Read Online Where the Light Falls by Gretchen Shirm - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gretchen Shirm
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breasts appeared slightlygrey. At the back of the display, almost hidden, he saw a silvery mass of offal, jumbled and formless shapes. It was impossible to tell what it might have once been. He touched the glass and the butcher frowned at him. He wore a white apron with red stains smeared across his thighs where he wiped his hands clean.
He walked inside to buy a leg of lamb to cook for his mother for dinner. As he stood at the counter, he peered into the coolroom and saw carcasses hanging inside from hooks, skinned and vulnerable, their heads and feet removed, legs out in front of them as though to protect them from a fall.
10
On Wednesday he emerged from his bedroom at ten, managing somehow to have slept for eleven hours. When he entered the lounge room, he saw through the open bench his mother was at the kitchen sink, washing up plates. The gloves she wore were pink like irritated skin. He rubbed his face with his hands.
‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘Sleep well?’
He nodded. His mother shook bubbles from the dishes and stacked them in the rack. He still hadn’t told his mother about Kirsten. But his mother had known Kirsten and she would have to be told.
‘Mum, there’s something you should know.’
His mother turned around slowly and looked at him and for a moment, as her gaze struck his, he had theimpression that she thought he was about to accuse her of something. He shifted his eyes to the floorboards; they were old and in places the varnish was gone and soft, raw wood remained. His father’s bare feet had touched that wood, he thought sadly, before he looked back up at his mother. There were traces of his father everywhere in this house, in this city.
On the calendar his mother kept on the fridge, he saw that it was already the second week of February and his return flight was at the end of the week. The days were moving impossibly quickly and he felt he’d achieved nothing since he came back.
He took a deep breath before he spoke.
‘Do you remember Kirsten Rothwell? Had you been in touch with her recently?’ He wasn’t sure why, but when they were together his mother befriended Kirsten; the two of them talked on the telephone, sometimes they met for coffee. His mother never spoke about Kirsten to him, but every time they met in his absence he felt slighted.
‘No, I haven’t heard from Kirsten in years. Not since before you left for Berlin. Why?’
‘She disappeared. Near Lake George. They think she may have drowned.’
‘Oh my god,’ his mother said and covered her mouth with a gloved hand. She closed her eyes. When she opened them, she looked at him with a different set of eyes. ‘What happened?’
‘I don’t know very much about it. Stewart sent me an email to tell me when I was in Berlin.’
‘God, that’s just—it’s terrible,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it is.’ He was aware of the inadequacy of his own words.
His mother’s body slumped. ‘So is this why you’ve come back? Is it to do with Kirsten?’
He didn’t want to answer her. He nodded and worried he might cry. She turned back around and continued with the dishes. In her reflection in the window, he could see her lips pressed firmly together. The mention of death had this effect on her. They could not speak of death in this house without it being a reference to the one that defined them.
He turned to go back to his bedroom then stopped. He was back in Sydney to confront the truth about Kirsten but suddenly he felt compelled to confront other truths too. Another person he had loved had died and now a need to know everything rose in him.
How many times, as a boy, had he been on the verge of asking? At night when they’d finished their evening meals, in the car after school or on the way to his aunt’s house in the mountains. He’d look away from her and resolve to ask, but then when he turned back towards her he wouldn’t say a word. He was too aware that he might hurt her. Somehow, he’d always
He walked inside to buy a leg of lamb to cook for his mother for dinner. As he stood at the counter, he peered into the coolroom and saw carcasses hanging inside from hooks, skinned and vulnerable, their heads and feet removed, legs out in front of them as though to protect them from a fall.
10
On Wednesday he emerged from his bedroom at ten, managing somehow to have slept for eleven hours. When he entered the lounge room, he saw through the open bench his mother was at the kitchen sink, washing up plates. The gloves she wore were pink like irritated skin. He rubbed his face with his hands.
‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘Sleep well?’
He nodded. His mother shook bubbles from the dishes and stacked them in the rack. He still hadn’t told his mother about Kirsten. But his mother had known Kirsten and she would have to be told.
‘Mum, there’s something you should know.’
His mother turned around slowly and looked at him and for a moment, as her gaze struck his, he had theimpression that she thought he was about to accuse her of something. He shifted his eyes to the floorboards; they were old and in places the varnish was gone and soft, raw wood remained. His father’s bare feet had touched that wood, he thought sadly, before he looked back up at his mother. There were traces of his father everywhere in this house, in this city.
On the calendar his mother kept on the fridge, he saw that it was already the second week of February and his return flight was at the end of the week. The days were moving impossibly quickly and he felt he’d achieved nothing since he came back.
He took a deep breath before he spoke.
‘Do you remember Kirsten Rothwell? Had you been in touch with her recently?’ He wasn’t sure why, but when they were together his mother befriended Kirsten; the two of them talked on the telephone, sometimes they met for coffee. His mother never spoke about Kirsten to him, but every time they met in his absence he felt slighted.
‘No, I haven’t heard from Kirsten in years. Not since before you left for Berlin. Why?’
‘She disappeared. Near Lake George. They think she may have drowned.’
‘Oh my god,’ his mother said and covered her mouth with a gloved hand. She closed her eyes. When she opened them, she looked at him with a different set of eyes. ‘What happened?’
‘I don’t know very much about it. Stewart sent me an email to tell me when I was in Berlin.’
‘God, that’s just—it’s terrible,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it is.’ He was aware of the inadequacy of his own words.
His mother’s body slumped. ‘So is this why you’ve come back? Is it to do with Kirsten?’
He didn’t want to answer her. He nodded and worried he might cry. She turned back around and continued with the dishes. In her reflection in the window, he could see her lips pressed firmly together. The mention of death had this effect on her. They could not speak of death in this house without it being a reference to the one that defined them.
He turned to go back to his bedroom then stopped. He was back in Sydney to confront the truth about Kirsten but suddenly he felt compelled to confront other truths too. Another person he had loved had died and now a need to know everything rose in him.
How many times, as a boy, had he been on the verge of asking? At night when they’d finished their evening meals, in the car after school or on the way to his aunt’s house in the mountains. He’d look away from her and resolve to ask, but then when he turned back towards her he wouldn’t say a word. He was too aware that he might hurt her. Somehow, he’d always
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