Shadow of the Mountain (15 page)

Geneva felt undeserving of her aunt’s kindness. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘And thanks for looking out for Dad as well.’

Julia smiled. ‘We’re family, sweetie. We’re in it together.’ At the door she turned and waved her fingers. ‘See you, hon.’

Geneva slid out of bed and clumped to the bathroom. She splashed her face with cold water then stood gazing at her reflection. The girl staring back reminded her of the book Dayna had lent her. She ran a brush through her hair and poked out her tongue.

When she came out of the bathroom, Angus was standing in the doorway, a bunch of flowers hanging awkwardly from one hand. Her stomach dipped and lifted. ‘Hello.’

‘Hi. I brought you these.’ He took in the already laden windowsill and cabinet. ‘Looks like it might have been
overkill
.’

‘Even the school sent some,’ Geneva said, swinging back to the bed. ‘And Julia’s just been in. She brought those.’ She pointed at the gerberas as she set her crutches aside.

‘I saw her in the corridor,’ Angus said, still searching for somewhere to put the flowers.

‘If you shift Julia’s in with one of the other bunches, you could use that vase,’ Geneva suggested. ‘To be honest, I’ve never liked gerberas.’

Angus grimaced at the results. ‘I don’t think flower
arranging
is really my thing.’

‘Hmm,’ Geneva agreed. ‘Yours are nice though.’ She hitched herself onto the bed. ‘Grab a seat.’

Angus sat on the end of the bed. ‘How’re you feeling?’

‘Heaps better but I can’t wait to get out of here.’

‘I bet.’

‘How long are you grounded?’

‘Another week.’

Geneva swallowed. ‘I’m really sorry, Angus. I’ve made a real mess of things.’

‘Yeah, well. You get that on the big jobs.’ The bed creaked as he shifted his weight. ‘I’m sorry about my mother,’ he said. ‘She was way out of line, not telling me you’d rung.’

‘She probably thought it was for the best.’

‘If I’d known — I was kind of given the impression you didn’t want to see me.’

‘What!’

‘Not in so many words. Mum told me she’d been in to see
you,’ Angus said, ‘and that you’d more or less said you needed some space to work things through. She didn’t make it clear whether it was visitors in general or me in particular.’

‘She was only here a few minutes — Julia was here as well. And I didn’t say anything remotely like that!’ Geneva felt a surge of anger.

‘Typical!’ He paused. ‘Unless maybe your father …?’

‘My father would walk over broken glass for you! And so would I.’ As soon as the words were out, Geneva wished she could suck them back. That had been as subtle as a brick to the head. ‘I mean …’ She glanced at him. He was grinning.

‘Suits me,’ he said. ‘But we can pass on the broken glass, given you’ve done that already.’

‘M
um?’ Geneva waited at the threshold of the room as her mother turned from the window, a wan smile lifting her face from its habitual tired repose.

‘Hello, darling.’ As though she was wading through knee high water, Geneva’s mother wandered past the mismatched couches and chairs of the visitors’ lounge. She frowned at the crutches. ‘How are you?’

Geneva nodded, unable to find words. Her mother leant forward and, hands on her daughter’s shoulders, pressed her cheek quickly against Geneva’s. Because of the crutches, Geneva couldn’t return the embrace and it felt awkward and forced. As her mother stepped away, Geneva studied her face, trying to read any signs that might be there. There was nothing.

‘Dad’ll be here in a minute,’ she said, as they moved to sit down. ‘Mum, I wanted to say I’m sorry.’

Her mother smiled. ‘There’s no need,’ she said vaguely. ‘I feel better for being here.’

Geneva nodded. Her father and aunt had both said as much, but it was still difficult to get past the guilt she felt over her mother’s breakdown.

‘Dr Laracy says guilt is an indulgence,’ her mother said, startling Geneva into wondering whether she’d read her mind. ‘We’ve talked such a lot since I’ve been here and I think I’m beginning to believe that I’m not responsible for Stephen’s death.’

Geneva stared. ‘What? Why? How could you be?’

Her mother gazed towards the windows. ‘I let him go,’ she said simply. ‘I should have known; I should have stopped him, and I didn’t.’

‘But Mum —’

‘I was using guilt to mask the grief — Dr Laracy has helped me understand that. Take away the mask and I’m free to feel the grief.’ She patted Geneva’s hand where it lay between them on the faded floral sofa. ‘Just the grief.’

