A Little Bird Read online

  Welcome home, Jo. I try saying the words brightly, and without irony. As if I mean them.

  Alligator rushes to greet me as I start up the path. He gives two sharp barks and then falls silent, crouching down on his front paws, whining softly, his tail thumping, not taking his eyes off me as I kneel down to pet him. I push my face into his short bristles, gone from blue to grey now, and breathe in his familiar doggy smell. I stand up slowly. Okay, Gator. Time to face the music.

  The front door is unlocked. I trace my fingers along the velvety wallpaper as I creep down the hall, the dog padding silently behind me. Dad is sitting in the lounge room. Other than the light from the television—a new flat-screen, the sound muted—the room is dark. There’s a bottle of whiskey on the table beside him, a tall glass—almost empty—a half-full ashtray, and a packet of Winfield reds. The old window Breezair is chugging away desperately, but the air is thick and stale.

  I take a deep breath. “Dad?” It comes out too quietly. I try again. This time it’s too loud. “Dad?”

  He looks up, clearly surprised.

  “Jo?”

  “The one and only.”

  His smile is bitten back almost as soon as it appears, but it’s more than I expect. I breathe out.

  “What’re you sitting in the dark for?”

  “Waiting for someone to change the bulb.”

  “Anyone in particular?”

  “You’ll do.”

  “So what are you doing here?”

  I’ve carted in my luggage, changed the light bulb, and poured myself a drink. Dad is back in his recliner, a cigarette burning between his lips, his whiskey glass topped up. Alligator is lying on the carpet, his head on his paws, his rheumy eyes shifting back and forth between the two of us, following the conversation.

  “I’ve got a job. On the Chronicle.”

  “You’re shitting me? The last I heard they were closing it down. Didn’t think anyone read it anymore.”

  “It’s being run by a community board now. It’s . . . like a nonprofit, I suppose. Just community news.”

  He snorts. “Right. Drought, drug busts, and bankruptcies?”

  “Well, no. I think they’re more interested in the good news.”

  “What—half a page a month then. Not much good news out here.”

  “Probably not. Anyway—it’s a paying job.”

  “Lost yours, did you?” He shakes his head, doesn’t wait for my answer. “I was wondering how long it’d last.” Then, as if it’s only just occurred to him: “And what happened to your fella? William, was it?”

  “Harry. It ended.”

  “Did he run off with your best mate? Your savings? Did he hit you?”

  “Jesus, Dad. No. Do you really have to— It’s just . . . it was complicated.”

  He snorts again. “Complicated, eh? And what does complicated mean when it’s at home?”

  I shrug, gulp down a mouthful of whiskey. It burns my throat, stings my eyes.

  “Well, I hope it was worth not speaking to your old man for two bloody years.” He glares.

  “As I recall, you weren’t speaking to me either, Dad.” I mutter the words, reduced to my sullen fifteen-year-old self in almost record time.

  He looks at me for a long moment, then shakes his head. “Your taste in men is in your arse, Jojo.”

  I take a deep breath in. Count to five. Breathe out slowly. “I wonder why?” My smile is saccharine.

  He changes the subject, as I knew he would.

  “You hungry?”

  “A bit.”

  “Enough of this BS then.” He pries the glass from my hand. “We better go sort you a feed before you start shouting at me.”

  My father is right. I am shit at choosing men. And complicated is a highly euphemistic description of my breakup with Harry.

  My father met him only once, during a rare visit to Sydney when we were first going out, but he saw through Harry right away. Dad immediately recognised him as the self-serving, if well-dressed, scoundrel that he is, but it took me longer—two years longer, in fact—to see what lay beneath Harry’s good looks, glib charm, and quick wit. What initially appealed to me as an attractive certainty about what he wanted and where he was going had gradually revealed itself as nothing more than a self-serving egotism that wasn’t compatible with any sort of long-term relationship.

