Sea Change
By Carol Chandler
Water dripped down from the palm trees, a light mist drifting along the path like the fingers of ghosts. Rain trickled along the wall, a spider’s web torn away, glistening in the light. The beach was in the distance, stretching away towards the headland. A silver moon peeked between the clouds. She could see the house next door, the mountain, with its winding trails, leading to the summit, a dark shape. The day before she’d climbed the trail, looking out towards the ocean. Laughter drifted across as she waited for the rain to ease. A single security light illuminated the entrance to her mother’s house.
Her mother only wanted to drive down to the sea, escape the aged care hostel. She’d been staying at her mother’s house for three weeks now. The interior had a high roof, wooden rafters. At first the darkness bothered her, surrounded by bush and palm trees. The longer she stayed here, the more used to it she became. Everything was neatly stacked and ordered; a museum showcasing all her mother’s interests. There was African artwork, bookcases with the classics, tapestries on the walls.
Sometimes, she walked at night down to the beach, looking up at the stars, and the hillside. The bush was dense, cars whizzing by. A woman walked out onto the balcony of the house next door, her hair wrapped up in a towel. It was Fabienne, the opera singer, her mother’s neighbour. She waved to her, as she stood at the edge of the veranda looking across. Fabienne was tall and imperious, with long dark hair. She could hear her laughing as she called out to her partner, Joe. On the other side of her mother’s place, were Trudy and Sam, Ginevra’s parents. Fabienne and Trudy had been discussing Ginevra last week. They said she’d gone off the rails, was becoming more difficult by the day. Trudy and Sam visited their property near the mountains on the weekends. On Mondays they drifted back. Ginevra stayed at the house while they were away. The more she learnt about Ginevra, the more she realised she was confused. She really knew little about her, only the key things that were stated freely. Her mother seemed to like her, though.
Trudy and Sam’s place was silent now. It was often empty and there was also a tranquillity in the streets. She walked to the other side of the house and glanced across at their place, which was separated from her mother’s by a large garden. In the daytime, birds pecked at the bins. Clouds were beginning to part and she could see stars in the sky. She waited for the rain to ease. It was never ending. She was supposed to Zoom with her sister about their mother. A week ago, her mother had driven up from the aged care hostel, insistent on going to the surf club for lunch. Her escape route was always direct to the surf club and the sea. Ginevra had commented once that she was upset for her. She knew she hated the hostel and was always desperate to escape. Last week, when she arrived, she could see she was unfocused, easily distracted. She was determined that she had to get away.
Unsettled by her mother’s manner, she walked with her to the car.
“I’ll drive,” her mother insisted.
There was something unsteady about her, something a little disturbing. She seemed confused but at the same time, strangely forceful. She didn’t have a car herself and rarely drove, so her mother didn’t trust her. She always insisted on driving, even when she offered. They climbed into the car and her mother began driving down the hill towards the cliff road. The car veered dangerously towards the cliff.
“Let me drive, Mum,” she said.
“No, I’ll drive.”
The car lurched towards the cliff.
“Let me drive,” she said urgently.
Her mother said nothing. She stared stubbornly ahead.
She began pleading with her. “Let me drive, Mum. You’re going to kill us.”
She was completely frozen, tears pricking her eyes. How could this be happening when her mother was normally so in control? She continued begging with her, regressing to childhood, crying and pleading with her. When she turned to look at her, her mother had a stubborn expression on her face, strangely relaxed and calm as if she were processing things. The silence dragged on as she mustered strength, an air of resignation settling on her face. They kept driving but instead of heading for the surf club, her mother turned along a road back to the hostel. Maybe she was defeated by the stress, or didn’t want to argue in public at the club. They pulled in at the car park and she climbed out of the car with a sense of relief. They walked silently towards her mother’s room.
“If you don’t let me drive from now on,” she said when they reached the room. “I’m going back to Sydney.”
Her mother’s lip trembled. She sat down on the bed, defeated.
“I’m going to have a swim in the pool,” she said, gaining confidence but distressed by the whole thing and overcome with guilt. “When I come back, we can discuss it further.”
A group of elderly women were sitting near the pool when she arrived.
“Here she comes,” they called out. “Here comes Esther Williams.”
She smiled at them unhappily, thinking of Esther Williams, the glamourous athletic movie star who did water ballet sequences in her films. She was amused by their irony. She dived in and swam several laps, feeling exhausted. At the end, she stood for a moment. Her mother was walking resolutely across the lawn with her walking frame. She was heading directly towards the elderly women. As soon as she reached them, she sat down, with an air of purpose. Their heads were leaning towards each other, deep in conversation. They were conferring, offering advice and commentary. The women turned around and glared at her. She cringed and sank back into the pool. It was obvious they were being told she’d taken away her mother’s freedom, robbed her of her only freedom, as if she were a child.
