LITMIR.BIZ

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reminders of Angie’s deceased parents: JESUS LOVES YOU! and GOD GIVES WHAT’S RIGHT– NOT WHAT’S LEFT!

       “Yeah, sure,” he harrumphed, glaring at them. “God gives you nothing but shit and then complains that no one is grateful for it.”

       He wandered slowly up the hallway. Deciding to let Angie keep her distance, he stopped before entering the front bedroom and leant against the doorframe. The curtains to his immediate left had been pulled open and light was streaming through the window, forming a bright square on the quilt in the center of the room. It was the only room in the house they had attempted to renovate. Angie, he recalled, had made all the decorating decisions. The result: purple. The whole room was one shade of it or another – lilac, mauve, lavender, violet – the walls, the linen, the curtains, the quilt, all were purple, even the bedside alarm clock and lamp. The only things not were the bare wooden floorboards (Angie had insisted they rip up the horrid blue carpet, at least in this room), the sliding mirrored doors of the built-in closet, and the oak dressing table at which Angie was now perched.

       With her back to him, she was sitting on a stool directly ahead, peering into the dressing table mirror and rubbing foundation makeup into her cheeks and forehead. A cosmetic case sat open like a mini painter’s satchel to her left. It was brimming with assorted lipsticks, eyeliners, brushes, creams, mascaras, and lots of things Michael didn’t recognize. In the reflection he could see her face. She was trying her best not to cry and the whites of her eyes were streaked with red. He felt a tug of guilt and apologized for what he had said in the kitchen.

       Angie sniffed and applied a touch of moon dust coloring to her cheeks. Then she put the mascara brush down and began touching up her eyes with black eyeliner. She was deliberately silent while she worked, making him wait for her reply, and only after a minute or two did she turn around and face him. “If you’re truly sorry,” she said, holding his gaze, “you’ll be in the lobby of the hospital before five o’clock this evening.”

       She turned back to the dressing table mirror and removed the lid to a tube of red lipstick. As she slid the lipstick across her lips, they were transformed into soft, alluring petals and Michael suddenly understood why bees were so attracted to flowers. After a few seconds, she puckered and smacked her lips gently together, then stood the lipstick on its end next to the cosmetic case and turned around.

       “How do I look?” she asked.

       Michael was about to reply when suddenly, as she stood up, Angie doubled over as if she had just been delivered a punch to the stomach. Her face was contorted – mouth gaping, eyes wide – and despite the recently applied makeup her skin had turned ghastly pale. He stared at her, momentarily immobilized with fright. Angie groped for the dressing table, the other hand clutching her lower belly. The tube of lipstick was knocked onto its side and it rolled off the table onto the floor next to her briefcase. Angie didn’t seem to notice. She wobbled precariously, teetering like a toddler just learning to walk. Without a second to spare, Michael broke free from the paralysis of his initial shock and rushed over, catching her just before she fell.

       Angie didn’t speak. She didn’t seem able. She just leant into his embrace and grabbed hold of his arm. He was horrified. He didn’t know what to do or how to help, other than just hold on to her and hope the pain would quickly pass. His mind was racing. What was happening? Did he need to rush her to the hospital? Should he call an ambulance?

       After a minute, her wrestle-like grip began to relax. To his relief, she was soon standing erect once again with the color returned to her face. He stood by as she took several deep breaths and pursed her lips, blowing the air slowly out of her lungs. When she finally met his eyes he could tell the worst was over. “Are you okay?” he asked.

       She nodded, re-gathering her composure. “I’ll be all right,” she said, after a moment. “Don’t worry, I get it all the time.” But her attempt to play down the seriousness of what had just happened only made Michael worry even more. She seemed to sense his unease. “It goes away by itself. It’s just a little stomach cramp, that’s all.”

       Her smile was weak and unconvincing, and he knew by her reticence that she was withholding the truth. She patted his arm in a poor attempt to allay his concerns and reached for her briefcase beneath the dressing table. Before leaving, she kissed him on the lips and reiterated their plans to meet after work. Michael knew he had no choice but to let her go. She left him standing alone in the bedroom, confused and worried.

      LATER THAT DAY, Michael stood motionless at the blackboard with his back to the class. His hand was raised where it had stopped in mid-sentence, a broken piece of white chalk firmly fixed between thumb and forefinger. He had been in a daydream, lost in his own world. He had no idea how long he had been standing that way and was busily trying to figure out how he had managed to misplace his memories and what he had been saying to the class.

       They were obedient and silent, damn good kids he reckoned. All he could hear was their shuffling bums on the seats and the anxious pacing of someone walking past the classroom in the corridor outside. It sounded like Norman’s footsteps, heavy and discordant, like a clumsy elephant constantly tripping over itself. Running a chalk-covered hand through his hair, he tried to pick up from where he had left off. Only he couldn’t remember.

       Suddenly, the image of Angie floated in front of the blackboard like a vision of the Holy Mary. He remembered this morning’s incident in the bedroom, her face contorting with agony, her body doubling over as if she had been stabbed in the stomach, and it made him sick with worry. Despite her words of consolation, he knew Angie was covering something up. She said that she was fine, but she wasn’t; he had seen the alarm in her eyes flashing as brightly as lightning. For whatever reason, she was holding back. Knowing this was more terrifying than the mysterious pain itself. He reckoned he hadn’t felt so frightened since the day he saw Billie die.

       He remembered that day clearly. The sky had been blue and cloudless above Serena, another piping hot day in the summer of ‘75. Michael was playing backyard cricket with Jude, who lived two blocks around the corner and often came over to the house to play, especially during the school holidays. They were both in their swimming trunks (Jude’s red, his yellow) and their eight-year old bodies were tanned and supple. Michael was holding the bat, a new Slazenger he had just got for his birthday, and Jude was tossing and catching the tennis ball, readying himself to pitch it down. Michael knew all Jude wanted to do was hit him in the head with the tennis ball. All he wanted to do was hit the ball over the fence with his new cricket bat. That’s the way it always was that summer.

       Jude’s end was the clothesline. Michael’s end was the back wall of the house, where he was tapping the bat on the ground and waiting for Jude to deliver the ball. They were separated by no more than fifteen yards. They were also as far as they could get from his mum’s precious vegetable garden in the bottom corner of the yard. Hitting the ball into the vegetable garden was instantly out, no questions asked, followed by an immediate change of innings. Michael really wasn’t too concerned about that. He was going to hit Jude a lot further than the tomatoes and the cucumbers – he was going to hit him over the fence and out of the yard.

       Michael tapped the bat on the ground and watched his cousin. Jude had a knowing grin on his face. He was wandering near the edge of the vegetable garden at the top of his run-up, which Michael thought was ridiculously long. It was obvious Jude wanted to cause some serious harm with the ball. Michael wasn’t worried. He tapped his Slazenger on the grass again and waited.

       Jude wasted no time. He ran in and delivered the ball as hard as he could. Michael watched it hit the grass and take a nasty kick, jumping straight for his head. There was no time to take a swipe with the bat. He jerked his head backward, but the ball seemed to follow him, chasing him like a large demented wasp. It shot barely an inch past his nose and clattered into the wooden boards of the back wall. He had escaped instant humiliation by the barest of margins.

       Michael picked up the tennis ball and threw it back to Jude. After a brief flurry of words, something to the effect that Michael couldn’t hit the ball if he tried, Jude went back to the

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