  My father had travelled down to Sydney to see an old mate, and we’d met him for drinks at a city bar that Harry and the rest of his financier friends frequented. I should have realised that the venue was all wrong, that my father would feel like a fish out of water. Dad, who was wearing jeans and a flannelette shirt and a pair of old work boots, stuck out like the proverbial dunny in the desert. Harry, who could be charming, did his best hail-fellow-well-met routine, but Dad wasn’t charmed. It hadn’t been obvious: he’d accepted Harry’s proffered schooner of expensive artisanal beer, taken a few bites of the bar food, and had seemed relaxed enough that I relaxed too. The conversation between the two men had been stilted at times, but Dad had laughed at Harry’s jokes, listened to his stories, engaging with him in a way that surprised me. He didn’t even say anything inappropriate or speak too loudly. He even managed to tone down his sometimes deliberately hokey drawl. Despite my initial misgivings, I assumed that it was all going well. But when Harry left to get another round, my father put his glass down and looked hard at me. “Josephine, you know I don’t like to interfere; it’s your life.”

  “What’s wrong?” My father’s lack of interference had in fact been a bone of contention between us since my teenage years—sometimes it felt like neglect. Dad’s interest in my doings was rare—restricted to moments of bad or dangerous risky behaviour—and inevitably meant some sort of negative judgement was coming my way.

  “This bloke, Harry. He’s bad news.”

  “You’ve only just met him.”

  “He’s a wanker. He’s arrogant, and he’s trouble.”

  “For fuck’s sake, Dad. You think that anyone who wears a suit to work is a wanker.”

  “No, love. I just have an unerring sense of bullshittery—and believe me, that fella is full of it.” Dad shook his head. “You’ve got your head up your arse if you can’t see it, Jo.”

  I tried hard to contain it, but the resentment, never far away when it came to my father, quickly surfaced.

  “That’s crap, Dad. Your so-called bullshit detector is just a garden-variety chip on your shoulder. Talk about having your head up your arse: this isn’t about Harry or me—it’s about you.”

  The conversation had gone further downhill from there. And rapidly. By the time Harry came back with the tray of drinks, my father had gone, his parting words as angry as mine. I can’t remember all we’d said—though I do recall that I’d told him that I wanted nothing to do with him if he was going to continue being nothing but a negative influence in my life, and Dad rejoining that I wasn’t to bring that cockhead if I did deign to visit: he wouldn’t have him in the house. In fact, he’d added, I shouldn’t even bother coming home until I woke up to myself.

  In a way it was nothing new—we’d fought as viciously a thousand times since I hit adolescence—but his final words had hit a nerve. And there’d been no apology. No retraction. I haven’t been in contact with him for almost two years.

  But here I am, home.

  For reasons that go beyond my father, and that cockhead.

  Reasons that I’m not willing to advertise to anyone, especially not my father. Reasons that I’m barely willing to admit, even to myself.

  I’d visited the medium just after I’d ended things with Harry. The visit had been made on an impulse, and with no particular expectations. One of my workmates had told me that she’d found it helpful after her marriage broke down, better than a psychologist. “I really wasn’t interested in hearing about what was wrong with me—I wanted to know where to go next, if you know what I mean. How to move on.”

  That was what I needed—some guidance as to where
I needed to go next, what I should focus on. Even though our relationship had ultimately become toxic, without the structures that scaffolded even a bad relationship, I was drifting, floundering. I thought perhaps a medium would be able to give me a clue. It was worth a try, anyway.

  The medium’s website had featured angels’ wings and signs of the moon, and mentions of spirit guides and psychic healing—but the little blonde lady in a neat brick suburban house wasn’t what I was expecting when I made the appointment. The woman was brisk but friendly. She had a tidy bob, was wearing tights and a T-shirt—a fringed satin housecoat her only concession to anything even vaguely bohemian. She invited me in and led me up a carpeted hallway, calling out as we passed through a lounge room, where a couple of teenagers sat playing Fortnite. “I’ve got a customer, boys. So if you need anything, you’ll have to get it yourselves.” One of the boys grunted something unintelligible; neither of them looked up. She gave a resigned sigh. “School holidays. That’s all they do. I wish they’d go outside and—I don’t know—ride their bikes or something.”

