Ora's Gold Page 20

‘Ten minutes! I can’t wait another twenty,’ I whine.

  ‘Relax, Ora,’ Dione says, rubbing my back.

  ‘This is a stupid idea. This whole boat thing’s a stupid idea!’ I want to jump in after Tom. Another wave of nausea hits me and I lean over the side, retching, even though there’s nothing left in my stomach, not even bile.

  ‘Okay Ora, this is a good opportunity to practise for the birth. I want you to breathe with me.’

  ‘Get stuffed, Dione!’ I say, and move to go back down below. But the thought of that tiny space makes me want to puke. So I sit heavily, banging my back against the side of the boat.

  ‘Ora,’ Dione sounds more commanding. ‘I want you to breathe in through your nose for four, hold for four, then breathe out through your mouth for six. Come on. Do it with me. We’ll make the breaths longer as we go.’

  I shake my head.

  ‘You’re being stupid now.’ Dione sounds all matronly.

  I have to do something to get out of this state. I want off this boat so badly.

  ‘Fine,’ I agree begrudgingly.

  Soon enough she’s got me breathing out for eight.

  ‘Twenty minutes,’ Jake says.

  My panic attack has passed. I carry on breathing with Dione and finally, finally! There are the lights. We stand and watch as the car disappears up the boat ramp, two red eyes receding.

  I groan in relief.

  Jake is smiling broadly and gives me a squeeze. Dione salutes the shore—a silent thank you. A wave of self-consciousness washes over me. I hope Dione was distracting herself, as well as me, with her counting and timing.

  ‘Right!’ Jake says, sounding firm. ‘Time to leave Adelaide. Melbourne, Sydney, the Gold Coast—here we come!’ He starts up the outboard and points us out to sea.

  Dione goes below, saying it’s well past dinner time. I stay on the bench by the cockpit, watching Jake at the helm, feeling the cool sea air push at my face and trying not to retch at the fumes from the engine.

  32

  On Board

  The water feels choppy but according to Jake it’s calm. I dread what it’ll be like in a storm. The little boat keeps bobbing about, making my stomach dance in my mouth. The others tuck into a quiche that Sarah has made. I can’t even look at it. I stay up on deck while they eat. Jake has motored us to what he hopes is a quiet spot. The water slaps the boat as billows of waves try to take us with them, stretching and testing the anchor.

  When I am so cold that I don’t feel sick anymore I go below, too tired to unpack. It seems like months since we dropped our bags of clothes and books at Tom and Sarah’s. I just want to get into bed.

  It’s far too cramped in this tiny, pointed room. I crawl onto the bed—standing’s impossible—and take off my clothes lying down. I snuggle into the comfy mattress; the blue sheets still smell of washing powder. It’s going to be weird sleeping in the same space as Dione. I’ll have to sleep with the door open, so I hope she doesn’t snore.

  My whole body is so sore. I listen to Jake and Dione moving about the boat and smile—we did it! When Jake comes to bed, he has to crawl over me—I need to be by the door so I can get to the bucket quickly. I pray that I’m done with vomiting for today.

  Jake snuggles in with a huge sigh.

  ‘You are a star!’ I whisper. ‘Your plan worked and it was a brilliant idea and … I love you!’ I want to make up for my comment earlier, when I was panicking about Tom.

  Jake squeezes me and asks me how I’m feeling.

  ‘Better,’ I say. ‘Just sore. Where’s Dione?’

  ‘She’s taken her swag up on deck.’ He sounds so tired. His planning has been painstaking. Navigation charts, tidal tables, safe places to anchor and go ashore. It took a whole suitcase to fit all the maps and notes he’s collected.

  It’ll be a fine line between staying near enough to the coast to be safe, but far enough away to avoid being spotted. We can’t anchor in any shipping channels—it’s illegal, and besides, big tankers would mow us down in a minute. We’ll have to choose remote stretches of shore with quiet bays to stop at each night. Or maybe some uninhabited islands. I know Jake will be an amazing skipper. I just hope I find my sea legs.

  I force myself to imagine our little boat is being held by the ‘calm’ and caring ocean. I need to get over the buffeting of the waves and stop worrying about gales and squalls and tidal waves.

