The Minnow (14 page)

‘Tom.'

It's Jonah. He is gently shaking me awake.

‘Tom,' he says again. ‘You were having a nightmare.'

I start to cry. Before the flood, I always felt relieved when I woke from a bad dream.

‘It's okay, Tom,' says Jonah. ‘I have them too.'

‘Jonathan, do you think it's possible to compress time?'

We are having our usual chat while driving to the Mavis Ornstein Home for the Elderly. ‘Time certainly feels compressed when you get to my age,' answers Jonathan, smiling to himself. ‘Years disappear in the blink of an eye.'

‘I was sort of wondering about dreams.'

‘Dreams are an altogether different proposition,' he says. ‘I'm not sure whether they compress time or simply alter our perception of it.'

I always use my thesaurus and dictionary together, not in any particular order, although on this occasion I turn to the dictionary first. Perception is one of those words with a dictionary definition that is meticulous, and a bit overwhelming, so I decide to check if there is an entry in the thesaurus. It is a rewarding sight; the thesaurus has a listing for perception, perceive, perceptible and perceptive. I read them all; then I reread the dictionary entry.

‘Here we are,' says Jonathan, as we're pulling into the car park.

‘Jonathan,' I say, as I pack my books into my old schoolbag. ‘I won't be needing these today. Can I leave them in the car?'

‘I don't know how you do it,' he says, turning to look at me and using his eyebrows to indicate the books on my lap. ‘I'd be as sick as a dog.'

Sarah used to get carsick. She would hang her head out the car window. She said that the wind made her feel better. Mum always let her sit in the front. I couldn't see how sitting in the front seat could make a difference to her stomach.

Nana pauses. She doesn't like interruptions, and this one seems to be my fault. Jonathan and Mavis are standing in the aisle, looking at me.

‘It's all right dear,' says Mavis. ‘Just shuffle along.'

Easier said than done, however, as Betsy appears reluctant to budge. Understandable, given that it is her funeral, but if she doesn't vacate her seat in about three seconds she'll suffer the indignity of either Jonathan or Mavis sitting in her lap.

I jab Papa in the ribs.

‘C'mon Betsy, I'll show you the hedge,' says Papa, jumping to his feet. ‘Sorry sport,' he says to me, ‘I was miles away.'

Betsy smiles and pats my arm. ‘Thanks for coming, dear. It's been a lovely service. That priest was wonderful, the things he said.' She kisses me on the cheek, then squeezes past the Minnow and follows Papa out of the chapel. They duck between the columns and disappear into the garden. Relieved, I shuffle across into Papa's spot at the end of the bench and Mavis and Jonathan take their seats.

‘This is Valerie Wolkolf's granddaughter, Tom,' says Hazel, holding my elbow. Hazel is always around old people, so holding elbows is second nature to her.

Hazel is introducing me to one of Betsy's relatives. Everyone is in the common room and, in line with Betsy's request, we're drinking tequila margaritas. I'm in my eighth month. I've checked with the Minnow and we can't see how one margarita could hurt, so I've got a large salt-encrusted drink in my hand, and I think it's upsetting some of the funeral guests.

‘Tom,' continues Hazel, ‘this is Annabel, Betsy's granddaughter.' Hazel turns and leaves. Our cue to open the conversation.

‘We heard about the flood,' says Annabel. ‘We're so sorry. Our grandmother told us you lost your whole family.' She keeps saying ‘we' and ‘us' and it is a bit weird.

‘I still have Nana,' I say.

Annabel is beautiful. She has long black hair and dark skin. Her eyes are such a dark brown that it is hard to distinguish the pupil. There are small bubbles escaping from her shoulders. Tiny little bubbles, almost blue in colour, although I realise that's probably an illusion. They are most likely clear.

‘Of course. Your Nana. Betsy talks about her all the time,' says Annabel.

‘Talked,' interrupts a male voice.

Annabel's eyes widen for the briefest moment. She is looking at me, almost staring. ‘That's my cousin,' she says.

I wonder if he is part of ‘we'.

Annabel turns around and mutters something under her breath to a male version of herself. They are so alike they could be twins.

She turns back to me. Smiles. Then she tilts her head a fraction, moves her eyes to the side and speaks over her shoulder. ‘Get me a drink, would you?'