Geneva was relieved when her father joined them, kissing his wife’s cheek before he lowered himself into a chair with a conspicuous clearing of his throat. ‘Genna’s birthday in a few weeks,’ he said. ‘How about I take my two girls out to lunch?’

Geneva hadn’t given her birthday much thought. It had passed last year, a week after Stephen’s funeral, without
acknowledgement
. She swallowed, aware they’d first have to get through the other anniversary. ‘Would you like to come, Mum?’ she managed.

‘Of course I would,’ her mother said. ‘I’ll talk to Dr Laracy. I’m sure it’ll be fine.’ She hesitated. ‘We could go somewhere new perhaps.’

Anywhere but Spinelli’s, Geneva thought.

‘Anywhere you like,’ her father said.

As they drove away, Geneva asked how long it would be
before her mother came home. Her father sighed. ‘Weeks or months,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t matter, as long as she’s ready. The doctor is very positive about the progress she’s making.’ Something in his voice sounded strained and Geneva decided not to probe.

That evening she found her father in the garden beyond the swimming pool, turning soil in a wide band that already ran a third of the way along the fence. Beyond him the sun’s last blush was shading the mountain’s western slopes amber. She’d once seen an insect suspended in kauri gum the same colour.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked, setting the tips of the crutches at the edge of the freshly dug soil.

Her father looked up. ‘Planting a hedge,’ he said.

Geneva frowned. Her father had never been interested in gardening. ‘What sort of hedge?’

‘Natives, maybe, or that red-leafed thing people use — something quick growing.’ He wiped his forehead with one forearm. ‘Something that would bring the birds, perhaps.’

‘Wouldn’t natives grow too tall?’ she asked, thinking about the million dollar view.

‘She’s had to look at it every day for a year,’ her father answered. ‘I don’t want that to be all she sees when she comes home.’

Geneva nodded slowly.

Her father stabbed the spade into the earth. ‘It’s something I can do.’

On the anniversary of Stephen’s death, Angus, Dayna, Julia and Dan, Geneva and her father, planted a dense border of trees and grasses along the length of the garden. Kath Macphee had been called in to provide advice on species; Dan took charge of ferrying the purchases from the local tree nursery; while Angus was enlisted to set up a watering system. Geneva marshalled the production, using a crutch to direct Dayna’s father, who delivered not only his daughter but a truckload of compost.

‘Our contribution,’ Dayna said. ‘Dad manages the council recycling centre so he gets it at cost.’

By the time Julia arrived laden with date scones and the twins, who promptly began throwing crumbling clods of earth at one another, the plants were set out ready for planting.

‘I know it’s supposed to be a surprise, but in a way I wish your mother was here,’ she said.

‘She’ll be home next month,’ Geneva said. ‘In time for Christmas, she said.’

‘And you’re okay?’

Geneva nodded. Much as she’d dreaded this day, now that it was here it felt as if she’d already passed it, or what it
represented
— and maybe she had. Her aunt was watching her, one eyebrow up, the other down, in an exaggerated copy of the quizzical look her father sometimes wore. She smiled. ‘Let’s put the kettle on,’ she said. ‘I’m sure they’ll be ready for a smoko break by now.’

By the end of the day, the view of the mountain wore a flimsy fringe of greenery. ‘It’ll fill out quick enough,’ Geneva’s father announced, testing the stake that supported one of the two-metre eucalypts that had gone into the back
row. ‘Dalziell wouldn’t think much of it.’

‘Who cares,’ Geneva answered, remembering the architect’s insistence on maximising the view. ‘Dad, can we get one of those boulders from the river — from where we used to camp — and set it up over there?’ She pointed to a cluster of natives at the far end of the new garden.

Her father nodded. ‘You make a good director of operations,’ he said. ‘Especially with the marshalling baton,’ he added, leaning to tap the crutch.

Geneva scowled. ‘The sooner I can ditch it the better,’ she said. The physio had said it might be another week or two, and not to push it. ‘I can’t wait to get back on the bike.’ She felt sluggish and unfit after the weeks of inactivity.

‘You’ll need to pace yourself,’ Angus said.

‘I could start off riding with you,’ she said. ‘That should keep it low key.’

He grinned. ‘I’ve been training,’ he said. ‘You might be in for a surprise.’

Her father left them to join Julia and Dan on the terrace.

‘Are you going to take up climbing again?’ Dayna asked.

Geneva glanced towards the adults. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘I’d like to — indoor walls at least. But …’

‘He’ll understand, I reckon,’ Dayna said. ‘He’s nice, your dad.’