  In the morning I’m as grumpy as a hungry bear, and Jake and Dione aren’t much better. The relief of getting away from the SIF and the media has evaporated into our new reality: there is no space. This cramped dance is to be our lives now for however long, constantly bumping into corners, or each other. I feel oversized and hemmed in and am longing to jump off.

  The highlight of the first day is hoisting the sail. It takes all of us to coordinate the movement, holding different ropes and watching Jake scale the mast to unhitch the trapped material. Finally we’re off, propelled by the power of the wind, and I feel like we’re flying across the water. Even Dione whoops for joy.

  And then we go back to trying to find space on board. We’re not used to living in each other’s pockets. The dream of the open ocean is a paradox; all the space is in the sea while here on the boat, it’s like being in a lift.

  Several days go by before we find our rhythm, but gradually, our frowns begin to settle into smiles.

  My favourite spot is at the front of the boat, on deck. I spread out like a jellyfish, covering nearly the whole bow with my new dress. Melissa made it for me and packed it in our things, as a surprise. It’s dark grey linen and has her stylish motif all along the edges. I love its long, simple A-line shape. I think I’m going to live in it. It’s the perfect colour for absorbing the sun’s rays.

  From my spot, I watch sleepily as Jake teaches Dione the art of sailing, while I suck on slices of ginger root. The fiery zing has saved my life, and Gumnut’s. I am so thankful for Sarah’s intuition—she packed the biggest root of ginger I’ve ever seen and it’s helped me keep some of my food down. I don’t know if my stomach will ever get used to the constant motion.

  Time slows and so does my thinking. After days—or is it weeks?—I stop worrying about the SIF. The ocean lulls my senses when it’s calm and sharpens them in choppy waters. I breathe more deeply. The wind closes me off from the world and the sun opens me up. I spend a lot of time looking at the horizon or into the sea below. So do the others. When we see other boats, we wave, but are careful to keep our distance.

  We eat heaps of fish and try not to think about the mercury consumption. I’ve held the Best Catcher’s prize for three days in a row now, and Dione still holds the title of Best Chef—it’s a wonder what comes out of our little galley.

  Jake and Dione like to pass the time in heated political debate; about the government, the SIF’s power, education, health, the earth, you name it. Sometimes I listen. A lot of the time I don’t. They both have strong opinions and constantly try to outdo each other. I wonder if these conversations remind Dione of Mum.

  Mostly I sit and sketch. Or read. Or daydream. I long to be alone, and grow to love the bed that’s become my nest and cave. Dione says it’s a sign. I’m getting ready for the baby.

  Jake and I sometimes talk late into the night—our only alone time. He’s told me how distant I’ve become, and that he misses me. At first, I didn’t know what to say. But since he’s mentioned it I can feel myself slipping into another zone. It’s subtle, but he’s right. It’s like I’m making space for Gumnut, and I have to cut him off to do that. I’ve tried to explain, but I don’t think he gets it.

  During one of Jake’s trips ashore for supplies, Dione and I fish from the front of the anchored boat. We are expert now at casting our rods, and there’s an easy silence between us. It gives me time to study the light blue of the sky touching the deep aquamarine of the ocean. An occasional cloud turns the sea air chilly but the sun wins out, warming us again.

  ‘How are you feeling about the birth?’ Dione a
sks conversationally.

  ‘Like it’s a long way off.’ I hope that will be the end of the discussion, but she’s waiting for more. ‘I’m still a month away, Dione. And that’s from forty weeks. In your book it says forty-two weeks is a common gestation time.’

  ‘Sometimes they come sooner.’

  I don’t reply.

  ‘Where do you see yourself having the baby?’ I recognise her midwife’s tone immediately.

  ‘I’d … like to have him in the water,’ I say in a rush. Saying it makes it real. She’s tried to talk about it a few times before, but I’m still not ready.

  Dione smiles slightly. ‘I thought you might, being such a fish yourself. You know you’ll need a birthing tub for that, though? It’s way too cold in the sea.’

  I nod. ‘I keep thinking about the way Gumnut is going to come into the world and what a big thing it is for the baby. The way their heads are squashed, and their lungs too.’