The cousin looks from Annabel to me. His eyes are cold.

‘Sure,' he says. ‘But you won't like the salt.'

Annabel turns back to me and rolls her eyes.

‘Then see if you can get me a sugar-rim. Otherwise, just a clean glass,' she says. Her eyes remain fixed on me.

Strangely, it doesn't feel uncomfortable.

I'm guessing Annabel is twenty-something. She has the most perfect skin. And tiny fish scales on the sides of her neck. I imagine her hair hides them most of the time.

She is wearing a long dress the colour of paua shell, with the thinnest iridescent shoulder straps. She isn't wearing any jewellery except for a pearl ring on her right index finger, which she plays with while she talks.

‘I think Annabel is a mermaid,' whispers the Minnow.

I know what she means. I've never met anyone who belonged in the ocean more than Annabel. But that myth about mermaids being able to walk on land is just fantasy. They can never leave the sea.

On the way back to Jonah's house, Jonathan brings up our earlier conversation.

‘Once, and I have no idea when,' he begins, ‘I listened to a radio program about sleep. I had forgotten all about it, but something that minister said jogged my memory.'

Jonathan can be extremely formal. He has rules about what constitutes a conversation. I have to say something now.

‘What did the program say?' I ask.

‘It was a documentary on sleep disorders. It cited the case of a man who had gone to sleep as usual, but who dreamed an entire lifetime in the one night. Apparently the dream began with his birth and ended eighty or so years later with his death. When interviewed, he said it was the most terrifying experience of his life. Apparently, day after day, year after year, he was at all times conscious that he was trapped in a dream. The whole ordeal rendered him rather fearful of sleep.' Jonathan taps the steering wheel with his thumbs. It is one of the things he does.

‘Understandable, I suppose,' he continues, more to himself, than to me. ‘The poor man must have dreaded the prospect of having it happen a second time.' His thumbs have settled into a steady drum rhythm.

‘Jonathan, if he'd killed himself—jumped off a building or something—wouldn't the fright have woken him up?'

‘Good question, Tom,' Jonathan replies. ‘I don't remember that being discussed.'

It's a cold Saturday afternoon. I'm mooching around at Fielder's Pets and Supplies. Mrs Blanket is away for the week (visiting her daughter), and Clare is looking after the shop. I am having a conversation with a seahorse called the Professor, who, it turns out, is a Buddhist. I've just finished telling him about the man who had the dream that lasted eighty years.

‘Fish don't distinguish reality as separate,' says the Professor, after thinking it over for about ten minutes. ‘In fact, it would be safe to say that we dream our reality, quite literally.'

‘Does that mean you never actually sleep?' I ask.

‘This is hard to answer.'

He appears to have drifted off in thought. So I wait.

‘In simple terms,' he says suddenly, ‘fish are always dreaming, but we don't experience sleep as such.'

He swims closer to the glass. I think he is staring at me.

‘For example,' he continues, fluttering in a slow turn, ‘you dream in your sleep. If you dream while awake, it's called hallucinating. If you're awake within in a dream, it's called lucid dreaming. These are quite different from the aquatic experience.'

I try to take it all in. A customer walks into the shop. The screen door smacks against the bell. I turn to look, but it is no one I know. The stranger walks over to the bird section and picks up a bag of birdseed, has a brief conversation with Clare and pays for the seed. The screen door smacks against the bell as he exits.

‘Humans can't conceive of life as a continuous state.' The Professor stops fluttering. I watch as he drifts slowly to the bottom of the tank. ‘I imagine the need for sleep interrupts the human's ability to understand the continuity of life.'

He is motionless.

The pet shop is silent except for the low hum of the fish tanks.

I'm not sure I understand.

‘Most of you don't,' he answers, reading my mind.

With that, he swims an awkward circuit of his tank, stopping just above the shipwreck. Mrs Blanket has a thing for shipwrecks. Every tank has one. Some are big, some little. The Professor's shipwreck is quite grand; it has a filter that emits a small stream of bubbles. I wait for him to say something else. Finally, he speaks.

‘That man who dreamed a lifetime,' he says, ‘is the closest you'll get to my reality.' And with that he turns and flutters to the back of the tank.

The Professor makes me realise how much I miss Oscar.

