Crossings Page 9

  She took it to him, opening it at one of her birthday parties as a little girl. “I thought you might like to flip through this while I cook,” she said.

  “If you like.”

  She tried to smile. The microwave beeped. “I better check that.”

  Lisa blinked away tears as she dumped the meat into the pot and hacked at it with a wooden spoon. The sizzle of mince filled the kitchen and she fell into a rhythm. Hack, turn and stir, hack, turn and stir, until the meat browned. Sweat formed at her temples. She drained the fat then added pasta sauce and let it simmer.

  Before she put the water on she glanced into the lounge. He was flipping the pages slowly, reaching out to touch some of the photos, mouthing words she couldn’t discern.

  “Come on, Dad,” she whispered, then returned to the meat.

  It seemed he remembered little during the meal itself. They ate before the TV – it was like a third person, a blessing, eager to talk and fill every silence between fragmented conversation. She didn’t push him and limited her questions to how he was feeling. After tea, she washed up and he shuffled into the kitchen.

  “I just wanted to thank you for the great meal,” he said, and patted her on the shoulder. She closed her eyes at his hesitant touch, elbow-deep in soapy water. “I think I’d like to lie down now.”

  He didn’t leave. Did he even remember which bedroom?

  “Okay. I’ll be in the last room tonight,” she said. Maybe that was enough of a clue not to upset him.

  A moment of silence. “Righto.”

  His footsteps slipped off down the hall and she glanced after him – his shape was blurred by more tears. She rinsed her hands and snatched a tea towel, wiping her eyes. He had to remember. He had to.

  Lisa finished up with the kitchen then moved to the lounge and slumped into his chair. The photo album was open to a page from a few years ago. They stood in front the house, before the new rose bushes, his arm around her shoulder. Both smiling.

  She pressed her lips together and closed it before starting to channel surf.

  Nothing held her attention. She played games on her phone, checked e-mail, got up to get a drink, then back to the chair where she Googled ‘Alzheimer’s medication’, potency and side effects, brands and costs, until her eyes stung. Half the time she was looking at the wrong pages – overseas costs and brands, and had to start again.

  If the medication worked – if he needed it – there was a chance it would be cheaper to buy overseas and ship home.

  She massaged her temples a moment. Time for sleep. She locked up before rummaging around for an old nightie in the spare room’s dresser, then slumped onto the bed and lay atop the covers. Too hot for blankets – and the ceiling fan didn’t work anymore.

  How could it have come on so quickly? Her research was limited; she didn’t quite know the right questions, it seemed. Did the fall have something to do with it? Or, was this a rough spot, a bump in a slower road to complete loss of memory? A glacial road, if she was lucky, she knew that much. She rolled onto her side.

  Somehow, she had to sleep.

  *

  “Lisa? Lisa, wake up.”

  She blinked away sleep, rubbing her eyes. “Dad?”

  He stood before her in shorts and singlet, his expression concerned. His knees were bonier than she remembered and a large bandage wrapped one calf. “I need you to check something, darl.”

  Darl? She sprang out of bed. He was back! “What’s wrong?”

  “I think I might be hallucinating after all that stuff they gave me at the hospital. I got up for a drink and saw something.” He frowned. “But I don’t know if it’s real. It’s still dark.”

  She took his hand. “Let’s have a look.”

  “It’s out back.”

  “All right.” She followed him to the sliding door, where he paused. He didn’t flick on the outside light. Instead, he parted the venetian blinds and pointed. “There, can you see? Near the paperbark.”

  Lisa leant close to the glass. Beyond the birdbath, something big lurked beside the tree, whose pale bark was near-to blue in the moonlight. The figure moved and she gasped.

  A white kangaroo.

  Easily as big as Pumps had claimed – near to three metres tall. The kangaroo had been grazing on the lawn and its shape seemed to solidify as it lifted its head. The roo towered over most of the garden. Pumps had truly seen her then. She was real.

  “Can you see a white kangaroo?” Dad asked.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  Beside her, he rubbed at his eyes. “I need my glasses. Isn’t she too big for a normal roo?”

  “I’ll check.” She reached for the handle. It was waiting for her. She knew it somehow, there was something about the tilt of the head. The kangaroo eyed the house, waiting.

  He caught her arm. “Careful. Don’t spook her.”

  Lisa nodded as she slid the door open, stepping onto the verandah and into the warm night. The kangaroo’s tail twitched but she didn’t run. Lisa crossed the lawn, her bare feet swishing through the grass. Dad watched from the back door.

  She paused and looked up to the kangaroo.

  Dark eyes regarded her from a large face. No fake roo this time. She was real, magnificent – her tail seemed python-like where it ran along the back fence and her chest broad enough to stop a car, her whiskers silvered and her fur cool white.

  A flash of orange crossed the kangaroo’s eyes but she made no aggressive move, instead, she lowered her head, lining up a fist-sized eye with Lisa’s own. Lisa lifted her hand, hesitating before the kangaroo’s face.

  Still the kangaroo made no disapproving movement, only the exhale of breath.