  ‘It’s good for them!’

  I look at her sideways.

  ‘That’s what kickstarts their little bodies,’ she says.

  ‘And,’ I go on, ignoring her, ‘what a shock it must be coming into the world from a dark, watery womb.’

  ‘At least your baby will decide when he’s coming out. Imagine what a shock they get when they’re unzipped and plucked out like a wisdom tooth.’ Dione presses her lips together, probably holding back her diatribe.

  ‘All I know is that I want it to be quiet and dark and as soft as possible.’

  Dione sighs, and I can see she’s choosing her words carefully. ‘You know it’ll probably take hours, and you’ll probably beg for pain killers?’

  ‘Of course I do, I’ve had my head stuck in your bible for the past week. Haven’t you noticed?’ Even though her midwife book has far too much information, I’ve still read it cover to cover. It’s either that or the shampoo bottle—I’ve read everything else. I hope Jake finds some books when he’s ashore.

  ‘I’ve seen you with it,’ Dione replies. ‘I just need to know what you want to do about the pain.’

  ‘I don’t know!’

  ‘You need to let me in a bit,’ she says gently.

  ‘I don’t know. None of it feels real. I read that book over and over and it all seems so heady and unreal but then I feel him kick or catch myself talking to him and it’s like he’s been with me forever. But I just can’t see past the here and now.’

  She nods, waiting for me to say more.

  ‘I’m scared. What if something goes wrong? What if he dies? What if I die? Once you said that birth and death are two sides of the same coin. I keep hearing that and it scares me.’

  ‘You’ll be alright,’ she says quietly.

  ‘You don’t know that!’

  ‘You’re right, I don’t know. That’s the whole crux of birth. Even in the Program they don’t know for sure how it’s going to go.’ She blows out of her mouth like she’s trying to calm everything down with her breath. ‘My gut feeling is … that it will be okay. But having said that …’ She sounds a bit harder now, and I guess she’s getting to the point of the conversation. ‘…you don’t want to plan to be in the middle of the ocean when the baby comes. It would be better to be on land. ’

  ‘Like we have a choice.’ I hear myself sounding bitter.

  ‘We do have a choice, Ora.’

  ‘Oh, okay then … I choose my house that burnt down. If you could just magically restore it and then organise a private jet to fly me there when labour starts, that would be great.’

  ‘There is always a choice, Ora.’

  ‘Bullshit! There was no choice when Mum and Holly died, or when the SIF caught me and locked me up like a dog. And there is no choice about where to have this baby. You don’t know what you’re talking about.’ I slide off the bow and climb clumsily across to the cockpit, holding onto the rail.

  ‘When I was hiding in my hole in the cottage, do you know what kept me sane?’ Dione is raising her voice, making sure her words reach me across the length of the boat.

  The wind and the waves have picked up. My thoughts flicker to Jake trying to row back in the dinghy. Dione puts her fishing rod in the holding slot and comes after me.

  ‘Every day,’ she sits down opposite me on the cockpit bench, ‘Every single day, I had to remind myself that I had a choice. Would I break out and run down the hill like a madwoman throwing my life away? Or would I breathe my way through it and use my imagination to set me free?’

  ‘Well, whoopie-do for you,’ I say.

  ‘I bet you did the same in your cell,’ she says. ‘You made choices, even if you didn’t know it.’

  ‘Enough of the lecture already,’ I say, standing up.

  ‘No, this is important.’ She takes my hand and I feel a flood of warmth, but I resist it. ‘We need to have this conversation, Ora. We need to have a plan.’

  I snatch my hand away and stomp down the steps to my mattress retreat, shutting the little door with a feeble bang. I look up at the low ceiling and remember being in that cell. And then I remember Snake and Lion. They were the ones who got me through. But I didn’t ‘choose’ to think about them. They just appeared when I was desperate and alone.

  Maybe they were just part of my imagination? But they felt more real than that. They were my guides. But … I’m confused.

