The Witness, page 9
Molly often wondered what her life would have been like if Sammi had still been alive. Perhaps she would have had a completely different personality. It was something she’d talked about with Iris over the years, particularly after learning at school about nature versus nurture. There were some things from Sammi that would always be with her, no matter how much guidance her adoptive parents gave her. Yet the love and care that Eric and Iris had shown her had certainly also shaped who she had become, which is why she’d turned to nursing. Would she have become a nurse if her life hadn’t taken the turn it had? As Iris had said, ‘There isn’t an answer, so there’s no point in thinking about it.’ Janet, on the other hand, had said, ‘It’s good to think about these things but not dwell on them.’
But Molly often did. Especially this morning.
Running her hands over her face, Molly turned over and stared at the ceiling. The light shade was made from a pink material with gold tassels hanging from it; a memory of her early primary school years. In her mind’s eye she could see Eric sitting in his armchair with a cup of tea at his side, just as the 7.30 Report on the ABC was starting. He’d comment on the absurdity of the state of the world while he wrote in his neat cursive script in his notebook. Her dad had no trouble telling Iris and Molly that he found the world beyond explanation most days. ‘I don’t know why people don’t want to work,’ he used to say. ‘Of course, we all pay too much tax. And for what? Have you seen the state of our roads? And let’s not even mention the lack of services in the bush.’
Molly couldn’t help but smile at the memory. Her dad had an opinion on everything, but he only voiced them to his immediate family.
Molly could remember asking why he wrote in his diary every night.
‘Because, sweetpea, there is nothing more powerful than knowledge – and sometimes our memory can fail us. If thoughts and feelings and events are written down, they can’t be forgotten. I don’t want to forget anything.’ Then he’d put his pen down and pulled her onto his knee. ‘Especially all the funny things you say.’ He’d hugged her tightly and she’d put her arms around his neck and hugged him back. Eric smelt like Tetley Tea, Brut deodorant, aftershave, washing powder and sunshine. Anyone who lived in Kalgoorlie always smelt like sunshine because their clothes dried instantly in the heat from the sun. Either that, or they smelt like dust from the mine that covered the town when the warm winds sprang up.
The lump in her throat made it hard to swallow. Molly got up and padded down the hallway to Eric and Iris’s bedroom. If Iris had been home, she would have already been awake and pottering around in the kitchen, wearing her lightweight dressing-gown over her nightie. The kettle would be whistling merrily on the gas stove, with two cups on the bench for her and Eric.
Instead, her mum was lying on a cadaver tray at the hospital. Molly knew how both her parents would look this morning; she’d seen bodies in the morgue before. She tried to banish that vision from her mind.
Hesitantly, she pushed the bedroom door open and looked inside. The curtains were drawn tightly – her mum’s way of keeping the heat out – but still a small sliver of light was getting through where they didn’t quite meet. Dust particles danced in the sunrays.
Draped over the bed was her mum’s dressing-gown, slippers neatly tucked next to the bed, just where her feet would touch when she swung them out in the morning.
Oil of Olay had been Iris’s moisturiser, the half-empty bottle sat on the bedside table. Molly’s chest tightened at the thought of her mum sitting on the bed, smearing moisturiser on her face.
Part of her wanted to slam the door shut. To preserve everything as it was when her parents had left four days ago. The other part of her wanted to curl up in their bed and forget yesterday had ever happened. Of course, her parents were going to walk in through the door and give her a kiss on the cheek as they always did.
And then the realisation hit.
Neither Iris nor Eric would ever kiss or hug her again.
On her mother’s bedside table was a photo of Eric and Iris on their wedding day. Both with wide smiles, faces unlined, hair without the streaks of grey they both had now. Molly took a breath.
Their expressions were so full of joy and hope. Who could have predicted their lives would end as they had.
Outside a crow cawed, and a few moments later, Molly heard a beak tapping on the glass.
She gave a watery smile. Crows weren’t the nicest of birds, their main diet of roadkill and other dead animals made most people shudder. But not Iris. Her mother had a very big heart and couldn’t stand anyone or anything in pain. Take Life for example. Life was a crow that Iris had found out in the bush a couple of years back. She’d brought the bird home, broken wing and all, so she could nurse it back to health.
And when the crow was well again, they all found it had a mischievous side. Pegs from the clothesline went missing, the small wrought-iron fairies that Iris had lined up on the verandah were knocked over. Boots were dragged from their original spot by the door to the flowerbeds. Pot-plant soil tossed over the floor.
‘You need to release that bloody bird back out into the bush,’ her father had said one day after having searched up and down the porch for one of his thongs and finally found it in the garden bed against the path. ‘It’s a menace.’
‘I have released it,’ Iris had replied. ‘It came back. What am I supposed to do, release it again?’
‘Great idea. Do that. Take it further away this time.’
Iris had looked at him with the tiniest of smiles on her face. ‘I thought I’d give it a name.’
Eric stared at her. ‘You what?’
‘I thought I’d give it a name.’
‘If you give it a name, it becomes a bloody pet, not a wild bird.’
‘How does Life sound?’ Iris was ignoring her husband’s irritated manner and Molly tried not to laugh. She was curled up on the couch, reading a book and pretending not to listen.
‘Life? Why on earth?’
‘A group of crows is called a murder, and the opposite of murder is life. Makes sense.’
‘Life sentence, more like it,’ Eric grumbled, failing in his attempt to keep a smile off his face.
Molly had got up from the couch and taken a piece of meat that Iris had held out to her. ‘I think Life is a great name,’ she’d said and gone out onto the verandah to feed the bird.
This morning, though, Life’s tapping echoed with a knell. ‘Good morning, Life,’ Molly said softly, a deep ache in her heart. What an irony now.
The tapping persisted.
‘Okay, okay, I’m coming.’ She sat on the side of the bed and let her feet rest on the wooden floorboards, enjoying the coolness, and thinking maybe her mum sometimes let hers rest here for a few moments before she’d started the day.
Out in the kitchen, she unlocked the back door.
‘You’re an early bird this morning.’
Life hopped through the doorway and tilted his head so he could see her from his left eye.
‘I know, I’m not Mum. But you’ll have to put up with me from now on.’ Her voice became choked. ‘She and Dad aren’t coming back. They’re . . . dead.’ Bile rose in her throat.
Yanking the fridge door hard, she took out the milk and a container that held the mixture for Life’s breakfast. She scooped out the right amount and put it in the food bowl, then made a cup of coffee.
Life pecked at his meal, all the while keeping one eye on her, as if he didn’t fully trust her.
‘Finish your breakfast,’ Molly said, sipping her coffee. She rested the cup against her cheek and closed her eyes, breathing in deeply through her nose and out through her mouth. It was another of the calming techniques that Janet had taught her very early in their professional relationship.
Molly had no idea what to do next, or what would be required of her, so she stayed where she was, breathing in the morning sun through the window and listening to Life peck at his breakfast. As it was now, she was safe. Living in the moment, assuming when someone wanted something from her, they would arrive. Or phone.
When she opened her eyes, the sunrays had shifted, and the air was warmer.
If Iris were here she’d have put the evaporative air conditioner on early to try and stop the house from getting too hot in the middle of the day. Perhaps people would come and see her later on. Or maybe she would have to talk to the funeral directors. Or Martin. Richard and Bev would visit, for sure. She’d better make sure the house was cool.
The switch was in the hallway, right next to the fuse box. She flicked the button and waited until the first humid breath hit her face.
Then as if in a dream, Molly walked into each room, remembering Eric and Iris in each one.
The lounge: her father.
The sewing room: her mother.
The den: her father.
The laundry: her mother.
Her parents had an old-fashioned relationship; Iris had been the homemaker, Eric the breadwinner. It had worked for them and they hadn’t cared if the rest of society judged them for it.
Opening the door into the laundry, Molly found folded washing sitting on the bench waiting to be returned to the drawers it all belonged in. At the sliding door were her mother’s outdoor shoes. The ache that hadn’t left her heart since closing her parents’ eyes got stronger. Quietly she closed the door.
In the hall, she opened the linen press. Sheets, blankets and towels were folded and stacked neatly on each shelf above stickers labelled with her mother’s neat cursive writing.
She moved on. The spare room: two single beds, each alongside a different wall. Heavy curtains over the window, a mat on the floor. A chest of drawers.
Life followed her around the house, his claws clicking on the floorboards as she walked. Every time she got too far in front, he would fly a short way to catch up.
Finding herself at the end of the passageway, Molly turned to go back, but something caught her eye. One more door. The door Molly had never been allowed to open. She had been six when Eric had cracked open the door and let her peek inside. ‘There’s dangerous things in here, Molly,’ he’d said, indicating the hot water system and fuse box. ‘So I don’t ever want you opening this door, okay?’
But it hadn’t been the hot water system that had made her take a step back. It had been the bloody great huntsman spider attached to the hot water tank at her eye height, which had made her scream. She’d never tried to look inside again.
Until now.
She jiggled the handle up and down, expecting it to click open.
It didn’t.
Molly frowned and tried again. The door rattled inside the frame but it still didn’t open.
Bending down, she inspected the handle. Was it stuck or locked?
Going back out into the kitchen, she went to the drawer that held all the keys. Each one was on a keyring, carefully marked in her father’s neat handwriting. She flicked through them. Front door spare, back door spare, shed, garage, ride-on mower. There was a key for every lock that Molly knew they had, except for that door.
‘Maybe it’s stuck, Life,’ she said to the crow. She went back and gave it one last yank. Again, it jerked back and forward only millimetres but didn’t open. It had to be locked. ‘What’s going on here?’
Life cocked his head to one side and looked at her.
In her dad’s den, she searched his desk, feeling like a snoop. No key.
‘He probably locked it so I never went in there,’ she muttered, standing up and looking around. She gave a halfhearted humph. ‘Not that I was likely to after seeing that bloody huge spider.’
Life cawed softly and strutted out into the passageway. This time it was Molly who followed the bird, to the front door and outside, where he hopped down the steps. Life seemed to be reminding her of Iris’s morning ritual to check the mail.