She pulled herself out of the pool and walked up to the group. The women glared at her.
“Mum, I’m going back to the room. I’ll see you back there when you’re ready.”
“I’ll come with you now,” her mother said, standing up.
When they reached the room, her mother’s eyes welled up with tears.
“It will be okay, Mum. I can drive you around.”
There were digesic biscuits on a plate. She handed her the plate and she took one, nibbling on it in a dejected way.
“I want to go overseas,” her mother said, still chewing on the biscuit. “It’s something I’ve wanted to do for a while. I’m sure I can manage one last trip. I want to get away from here.”
She smiled back at her faintly, thinking this was impossible.
“How will you manage that?” she said kindly.
Her mother stared back at her. In some ways she reminded her of Ginevra next door, her stubbornness and rebelliousness. Maybe there were small things she could do for her mother, acts of love and kindness, things that were just as good as going overseas.
She spoke to a friend of her sister’s the next day.
“You did the right thing, Amelia,” her sister’s friend said. “Taking away the car, believe me, you did. I felt frightened once myself driving with her.”
The next time she saw her mother, she had a heavy air of resignation and melancholy. Her daughter had told her that her mother had rung her the night before and said the car was her only bit of freedom and now it was gone. It was distressing hearing about it, but she started taking her out on drives, trying to distract her and cheer her up. It seemed to mollify her a bit. She sensed she wouldn’t be alive much longer. It was just a feeling she had.
As she was thinking about this, a young woman walked along the pathway outside. It was Ginevra, Trudy and Sam’s daughter. She remembered how her mother was fond of Ginevra. She said Ginevra reminded her of herself when she was young. She recalled that her mother was quite rebellious as a teenager. Ginevra was rebellious too. She tried to imagine what Ginevra would be like at the end of her life, and wondered what she was doing, if she’d come up for the weekend. She was dressed in a tight skirt and low-cut top. There was another girl with her now. She’d noticed her riding a skate board, whizzing by along the road. After a while she could hear an argument outside. There were high-pitched female voices, and then a lower pitched male one. Then another male. She wondered what was going on, if Ginevra was arguing with her parents, and the other girl was backing her up; or if the male voice was someone else, perhaps Ginevra’s boyfriend. She remembered that Trudy and Sam were going away to their property. Her hand was poised over the phone. Ginevra lived in the city. She mixed with a disreputable crowd. Her eyebrows were fiercely pencilled in above her eyes, her blonde hair teased out. It was a type of defiance. She’d spoken to her a number of times and she seemed pleasant behind the facade. She’d been walking along the road when she’d last seen her, walking along the middle of the road, a bit like the way her mother veered towards the cliff edge in the car. She decided again that in some ways her mother and Ginevra were similar. Sometimes Ginevra was with a little dog, and she’d also seen her at the bus stop with an older man. The man was solicitous and well dressed. She wondered if he was her boyfriend, or just a friend. He seemed much older. She saw Ginevra tie the dog up at night. Trudy was on their balcony, now, arguing with Ginevra. So, they must have stayed around, hadn’t left yet for their property. Then Ginevra stormed off, yelling at her. This was the first time she’d seen Ginevra arguing with them. Until recently they always presented an harmonious front to the world. She could hear Trudy saying someone was a bad influence. She sat down and began working on the report she was doing for work, wondering what was happening. Trudy and Ginevra argued in the background. She wondered how her mother was.
She decided to go online and distract herself with a guy she’d met on a dating site. They’d been communicating for a while now.
“Oh! How are you?” he said when he materialised on the screen. She told him the story about her mother and the car.
“Oh yes, I know what you mean. My mother’s the same. She still drives even though she’s practically blind. She knows how to cheat the test.”
She laughed when he said this. “Yes, Mum’s ingenious too about hiding things. She’s so strong willed. I can see she’s depressed, though. She keeps talking about going overseas but it’s impossible. I understand how she feels.”
He smiled back at her and she knew there wasn’t much he could say. There was an odd detachment, partly due to the screen, even though they talked for hours. She wondered if there were other women he talked to. He never mentioned any. His face was lean, roughly shaven. He didn’t come across as egotistical. There was a strange reserve, possibly shyness. It was hard to tell on the screen. Her sister thought there were only scammers online. She told her never to trust them. They could be anyone. She could hear the pipe gurgling with rain outside. Glancing over at waratahs, the mist was filmy in front of her eyes. It was hard to see what was happening.
The following morning her mother rang.
“I’ll take you down to the beach,” she said. “I’ll drive Mum. I’ll pick you up.”
She heard the windchime, dinging and rattling in the breeze and thought of her mother down at the hostel, her isolation and restlessness. After she’d been working for a while, she grabbed the car keys and drove down to pick her mother up.
When they arrived down at the beach, the waves rolled towards the shore. Her mother walked slowly to a seat and sat down. People were nearby, relaxing in the sunshine. She sat down next to her. A man walked over and started talking to another man near the seats.