  I reach up to the little shelf above the bed and get my music player—silently thanking Jake for charging it yesterday in the sun. I put the earplugs in and settle into the embrace of the mattress, covering my eyes with the pillow and already feeling the comfort of where I’m going …

  Lion is with me immediately, underneath our tree. I put my arms around his neck and feel an enormous surge of love. We turn and head into the tree. I expect to go down the stairs but he leads me up, spiralling into the clouds.

  It’s white and empty, but soft and welcoming. And quiet. There is Snake, dancing on her coils, looking friendly and wild at the same time.

  ‘Ora! How lovely to see you.’

  I’ve missed you, I smile.

  ‘You’ve come about the baby.’ She looks at me with her knowing eyes.

  The birth, actually … I … I’m scared.

  ‘Every woman is, Ora. It’s part of the journey. Any rite of passage involves fear. Fear of the unknown and fear from hearing stories of those who have gone before you and suffered. Be gentle with yourself and remember to trust.’

  But I don’t know how I’m going to be. I feel all choked up. And I don’t how to trust.

  Someone comes up behind me and puts their arms around my belly. I recognise her instantly.

  Mum! I try to turn but she holds me snugly in her arms. I relax back into her, tears of joy pricking my eyes.

  ‘You’ll be fine, Ora. You’ll go well,’ she whispers into my ear.

  I want you to be there.

  ‘I know you do, love.’ She rocks me like she used to do when I was upset. ‘I will be in my own way. Know that I’ll be close.’

  I give a quick nod, trying to be brave.

  ‘You’re going to be a mother, Ora,’ she says, stroking my belly. ‘This baby is very lucky, my love, to have you.’

  I turn but she’s gone. I kneel with my hands on the earth and cry bitter tears, swimming in my loss.

  The drumbeat begins to slow and Lion appears to take me back. I switch off the sounds, knowing it’s pointless to try again, and surrender to the tears, allowing Mum’s absence to wash through me.

  My thoughts drift to Dione, and then to my baby. I hope he can’t feel my grief.

  33

  Dad Again

  The light is fading when Jake finally returns with a dinghy full of goodies. I hear his voice and go up to meet him. He looks worn out. Dione is on deck grabbing the bags as he passes them up to her. They see my red eyes, but neither of them comments.

  This has been Jake’s third trip ‘into the fray’, as he calls it. Each trip takes a toll—the stress of staying undercover when he doesn’t know
where he is and the weight of the fuel and all the bags and supplies. Dione goes with him every other trip—they shouldn’t be seen too much together.

  Whenever we can, we get off the boat. I get a break every time we stop at a deserted beach, and there are plenty of those along the way. We throw down anchor and swim or row ashore, celebrating the feel of the solid earth beneath our feet. I walk and walk and bask on the land and always feel torn as evening creeps in. We’ve talked about camping overnight, but haven’t managed it yet.

  After passing up the last bag, Jake hauls himself into the boat and fishes out a crumpled piece of paper. ‘The good news is I got your ginger root. The bad news is this,’ he says, passing the paper to me. ‘I printed it at the library.’ We sit on the benches, bags of shopping covering the sunken floor at our feet, and I open the folded paper.

  I gasp. There is a picture of me looking out at the world, and a small one of Jake that I’ve never seen before. The headline screams, ‘Where is Ora James?’ I start to scrunch it up.

  ‘Hang on!’ Dione says, reaching across and snatching it out of my hands. ‘I want to read it.’ She studies the article.

  ‘That’s the picture we sent your dad last Christmas. He must have given it to them.’

  ‘What?’ I say. My brain isn’t working. Was it the SIF or the press who have run this story?

  ‘Read it out.’ I’m ready to hear it now.

  ‘Ora James of Long Gully Road, Adelaide was last seen with boyfriend Jake Watson on 6 November. The pair was seen in central Adelaide at Scapes Bookshop and later at Seaford Station. James lived with her aunt, Dione Oakton, who has been missing since February this year. It is believed Oakton had been illegally practising as an independent midwife prior to her disappearance. All three are wanted for questioning by the SIF, who have declined to comment further.

  ‘Emergency Physician Douglas James has appealed to the general public for any news of his daughter’s whereabouts. He told journalists that Ora had developed a recent health condition and may be in need of urgent medical attention.’