just_a_girl (4 page)

As he sat on the train and watched eucalypts straggle by, the gentle light of dawn hitting their leaves, he thought of his mother, how she had loved this part of the train ride. He liked to ride the mountains train when it was quiet: on the weekends, late night, early morning, free from the noisy school kids and loud drunks. Today, he had packed his battered suitcase with food, rice balls filled with umeboshi and green tea, like his mother used to do when they travelled together.

They had always shared a love of nature and she was happiest when she discovered the bush and rainforest on the fringes of Sydney, the ferns and trickling streams, certain spots she believed were sacred. For her birthday each year they would catch the train out to Glenbrook in the Blue Mountains, and walk to the Blue Pool, a quiet waterhole where he forced himself to swim in the freezing water after those first icy steps. She would sit on the sun-warmed rocks with her shoes by her, eyes
closed. Afterwards they would travel to lunch in Leura, big stodgy meals of potatoes and overcooked lamb that neither enjoyed, and would then walk the streets arm in arm, where the blossoms were beginning to come out, and she would be melancholy on the trip home, talking about beauty and the way it never lasts, her parents, his father, and the swift passing of their lives.

In all the days spent together, his mother never missed the daily rituals. She was obsessed with water, would make him take a bath every day after dinner, even if it meant he was late for bed. Early each morning she would wash her hands and rinse out her mouth before perching to look up at her
kamidana
—a shelf lined with precious objects: tall vases, bottles of sake, a bowl of washed rice and a small plate of salt. She’d also collected a number of dolls, ones she’d loved as a girl, and a pair of prince and princess dolls, still side by side in their original glass case, the bright colours of their kimonos gradually fading. She’d treasured this wedding present most of all, worshipped the dolls to protect her from harm; they’d become witnesses to her years of joy and heartbreak. He’d guessed that caring for the dolls was her way of remembering her family and husband, a connection to Japan in this strange culture that she never really got used to.

As a child Tadashi had made friends with these dolls, creating other worlds that he looked forward to entering when he came home from school, hiding away, always careful to return the dolls to their case as he was not supposed to touch them. When his mother died Tadashi created his own altar on a high shelf, unable to throw away the pair of dolls she had loved so much, remembering that
she had always said that to give them away would bring down a curse.

Next to the dolls was a statue of a pair of
koma-inu,
lion-dogs, guarding her. He had always thought that her ancestral spirit would be strong but he never had a sense of her in this stainless-steel apartment, its surfaces polished and always clean. Perhaps it was too slippery for her to settle here. Perhaps he was lucky because she had reached the other side.

His mother had told him about his first shrine visit. How each newborn child was taken to the Shinto shrine, to be placed under the protection of the
kami.
The shrine was on the island of Hokkaido, where his mother was born. It was the first of his initiation ceremonies, she said, and his grandmother took him, 32 days after the birth, because he was a boy.
If you were a girl it would have been 33 days,
she said. He’d always wondered about the extra day for girls. But his mother did not welcome questions so he never asked.

Like his mother, he could sense a strong
kami
whenever he went walking in the mountains. He’d always felt this way. It was rare that something was only an object to him. As a child, trees had come alive, whispered quietly to him. Like in
The Wizard of Oz,
the first film he’d seen on video at school. He’d always had a huge love of robots, too, their sad metallic faces and eagerness to help humans out with mundane tasks. His favourite cartoon had been
Astro Boy,
the sweet faced little android who would fight monsters high up in the sky. He remembered clearly the professor, a father so driven to grief by the death of his son, that he preserved his son’s image in the form of a super robot who could live forever. He’d imagined this man as his own father.

His other favourite story was the one his mother told him whenever he had been naughty or when she didn’t want him to go swimming. It was about the evil Kappa, a spirit that lives in rivers and streams and ponds. She described a frightening monster, with a head like a monkey, a body like a tortoise carrying a shell on its back, long hair, and limbs like a lizard, wet and slippery, with yellow-green skin. And best of all, he stank like old fish. Sometimes this creature could change colour like a chameleon so you could never see it in the depths of the water, so strong, his mother told him in a whisper, that it could pull horses and cattle and grown men off river banks, suck the blood out of them and pull out their entrails. But most of all, the Kappa liked to drown little children while they played by the river.

