Mothers and Daughters (28 page)

Her mother was beside her in an instant, cradling Tess in her arms.

‘Oh, baby,’ she said, stroking her hair. ‘I thought something was wrong tonight. I should have come back sooner, but I supposed you really were tired and wanted an early night. It’s been a busy week.’ She sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Tess. Do you want to tell me about it?’

Tess shook her head. She did, she did want to, but then she’d have to explain the letter and Callum and why it all mattered so much. Her mother would understand, she knew that, but talking about it would change it somehow. It had
been her secret, her own hidden treasure, something she hugged to herself at night or whenever she was alone. It was like the silver locket her grandmother had given her that she wore to school underneath her uniform in contravention of the ‘no jewellery’ rule. No one else knew it was there, but she did; she liked the way it rested, heavy and comforting, between her breasts.

‘I’m sorry,’ her mother said again. ‘Janey’s always been a bit . . . unpredictable, though, hasn’t she?’ She paused. ‘OK, unpredictable’s probably not the word. You’re right. She’s a bitch.’

Despite herself, Tess giggled. Her mother never made those sorts of judgements about anyone, at least not out loud.

‘She is. She’s a bitch on wheels. On steroids.’ She snuggled in closer. Her mother smelled of frangipani, of sorbolene, which she used as a moisturiser, and just faintly tonight of red wine and lemongrass. Tess realised she was hungry. She’d hardly touched her dinner, she’d been so upset.

‘Why don’t you wash your face, get a glass of milk and come and hop into my bed?’ her mother suggested, as if she could read her mind. ‘There’s a real wind tonight, and some rain too—did you hear it? We’ll cuddle up and be cosy together.’

Tess hadn’t slept with her mother in years. She had thought herself past that stage, that she’d outgrown it along with her soft toys. The idea, though, was surprisingly appealing. She was sick of lying here alone with only the memory of the afternoon’s events for company. She reached up and kissed her mother’s cheek. ‘Thanks, Mum. I will. I’m just going to make some toast first.’

Amira carefully lifted Tess’s arm off her chest and attempted to reposition it on Tess’s side of the bed. The limb hovered for a moment but then came straight back, pinning her beneath it. Amira tried again, not so carefully this time, but the same thing happened. Tess lay spreadeagled on her back in the centre of the mattress, sound asleep. The sleep of a child, Amira thought, the same deep slumber Tess had often fallen into as a toddler—at the table, on the floor, even once, memorably, in the bath. Amira had let the plug out and still Tess hadn’t woken, remained lolling against the chipped enamel as the water ebbed away, one flushed cheek resting on the soap dish.

Amira extricated herself and moved to the thin strip of mattress that Tess had left her. She’d forgotten all this, forgotten how to share a bed, both the comforts and the compromises. How long had it been since she’d slept a whole night with someone beside her, a fellow traveller on the road towards the day? She reached across and smoothed the hair from Tess’s forehead. God, she was beautiful. She was so lucky to have her, her loving, thoughtful daughter, and not a snake like Janey. Whatever it was Janey had done to Tess, Amira wanted to kill her, though she’d probably have to stand in line for the privilege.

She felt her stomach contract as she remembered what Tess had told her as she drifted off to sleep. They’d been curled side by side, murmuring together in the dark—about their plans for tomorrow and how sore Caro’s arm had looked—when Tess had said drowsily, ‘Do you know what she did to Bronte?’

‘Who?’ Amira had asked. ‘Janey? No. What?’

‘She took a photo of her in the shower and put it on Facebook so anyone from school can see.’

‘You’re kidding,’ Amira said. ‘Was she wearing any clothes?’

‘Muuum.’ Tess had yawned and rolled over. ‘I said she was in the shower. She was naked, but the picture stops at her stomach.’

‘Does Bronte know?’

‘No, she had her eyes closed. She’s got no idea. Don’t tell anyone,’ she added in a reflexive burst of loyalty. ‘Janey said she’ll take it down.’

‘And you’ve seen this picture?’ Amira had asked, suddenly wide awake, but there had been no answer, just the rhythmic in–out of Tess’s breath.

A faint light shone through the bedroom curtains.
The clouds must have cleared
, Amira thought, though her own mind hadn’t. What should she do? Who did she owe her loyalty to: Tess, who’d asked her not to tell, or Caro, who really should be told? Daughter or friend . . . or Bronte, the daughter of a friend, who had the most at stake here? But should Amira even believe the story? She had no doubt that Tess did, but Janey had been prone to exaggeration—to outright lies, if it suited her—since first grade. Maybe Janey
had
taken the photo, maybe she’d even shown Tess, but who was to say she’d actually followed through and posted it online? Surely she wasn’t that stupid, or that dangerous? Amira heaved herself up on her elbows. She could check now. There was no internet at the house, but she could take her laptop over to the school . . .

She sighed and lay back down. It wouldn’t help. Tess was on Facebook, but Amira had never bothered with it. She didn’t have the time or the interest—plus she trusted Tess, so she’d never felt the need. Yet what was it that all those glossy government-funded internet guides said, the ones she herself had parroted to classroomsful of parents perched uncomfortably on their children’s seats?
Make sure you monitor your children online—that you know what they’re doing and who they’re talking to.
Some teacher she was. She couldn’t even follow her own advice. And she
did
trust Tess, but she’d forgotten that that meant she had to trust everyone Tess was interacting with too. Amira groaned. She could probably find Facebook if she googled, but there was no way she could log in to see if Janey had really done what she’d said. She’d have to wait until morning and get Tess to find out.

