Nona and Me Read online

  *

  I pass Anya in the library. She gives me a shy smile and indicates the book I’m holding. It’s An Intruder’s Guide to Arnhem Land.

  She says, “That’s a good book.”

  “My dad recommended it.”

  “Some of it is kind of dense, but other bits are great. Like the history of Yirrkala. You should definitely read it. I mean, since you live out there.”

  She seems nervous. I am too. We haven’t spoken in ages.

  I ask, “How was your summer?”

  She blushes. “I’d love to say I went to heaps of parties or on some exotic holiday … but we just stayed around here. Mum and Dad had to work. It was pretty quiet.”

  I smile at her. “Sounds like my holidays too.”

  *

  “Give me the run-down, blossom.”

  It’s Wednesday night. Dad’s on the phone.

  “How’s your first week back at school? Year 11 this year. That’s the start of the HSC, right?”

  “Yeah, kind of. I don’t know. They say the work we’re doing now will sort of count.”

  “Kind of. Sort of. I can tell you’ve really been listening.”

  “Whatever. How are you? How’s Muthali?”

  We’ve reached a good equilibrium, Dad and I.

  He says, “She’s in Canberra, actually. They flew a bunch of people down there. For the Apology, you know?”

  “Dad, I’m not a total ignoramus. I do watch the ABC news.”

  “Thank God, or I’d have to disown you. I think your mother would too.”

  “I’d rather watch Home and Away but we still can’t get reception for Channel Seven.”

  “Blasphemy! I’m blocking my ears!” He laughs at his own joke, like the true dag he is. “So, are you going to watch it? Want to see Kevin-oh-seven say sorry?”

  “They’re showing it at school tomorrow.”

  “Yeah? So they should. It’s a big deal. Although actions speak louder than words.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, it’s all very well to say sorry, we stuffed up, but what are they doing now? Are they really trying to make things better? Have they repealed the Intervention? No.”

  His words fill me with a strange kind of hope. “So you don’t think the words are important?”

  “Sure, they’re important – they’re symbolic. But it’s what you do that counts. That’s what people will remember.”

  I think of Nona and pray that he’s right.

  *

  I sneak in a few minutes late and stand up the back, feeling conspicuously alone. Mrs Reid calls for silence, then turns up the volume on the big screen. I look around the hall. The whole school is crammed in here together. I see Jennifer “The Asian”. Ali from Iraq. Luke and Charlie Mack. Mattie and Dhatam’ and a group of junior Yolŋu girls. One of them catches my eye and waves. I wave back. It takes me a second to realise it’s Lilaba. There’s a smile on my face as I keep looking around the room. There’s Aiden with his friends. Selena and the Elites. John Lane sitting near them, trying to catch Selena’s eye. Anya and Anita White. Anya indicates the empty spot beside her and I goose-step into it, grateful for her invitation.

  The Apology is just starting. The Leader of the Opposition comes on first. He sounds halting and insincere. Kids start talking, mucking around.

  Mrs Reid yells, “Quiet! Listen, please!” but I can tell her heart’s not in it.

  Then the Prime Minister comes on. This time she’s louder. “Listen! This is it, guys!”

  Kevin Rudd’s voice fills the room. He speaks from the heart, and apologises for the suffering of Indigenous Australians. He apologises for the removal of kids from their families. Acknowledges the impact on their communities. I hear Selena and Stephanie giggling. Mrs Reid shooshes them and, after a bit of muttering, they fall quiet.

  A few of the teachers look moved. A couple of the Indigenous kids too – not the ones from here, but from other places. Most of the Year 12s’ faces are solemn, like they’re trying to prove how mature they are. The other students whisper, giggle, gaze blankly or listen, trying to understand.

  I catch sight of a face that stands out. His hazel eyes are fixed, staring at the screen. His face is stony and set. I watch Aiden as Rudd continues. “For the pain, suffering and hurt of these Stolen Generations, their descendants and for their families left behind, we say sorry. To the mothers and the fathers, the brothers and the sisters, for the breaking up of families and communities, we say sorry. And for the indignity and degradation thus inflicted on a proud people and a proud culture, we say sorry.”