I have organised to meet Jonah at three o'clock outside Saint Joseph's Anglican Church. It is a tiny red-brick building with an orange tiled roof and a front garden full of roses. Mum loved it. She said it was The Crossing's prettiest building. She and Dave McKewen used to be on the garden committee. They tended the roses.

Mum used to strike rose cuttings in a little raised garden she called the nursery. Dad built the garden with bricks he scrounged from Bunter and Davis. He built it up to knee level, which Mum said was the perfect height—and Dad said was damn lucky because he kept going until he had run out of bricks. Mum's favourite rose was the harlequin and her second favourite was anything with a scent.

Jonah is late, or I'm early. So I spend the time walking from rose to rose, trying to figure out which of the scented roses are Mum's and which are Dave McKewen's. One of the harlequins almost has a perfume, but I think it's just borrowing some smell from its neighbour.

The church garden is full of colour. A few men from the Survivors tend it now. They made a little plaque to acknowledge the garden's former caretakers. I used to think it was a good idea, but—looking at it now—it makes Mum and Dave look like lovers.

Finally, Jonah arrives and we sit on the steps and share a sausage roll and a spinach pie and wait for Jonathan to collect us. It's quiet. The Minnow is moving. I take Jonah's hand and place it on my belly.

‘I wish you were the Minnow's father,' I say to Jonah.

‘Me too,' says Jonah.

‘Me three,' says the Minnow.

‘What did you say?' asks Jonah.

‘He heard me!' says the Minnow.

Jonah's expression can only be described as startled.

‘Are you serious, Jonah? Can you hear the Minnow?'

‘Say yes, Jonah, say yes!' the Minnow shouts.

‘I think so, yes,' he says. ‘It's is a bit weird, though, isn't it?'

‘Totally,' I answer.

‘Absolutely,' says the Minnow.

Jonah starts to laugh. ‘I thought you were crazy,' he says.

‘I know.'

‘Bet you're
astonished
,' says the Minnow, showing off.

‘Get her to say something else,' says Jonah. His normally passive face is almost contorted with a mix of excitement and disbelief.

‘Oh,' I say, as I realise what's just happened. ‘It's totally random, Jonah. I can't
get
her to speak.'

‘Oh, right, of course,' he says. ‘…it's just that you talk to her all the time.'

‘Jonah, all pregnant mothers do that. It's called bonding. It doesn't mean we're having a conversation. But every now and then I actually hear her say something. And, just now, you heard her too.'

‘So, he can't hear me now?' asks the Minnow, the frustration in her voice rising to a squeak. But she doesn't require an answer; Jonah's lack of reaction says it all.

We sit, side by side, thinking. Minutes tick by.

‘I wonder what's taking Jonathan so long,' I say. Jonah and I gaze down the street, his hand on my belly. No sign of the car.

‘Can we keep it our secret?' asks Jonah.

‘Absolutely,' I answer, borrowing the Minnow's new favourite word.

It's quiet. We've finished the food, so there's nothing to do now but wait for our lift. I decide I may as well pick some flowers. Jonah pulls me to my feet.

‘Coming?' I ask him.

‘No, I'll wait here,' he answers, sitting back down on the step.

I collect the secateurs from the post box and start with one of the Harlequins.

‘Jonah,' I say, ‘can I ask you something?'

‘Sure,' he says. He changes his mind about the step and moves over to the low brick wall so that he can sit facing me.

‘It's about Bill,' I say. ‘Should I tell Sergeant Griffin that I've been seeing him?'

‘Tom! What do you mean?'

‘Don't get your knickers in a knot,' I reply, wishing I'd kept my thoughts to myself, ‘I just see him sometimes. At the inlet, usually, but the other day he was at the boatshed.'

‘What, you mean you're
seeing
him?' Jonah's face is actually going red.

‘No, no, no,' I blurt when I realise what he's asking. I make a two-fingered pointing gesture from my eyes to his. ‘I
see
him,' I clarify. Jonah nods. But I feel hot, flustered, almost sick.

‘We don't arrange to meet,' I continue. ‘It's not like before when he'd collect me from your house. But he knows my habits. He knows how easy it is to find me. So, yes, when I'm at the inlet, he turns up. It's not like I have a choice.'