Ida Page 3

  He sits making a tent with his fingers, resting up against his chin. Without looking properly, she knows that the nails are manicured, there will be no dirt under them. Perfectly rounded.

  His black hair is short and clean, his eyes are a darker brown than his skin. In the light, his hair shines. He has bird bones, light cheeks, a delicate face that makes some people think he is a woman. And sometimes he is. They’re both genderfluid, though he is more solid than Damaris feels. She keeps on the fringes of everything, sometimes he stays for decades on the same feeling.

  ‘The new office is interesting,’ Damaris says.

  ‘Find it all right?’ He places his hands on the desk. He’s told her often how much he loves wearing suits, the process of getting one fitted. Finding the right shirt, the right tie. He’s learnt so many different knots that he’s shown her long into evenings. He’s said he loves the routine of them, that there is a precision he can’t find in other clothes.

  ‘Obviously.’ She takes the seat opposite. ‘So?’

  ‘The girl, the eighteen-year-old in Melbourne, is switching too much.’ He opens a drawer in the desk and gets out a manila folder. ‘She’s been switching for anything. It’s getting out of hand.’

  She suppresses a groan, tilts her head back. ‘I thought we had decided she wasn’t a threat years ago? She doesn’t have a large influence; she barely knows anyone.’

  ‘That’s not the problem. She’s skipping too much.’

  As he talks, Damaris wonders if his teeth have always been this white. How long has it been? Suddenly she’s unsure. He’s wearing a subtle pearl-sheen nail polish on his nails, she realises. He used to do this years ago; the polish sometimes makes people question his apparent maleness, if only for a second. This familiarity is comforting.

  ‘The others are getting violent.’

  ‘She probably just thinks it’s time travel.’ Damaris waves a hand. ‘That’s not really an issue.’

  The girl can go back to any decision she’s made and choose the other path. Both paths still exist, in different universes. She can’t time travel. Damaris can do both.

  ‘The others can see her.’

  Damaris knows this isn’t good. She doesn’t let her concern show on her face. ‘So why are you telling me?’

  ‘I need you to go talk to her.’ His smooth face, a smile not even hinted.

  ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’

  They stare at each other, unblinking.

  ‘This is a rookie’s job,’ she says finally.

  ‘She’s switching far too often, Damaris. For everything. For what brand of shampoo she buys at the supermarket, even. We need you because finding the first self is going to be difficult.’

  Damaris sighs as she runs a hand through her hair. ‘Fine.’

  ‘It’s important.’

  ‘I know, I know.’ She leans back, grins at him. ‘I find her, we call it a day and then finally take that holiday we always talked about.’

  ‘No. It has to be the right one. The first …’

  ‘What? I thought … There are millions of her! The first first?’ She balls her hands, feels her pulse run through them. ‘How am I … Adrastos, that’s like trying to find one needle in a hundred haystacks.’

  ‘You can find the needle,’ he says. She knows he thinks it’s clever. ‘This is …’

  ‘I know it’s important. I’ll do it.’ She hasn’t failed an assignment yet, no matter how degrading it was. ‘But I don’t care how short-staffed you are, I can’t look after the cases you forget about and have to chase up. You won’t see me again if you send me on another one of these because I will quit next time.’

  ‘I could find you.’ Coming from someone else it might sound threatening, but the way he spreads his hands out, it’s pleading. They always find each other, but only when she wants to be found.

  ‘No, you couldn’t.’ She crosses her legs. He could search the world a hundred times over and he would find no one. She knows. She always has this over him, and she’s not sure what this power imbalance does.

  He’s biting the tip of his tongue, she can tell. ‘Just find her.’

  ‘The first one.’ Damaris snorts. ‘All right.’ She reaches over and grabs the folder. ‘Be right back.’

  Standing, she doesn’t look at him as she exits. The door closes with a snick and the corridor seems shorter this time around.

  Outside. The air is fresh, she can feel it in her lungs. Ida Wagner, she reads from the file. Checks the location.

  There’s no one around to see her, so she closes her eyes and is gone.

  Fine

  Daisy twirls the wooden spoon through the bowl of pancake batter. Pancakes are fairly easy to make, I discovered, so we make them a lot. Laziness that ends in deliciousness is always a good thing. I’m not a morning person, so Daisy places the batter in the pan and handles the hot things, as I could possibly burn down the whole kitchen and kill us all. I’ll do the dishes.

  There’s a bang, I jump and almost piss myself before realising it’s just Frank opening his door. He enters the kitchen and examines his reflection in the windows above the sink.

  ‘I look okay?’ He turns side on and draws in a lung­ful, puffs up his chest as he flattens the front of his school shirt.

  ‘What? You look fine.’

  He rolls his eyes. ‘I’ve got my new binder on.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ He usually never asks how he looks. ‘Looks good.’

  Daisy peers at him. ‘It looks like you’ve just got a singlet underneath …’

  They pause in their stirring and Frank’s eyes widen. He doesn’t move, except for his eyes. He’s searching for the closest escape.

  ‘Where did you get it? I think I need one.’

  Frank loosens from statue mode. ‘I got it online. You’re like me?’

  Daisy chews on the words. ‘I’m genderqueer.’

  ‘Oh.’ His expression clears and he writes down the website. ‘What pronouns do you use? I should’ve asked yesterday, sorry.’

  ‘They.’

  Frank nods.

  They’ve met before, but that was before Daisy started using ‘they’ pronouns.

  ‘Is it comfortable?’ I ask when he sits at the table, opposite me. Even now he slips so easily into defence mode. But I can’t let my concern show, only pretend to be interested in the binder.

  ‘You’ve got no idea. I’m gonna take it off when I get to school, probably shouldn’t wear it all day for the first time, but it’s so good.’ Then he opens a book he left on the table the night before and thrusts it at me. ‘Do you know how to do this?’

  Trigonometry, I realise after a moment of panic being faced with a page full of numbers. Maths. I shiver. That belongs in high school and away from me.

  ‘Here.’ I pick up a pen. ‘You do this part first, then when you know what that equals, you just …’

  ‘Ohhhhh.’ Frank spins the book in his direction and starts scribbling. ‘Thanks.’

  As he works I remember vividly what it was like being in the final year of high school. Stressful, needlessly stressful. The score you get at the end of the year, that doesn’t really mean anything.

  And Frank doesn’t even need these numbers, he’s going to do music. I know he’s going to go places, but he still works on this maths like it’s more important than anything. His path is so clear to him. As I watch, he solves equation after equation and keeps moving.

  I don’t know how he does it. How does he know with such certainty that he wants to study music? A life is such a long time – should I only do one thing with it? And maybe Frank won’t do music his whole life. Maybe I won’t do one thing with my life. But how do I begin when I don’t even know where to start?

  Daisy asks for a plate, so I leave Frank and find a plate that’s big enough to hold pancakes and is clean. Harder job than you’d think.

  ‘Perfect,’ Daisy says as they plonk the pancakes down. ‘Look at them. Beautiful babies,’ they coo at the food.
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  ‘She’s got your eyes.’

  ‘Damn right she does.’

  More pancakes follow and the plate gets heavier; I get hungrier.

  ‘How was last night?’ I ask.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘How’s your mum?’

  ‘Fine.’

  I breathe in; my tongue runs along the backs of my teeth and I bite my lip. There’s no way to help except to be there if they need me.

  Daisy slaps down another pancake and gives me a look before returning to the pan.

  ‘Dad wasn’t home, that was nice.’

  Another pancake. I take the plate to Frank and he starts shovelling the food into his mouth one-handed as he continues his homework.

  ‘I’ll make dinner tonight.’ He sprays his paper with food, brushes it off.

  ‘We could eat outside,’ Daisy says when I hold out another plate. ‘We haven’t done that in ages, I know you love it.’

  The day outside is clear with morning sunshine; there’s still the glittery carpet of dew.

  ‘I think a tea party is in order.’ I dash to the cupboard, rummage around … where is it? Sitting on the bottom shelf is a shiny new key I’ve never seen before. No clue what it opens. But I stick it back in the drawer with the other keys and shit we say will come in handy but never do.

  ‘Whatcha lookin’ for? Daisy asks.

  Back at the cupboard, now. ‘Teapot. Can’t have a tea party without … Goddamn, we have so much crap in here … here it is.’ I stand and hold out the dusty floral teapot.

  ‘Lid?’

  ‘Right.’

  Daisy crouches and riffles through the cupboard for a few seconds. ‘There we go, hatless no more.’ They place the lid on the pot with a clink.