  The word sorry punctures the air like the beat of a drum. Aiden’s lips contort, like he’s trying not to cry. The coverage ends, and they cut to shots of crowds watching around Australia. Martin Place in Sydney is full. Alice Springs Mall is packed. There’s a group of Yolŋu ladies in Canberra wearing Sorry T-shirts. I wonder if one of them is Dad’s girlfriend. There are shots of Indigenous women in Brisbane openly weeping. Even the men look affected. Their faces are a collage of joy, loss, pride and triumph.

  Sorry. A little word that means so much.

  Sorry. A simple word, but so hard to say.

  *

  On the school bus, I come straight out with it. I’m surprised by my own guts. But I’ve tried ignoring things before and I know where that got me.

  “I saw you during the Apology. You looked pretty cut up.”

  Aiden shrugs. He’s not embarrassed or defensive. “It was emotional.”

  “You know anyone who was taken? My dad said it didn’t really affect people round here. Well, not the way it did down south.”

  He packs his iPod away, carefully coiling the headphone lead and tucking it neatly into the front of his school bag. He does it gently, as if packing away the memory of the music along with the equipment. His voice is quiet as he says, “My nan was taken. From the desert.”

  “Your grandma?”

  “She was Luritja. She got rounded up near Alice. They took her to Melbourne, but she moved back to Papunya when she was older. That’s where we lived before we moved up here.”

  I am stunned. I look at Aiden’s curly blond hair, hazel eyes. “I didn’t know.”

  “Well, now you do.” His tone is friendly. His eyes invite more questions. I accept the invitation. “So you grew up there?”

  “Mattie and I were two of three white-skinned kids in the whole community. I was convinced that when we turned five we’d all turn black. Don’t ask me about the logic of that. My parents were obviously fair.”

  I grin. “Hey, don’t worry. I was so confused when I was little I thought Nona’s black might wash off!”

  He laughs, and I know he’s laughing with me.

  I know he understands.

  *

  I push the cultural centre’s door open. The room is empty, apart from Mrs Reid, who is working at her desk. She’s so absorbed in whatever’s on her computer that she doesn’t hear me enter. I knock lightly on the door.

  She looks up. “Rosie. You don’t have to knock to come in.”

  “You were working …”

  “Pfft.”

  She pushes her keyboard to one side and indicates for me to take a seat in front of her. “What can I do you for?”

  “I was thinking about that girl … the one with the baby? Who graduated last year?”

  “Marcy.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What about her?”

  I’m strangely nervous. “Well, I heard that you helped her a lot. Organising child care, being flexible with her studies.”

  Mrs Reid’s eyes flick to my stomach. “Are you …?”

  “No.” I’m blushing. “Not me. I was thinking of Nona. She came here last year? Briefly? From Elcho?”

  Mrs Reid nods her recognition.

  “She’s a friend of mine. Well, more than that actually. She’s my sister. She wants to be a nurse. Not that she’d come right out and tell you that straight off. But she’s wanted to sin
ce we were kids. And now with this baby she’s started thinking about it again.”

  “When’s she due?”

  “I’m not sure. Soon. She’s living out at a homeland at the moment, but her grandma said she’ll probably move to Ski Beach once the baby’s born.”

  “Have you got her number?” Her eyes are smiling.

  I smile back at her. “No, but I can get it.”

  *

  Mum reads out the numbers and I plug them into my phone. New Contact. Nona.

  She looks up at me, curious. “Are you going to call her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You should.”

  I shrug. I want to but, as always, something holds me back. That familiar puree of shyness, guilt and nerves. What if she doesn’t want to talk? What if the whole thing is just awkward? I feel like I’ve come a long way, but I’m still me. I still hesitate to reach out.

  I look at New Contact Nona every few days.

  I pass on the number to Mrs Reid, but never dial it myself.