  She led me into a cosy sunroom—the walls painted a pale blue—with a small sofa and two pale lounge chairs, pretty floral cushions. It was so bright and cheery that I wondered momentarily whether I’d come to the wrong place—perhaps I’d gotten the address wrong and inadvertently turned up at a psychologist’s rooms, or an accountant’s—or perhaps a hairdresser’s. There was no sink, no shampoo, no cutting implements, but where were the crystal balls, the tarot cards, the signs that she could commune with the dead?

  “Take a seat, love.”

  I sat on the sofa, and she took the seat across from me.

  “Now, what can I do for you?”

  I had to ask.

  “You are Aura, aren’t you? I am in the right place?”

  She laughed. “You are. Actually, my real name is Deb-orah.” She emphasised the final syllables. “But Aura sounds better for a psychic, don’t you think? More what people expect.”

  “I suppose. But—well, you’re not—it’s not what I was expecting, to be honest. I mean, I’ve never been to a psychic before, but I was expecting something, I don’t know, a bit different.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I know. But what can I do? I’m not interested in being all woo-woo—and as you can see, I’m not exactly exciting or glamorous or exotic myself. I’m basically your stock standard soccer mum. Maybe with a few extra pounds.

  “The thing is”—she put her chin on her hand, looked at me seriously—“life and death happen the same to everyone, don’t they? Soccer mums, and people who work at supermarkets or who do office jobs, they aren’t somehow immune to tragedy. It’s not like it’s reserved for special, smart, interesting people. And so I figure there’s no reason someone like me shouldn’t have this gift. It’s chosen me, if you know what I mean.”

  I nodded, impressed by the woman’s unexpected eloquence.

  “And that also means I don’t get to choose who I share it with. I mean, I do, in a sense, because I generally only offer my services for money—anyone who’s willing to cross my palm with silver. I’m a medium, not a breatharian. And teenage boys cost a bit to keep.”

  She took a breath, smiled. “Anyway. What is it you’re here for—and no, I can’t tell.” She rolled her eyes theatrically.

  “I’ve just broken up with my partner, and . . .” Suddenly I was at a loss for words. What, exactly, did I want?

  The woman gave a sympathetic smile. “And you want to know whether there’s any hope?”

  “Oh, God, no. It’s over. I don’t want him back.”

  “So is there someone else . . . ?”

  “No, it’s nothing like that. There’s no one else.” I laughed, embarrassed. “To be honest, I don’t really know what it is I want.”

  “Perhaps that’s why you’re here?”

  “Actually . . .” Maybe there was something I wanted, perhaps more than future directions. A message from the past. I cleared my throat. “There is something. I’m worried about someone, someone I haven’t heard from for a long time. Years and years. But I’m pretty sure they’re alive, to be honest. I mean, I hope they are.”

  Aura frowned. “If it’s something criminal, I don’t do that sort of thing. You should go to the police.”

  “Oh, no. It’s not a crime. It’s my mum—she left us years ago. When I was eight. With my sister. She left a letter—but that was it. We’ve never heard from her since. Maybe you could give me some idea of where she is. Maybe that’s what I need to focus on now.”

  I gave a nervous laugh, knowing how silly it sounded. But the woman wasn’t laughing.

  “Oh, you poor thing. Your mum and your sister. I can’t imagine. All this time not hearing from them. That must be so hard.”

  I tried to smile. “You get used to it. I was very young.”

  Aura was looking thoughtful. “It’s not something I usually do. There are people—psychic detectives, they call them. They work with police sometimes. Frankly, I think it’s rubbish. They’re never ever right as far as I can see.”

  “Really? Never? I’m sure I’ve read things where they’ve found—”

  “Occasionally they’ll find a . . . resting place. Which makes sense—but half the time they claim to be communing with spirits, the people are just as likely to be alive, if you see what I mean.”

  “So you can’t communicate with . . . live people? Your website says you do psychic guidance.”

