Jo fell asleep and dreamt she was in a warm pool. There were none of the usual lap swimmers jostling for lanes. There were no children jumping and splashing. The water was murky, and she couldn’t see more than an arm’s length in front, yet she swam easily. Back and forth. Back and forth.
At the bottom of the pool, a garden was growing. Plants rose out of the mist. Impossible. Rosemary. And parsley. Broccoli, eggplants, marrow. Garlic and mint.
Jo altered the shape of her swim to avoid the thorny arms of the cactus sprouting in the corner. She was swimming better than she’d ever swum. She could’ve swum forever if it weren’t for the plants growing so fast, transforming the pool into a dense watery forest, and the long and snaking tendrils that reached up and wrapped themselves around her waist, her shoulders, and her throat.
‘What have you been doing all this time?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
Jo and Mandy were sitting in the kitchen, sharing the pre-packaged salad Mandy had brought home from the supermarket for her dinner. There was a quick-sale sticker over the original price. Mandy had divided it into two separate bowls. Though the salad — noodles and Asian greens — was soggy, they both ate it.
‘Why Portarlington?’
Jo pushed the bowl aside.
‘Jo?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why Portarlington?’
‘Because that’s where I ended up. Grandpa Tom took me there once.’
‘But all that time.’
‘Yes.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Nothing.’
‘For two months and half months?’
Jo didn’t respond.
‘Jo, I’m talking to you.’
‘You’re shouting at me.’
‘Yes, I am, but you’re not responding. You’re not answering me.’
‘What? What do you want me to say?’
‘Tell me how you feel. What you’re thinking. I’m your mother. I want to help.’
‘Do you? Really?’
‘I want to help.’
‘Well, you can’t.’
‘Maybe I can, maybe I can’t, but you won’t give me a chance.’
Jo looked around the kitchen. Mandy had rules: don’t leave dirty dishes in the sink, not even a cup or a glass; sweep up after meals, because crumbs attract rats. She wiped the benches, the stovetop, and the oven after each use. She vacuumed twice a week. Mopped the kitchen and bathroom floors every second day. Jo noticed that the fruit bowl that always sat on the bench was gone. ‘Where’s the crystal bowl?’ she asked.
‘What?’
‘Nan’s crystal bowl?’
‘It’s broken. I dropped it and it broke, so be careful. Don’t walk around without shoes on. I don’t think I got all the pieces.’
‘You don’t break things.’
‘Accidents happen.’ Mandy stopped. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to say that.’
The air was brittle and sharp. What was broken couldn’t be put together again. There was now a permanent crack in the world. It couldn’t be mended with a little glue or a row of stitches. It couldn’t be covered up, like her mother might cover a stain on the lino by throwing an op-shop rug over the top.
Mandy wrapped her hands around her mug and stared into it as if the answers to all her problems might be swimming there, under the milky surface. She wore her red supermarket shirt; it was too baggy and too bright. She looked pale and thin in it. Jo stared at Mandy’s arms, fragile, protruding from too-wide sleeves.
‘Didn’t mean what? Didn’t mean to say the word accident? In the hospital when you came to pick me up…’
‘Yes,’ Mandy said.
‘You didn’t touch me.’
Mandy pushed back into her chair. ‘No. I…’
‘You’re ashamed of me. You didn’t just look angry, you looked like you hated me.’ Jo hadn’t meant to say any of this. It was as if there were a leak — the words kept spilling out, and, unable to find the source, she was powerless to stop them.
‘I was angry. I was in shock. I don’t hate you,’ Mandy said.
‘It was the worst moment in my whole life. I wanted to die. And you came and I wanted to run into your arms, and for you to hold me, but you didn’t want to have anything to do with me. The sight of me made you cringe. I understand. I hate myself. But you’re… you’re my mother… and I didn’t expect that.’
‘I don’t hate you.’
‘You don’t love me. Not anymore. You’ve loved me all my life. Didn’t you think I’d notice when you stopped?’ The word love wedged itself between them, flaunted itself, as they sat defeated in the messy kitchen. After a while, Jo stood up and went to the sink. She stacked all the dirty dishes to one side and filled the tub with warm, soapy water. Mandy wasn’t the same woman who promised unconditional love to her five-year-old daughter. Jo wasn’t the same daughter.
She turned to face Mandy. ‘I had a job in a restaurant in Portarlington. I stayed in a hostel. I worked long hours. Some days I went for a swim. Most days I went for long walks. I tried to avoid people. I kept to myself. But a couple of people, well, you know… People get to know you and start asking questions. They wanted to know about me, my life, why I was in Portarlington. I couldn’t tell anyone, so I left. I couldn’t tell them, but I couldn’t keep lying.’
‘I don’t hate you. I care about you. I was so worried. You didn’t even ring for Christmas,’ Mandy said.
‘I’m sorry. I wanted to avoid Christmas. I sent you a text.’
‘I care about you.’
‘Of course,’ Jo said. ‘I know.’ But Jo didn’t believe it. She’d expected her mother’s love to be unconditional — wasn’t that what people said about parents, they loved you unconditionally? She’d learnt early on that her father’s love was fickle and conditional and easily forgotten. Now she knew her mother’s love had limits and there were things even a mother found difficult to forgive.
‘I’ve no idea how to steer us through this,’ Mandy said, getting up and taking a clean tea towel out of the drawer to dry the dishes as Jo washed.
‘It’s not up to you.’
‘Can you explain to me…’ Mandy began.
‘Explain what?’
‘How you feel. What you’re thinking?’
There were no tears on the night of the accident, as Jo sat trapped in the car. No tears when they told her Ash was dead. No tears at the police station, even with all the questions and the badgering. No tears the day of Ash’s funeral, or on any of those long nights when she couldn’t sleep and Ash’s voice was loud in her head. She’d wanted to cry, but there’d been no tears; a dry, desolate tract, parched and barren. Now she was sobbing. And shaking. She had to stop washing the dishes and sit down.
Mandy passed her a box of tissues. She made her a cup of tea. She brought her a blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders.