Yellowcake - Margo Lanagan [27]
Marcus had nodded when Dad told him this. That was his instinct, too, to stay closed-lipped about it. Not just to not-mention it to anyone except Dad—that went without saying—but to not bother Mum, either, with all those questions that bubbled up. They’d had their talk about it; they were taking action; there was no need to bring it up at all, with Mum or with Dad, no need to worry aloud. He’d taught himself to banish the thoughts from his mind if he ever felt too worried, at night or on bad days.
The last time it happened—ages ago, more than a whole year—he’d been right there with her; she’d been pregnant with Lenny then. It was a rainy day, and she was showing him how to make a wreath, from her days in the florist shop. She’d stood up quietly, preoccupied, and he’d kept on poking the lavender-stems among the plaited circle of potato-vine and making them firm, and the next time he looked up she’d risen and was motionless on the air, and the room was full of a wonderful peace. She’d looked so comfortable. The bump of Lenny wasn’t bothering her, wasn’t squirming and kicking her under the ribs and making her gasp. Marcus remembered how unafraid he’d been. He could see that she was happy. Not that she was usually unhappy; it was just that her happiness usually showed in smiles and hugs and such, going out to people; this happiness had flowered inside her, and was held completely within her, and went on and on, smooth, uninterruptable.
And Marcus had been happy too, because Mum was, and everything felt so right and in place. He’d continued with the flowers, as she’d just taught him. He was rather glad, in fact, that she wasn’t there giving him more advice; he was sure he could work it out for himself; he knew what looked right, and how to space the flowers out and mix them evenly.
And then Dad had come in, and the sight of Mum, and the feeling she gave off, certainly hadn’t made him happy. How long has she been like this? He’d thrown his work bag down. If Marcus had been able to be frightened, there within the cloud of Mum’s happiness, Dad’s face would have frightened him. He’d never seen such wide eyes on him before, such a ragged-looking mouth, like a baby’s squaring up to cry. Dad’s voice would have frightened him, all high and thin like that.
I suppose you’re wondering what that was about, what happened yesterday, Mum had said to Marcus next day, as they set off for school.
I suppose I am, he’d said, because he could see she wanted to talk about it. Although he hadn’t been wondering. He’d closed it away in his mind along with all the other mysterious things grown-ups did, and he didn’t particularly want to take it out and look at it.
I was being called, she had said. From afar. From above.
He’d waited for more, but none came. Her face had glowed, a little the way it had glowed the day before while she hovered. Who was calling you? he’d asked.
Her usual, thinking self had slipped back into place behind her face. Marcus had felt bad to have dismissed the glow from her, the lovely memory. Who? she’d repeated. It wasn’t really a who. Or it was so much bigger than, you know, than a single … than a person. Than any-old-person down here.
Why were they calling you? He’d taken her hand, even though way back at the beginning of kindy he’d told her he was too big to hold hands with her, now that he was a school boy.
I don’t know. They thought I could help somehow.
Help with what? And then he’d said something she often said, in quite her own tone of voice: You’ve got enough to do.
She’d looked down and seen how frightened she was making him. That’s right.