  Lisa’s fingertips brushed the fur and a thunder began in her chest, the thumping of feet striking a grass-plain. The crunch of twigs and leaves, the rasp of bark against fur. There was a sense of movement too, of speed, almost of flight – as if a sudden wind slipped through her hair.

  But it faded. The eye widened and within, a grey wall appeared. Smoke. It passed and in its place, a silhouette of a man against white light. A rifle crossed one shoulder and as he walked, a fiery light grew within his stomach. He fell and twisted on the ground, whipping his skull against it, as ears grew from his head. His body shuddered, elongating, legs changing and feet growing until a huge, blood-red kangaroo stood in his place.

  Then the white kangaroo blinked.

  The images disappeared and Lisa stepped back, mouth agape. What was the kangaroo showing her? A transformation – of who? Smoke and flame too. That wasn’t good, especially during bush-fire season.

  “What do you want me to do?” She kept her voice soft.

  The great white nuzzled her face, just enough for the cool nose to tickle her neck, and then the kangaroo turned toward the fence, and with a single leap, vaulted it as easily as a child stepping over a gutter. No thumping followed her landing, and though Lisa stretched onto her toes – she saw no more.

  She turned back to the house.

  Dad was wiping his eyes.

  Chapter 16.

  In the morning Dad seemed all right again, if a little absent-minded. He ended up mixing his years a few times, but at least he knew who she was. Better, but only as good as before the accident. Which was still something.

  He didn’t mention the great white kangaroo. Maybe he’d forgotten or thought it a dream. She didn’t bring it up; best not to trouble him before the appointment. She left him with his scratchings and a promise to be back for the appointment after lunch, then headed down to Lidelson Real Estate to finish up yesterday’s job. Old Jameson didn’t seem too pleased at her running off yesterday but his grumbling was always good-natured.

  And he did provide some information after he finished complaining. Ben had been taken in for questioning while Steve was nowhere to be found. “And young Robert,” Mr
Jameson continued, his mouth clicking as he spoke, “is apparently still in custody. He needs a barrister, that boy.”

  Good and bad news – you never got just the good.

  As she worked, Lisa found herself staring at whatever lay before her. Door, mirror, bin, whatever. The robot-trance came on too often. How could she concentrate, truly? The white kangaroo was real. Living. Breathing. Unbelievable. And yet Dad saw the roo too – even if there were no tracks in the backyard, there was no denying what happened. Lisa had touched her, seen the vision in her eyes.

  The rifle, the terrible transformation, and the ash and fire.

  All day she worked with the soft static of the radio but the ABC reported no fires. When was the roo’s vision meant to come to pass? Was it even about bushfires? And as for the man with the rifle, it could have been half the men in town – and there was no way to know whether the transformation had already happened. Or was due to happen.

  “Why show me those things?” she’d whispered to herself at one point.

  If only she could talk it over with someone – but with Dad unwell and Pumps gone, there weren’t many people left who’d believe her. Because the farmer must have seen the great roo and his attempts to recreate it were because he never saw her again. Which meant...

  Lisa lowered her bottle of spray. Frank. The amateur taxidermist – that’s why the man had been to see Pumps that day. He’d probably visited the farm a lot during construction of the fake.

  How quickly she’d forgotten Frank.

  Probably a mistake. Maybe he knew something, could have told her what Pumps saw. Had Frank seen the white roo himself? She had to know. Pumps’ last phone call had sounded as if something was amiss. Was it a ploy to get her there? If so, it was a ploy gone wrong.

  She had time before the appointment if she skipped lunch.

  Lisa finished up, collected her cleaning supplies and practically charged out the doors. “All done,” she called to the receptionist.

  Lunch traffic slowed her enough that she muttered obscenities at the cattle truck in front of her when they caught a red light. A brown trail of faeces leaked from the truck onto the road and she let the driver pull away when the lights changed.

  Out of town, she bypassed Pumps’ farm, heading on to Frank’s property where she rattled over the cattle grid before pulling up beneath a stand of trees that sheltered the house.

  “You better not be working on something,” she muttered, looking in Frank’s general direction, assuming he was inside.

  The taxidermist’s place had a ‘I’ll get around to it’ look.

  Gutters sagged as if struggling beneath the weight of sunlight. The garden beds overflowed green and a blind in one of the front windows fell from one end. The house lay huddled beyond an old fence-line in the centre of grassy paddocks bordered by dense bush. Not exactly isolated; after all, it only took a few minutes to drive out, but there was no chatter from neighbours like back in town.

  Not even the cows grazing in the distance seemed close enough to hear.

  She knocked on the front door and waited, eventually knocking again, louder.

  Footsteps followed from inside and the door creaked open to reveal Frank’s pinched face. His comb-over was the neatest thing about him; his woollen jumper caught with all kinds of bits of fabric and sawdust. He held a pair of glass eyes in one hand, like little pools of black.

  “You’re one of the Wildlife girls, aren’t you?” He licked his lips, glancing over her shoulder. He didn’t invite her in.

  “Yes, I’m Lisa.”

  “You need a commission?”

  “No.” She suppressed a shudder. “It’s about Mr Johnson.”

  Frank clucked his tongue. “Heard about his accident.”