She explained that the Kappa had a cavity like a saucer on its head and when you poured water into it, it became stronger and stronger, and liked to challenge humans to a sumo wrestle. But there were clever ways to beat this spirit. The Kappa really loved cucumbers and could be made happy if you gave him cucumber sushi. Also, if you were really polite when you first came across a Kappa and bowed low to him, like when you respected your ancestral spirits, the Kappa would bow back and spill the water out of his cavity. This made his power weaker and he would have to return to his water kingdom.

It had taken Tadashi years after hearing Kappa stories to find the courage to learn to swim. His mother would not get into the water so he taught himself at the local pool. Floating, floating, on his back then front, then with arms and legs splashing, with her sitting on the grass conspicuous
under her umbrella, fully clothed in the blinding sun, nervous behind sunglasses. After the swim he’d go to the canteen and buy a Splice, it’s sharp pineapple mingling with creamy vanilla.

He still had to muster all his courage to take those first steps into a murky ocean or deep waterhole where he couldn’t see below the surface, waiting for the camouflaged Kappa to appear out of the depths.

Mum’s dropped me off early at Springwood. So I can get the express train. I’m tired of always running. To catch the bus at the other end. And I want to go over my assignment. Practise it in my head. I’ve got to give my talk today. On Long Island Lolita. I’ve done a lot of work on it. But I’m not sure how it’s gonna go down with Mrs CoCKburn.

There’s always this question mark in her voice. And she wrinkles her nose up. When she doesn’t like an answer. Like it’s a bad smell right in front of her. So passive aggressive. We all copy her when she turns her back. Sniffing at each other like insane rabbits.

I sit on the concrete and go over my notes. Hum the words to myself down the page. Last night I read it to Rusty. He wagged his tail at the end of each paragraph. We’ve got history in the demountables. No aircon. I’ve got to stand up in class. I’m worried I’m gonna get a sweat stain. I packed on the deodorant. Then let it air-dry and finished off. Under my arms with the hairdryer. Maybe I
won’t take off my jumper. But the classroom is so hot. It stinks like someone’s pissed around the walls. Sometimes I feel like doing it myself. Because it’s so far to get to the girls’ toilets. It’d be easier just to do the big squat.

I get really nervous before these talks. I find it hard to deal with the reality. My mind is swamped and I can’t think what to say. I hope there are no questions. But Mrs Cockburn always makes the class ask questions. And if they don’t she launches in. Usually with something totally off topic. Trying to throw you completely. I once saw a guy in class, Bilal. He went into complete meltdown. Literally. He started to pour with sweat. His English wasn’t so great. Sheets of rain were coming out from under his hair. Down his neck. Torrents down his face. We all tried not to look at him. But it was a slow car wreck. Because it happened at the beginning of his talk. And there was no going back then. He had to keep going. Pretending it wasn’t happening. Trying to quietly stem the flow. With quick moves of the back of his hand. It probably would have been better if he just got a tissue out and started to mop up. I can’t remember a single thing he said. We all hoped it would end soon. Or that he would die and put us out of our misery.

At least I won’t be that bad. Maybe I’ll just try to think of him. It’ll make me feel better.

Some people can just get up and public speak. They don’t even need notes. They just treat it like they’re talking to a friend. Dad’s like that. I saw him once, cooking in front of a hall full of people. He was just relaxed. Even making jokes. His hands didn’t shake like mine do. I wish now I’d asked him for some tips.

Mum says,
Just imagine everyone in their underwear.
Fuckadoodle, how original is that. But I tried it before and it doesn’t work. It just makes me curious. And stare at everyone for too long. What would they all be wearing? I mean, what if Mrs Cockburn wears a thong? I think I would die on the spot. That’s just so wrong. I wish I had my talk first period. And then I could get it over with. But it’s last period. So I’ve got to try not to sweat. All day.

