She stands in the doorway, blinking at the buzzing feeling in her eyes. When she opens them again she notices something catching the light underneath the sofa bed. She moves over to the middle of the room and bends down as much as she can while still keeping Bobby upright. She sees what looks like an oversized jar of pickles nestling in the darkness in the gap where the mattress folds in on itself. She gets her phone out and shines a light onto the jar and sees something that makes her stumble back and nearly drop her phone. Two black, lifeless eyes were staring back at her from inside the container. Bobby rouses slightly with the jolt of her movements. Her breathing’s spiked and she has to get it under control as she shhes him back to calm. She goes back to the sofa, one knee on the floor, desperate not to bend Bobby’s body, but needing to see what it was looking at her from inside a pickling jar. She manages to get in a position, shoulder resting against the wall, to pull the jar towards her.
The sound of the rattle of metal, the lock on the back gate, makes her jump and she bangs her elbow on a sharp corner of the sofa bed, swearing under her breath at the pain. She glances at the contents of the jar quickly. A small doll, naked, head and legs plastic, body made of flesh-coloured fabric. Some rusty nails. What looks like mud. Dots of red – chilli flakes? She hears steps on the wooden patio of the studio and pushes herself up the wall to stand. She sees Amanda’s arm reach towards the door and kicks the jar back under the sofa as far as she can without disturbing Bobby.
Amanda’s in the open doorway. She wrinkles her brow slightly at seeing Erin and Bobby in her room. She’s wearing a chunky cardigan over a peach dress, her hair in a huge braid wrapped around her head like a crown, and she carries a bucket of some sort of green sludge.
Erin opens her mouth, making a show of being about to speak, about to make her excuses, and then she points down at Bobby, puts the side of her face in her palm to indicate that he’s sleeping. Amanda’s face creases into a loving smile – that’s sweet.
‘You OK?’ Erin mouths. Amanda nods, cocks her head to the side, admiring the picture of mother and baby. It’s Erin’s property but she feels as if she’s been caught out in the studio and is suddenly aware of her huge pupils and what she must look like. Amanda uses the drops, Erin just clocks. Perhaps that’s why she always looks so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Maybe she’s always on Chinese uppers. Erin points to the garden, making a gesture that says, I’ll get out of your way.
Amanda stares at her, her eyes blank like the doll she keeps in a jar. What the hell is she doing with a doll in a jar? Erin thinks. Is she into voodoo as well as crystals? Something to do with the boyfriend back in Oz? As she passes, Amanda leans towards Erin to say something. She smells like Earl Grey tea.
‘Sea lettuce,’ she whispers, indicating the bucket of sludge. ‘Clears heat from the liver. Super important in terms of general balance.’
‘Be nice in an omelette,’ Erin whispers back, making a mock-disgusted face and tries to go, sure that Bobby’s going to wake if they keep talking. Amanda grabs her just above her elbow, a touch firmer than the feather touches of tactility she’s employed with Erin since the moment they first met.
‘Perhaps I can make you a tincture, be wonderful for you to get everything in balance.’ She releases her grip and strokes Erin’s upper arm. It sends a shock of electricity up Erin’s neck. She swallows, a little disquieted. Amanda blows Bobby’s hair and walks past her and into the bathroom.
Erin wanders back towards the house. She glances down at her arm. A band of red remains where Amanda’s fingers were.
22
22 January 1999
I have to make a choice.
I found Mum in my room again. Snooping. She’s trying to find this journal. I’ve kept one since I was 11 and even though I told her I’d stopped, she knows I’m lying. But she’ll never think to look behind the extractor fan in my toilet. I’m not sure if she knows I can use a screwdriver. She might find out I can if I find her in my room again.
Last week she found one of Donny’s Post-its wedged into the pocket-inside-a-pocket of my jeans. It was a sketch of one of his skeleton goddesses. I’d had some trouble from one of the footie boys that morning and he’d given it to me to remind me how powerful I was. He often calls me his goddess. I’m no good at drawing so Mum knew instinctively it must have been from the person I’ve been seeing.
She’s desperate to find out who I’ve spent all of this summer vacation with. I felt bad to begin with, watching her and Craig losing their tiny little minds over where I’d been, who the mystery boy, they’ve assumed it’s a boy, is. But