  “And you were helping him with his...project? The kangaroo?” Somehow she avoided saying ‘scam’ or ‘hoax’.

  “I was.” His expression hadn’t warmed. “Look, I don’t think I should talk to you about it.” He made to close the door but she caught the edge.

  “Could you just tell me what Pumps saw? He thought there really was a giant white kangaroo, didn’t he?”

  The taxidermist snorted. “He was a good bloke but I don’t know if he was all there, if you know what I mean. He thought it came into his garden and showed him something one night. A vision, he said.”

  “You don’t believe him?”

  “Sounded like a lot of rot. Smoke and fire and a man turning into a kangaroo or some rubbish. Didn’t make sense and I liked his idea about the record book better.”

  “So he never saw it again?”

  Frank grimaced, probably realising he’d admitted to the hoax. “Sorry. I’ve got something on the stove.”

  He closed the door.

  “Thanks for your help,” she said, and headed back to the Holden.

  So, he’d been trying to recreate the roo for the hoax, but Pumps had truly seen her. And, she’d shown him a vision. The same vision, it seemed. Why? Something was wrong. Everything came back to that obvious conclusion. But what exactly?

  She checked the time, her watch-face flashing in the sun. Time to get back and take Dad to his appointment.

  *

  The clinic was running late – well over an hour – she must have tapped a hole in the carpet with her foot, but Dr Albert eventually appeared. His white eyebrows dominated his face, which was mostly unlined.

  “Mr Thomas?”

  She stood with her father, but he took her arm. “Me first, darl. I’ll call you in soon.”

  “Okay.” She sat, moving slowly. Was he ashamed? Or afraid?

  When Dr Albert eventually reappeared to call her in, he took her to his dim office and sat her beside Dad, who gave her a smile. It didn’t stay in his eyes long.

  “Lisa, I understand this might be difficult, but how would you describe your father’s health lately? Aside from his fall.”

  She hesitated before explaining the general memory problems, the trouble he had remembering her after the hospital. He rested a hand on her knee when she described it and the pain on his face was nearly too much. She focused on Dr Albert. “Is that normal? Today Dad seems fine.”

  “That’s certainly true. Lucid states and states of confusion will fluctuate day to day and even moment to moment. Based on what your father has told me, I fear we may be facing a form of dementia known as LBD or Lewy Body Dementia.” He handed her a pamphlet. “It’s not confirmed and I still want to send him to a neurologist I know in order to be certain. Donald is a friend and we’ve worked together in the past, be assured that he’ll do everything he can.”

  LBD? Shit. Was that worse than Alzheimer’s? The same? “If it is, what does that mean?”

  Dad took her hand. “It means I might have five years, sweetheart. Maybe seven, but it could be longer if the drugs work.”

  That wasn’t long enough. She shook her head. “But you might not have it at all, right?”

  “Maybe.”

  She couldn’t remember the rest of the appointment.

  *

  Back at Dad’s she started dinner right away. Dad liked to eat early and she’d skipped lunch, so it was welcome. And she wanted to keep busy.

  He joined her in the kitchen.

  “How’s your head?” she asked.

  He raised a hand to the bandage. “Not bad, love. What are you making tonight?”

  “Just snags and mashed potato.”

  “Sounds good.” He paused, lifting the pot lid to check on the potatoes. Steam escaped. “Don’t be too upset. Life’s never easy, not for anyone.”

  She pressed her lips together. “I can’t help it.”

  He put an arm around her. “I know. We just have to wait and see, all right?”

  “All right.” She kept her voice steady.

  “We’ll work it out.”


  “All right.”

  “If anyone can, you can. You’re a clever girl, you know that?”

  A tear escaped and she wiped it away with a small smile. “You’ve told me before, I think.”

  “Can I ask you something about last night, darl?”

  “The white kangaroo?”

  He slapped the table top and he was just like his old self. He was doing better than she was, his grin was wide. “Then I didn’t imagine it? Didn’t feel like a dream. Too bad we never got a photo – hard to judge, but she was bigger than a normal roo, right?”

  “A lot.”

  “Well, keep an eye out tonight. I’ll find the old Canon. See if there’s any film left,” he said and headed up the passage.

  By the time she served up, it seemed he’d forgotten about the camera, though they watched the news together as normal. Toward the end of the broadcast he’d called her ‘Annie’ again but she said nothing. He remained in high spirits, and it rubbed off a little, which was surprising, all things considered. Compared to the other night – being mistaken for Mum was nothing.

  Once again, he headed for bed while she did the washing up – sweating from having her hands in the hot water even with the old air conditioner humming along. When she finished Lisa threw the towel into the washing basket and climbed into the shower. Another long day but thankfully, society had evolved to a point where running water existed.

  Before hopping out, she switched the taps to cold and stood under the flow. Almost as good as a swim in the river. She smiled. Hadn’t done that in years. And why hadn’t she? There was always so much laughter at the river. How many hours had she spent there as a kid during the endless evenings of daylight-saving summers? She’d probably still fit into that old blue one-piece okay but there wasn’t really time for much of that anymore. Two jobs, keeping an eye on Dad, trying to deal with Ben, giant white kangaroos – and her most recent hobby – finding dead bodies.