And if Janey had done it, Amira thought, what then? Who did she confront? Something like that couldn’t just be ignored. Friendships were such tricky things though. She and Caro had been close for years, but that wouldn’t make it any easier to tell her what Janey was up to. Caro was such a proud and private person . . . It would probably only add to her anger, Amira reflected, to realise that not only had her daughter behaved badly but that one of her own friends had been the first to know about it. Then again, she’d be even angrier if she ever discovered that Amira had known about it and hadn’t told her, just as Amira would be in the same situation. Should she challenge Janey directly, or was that out of line, given that the whole thing was actually none of Amira’s business? Or maybe she could just tell Bronte—but then Bronte wouldn’t
know how to deal with it, so Fiona would have to know . . . The sheets tangled around her legs and she kicked them away irately. What a nightmare. Perhaps she should just pretend that Tess had never confided in her, keep them both right out of it.

The trouble was, she thought, that you loved your friends and you loved your children and you thought the two things were separate, would never impact on each other, but it didn’t work out that way, not always. Like Tess’s birthday party in grade two . . . The four of them—she, Caro, Morag and Fiona—had just about lived in each other’s pockets back then when the kids were still small and Morag and Caro were at home with their toddlers and hadn’t yet gone back to work. There were the Friday night drinks, of course, but all the other meet-ups too: twice a day at the school gate, the many play dates arranged at three thirty, the weekend barbecues or the lunchtimes spent doing tuckshop duty together. Their children had always attended each other’s birthdays, but this year Tess was turning eight and had decided that boys had germs and she didn’t want any at her party. Dutifully, Amira had left Callum and Finn off the invitation list, but when Morag found out she was so upset she barely spoke to Amira for weeks—Morag, who never got her knickers in a knot about anything. She’d feared she was being excluded from the group, she confessed later, somewhat sheepishly, and Amira sympathised, but what could she do? Tess had made her choice, and—for Amira at least—what Tess wanted would always come first.

She plumped up her pillow, determined to put the whole thing with Janey out of her mind and go to sleep.
Think about something else
, she told herself. The meals for next week, once
everyone had gone back to Melbourne, or the herbs she kept meaning to plant in the community garden. Domestic planning always made her doze off . . . But suddenly her eyes flew open again. If Tess and Janey ever did stop being friends, dumped each other conclusively or just grew further apart, could she still be friends with Caro? A missed party invite was one thing, but this was quite another. Would it be too awful, too awkward to keep seeing Caro if their daughters didn’t speak or, worse, actually loathed each other? Yet if this Facebook thing was true, Caro and Fiona would have to negotiate the same territory. God, and they’d thought toilet training was hard. They’d had no idea; pull-ups and puddles were nothing compared to dealing with teenage girls.

A memory came to her; something Mason had said. In traditional Aboriginal communities, if someone injured or aggrieved you the matter would often be dealt with using black law, not white, and justice would be meted out via payback. ‘One fella hurts another or mistreats his woman, the elders bring him in front of everyone and get two strong men to hold him so he won’t run away, then someone they’ve chosen spears him in the thigh. There’s blood, but after that it’s over.’ Mason had laughed at her horrified face, but then grown serious again. ‘It’s finished that way, don’t you see? Everything is balanced. Someone gave pain, they get pain back. Fellas witness payback and they feel right, they start again. It’s better, often, than white man’s way, draggin’ it through the courts—our people don’t have the money for that. Anyway, if they go to jail they often end up a lot worse off than being stabbed in the leg.’ Fiona would laugh, but Amira
had
understood. She certainly
wouldn’t advocate for Janey to be speared, and yes, the whole concept was undeniably primitive, but in some basic way it made sense too. You give pain, you get it back, and everyone moves on, case closed. A line is drawn; an end is reached. Could she and her friends ever be like that with each other, so direct, no games? She didn’t think so. The black way was unsophisticated and crude, but it was also somehow cleaner than theirs, and clean was appealing. She had a feeling that this whole photo thing was about to get messy.

‘Macy—your shoes!’ Bronte shouted. Macy looked down to see her black Doc Martens slowly sinking into the mangroves in which she stood, their yellow stitching already obscured by mud.

‘Shit!’ She abandoned the pokestick she’d only just worked, as instructed, down a crab hole, and attempted to pull her feet out of the ooze. At first she couldn’t budge them, but finally one came up with a long, loud rasp and a fetid stench of rot.

‘Pooh,’ said Bronte, waving her hand in front of her nose.

‘Macy, that’s not very polite,’ Mason rebuked, then winked at her to show he was kidding. She was tempted to shove her pokestick through his eye. One boot was out, but she couldn’t free the other without placing the first back into the ooze. She stood there fuming for a moment, then leaned forward, grabbed a mangrove and hoisted herself into it, hoping its spindly limbs would take her weight. Her trapped foot came
free almost immediately, clad in a sweaty black sock, but the Doc stayed where it was, now up to its eyelets in mud.

Macy gazed at it despairingly. Those boots had cost a fortune. Her mother wouldn’t buy them for her—she wanted Macy to wear ballet flats and strappy sandals, for fuck’s sake—so Macy had had to use some of the money she’d saved from busking. All that work, all that standing around on pavements while people sneered at you and threw in five cents if you were lucky, or spat if you weren’t . . . all for her Docs to end up like this? She’d kill Amira. It had been her idea, of course. Amira couldn’t stop being a teacher even when she was off duty. ‘We’re going mudcrabbing!’ she’d announced at breakfast, before adding that the whole community was heading out to the mangroves to collect crabs for a feast that was being held tonight for that bloke who’d died. ‘We’ll join them!’ she’d crowed. ‘It’ll be fun!’ Some bloody fun, standing around in stinking muck while the Docs she’d scrimped and saved for met a sticky end. And in any case, being whiteys, they probably weren’t even invited to the feast.