“The men are here on day release from prison,” the man said, referring to a group near the pool. “It’s a mentoring programme. Helping them reintegrate into society.”
“Oh, that’s great,” his companion said. “Good to hear it. The sea’s for everyone.”
“Yes, it is.”
One of the men had legs that were heavily tattooed and another had a T-shirt with a serpent.
“Good idea, taking them down to the sea.”
“Yeah, that’s right, mate. I thought so too.”
Her mother was listening to the conversation. Her eyes brightened as if she were thinking about something, comparing her situation with the men in jail.
“Let’s go to the surf club,” she said.
They stood up and walked to the club. She held onto her mother’s arm but she didn’t like it. She was proud and wanted to walk freely. They walked in and sat out on the balcony, looking out across the ocean.
“Have you been doing your painting?” she asked, trying to brighten her up.
She seemed lighter as soon as she mentioned the painting, unburdened, and her eyes widened. They were more expressive.
“There’s a lovely man who teaches us. Remember I told you about him, Raymond?”
“Yes, I remember.”
She remembered a slim man with silvery hair at the hostel.
“The work you showed me was very good, Mum.”
Her mother waved her arm away, modestly. She’d done nothing with her talent and creativity when she was young, preferring to live through herself and her sister. She was part of a generation where women were not meant to have careers. Now that she was trapped at the hostel, she was forced to draw on that part of herself that gave her insight and meaning, the will to keep going. The car was gone too, something that represented freedom. She would have to draw on her inner strength even more.
She gazed out at the ocean. Her mother’s face was relaxed as she told her about a seascape she was painting.
“The shades of the sea are very subtle,” she said. “Different tones of blue, grey, and green. I’ve been observing them very closely. That’s what I was doing when we were sitting by the sea when the man was talking about the prisoners. There’s also a cliff and a rock platform in the painting, and a sun shining down on them from the sky.”
“Sounds beautiful.”
She realised her mother was painting from memory. She looked across at her as she gazed out towards the horizon and the sea. She seemed to be getting frailer by the day. When they returned to the hostel, she noticed a painting on the wall, the one she’d described. It had beautiful shades of colour, a subtle movement.
“Do you like it?”
“Yes, I do. It’s beautiful.”
“I painted it for you.”
“That’s lovely, Mum. Thank you.”
She smiled back at her. Her heart contracted as she realised again that her mother wouldn’t be here much longer. She remembered that time when they went to the beach years ago. She was a child and her mother watched her by the seashore. Memories came flooding back.
After she left, she felt overwhelmed with sadness. She placed the painting near the window when she arrived home. The life force was ebbing away from her mother. She could sense it.
She would stay here with her for a while. They would go down every day to the ocean, bathe in the sea. They would sit on the boardwalk and watch the waves. It would take time to arrange things so she could stay. Her sister would be back soon. She glanced down at the path and saw Ginevra walking along it. Ginevra sat down on a rock below. The bush was silent as she watched her take out a sketch pad and begin to draw. She remembered her mother had talked about her painting with Ginevra. She said Ginevra had seemed interested. They talked about the artists they liked. She glanced out at the path leading down towards the valley. Ginevra stood up with her sketchpad and walked along the path through the trees. She wondered where she was going. There was a hole in a tree where the honey bees nested, strange patterns like trails along the bark. She remembered seeing it once. It was like a totem with an odd bump in the centre of the trunk. Ginevra stood before it, glancing up at it, the branches that stretched out to the sky. She watched her for a moment, wondering what she was doing. Ginevra walked back to the garden. She noticed the star jasmine, her mother’s favourite flower, the delicate white petals and the green of the leaves. Ginevra sat down, rearranged her sketchpad and began to draw. Her arms moved across the page. She drew in the silence of the day, a rainbow lorikeet watching her from the fence. She stood up and walked slowly along the path, disappearing in the distance through the trees.
She gazed out at the garden now, thinking of her mother, the different shades of her painting, the blues, greys, and greens. Cicadas whirred, the noise becoming deafening, until she shifted her perspective and became immersed in the golden light of the day.
Carol Chandler is an award-winning author who has been published in some of Australia’s most highly regarded literary magazines. Her short story collection Anonymous Caller was awarded First Commended for Best First Book in the IP Picks Awards (under the working title Sphinx.) Her novellaBlack Mountain, was awarded Highly Commended in the Seizure Viva la Novella IV competition, longlisted in the Davitt Awards for women crime writers and awarded Commended in the Society of Women Writers Awards. She has been granted the award of Writing Fellow with the Fellowship of Australian Writers, has co-edited Written in Sand, a community poetry and visual arts project and is the editor of Bondi Tides an anthology from the Bondi Writers’ Group. Her latest book is Watched and Other Stories.