  *

  Anya and I sit together in the library. At first Selena is an out-of-bounds topic, a bruise that we don’t touch. But, gradually, Anya opens up. “It really hurt, you know. I couldn’t understand it. I mean, you knew what it was like to lose a friend. All those girls we hung out with in primary school, the ones who moved away. And Nona, you’d lost Nona …”

  “That’s a bit different.”

  “It wasn’t to me. Years 7 and 8 it was just us. We sat with other people at lunch, but you’re the only one I spent time with out of school. And then Selena came and things got weird.”

  I nod. “It felt like we were competing for her friendship.”

  Anya looks disbelieving. “Is that what you thought was happening?”

  “Well, yeah. You guys were always hanging out, buying clothes together and stuff.”

  “I only did that because of you … ’cause you seemed to like her so much, I thought maybe if I was more like that …”

  I can’t believe it. I feel touched and confused. And guilty.

  “… but then the whole thing with Nona happened. It was so wrong, that stuff she said in science. I had to tell Mrs Reid …”

  I’m stunned. “That was you?”

  She nods. “I felt so bad for telling and not owning up. But by then you two were so wrapped up in the boys anyway, you didn’t care if I was there or not.”

  She looks miserable even thinking about it.

  I know there is only one thing I can say. “I’m sorry.”

  She nods her acceptance, seems suddenly nervous. “Hey … do you want to stay over Friday night?”

  “At yours?” I’m surprised.

  She back-pedals quickly. “Yeah. Just if you want to. I mean, no pressure.”

  “I’d love to … but I’m busy.”

  “Oh, that’s cool. Doesn’t matter.”

  I can tell she thinks I’m lying. I explain, “Aiden’s band’s playing. You know East Journey? They’re doing a gig on the basketball courts in Yirrkala. You could come, if you want?”

  She looks up at me, shy and hopeful. “Yeah?”

  “Come to my place first and we’ll walk down there together.”

  Her eyes are shining.

  *

  Anya’s mum drops her at our house. The East Journey concert starts at seven. We stroll across to the basketball court in fading light. The djäpana glows red as the sun sinks beneath the horizon. We can hear the jangle of mixed chords and riffs as the band warms up.

  As we get closer, I see a small crowd of young kids forming a miniature arc in front of the speakers. A few adults hang back towards the oval. Apart from that, the courts are empty. Still, I have lived here long enough to know they will come.

  The band begins to play, the music swelling up into the night. A full moon splits the sky. We sit in darkness: the court and oval lights are still broken. Luckily, someone’s rigged up a few makeshift spotlights to illuminate the band.

  Aiden squints out towards us. I wave but I don’t think he sees.

  They’re really getting into it now. The sound is louder, fuller, bigger, more embracing. I look around. Sure enough, more people have gathered. By the third song, there are hundreds of dark eyes gleaming, watching alongside us. I can feel their pride. The whole community must be here. A few of the kids grin at me. One tugs on my clothes.

  “Hey, Mätjala.”

  “Mätjala!”

  “Ŋarritjan!”

  “Hello!”

  I see a group of ladies and recognise Rripipi’s laughing sister.

  I say, “Nhämirri nhe, Momu?”

  Her eyes smile back at me from the dark. “Manymak, gaminyarr. Latju, ŋi’?” Great, no? The music.

  I nod agreement and echo the word back at her. “Latju.”

  Anya says, “You know everyone here.” Unlike Nick, so long ago now, she sounds impressed. Wistful. Almost jealous. “It must be amazing to be part of this. To be part of a community.”

  I say, “Yeah. It is.”

  I realise that I mean it.

  The bass is pounding now. I can feel it throbbing through the concrete into the soles of my feet. It reverberates in the base of my ribcage, shaking my heart and everything inside me. I feel linked to these people and this place and these stories.

  I look up at the moon and feel its shimmer on my face.

  I feel home.

  *

  Mrs Reid spots me at my locker and approaches, a grin on her face. “Did you hear? Nona’s had her baby.”

  I nod. “Mum called me. But how did you …?”

  “We’ve been in touch, a few times now. I tried to phone her again this morning and – what do you know – she was in hospital. A little girl. Isn’t that gorgeous?”