  “That’s a bit different—that’s more like an intuition. That’s why I asked if it was about a man. You ask me whether your boyfriend, say, is cheating on you—and I might be able to pick up a sense of what’s going on. Or whether there’s some hope for the future. But there needs to be some sort of a connection—emotional and physical—through you. But you haven’t seen your mother for so long—so the connection might not be there anymore.”

  “Oh, I see.” It was hard to keep the disappointment out of my voice.

  The look the woman gave me was full of sympathy. She bit her lip. “Well, I suppose I can try. But don’t expect too much.”

  “I don’t have anything of hers, I’m afraid.”

  The woman laughed again. “I’m a medium, sweetheart, not a beagle. But maybe . . . I don’t suppose you have a photo?”

  I kept a photo of the two of them, taken a few months after Amy’s birth, in my wallet. Mum is sitting on a park swing, clutching a smiling Amy in her lap. The colours had faded and the photograph was worn. I handed it over to Aura, who looked at it for a long moment. “They look lovely. Your mother’s so beautiful. You must miss her. You must miss them both.”

  I nodded.

  She closed her eyes for a few seconds, opened them again. “Maybe if you . . . Can you tell me a bit about your mum?”

  Where to begin? “Well, you can see she was blonde, small. Beautiful. Nothing like me. She had me when she’d just finished high school, and her family threw her out. She grew up on a farm . . . her family are rich, snobby, and Mum, well, she didn’t do what was expected, I guess. She could be very spontaneous. And funny. She had a bad temper, sometimes. She . . .” I faltered, running out of things to say. As always, it was impossible to get a fix on her. To find anything tangible. She was a set of stories, not even real memories anymore. And not all the stories were even my own. What was the point? There was nothing solid about my mother, nothing real. Not anymore. I had no idea whom I was looking for.

  Aura’s eyes had closed again. She was swaying back and forth gently; her breath had deepened. I watched, feeling strangely uncomfortable.

  Her breathing quietened, softened. The swaying stopped. She opened her eyes and blinked. It took her a long time to focus. Eventually she handed back the photograph. She gazed down, pressed her hands against the table. When she finally looked up, she was smiling, but she didn’t quite meet my eyes.

  “So? Did you . . . feel anything?”

  “I did. But to be honest, I don’t know quite what it was.”

&
nbsp; “But can you tell where she is? Whether she’s okay?”

  The woman frowned. “Yes. No. I don’t know. There’s something wrong—some terrible sadness. Some pain. But there would be, wouldn’t there?” The idea seemed to be a relief. “Of course, that’s what it is. She must miss you terribly.” She brightened. “And I had a sense of someone else, close to her. A child. Your sister, I expect.”

  “And could you tell where they were? Were there any clues?” It was impossible to keep the eagerness out of my voice. I didn’t believe a word of it, not really. But what if she had seen something—some sign?

  “It was odd. The picture was very . . . muddy. It felt submerged, and rippling—it had a watery feel somehow. It’s hard to explain.” She sat up straight, her voice brisk, now. “Maybe she lives on the coast? It was murky. And deep. A river, or a lake, maybe.”

  “Oh.” It was all so vague.

  “I know. I’m sorry it’s not clearer.”

  “Was there anything else?”

  “Well, there’s something. But I don’t know that it’s really all that helpful. It’s a feeling I’m getting about you.”

  “About me?”

  “Yes. I don’t quite understand it myself.” She looked doubtful.

  “What is it?”

  “I’m not sure it’s something you really want to hear, darling.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You didn’t grow up in the city, did you?”

  “No. I’m from a small town out west. Arthurville. Nowheresville.”

  “The thing is, I’m getting a strong feeling that you need to go home. That the answers are there.”

  I’d tried to laugh it off. It was the last thing I’d expected to hear.

  And the last thing I’d wanted.

  Merry

  Arthurville, 1985

  Merry was a childhood nickname—her older brother Roland’s tangled version of Miranda—one that stuck despite, or perhaps because of, the distance between the name and the reality.