‘We can just play it by ear,’ Angus suggested.

Geneva smiled at the ‘we’, as if it was a decision about them both. Maybe it was. She wondered, briefly, how Miriam would feel about that.

On the morning of her birthday, Geneva received a barrage of phone calls. Julia, Angus, Dayna. She was halfway through breakfast when the phone rang for a fourth time.

‘Happy birthday, darling.’

‘Hey, Mum.’

‘I know I’ll be seeing you later but I wanted to wish you happy birthday first thing.’

‘Thanks.’

‘It won’t be long and I’ll be home.’

‘Yeah, that’ll be great.’ She hoped it was true. The mother she visited every few days still felt like a stranger — but a stranger she could get to know rather than one who had chosen to shut herself off from their lives. ‘Do you want to talk to Dad?’ she asked. ‘He’s right here. We’re having breakfast: berry smoothie and Danish pastries.’ It had been her birthday breakfast all through her childhood. She’d been chuffed that her father had remembered.

‘Don’t eat too much or you’ll spoil your appetite for lunch,’ her mother said.

Geneva grinned: maybe things could return to normal — or some close enough approximation. ‘I’ll try to hold myself back.’ She hesitated. ‘Love you, Mum.’

‘I love you too, Gen.’

As she handed the phone to her father, Geneva reached for the last pastry.

Her mother’s homecoming later that month was
determinedly
low key, her husband driving into town to collect her while Geneva stilled her nerves wiping already spotless benches and
plumping cushions that hadn’t been sat on.

At the sound of the car, she hurried outside.

There was something hesitant about her mother’s
movements
. ‘Here we are then,’ her father said, as they came up the steps. ‘Welcome home, love.’

Geneva hugged her mother, gently, as if she might break. ‘Cup of tea?’

They sat in the kitchen, surreptitiously eyeing one another. We’re still like strangers, Geneva thought — no, not strangers: friends who haven’t seen one another for so long that we’ve lost our common ground. ‘I’m doing grilled salmon for dinner,’ she said, ‘and there’s panna cotta for dessert.’

‘Enforced inactivity has done wonders for Genna’s
cooking
skills,’ her father said.

‘She always had a knack,’ her mother offered.

Geneva smiled. She felt as if she was swimming, as if they all were, out of their depth and uncertain in case the familiar rips and reefs had shifted. ‘Too much cooking and too little exercise is a bit of a bummer,’ she said. ‘I need to get back on the bike.’

‘Can you manage, with your leg?’

It was as near as her mother had yet come to mentioning Geneva’s accident. ‘I’ve got a programme of stretching and strengthening exercises. It’ll be another few weeks before I can start cycling again.’

‘I’ve roped Genna into helping me with the vegetable garden on the pretext the exercise is good for her,’ her father said. ‘Our tomatoes are coming on nicely and we’ve already had courgettes. Beans too.’

They ate on the terrace, home-grown beans with the
salmon and the last of the strawberries with the panna cotta, their backs turned to the mountain. Her mother went to bed soon after dessert. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s been lovely, but I get very tired.’

Geneva was loading the dishwasher when Dayna rang.

‘How’d the dinner go?’

‘Great. That recipe you gave me for dessert is a winner.’

‘I didn’t mean the food.’

‘I know. I think it’s fine. It’s kind of weird.’

‘Life is. How’s Angus? Still grounded?’

‘Not officially, but he’s chained to his desk till after exams: no socialising, no climbing. His mother’s even monitoring his phone time. If I was the neurotic type I’d assume she’s really got it in for me.’

‘If Angus was the neurotic type, it might matter,’ Dayna answered, ‘but I think you’re safe there. When are you going to see him?’

‘Not for ten days. His last exam’s the middle of next week.’

‘Don’t remind me! Only two days till ours start. I feel like my brain might explode if I try to stuff any more into it.’

‘Warn me if I need to put on my waterproofs.’

‘Your sympathy knows no bounds. See you tomorrow.’

Dayna’s father had offered to drive her out so they could spend the day revising. Geneva wasn’t planning to beat herself up over exams — the year had already held more than her quota of stress — but with Dayna’s help, she’d likely do better than she could otherwise have expected.

As she passed the door of her parents’ room she heard the low rumble of voices.

She and her father had agreed that they shouldn’t make a big deal of her mother’s return, but it still felt like a milestone. It was a milestone: everything was. Milestones, metre stones, inch stones. All of them mattered. Everything that happened was part of who you were.