Road Trip
The brown, crispy fields slid by, the thunderous heat only minimally abated by a wheezy air conditioner.
‘We might as well open a window,’ she grumbled, words bursting forth after a silence that had lasted twenty-two minutes.
‘Yeah, OK. Probably better than this.’
The window mechanism ground and squawked at the unaccustomed movement; our efforts rewarded by suffocating pillows of air.
‘I know what you’re doing, by the way.’
‘Uh, hu.’
‘This trip. It’s not going to work.’
‘OK.’
She bent her knees and planted her feet on the edge of the seat, hugging her shins into her chest. My daughter, made of flint and marshmallow all rolled into one.
We passed a tin shack long abandoned and screamed past a road train. Rather, I pushed the pedal through the floor, kicking up a tornado of dust, and inched our way to safety. The driver honked, though it was unclear whether he was being friendly or signalling his astonishment.
I asked the prickly octopus, ‘Was he being polite or congratulating us, do you think?’
‘Whatever.’ A long, spindly arm arched over her head, fighting to keep hair in place, as she leaned on the sill.
‘I really do need your help, you know.’
She sighed loudly and swivelled that bit further away. Catching movement at edge of my vision, I saw her check her phone and, when the inevitable disappointment set in, throw me a look of fury.
The wind won the battle with her hair so she pulled an elastic down off her wrist and clamped it into a ponytail. It must have hurt, so savage were her actions.
‘What exactly are we doing again?’
‘Martha needs help shifting a fallen tree. She can’t get into her shed.’
‘Can’t Angus help?’
‘He’s away, mustering. That time of year.’ I turned to her and shrugged.
‘What if it’s too heavy?’
‘I brought the chain saw. We’ll break it up, if we have to.’
Silence fell as the road segued from tarmac to gravel, corrugations setting off a staccato jiggle that turned us into a pair of dashboard bobbleheads. The sun reflected off every surface. Even with sunglasses, my eyes ached.
‘Could use a drink.’
‘There’s water in the back. Can you reach?’
She unfolded her skinny legs and turned to reach between the seats. I heard a grunt before the baby giraffe executed a reverse twist. She took a swig and offered the bottle to me.
‘That looked awkward.’
Our eyes met. She glared.
I saw Martha’s gate up ahead and slowed for the turn. Her wooden home was perched on a slight rise surrounded by a garden that must have taken every drop of recycled water to maintain. I knew I didn’t have the patience or resolve for such a commitment. I could see the tree up ahead, slumped and defeated against the shed door, a casualty of the drought.
Martha must have heard the car and came shuffling onto her porch.
‘Hey, we’re here. Did you think we’d got lost?’
‘No. Knew you’d come.’
‘Sorry about the tree.’
‘Yep. Been there sixty years.’
Ella sloped around the bonnet, shielding her eyes. ‘Hi, Mrs McAllister.’
‘Want some juice?’
‘Sure. Thanks.’ She followed the old woman inside.
I walked over to the tree, hoping there would be an easy and obvious plan of attack. Moving it in one piece was impossible. It would need cuts to all the branches and main limbs. Even then, I knew I might not be able to shift the trunk. At least there would be space to open the barn doors, leaving Angus to set up a winch when he got back.
I talked Ella through the process, throwing in plenty of safety warnings along the way. I hated chain saws and avoided them whenever possible. Martha was given the job of keeping us fed and watered. Ella twisted hair around her finger.
‘Right. All set?’ I said, as we strode towards our target, pulling on gloves, ear defenders and goggles. It wasn’t a day for extra clothing: Ella’s pout made the point.
The first few branches were thin and light. She did a good job standing back, then grabbing hold and hauling them away. As I worked, the debris became heavier. I paused the chain saw and wiped my brow.
‘Tell me when it’s not safe for you.’
Her brow twitched.
‘The weight. Tell me when you need to stop.’
She kicked at the dirt.
‘It’s dangerous for you to be lifting heavy weights.’
I watched as my daughter jerked her head upwards, eyes wide.
‘I’m not stupid, love.’ I paused. ‘And I understand.’
‘What? What do you understand?’
‘You’re not the first and you won’t be the last.’ I felt my shoulders dip.
‘That doesn’t help!’ She roared. ‘Not one bit.’
‘Not even if I told you it happened to me? That you’re what happened to me and I’ve never regretted it for a single day.’
Ella stilled, breathing hard. ‘Me?’
‘Yes, you.’
‘But my dad never stayed around, did he?’
‘No, he didn’t.’
‘Doubt Luke will either.’
‘Have you told him?’
‘No.’
‘Well, there’s a place to start.’
‘What if he bolts?’
‘Then you have a choice and an example.’
She blinked, her cheeks losing colour, looking as if she was about to fall.
‘Come here. Sit on the trunk for a while.’
I stepped forward like I would to a skittish colt. Holding out two hands, we grabbed hold of each other and I guided her onto a knobbly pew.
‘How did you know? she whispered.
‘Because I was you, once.’
‘What am I going to do?’ Her voice trembled.
‘You’re going to go inside and help Martha make lunch. And when we’re finished, we’ll get back in the car and drive home.’
‘I know what you’re doing, by the way.’
‘Yep. So do I.’
Copyright © Diane Clarke 2020