  I say, “We’re going to see her this afternoon.” I don’t admit I’m nervous as hell or that I haven’t seen her in months.

  Mrs Reid smiles. “Say hello from me.”

  I smile back, trying to look confident. “Will do.”

  *

  I haul myself up onto the grubby vinyl front seat of Mum’s troopie and slam the door behind me. Metal grates on metal.

  Mum is beaming. “Ready to meet your little waku?”

  My stomach twists and churns. There are beads of sweat on my forehead. “Mum, are you sure she wants us there? I mean, she’s only just given birth and … we go rushing in … Isn’t that kind of intrusive?”

  “We’re family, Rosie.”

  “I haven’t seen her in ages.”

  “You saw her at the funeral.”

  “I know but …”

  I let the sentence dwindle into silence. I don’t think I could articulate the clash of emotions inside me even if I tried.

  Mum speaks gently, as if comforting an upset toddler. “She wants you there. Rripipi said for you to come.”

  *

  We park in the hospital car park and enter through the back doors. They swish open automatically at our approach. We climb the blue lino stairs to Ward Two. As we pass the nurses’ desk, we see Rripipi up ahead on her phone. She waves us towards a nearby room. “This one.”

  One, two, three steps, and we’re there. No time to back out. The room is full. Three of the beds are occupied by Yolŋu ladies who look like they’re in their twenties. One is quietly breastfeeding, another is holding her baby as it sleeps. The third angles past us and walks out the door.

  I can’t see Nona for the huddle around her bed. Guḻwirri, the smalls, Sheree and Tina and various other aunties are there, all talking animatedly in Yolŋu Matha. I catch sight of the baby in Guḻwirri’s arms. She’s wearing a miniature pink suit covered in butterflies. Her face is dark brown and squashed, eyes closed, tiny hands bunched in fists. A wisp of new life.

  Guḻwirri holds out the precious bundle. I look around and spot Nona perched on the side of her bed, drained but glowing. My eyes ask, Is this okay? She nods.

  There is so much I want to say. So much I want to tell her.
But I don’t get the chance.

  The baby is thrust into my arms. I hold her tiny body, gentle and awkward.

  I say, “She’s beautiful,” and I mean it.

  I ask, “Does she have a name yet?”

  “Ritjilili.”

  It sounds familiar. “What does it mean?”

  Rripipi grins at me. “Muddy water – after my sister.”

  I start to laugh, then stop quickly as the baby’s eyes flick open. Two big brown all-encompassing globes stare up at me. I could swear she’s looking into my soul. The world stops.

  I hear Mum ask, “Does she have an English name too?”

  Nona says, “I called her Rosie.”

  40.

  2001

  I see her through the water, bubbles rising from her mouth, lips curved in a smile.

  She raises a hand and makes a peace sign, like she’s posing for an underwater photo. Her long legs push up and off the bottom of the pool. She jets towards the light above us and surfaces laughing. I come up for air beside her.

  She is gasping for breath as she jokes, “When in doubt, peace and pout.”

  It’s her golden rule for photos lately. I think one of her cousins made it up. I grin as I tread water beside her.

  She holds out a skinny, brown arm. “Look. Goosebumps.”

  “Want to get out?”

  “Ma’.” She hauls herself up and flops onto the edge of the pool. She is wearing a wet black T-shirt and shorts. I pull myself up behind her, tugging at my red one-piece, making sure it covers my bum. Her feet are so close they dance in my face.

  I close my eyes, feeling happy. Whole.

  Then I hear her voice. “Your mum booked the plane. I leave tomorrow.”

  I plummet back to earth. “Why do you have to go?”

  Her hand traces imaginary patterns on the surface of the water. “I miss my family.”

  I can’t hide my hurt. “I thought I was your yapa.”

  “You are. Always will be. That will never change.”

  I want to believe her, but things are already changing and I know they’ll change more. The thought frightens me. I search for reasons to make her stay. “But … what about school?”

  “They have a school over there too, silly.”

  “Are you going to go?”

  Nona’s shrug ripples from her shoulders to her toes.