m not talking about lemonade, idiot. You are so immature, Bayley.”

“Yeah, and getting smashed every Saturday night is real mature.”

“What would you know?”

“Whatever.”

Amelia’s phone lights up on the pile of clothes beside her. She sits up and grins as she reads the message, holding the screen well away from my line of vision. She taps in a reply and then rolls onto her back. “What?” she says, her tone accusatory.

“Didn’t know there’s coverage here.”

“I only found out yesterday.”

I roll my eyes. “There’s coverage further round the lake too. It’s annoying how sketchy it is.”

“Don’t tell Mum.”

“Why not?”

“There’s no need, is there? Besides, I’d rather she didn’t know.”

“You’re up to something.”

“Get over yourself. What could I be up to? I may as well be locked up in prison. I only want to be able to message my friends without Mum’s suspicious eyes frowning at me, that’s all.”

Sure, Amelia
. I don’t trust my sister one bit.

“Hey, first star,” Amelia says, pointing to the sky above. “See it?”

“No,” I say, my eyes searching, aware of Amelia distracting me.

“There, pinhead. Right in front. The wish star. Quick, make a wish! Before others appear.”

The wish star. What to wish for? For Dad never to have run out onto the back patio in the rain to get Seth’s dumb Batman toy? For the last eight months never to have happened? For the disturbing visions in my head to vanish like Celina? For Oliver to think that acting like an idiot is sexy and cool?

Amelia cups her hands over her mouth and yells to the sky: “I wish I could get out of this hole!” She flips onto her stomach. “No wonder that Celina chick disappeared. Who wouldn’t want to get away from this place? I mean, it’s boring. Dead boring. I bet Celina felt it too – bet she ran away to the Cross or something and the family was so filled with O’Malley shame, they made it sound like some big tragic mystery.”

Something about what Amelia says sends needles along my arms. I run her words back through my head. Did Celina hate this place, like Amelia? I haven’t considered this; my visions have always shown Celina living a charmed hippy-chick life. I cast my mind back to the things Deb told me. No – there was no mention of anything but Celina loving her life, loving the lake, the house, her family. But what if Deb isn’t remembering it right? What if she is making Celina’s life seem wonderful, when really it was far from it? What if there are things that Deb never knew about?

I contemplate this, staring up into the darkening sky, watching as more and more pin-pricky stars pierce through.

Amelia’s phone beeps again and this time the message makes her hiss with an excited “Yes!”, jump to her feet, gather up her things and start charging down the jetty.

“Hey, where are you going?” I yell.

“I’ve got stuff to do,” Amelia replies. “Besides, it’s getting dark and someone should be inside keeping an eye on Seth, shouldn’t they?”

A knot tightens in my stomach. When has Amelia ever thought about anyone but herself? Whatever she is up to, it can’t be good.

I can’t sleep. Even with three heavy packing boxes filled with books and trophies and school stuff stacked on top of the chest, the pull of what’s inside it is too strong; the temptation to open it still burns fierce within me.

I fling a large old blanket I found in the laundry over the towering heap.

There, that should do it. Out of sight, out of mind.

But I am fooling myself in more ways than one. Because it is
me
who is out of her mind. That is a certainty. And even with the chest closed, I know Celina hasn’t gone away.

I lie in bed, restless and tormented, the insistent blaring of the frogs in the lake driving me insane – a loud reminder of how strange and unfamiliar this place is.

I long for the sounds of my old life: the swish of passing traffic; Mrs Jolson’s squealing opera singing next door; the thump and roar of the distant surf; even Amelia’s breathy snore. Anything to block out the frogs and fill my mind with something other than Celina O’Malley – I got it so wrong this morning at the lake; Oliver isn’t the stalker, Celina is.

I thrust a pillow over my head, just as a sharp creak sounds from downstairs. I sit upright. What was that? Mum home already? I glance at my phone – it’s not even ten. Far too early. Mum had said she wouldn’t be home until midnight at the earliest. Regardless, I strain to hear Mum’s footsteps. But there are no footsteps, only the front door groaning followed by the click of it shutting. Then nothing.

My thoughts fly back to the night of the stranger. I catapult out of bed, dragging my sheet onto the floor behind me, and scamper to Amelia’s room. I pull open the door.

“Amel–” Her bed is empty. I rush to the window, in time to catch sight of her jogging down the drive and around the corner towards the gate.

Great. Just great.