The train pulls in and I run. The front carriage is usually the quietest. I’ve got a double seat to myself. There are no other school kids. Except the posh uniforms who go to grammar in town. But there’s a weird smell in the air. Like a rubbish bin that hasn’t been emptied. Full of rotting rockmelon. I peer over the back of my chair. There’s an old guy sleeping behind me. He’s sprawled out along both seats. His matted hair covers his face. Like a cat’s sitting backwards on his head. I think about moving. Whether it’s worth losing my double seat. He must have caught the train back from Lithgow. Homeless people often sleep on the late train. Stay at Lithgow station. Then catch an early train in the morning. I guess it’s safer than a night on the street. And you can probably get some sleep. Because these green seats are quite comfy. Unlike the bloody Tangara. So hard your arse has gone to sleep on its own by Penrith. But not the rest of you. I decide to put up with the smell.

I’ve just started rehearsing Long Island Lolita when I see it.

Fuckadoodle, not again.

This is something I just can’t deal with right now.

The flickering gets closer. Maybe if I don’t look it’ll go away. The smelly guy swats it with his newspaper. He starts muttering to a guy across the aisle. Who’s looking out the window pretending he can’t hear. He turns to me and his face lights up.
If I could just grab the bugger ...
He’s standing on the seat now trying to catch the moth with his hoodie.
They’re good tucker, lots of fat. The Aborigines used to have big feasts where they’d roast ’em in the fire, eat ’em whole. Come here, you little bugger.

The moth lands on the chair of his seat before stumbling onto the window ledge. He swoops on it.
See how they’re drawn to the light. They think it’s the sun coming up and so they’re trying to find some place to hide. You can’t eat ’em now, though. Got arsenic in ’em.

The moth is moving towards me. Capturing the corner of my eye. Bouncing against the light. Hopefully someone else will get rid of it.

A woman screams and jabs at it with her umbrella.

Now it’s stuck up against the rounded windows. Trying to crawl up. In a dance of death. It keeps falling towards me. I hold my school folder up to cover my head. Ready to swat the moth away. It’s so soft and ugly. The big brown wings never stop.

It happens every year. Sometimes the carriage is full of them. You’ll open a door and they’ll rush at you from a corner. Like a squadron of jetfighters in formation. I’m scared it’s going to touch me. It rains bits of stuff from its own body. As it launches into the glass. Brown wing and dirt shudder onto my uniform. I’m nearly completely horizontal in my seat now.

I Will. Not. Let. It. Near. Me.

Oh fuckadoodle, just give up and die will you.

It’s on the seat behind me now. It has furry wings like a vampire bat. I try not to look at it. But on the wings are these light circles. Little eyes that just sit there staring at me. But then it’s up again. Ramming against the window. Desperately getting into the groove and clambering upwards.

I’m just stuck here unable to move. I’ve given up on not looking ridiculous.

How could anyone eat them? It would be like putting a cat’s tail in your mouth. All fuzzy or crunchy if cooked. Its wings are as big as my hand. I’m thinking I might have to get off at the next station. Even though it’s not Penrith.

It’s like it’s attracted to me. And it still keeps staggering and falling. Up and down the window. The way it beats against the light. The way it opens its wings like that. How it stumbles about as if it’s blind. I want to grab it and crush it. Quick. Put it out of its misery. But that would involve touching it.

Feeling the soft wings of death.

And then from the corner a man steps up.

He calmly cups the creature in his hand. He returns to his seat and sits very still. I sit up and pretend to read. But I secretly watch his face.

It’s the man I like to look at. He zones out into the early morning light. Like he’s meditating. He has a big battered suitcase that he rests one hand on. Holds the bogong moth delicately on his knee as if calming it down. The whole way he just sits there with it. Letting it quietly flutter.

When we get to Penrith he follows me down the train aisle. I open the door and he gently lets the moth fly out
through his fingers. I say
Thank you
and he smiles. A small smile that doesn’t reveal his teeth. I feel like I should give him an offering of some kind. The only thing I can think of is my name.
Hi, I’m Layla,
I say.

He stands back as I step outside the carriage. I turn to see his response but he’s gone. Back to reach his little corner.

The moth flutters helplessly and does a big loop. Straight back into the carriage. As the doors shut and the train pulls out and away from me.