Black Painted Fingernails (15 page)

After dinner, outside the restaurant, Angela takes Michael by the hand and leads him away from the car park, where the valet will be waiting with their keys. She steps carefully over the cracked concrete of the boardwalk until they reach the stairs to the beach. ‘I want to feel the sand between my toes, Michael.’ Her voice stretches between tender and tired.

She removes her strap-on sandals and flings them on the sand. Michael reaches down and rolls up his trousers, relieved there’s only timid moonlight to witness this display. He sits on the bench seat and takes off his shoes and socks, tying the laces together so he can carry them in one hand.

They walk to the water’s edge, their feet tingling on the hard, cool sand. In the distance, a strobe beam illuminates Centrepoint Tower.

Angela takes a long, wavering breath and directs her words west to the harbour and beyond, to the plains, to where her son is. ‘Maybe I was jealous of James’s age, of all that . . . potential. I thought some of it would rub off on me, if I held him close enough.’

Michael hears Angela talking in the past tense and feels the hope rise in his throat. She flicks sand with her toes into the water. ‘It’s selfish, I know. But I’ve felt like someone who’s always behind the camera, taking the photo, never . . . you know, in the spotlight. I’d wait for you or James to arrive home, to give my presence meaning. Don’t you see? And now, there’s only one . . .’

Michael rubs her back gently. If only he was trained to heal this kind of pain. ‘We should encourage his independence, darling,’ he says. ‘That’s what I was trying to say over dinner.’

Angela looks up quickly. ‘I agree. I do, really. I understand, Michael. It’s just going to take me a while to . . .  adjust.’ She pulls her hair back loosely and tilts her head towards the water.

‘What?’ he asks, grinning.

‘Sometimes when you and James aren’t home, I tie my hair back in a ponytail.’ She laughs. ‘Like I’m a teenager. I stand in front of the mirror and remember being young.’

‘We’re not
that
old!’

Both of them think of the night before on the verandah, and their smiles linger.

‘We could take our clothes off right here, in the shadows. A moonlight swim?’ Angela asks, teasing.

‘Would that make you feel young again?’

‘No! We’d freeze to death!’

They walk to the headland and tentatively clamber over the rocks, aiming for the bench seat in the park ahead. In the night sky, a fruit bat wings above them, heading for the fig trees in the Botanic Gardens. Angela notices the glow of televisions in the houses along the beach. Most nights that’s what she and Michael are doing too, when all this beauty is a short walk away. She digs her fingernails into the palms of her hands and speaks more to herself than her husband. ‘I’ll worry, I’ll fret, I’ll be scared of everything James does. But to try to cage him, to dictate a future where the reward is a night in front of the bloody telly . . . that’s really a life of safety and boredom.’

Michael laughs. ‘Are you calling us boring?’

‘Not when we do this.’ Angela waves her arm at the view.

Michael reaches for his wife’s hand and feels their fingers softly entwine, and knows everything will be fine.

‘When I was six years old, my dad gave me a snowdome for my birthday. The scene was of a surfer catching a wave with palm trees on the beach and a bright sun in the sky. I’d shake it and it would snow, right there, in the middle of summer.’ He smiles, sheepishly. ‘The thing is, I really believed it was snow in the dome, magically suspended in water. And Dad would play along with me. Both of us marvelling at snow on the beach.’

‘Please don’t let me be the mother who points out it’s just pieces of plastic, not snow at all,’ says Angela.

He rubs her shoulder, gently. ‘Maybe it’s time we shifted our focus a little. For Jim’s sake.’

Angela raises her fingers to her husband’s cheek and feels his warmth. ‘We can skinny-dip now . . . after you!’

It’s dusk when we finally leave the lake. Sophie fiddles nervously with her bag as we near town. ‘I’ve been thinking . . .’ She pauses. ‘Can we go back to my house? There’s something I want to get.’

We drive past the sandpit house; all the windows are closed, the yard is empty, the toy tractor gone. I imagine the young boy, growing up in a house with all that aggression. I glance across at Sophie and notice her mouth is set and her eyes have a steely gaze as she looks ahead to her street.

Two utes and a four-wheel drive are parked outside Sophie’s house. I pull up behind the LandCruiser.

The silence between us unnerves me. I can’t guess what she plans to do.

‘Can I say something, Sophie, before we go inside?’

She unclips her seatbelt and nods.

‘You said something earlier about burning your bridges. It’s a—’

‘A smart thing to do?’ she interrupts.

‘No. A mistake.’

She bites her lip. ‘Well, then, I’ll add this one to my list,’ she says, reaching for the doorhandle.

‘Don’t, Sophie . . . you’ll only hurt yourself.’

‘Bullshit.’

I gently touch her arm. ‘Don’t.’

Her eyes flash. ‘I know what I’m doing.’