I tiptoe down the hall – I don’t want to disturb Seth; it took me almost an hour and a dozen stories before he settled down enough to sleep. But once I am past his room, I speed down the stairs and out the door in chase of my sister.

Amelia is already out of sight. The sky is clear, the moon one slice off full, and I am surprised at how well I can see. I make my way down the drive, through the open gate and onto the dirt road. I can hear soft voices. Several. And laughter. A car door is clicked shut. I race down the road. Up ahead, a white sedan is parked at the edge of the road, partly obscured by scrubby bushes. A group of four or five are huddled around it.

“Amelia!” I shout.

“It’s my sister.” I can hear Amelia’s rough whisper. A cigarette is flung to the road and ground out; a door is opened and something thrown onto the seat. There is a lot of giggling.

Amelia breaks from the group and charges up to me. She stinks of cigarette smoke and the lousy thief is wearing a row of my red bangles up her arm. “You following me now?” she hisses.

“What are you doing with my bangles?” I snarl.

“You followed me out here to ask me that?”

“Where are you going?” I say, the words an accusation. “Who’s that?”

“Friends. We’re hanging out for a bit. Nothing to get in a twist about.”

I tug at the edges of my thin singlet top, dragging it down as low as possible, suddenly aware that I am almost naked, dressed in a singlet and undies.

“Don’t run away.” I say the words before I’ve even realised I’ve thought them, and the fear of the possibility rises up my throat. “It will kill Mum. Don’t do it.”

Amelia rolls her eyes. “I’m not running away, moron. Just having some fun. Now go home.”

“Don’t do this to Mum.” I am pleading.

“I’m not doing anything to Mum. It’s her who’s doing me in. Besides, she’ll only know if you tell. It’s all up to you, Bayley.” She takes a few steps towards the car, before turning and adding in a softer voice, “I’ll be home before Mum gets back. I promise. They’re passing through – on their way up the coast to a music festival. They’ve only come to say hi.”

“Promise you’ll come back.”

“Promise – as long as you don’t dob.”

I hesitate, chew at my lip.

“Tell Mum and I’ll tell her about the sick story you’re writing in that book under your mattress. You’re seriously deranged, Bayley.” Amelia’s smile is nothing short of cruel. Confident she has secured my silence, she races down to the car and slides onto the back seat.

The car chucks a U-turn and disappears down the road in an explosion of dust.

And I am slugged by a hefty dose of reality. Nothing has changed. Nothing is going to change. We are stuck on the same path as we were in Cronulla and there’s no way off it.

I walk back along the road. I don’t know if I have ever felt so alone.

Over the whine of electric saws and the relentless punch of nail guns, there is a crunch of gravel under tyres, a honk of a horn and a “Now, where is everyone?”

“Gran!” I cry, bolting from the barn to the car and throwing my arms around my grandmother’s neck before she is even properly out of her seat. “Mum didn’t tell us you were coming.”

“Your mother is full of surprises, isn’t she?” She locks eyes on Mum, who is hovering alongside me.

Gran embraces Mum. Mum clutches onto Gran fiercely, and buries her head in Gran’s neck and shoulder, choking up, and tears well unbidden in my own eyes.

Gran breaks free and rubs Mum’s back. “What does someone have to do to get a cuppa round here?” Mum relaxes, and she and Gran walk arm in arm up to the front steps. “Look at this place, will you?” Gran says and waves her free arm around. “It’s been a while, I tell you. But that lake – it never stops being special, does it?”

“Gran!” Seth bursts out the front door, his cape flying, and launches himself at his grandmother.

“Hey, careful,” warns Mum. “You’ll knock poor Gran over.”

“He’s fine, Kath,” says Gran. She grabs Seth and carries him under her arm like a roll of carpet. “I’m not as frail as you make out. Besides, this scrawny runt is lighter than old Tinky.” She tickles Seth’s feet. “Hey, don’t they feed you round here?”

“Only their scraps,” Seth yells, giggling and kicking his legs about wildly. “And birdseed.”

“How long are you staying?” I ask.

“Not sure. Till you lot drive me crazy, I suspect.”

“Really?” I say. I am highly suspicious. Not because Gran isn’t a big part of our family, but because she is so devoted to the Soup Van and her “regular suspects”, as she likes to call them, that she can rarely get away for more than a couple of hours at a time. “What about Arnold and Missy Moo and the others you look after? How are they are going to cope?”