Through her tears, Jo considered her mother, a woman she no longer recognised. Maybe she’d never seen her mother — for years they’d been two bodies circling around each other, not connecting, mostly antagonistic. She didn’t know anything about this mother. All Jo’s life, her mother had been doting and loving, ever-present. Other mothers would run late for school pick-ups, but Mandy was always on time. Other mothers went out at night and left their children with babysitters, but Mandy rarely went anywhere without Jo. And then there was the mother she avoided, found embarrassing, didn’t listen to, couldn’t confide in. Did her mother long for another life? A career? A relationship?
‘Let’s get out of here,’ Mandy said.
‘It’s midnight.’
‘I know.’
The silent, cold air hit Mandy as she opened the door. It had been a warm day and she was wearing short sleeves. ‘I’ll get some jackets,’ she said, leaving Jo at the front door, walking down to her room, and grabbing a couple of old windcheaters. On her way back, Mandy took a moment to look down the hallway at Jo. Her daughter was back. Two and a half months she had prayed for her return — she, who wasn’t religious, going with Mary to the Catholic church and lighting candles, sitting with Mrs Nguyễn in her Buddhist meditation group, praying and wishing and hoping. She was on antidepressants. Taking sleeping pills. Drinking more than she should. Working extra shifts at the supermarket. Going crazy. Her feelings for Jo were a poisonous cocktail — anger, grief, guilt, shame — but there was also the relief at Jo’s return home. Was this love?
Mandy steered them out of the house and onto Hyde Street, across Francis Street, and into Stephen Street, away from the bridge. Planning to walk with her daughter as they had often walked when Jo was younger, when walking had loosened Jo’s tongue and she had talked about school, about the teachers and the other girls… Only recently had Mandy begun to wonder if Jo, even then, had kept secrets, and censored her chatter even when it seemed mindless and Mandy thought she was divulging everything. Had she failed to read between the lines, to notice the gaps? Was it possible she didn’t know her daughter? Had never known her? Did other people know their children? Some parents spoke with such authority — my daughter is a deep thinker, my son’s outgoing and popular at school, my child would never do that, he has the determination to get there, she won’t last the distance…
A three-quarter moon glowed behind a thin powder of clouds, giving the night a soft brush. The streetlights shone over the footpath and the road, their beams bouncing off the white trunks of the birch and the gum trees; in the shadows, the houses retreated. They seemed abandoned and neglected, as if their occupants had left under duress, with no time to gather toys or bikes, to pick up discarded jackets and hats, to close shutters, to pull gates shut. In this empty world, Mandy and Jo relaxed into an easy striding — fast enough to keep warm — along the footpaths of the neighbourhood that was now both familiar and unrecognisable.
When a car sped past, triggering a sensor light outside a converted warehouse, the resident dog woke and growled at them. Jo and Mandy returned to their bodies, to discover they were a block away from Ashleigh’s house. Jo stopped. Approached from this direction, the house was partially hidden by several large trees, including an old elm that dominated that part of the street with its broad canopy. But they could see a light was on in Ashleigh’s room, and they could see the rose bushes were gone.
‘In Portarlington, when I first arrived, when they asked me my name, I panicked and said Ashleigh,’ Jo whispered.
‘What?’
‘So the whole time I was there, they called me Ashleigh.’
‘You miss her.’ Mandy reached tentatively for Jo’s hand, shepherding her gently back around the corner.
‘I can’t get her out of my head.’ Her mother’s hand was warm and familiar and almost unbearable. The tears were slow at first, but soon she was sobbing again. ‘You know, when I was in Portarlington and people were calling me Ashleigh,’ she paused to catch her breath, ‘I didn’t… I worried someone would find out. But I didn’t feel bad. I mean, I felt bad because I shouldn’t have used her name, but I also felt better, not so anxious. I felt better, like I was someone else.’
They retraced their steps back down Stephen Street and into Gray Street and then Hyde. There was little traffic, only an occasional car or truck. They passed a cat balancing on a front fence. It leapt to the ground as they approached. They passed a dog sleeping on the front verandah of a small brick house. When they reached the corner of Hyde and Francis, they crossed, walked straight past the house, and headed towards the bridge.
‘Where are we going?’ Jo asked, even though it was obvious.
‘You know,’ Mandy replied. Life required courage; the past needed to be confronted. For some people, lighting candles, meditation, and prayers provided relief. For some people, faith was their anchor. But Mandy didn’t have faith, not in God. Mary always said, blessed are those that have faith. It sounded like criticism to Mandy, as if Mary saw her as one of the damned. She understood that Mary’s faith gave her solace, and solace was what everyone wanted. For Mandy, solace came from facing problems head-on.
At the base of the bridge, they stopped at the small roadside memorial for Ashleigh. It had been carefully maintained; several bouquets of fresh flowers tied to the cross. Only the cards and notes had deteriorated: faded, crumbled, the words smudged where the ink had run.
‘That night, I was so angry. So angry I couldn’t speak. I wanted to yell at you and Ashleigh. I wanted to tell you both how stupid you were, how reckless, but I knew there was no point. I knew I should’ve been more supportive, but I couldn’t…’
‘We — no, me, me, I was driving, I shouldn’t have been driving. So stupid. My fault, all of it, I know. We — not just Ash and me, but you and Ash’s family and everyone — are paying for it. I’m so sorry, so sorry, but sorry doesn’t make any difference.’
Above them, on the bridge, the traffic was sparse. The river caught and reflected the lights in bands of yellow and green and red, luminous waves of colour fluttering like flags on a carnival ride.
‘I used to love the bridge at night,’ Jo continued. ‘But it’s different now — the lights feel too strong, and I feel too exposed. I’ve been scared to come here, scared I’d run into Ash’s parents. Or Jane. I want to get the accident out of my head. To get Ash out of my head. Even when I’m talking, I hear Ash. I can’t think.’
‘Jo, honey, she’s dead. It’s not her,’ Mandy said.
‘I know. I tell myself, I tell her, you’re dead, Ash. But I can hear her voice. I tell her I’m sorry. I tell her I wish it hadn’t happened. That I wish she was alive.’
‘But she’s not,’ Mandy said, drawing her daughter into an embrace.
‘No, but I don’t feel alive, either.’
Memories of Ash were relentless. Some memories were like songs stuck in her head; they played over and over again. They were fifteen and sitting on a bench in the park, each of them with their iPods, their different music, in their own world. Ash pulled one of the earplugs out of her ear, and then she pulled one out of Jo’s ear. ‘We should do something.’
‘We are doing something.’
‘Something exciting. We should have an adventure.’
‘Like what?’
‘Let’s steal a car and go for a joy ride.’
‘Sure.’
‘Come on, Jo, there must be something we can do. We’re sixteen — our lives shouldn’t be so boring.’