Sophie climbs out and slams the door. I quickly scramble after her. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes full of tears.

‘Why are you coming in, James?’

‘I-I want to help.’

‘Who says I need it?’

‘Your hands are shaking, Sophie.’

‘I’m a witch, remember, toil and trouble.’

The sound of voices raised in argument spills from the doorway. Sophie looks at me and takes a deep breath. ‘I’ll cast a spell.’

We walk hesitantly up the stairs. Dave is standing by the front door, his frame silhouetted against the light. He points a finger at Brad’s girlfriend, who’s sitting on the couch with Dave’s wife.

‘None of you know what he went through—’ Dave turns to see Sophie and me at the door. In the far corner, Brad is filming Dave’s daughter, running across the room on unsteady feet. ‘Smile, Emily,’ he says as he fiddles with the zoom lens.

Sophie clenches her fists. My throat is dry as though I’ve been swallowing dirt. Emily stands still in the centre of the room, wondering why everyone’s suddenly gone quiet.

Brad notices the silence and looks toward the door, at Sophie. He switches off the camera and I see him swallow hard.

Sophie steps into the room.

‘Have a drink, Sophie,’ Dave says. ‘We were just talking about Dad and what happened after Mum left.’ He shoots a glance at Brad.

Sophie doesn’t look as though she’s in the mood for a party.

‘Don’t, Sophie.’ My words cut the room like a knife.

Dave unfolds his arms. ‘Don’t
what
, mate?’ He sneers at me and flicks his head to where I’ve parked the car. ‘Is that your M3? Rich boy, hey, Sophie?’

Dave and Brad exchange smirks.

‘It’s not mine, Dave,’ I say. ‘My parents put a blue dot on the windscreen. To remind me of what’s valuable . . .  and what’s not.’

Dave takes a step forward. I don’t back away. He looks quickly at his wife, then Sophie, then back to me. He shakes his head. ‘Smart-arse.’

A vein in my neck throbs and I think of my parents, my family, what it means and how much it’s worth. My voice is steady when I say, ‘I’m sorry about your dad.’

The room falls silent. Emily totters to the coffee table and reaches for the lollies on a plate. She looks to her mother, who nods. Emily chooses a red snake and enthusiastically bites its head off.

Sophie walks past Brad to the sideboard, where the family photos are arranged around a silver tray bearing glasses and a bottle of port. She reaches for the framed photo of her dad as a young man, leaning on a Holden ute with a bottle of beer in his hand.

She peels off the red dot and sticks it on the silver tray next to the blue dot. She holds up the photo. ‘I’m taking this. That all right with everyone?’

Brad’s girlfriend smirks. ‘Sure, one photo for one visit.’

Sophie walks across the room to me and reaches for my hand.

‘Dave, you never told Dad the truth about why I left, did you?’

Brad looks quickly from Dave to Sophie to his girlfriend. Dave studies the beer in his fist and shakes his head. I squeeze Sophie’s hand.

She drops my hand and moves towards Dave. He fidgets nervously with his rolled-up shirtsleeves. He’d much prefer this was a football field and his opponent was a bloke with a beard and chipped teeth.

Silence.

Sophie gently rubs Dave’s arm. ‘I’m glad you didn’t.’ She leans forward and kisses him on the cheek. Dave wraps his arms around her and draws her into a quick embrace. Sophie adds, ‘I hated you for ages, but it
was
the right thing to do.’

She turns and walks to the door. ‘Invite me for a christening, a birthday party, a wedding. You never know, I might turn up.’

She beckons to Emily. The child hesitantly steps closer, looking to her father. Dave nods reassuringly. Sophie searches in her handbag for the bottle of nail polish. She hands it to Emily, who smiles before running to her mother to show her the prize.

‘You tryin’ to influence my kid, Soph?’ Dave says, a smile forming on his lips. He reaches behind the bar for a bottle of beer and carefully lobs it my way. I catch it with one hand and Dave whistles. ‘Careful, sis, he’s good with his hands.’

Sophie and I walk slowly to the car. She runs her fingers smoothly across the bonnet.

‘Can you give me a lift, mister?’

‘Do you want to toss a coin?’

‘I win either way,’ Sophie laughs.

We drive north until darkness overtakes us, the clouds above like purple bruises. Sophie wipes the glass frame of her dad’s photo on her dress.

‘He’s so
young
. This was before me and the boys. Before Mum.’

Up ahead is a rest area, with a picnic table under a pitched roof. I pull over, switch off the engine and rummage in the glove compartment.

‘Your mobile’s on the back seat, James,’ says Sophie grinning. ‘I haven’t lost my gift, you know.’

‘And who am I going to phone?’

Sophie rolls her eyes. ‘Come on, too easy. Do you want me to wait outside?’

‘No.’ The phone feels heavy in my hand.