The sky was clear blue as she walked the five hundred metres to the end of the driveway, Life accompanying her with a mixture of hops, short flights and ‘wait-for-me’ caws, but Molly was a world away.
Blackbutt trees edged their boundary, and the native grevilleas were shoulder height, their late flowers fading with the heat. Behind the trees, the Goldfields Highway wound its way north, the truck engine sounds coming to her on the gentle breeze.
Molly opened the lid of the dusty mailbox and checked for spiders before putting her hand inside. Then she started back towards the house, flipping through the mail as she did.
Some leaflets about local businesses, a letter from her parents’ private health insurance company and a small parcel addressed to her dad.
Molly stopped in the middle of the driveway, realising that neither of her parents would ever open another letter again. Her head swam, dizziness overtook her and she let the mail slip through her fingers.
MOLLY
I remember the wooden slats were rough on my fingers. I was too young to understand that I couldn’t push down on them, trying to see through, but they wouldn’t move. I tried and tried and then I did a funny little bounce up and down to find a way to see through. The angle was unusual, but finally, half crouched, with my bum sticking out, my knees bent and one eye to the crack I focused.
Sammi had her hand to her hair, smoothing it down, looking like she was trying to smile as she stood next to the front door.
I still wanted to cry, because my elbow was throbbing and I wanted a ‘get better’ kiss like she always gave me.
Then there was another toll-sounding knock, and her smile disappeared. Sammi looked back at me and I pushed the door open an inch. She shook her head so hard, I shut it quickly.
She held up her hand in a stop sign, then she turned back to the door.
I saw the door opening and a figure standing there, dressed in blue. Like the forensic suits they wear on TV. The face was covered with a mask and they had plastic glasses over their eyes.
I couldn’t see their face. But there was something in the gloved hand, sticking out. I remember it was small and dark coloured and the person was waving it around a bit as if giving directions with it. It was the gun, of course, but I couldn’t quite tell at the time. Did my five-year-old mind even know what a gun was? I don’t know.
That’s why this is all so confusing. What do I remember and what have I dreamed? I wish I could distinguish between the two.
The figure didn’t speak, but Sammi did.
She said something like: ‘Please don’t do this. I promise not to . . .’ Not in her usual tone, but pleading.
The person didn’t care, they just motioned for her to get on the floor. Then Sammi’s demeanour changed. ‘I mean it,’ she said. ‘Just stop. If you don’t tell them, I will.’ Her face was turning red and her voice was loud and strong. She was angry. Really angry. I’d never heard Sammi like that before.
It had always only been the two of us. Sammi and me. Whenever I asked about my dad, she never told me much. Only that we didn’t need him. He’s not listed on my birth certificate. And whoever I’ve asked has no idea either. Even Tash.
It’s strange, I really thought Tash would know. After all she and Sammi had been friends since primary school. But she couldn’t throw any light on who he was either – she just told me that Sammi kept that piece of information as a carefully guarded secret.
There’s that word again. Secrets.
Sammi wasn’t good at keeping them. But I only know that now.
One of the things I clearly remember about her was that every evening, she would put me on her lap and read me a story. I got to choose the book – usually ones about magic or animals, and if they were combined, that was even better. I would lie back against her chest and feel her arms around me as she held the book in front of us both so we could see the illustrations.
Her breath brushed past my ear as she read, and she liked to give each character a different inflection. Her voice was always low and warm. Sort of like – oh, I don’t know – warm, liquid molasses. Or melted dark chocolate. Maybe that’s a bad description because how does a voice sound like that? What I’m trying to say is she made me feel secure and loved and warm. She was my mum.
The other thing I recall is Sammi’s calmness. As I said earlier, she was never angry. If I did something wrong or disobeyed her, she would stop and take the time to explain what I’d done. Like the time I ran away from her in the supermarket. I’d wanted a chocolate, but she said no. I’d wrenched myself away from her grip and run down the closest aisle. She didn’t follow me, although with the benefit of hindsight I suspect she knew exactly where I was all the time. Instead, she let me go. I was fine for the first few seconds, but when I turned around to look so I could stamp my foot and have a full-blown temper tantrum, she wasn’t in sight. To say I was terrified would be an understatement. Everyone who was walking past me was so tall. I could only see legs and knees, and when I looked up, I didn’t recognise any of the faces, only a couple of curious expressions.
I went to the end of the shelves and looked around the corner, hoping to see her. She wasn’t there. Then I backtracked, but she wasn’t where I left her either. Just as I was about to cry and scream, she appeared. She squatted down in front of me and asked me how I felt.
‘Scared,’ I said, trying not to cry.
‘You reacted to something I said no to. You’re probably too young to understand just yet, Molly, but you must realise you can’t run away if something doesn’t go your way. You must always stand and face things, even if they’re not what you like.’
Sammi was right. I didn’t understand her words, but I understood the feeling and what it felt like when she was talking to me. Like trust. That nothing bad would ever happen to me if I followed her instructions.
I guess she could have got angry that day. I was a rude and obnoxious five-year-old. Instead, she turned it into a learning opportunity without heated words or irritation. That’s the way I remember Sammi.