‘Your voice says no, but your eyes . . .’ Sophie opens her door and walks to the picnic table.

When I switch on the mobile, I’m surprised to see there are no messages.

I take a deep breath and call home. It rings for a long time before Mum answers.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi, Mum.’

‘James!’ I imagine her waving to Dad in the kitchen, beckoning him over.

‘Sorry I haven’t phoned. I’ve been . . .’

‘Oh, we’ve been so . . . it’s okay, James. How are you?’

‘Don’t you want to know where I am?’

Silence.

‘I’ve . . . I’ve met someone, Mum, a girl. A woman.’

‘Hi, Jim. We’ve got you on speakerphone,’ says Dad, his voice warm and assured.

‘Hi, Dad. How are you?’

‘Good . . . glad to hear from you.’

I almost say sorry again, but stop myself.

‘What’s her name, James?’ Mum asks softly.

‘Sophie.’

Sophie looks up from the picnic table and waves.

‘That’s a lovely name. She’s . . .’

Dad’s voice interrupts her. ‘We’d love to meet her, Jim.’

‘I’m not taking up . . . I’m not going to the school.’ I feel like a young child at the dinner table refusing to eat cabbage. ‘I’m sorry. It’s – it’s not what I want. I was only doing it because . . .’

I’m stumbling, but I’m worried they’ll start arguing with me. ‘I’ve decided teaching is not for me. Not now. Not yet.’

After a pause Mum says, ‘We understand, James.’

I shake my head in disbelief. Sophie looks at me, her brow knotted. I open the door for her and she walks back to the car and quietly sits beside me.

‘I’m thinking of doing some travelling. Maybe get a job somewhere, to earn money.’

Sophie takes my free hand and kisses it.

‘I know it’s not what you wanted . . .’

‘You can always defer university, Jim,’ says Dad. ‘Have a break.’

My body starts to relax as I realise my parents care about me, not what I study. ‘Are you both . . . okay?’

‘Of course we are,’ says Mum.

‘I just need some time, Mum. To sort myself out.’

‘We trust you, James.’

I don’t know what to say. It seems too easy. After all these years, are they finally letting go?

‘We’ve got some news too, Jim,’ says Dad, laughing self-consciously. ‘I’m taking an extended break from the clinic. Your mother and I are planning a holiday.’

‘You’re
what
!’

‘We decided after dinner. I got your mother drunk and she agreed.’

‘Oh, Michael, don’t be so rude!’ Mum sounds warm and cheery now, almost as if she’s blushing.

Sophie winks at me and I realise I’m smiling.

‘Where are you planning to go?’

‘England,’ says Mum, sounding like a little girl.

‘Cambridge?’ I say, remembering all the conversations we’d had over dinner about where my studies could lead me.

‘No, James. Not Cambridge. After London, Michael has promised to take me to Venice.’ She laughs. ‘Can you imagine your father in a gondola?’

‘It’s a little sudden, we know,’ says Dad. ‘But we won’t be leaving for a while. We hope to see you before we go.’

‘Sure, Dad.’

‘You ring us when you want, James. Or go online and send us a photo of you . . . and Sophie.’

‘I will, Dad. And . . . thanks.’

‘We love you, James,’ says Mum.

‘I love you both. I’ll call again soon.’

When I hang up, I notice my hand is shaking. Sophie strokes my neck, but I can’t speak for a few minutes – I’m afraid my voice will fail.

‘Just like that,’ Sophie whispers eventually.

And then I laugh for a long time.

After a late-night pub meal of steak and chips in the next town, we park the car behind the grandstand of the local football oval. Sophie and I recline the seats and listen to a dog barking across the highway.

‘James?’

‘Mmm?’

‘I want the clouds to cover the moon. For the night to get so dark that we’ll be hidden here away from everything.’ She puts her hand on my knee. ‘Just you and me.’

I imagine Mum and Dad sitting together on the sofa, Mum dreaming of Venice and the canals instead of worrying about me.

Sophie rolls on her side. ‘Did you mean it? What you said to your parents about finding a job, leaving uni?’

‘You know I did, Sophie. But only after I return the car. It’s not my style.’

‘I’d like to meet your parents, but I’ll have to buy more nail polish. I want to make a good impression.’ She reaches across to feel the fabric of my shirt. ‘And we can stop at the Salvos on the way?’

‘Mum and Dad won’t recognise me!’

‘After we return the BMW,’ says Sophie, touching my cheek, ‘maybe we could buy an old car together?’

‘And take turns driving?’

‘Sure. And it doesn’t matter what type of car it is except for one thing, James.’ She leans forward, as though everything depends upon my response.

‘Yes, Sophie. The car. It must be black. No other colour will do.’

Sophie laughs. ‘My spells . . .’

I finish for her, ‘Have worked.’