  ‘I haven’t used this in ages.’ I look at it. I don’t think I’ve used it since Mum died.

  ‘Bit dusty.’

  Daisy gets out everything else we need as I wash the teapot in the sink. It’s clean, and as I pull it out to dry, the soapy handle slips out of my hand. ‘Shit.’ It cracks to a thousand pieces on the tiles.

  ‘Damn,’ Daisy says.

  I screw my eyes shut.

  Light and dark, I drift towards the warmth.

  I grip the pot firmly before drying it with the tea towel. I place it on the tray Daisy prepared and it clinks against itself quietly. They pour in the boiling water and steam escapes from the spout as they put the lid back on.

  ‘Coming, Frank?’

  He looks over, cheeks bulging, and shakes his head. Chewing for a few seconds, he eventually gets out some sticky words. ‘School soon.’

  ‘You want a lift to the bus?’

  ‘Ida, it’s like, five seconds to walk there.’ Before I can protest, he continues: ‘It’s fine. Go on, get. Have fun outside, winky dink.’ He grins, raising an eyebrow before going back to the maths.

  Outside, it’s chilly but feels like it’s getting a little warmer. It’s warm today for winter.

  The cups have a few chips in them, but the pot is perfect. We’ve had these cups forever, a set of four that match the teapot. It’s nice that they’re always there, even if we barely use them. Mum had made me promise that I’d hand them down to my daughter but when I think about my life that far down the track it’s like it belongs to someone else. I’d do it wrong. I couldn’t make a whole person out of a baby.

  Daisy and I make for the tree nearest the shed. The paint’s peeling on the shed walls after a lifetime of being in too much sun. Dad has always wanted to repaint it, but he hasn’t got to it yet. I can’t remember the last time I was in the shed, but I remember the smell of sawdust.

  As we sit, my dress is damp from the dew. Cutlery scrapes while we watch the clouds go past, and Pilgrim shoots across the lawn chasing something or other. His belly jiggles from side to side as he runs.

  Then the backyard is silent, except for the sounds of our eating. No birds. I pour the tea and the milk, watching the marbling until it settles. Daisy’s cup is lighter than mine.

  I sigh before taking a sip and the steam from the cup disperses. Daisy takes a sip of theirs and they yawn.

  ‘Sleepy?’

  Daisy nods, yawns again. ‘Maybe a little bit.’ Daisy shifts to lie on their back, tea to the side, and looks at me.

  ‘I like your face,’ Daisy says.

  ‘I like your face, too.’

  Daisy closes their eyes. ‘Maybe we could set those faces up on a date.’

  ‘That could be arranged.’ I place my cup down on the grass and lie beside them. Still dewy.

  ‘Excellent news.’

  Deep breaths, they sink down into the grass and there’s no sounds, just breathing. Rustling of clothes, warm skin, silence. Their lungs are much larger than anyone would think.

  The sun comes out and heats my legs, tingling my skin and it’s a reminder than I’m only made of blood, anyway.

  Slow, slow, long breaths. Daisy is asleep, deep. As I lie here and listen I realise my eyelids are scratching; I barely slept either.

  And then I remember the reason why. A huge weight is dropped from the sky and into my lungs. The tea stains on the wall – they were there and they shouldn’t have been. I don’t know why. I changed the choice, it didn’t happen. I went back, I went back – my insides are twisting against each other – I went back. Maybe something else was making my decisions … but that’d be impossible. Right?

  The bushes behind me rustle, my eyes flick open and I wriggle around to try to see. Probably a bird. Something like that.

  Rustles again. I want to wake up Daisy, but if it’s nothing, which it will be, I’ll feel like a dickhead. But right now this doesn’t feel like nothing. Something is in the bush – and then Pilgrim jumps out of it, goddammit. Cats.

  Maybe I should stop freaking out at nothing, but my heart is still pummelling my ribcage. And even if there was some kind of thing powerful enough to make the tea stains come back, I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t be hiding behind overgrown bushes in my backyard.

  I lie back down. Daisy’s still asleep, breathing slowly. The first time I woke up beside them the house was filled with the sound of rain. We were still in school and Dad wasn’t home for whatever reason. I snuggled down in the doona and sneaked a glance at Daisy. Somehow I thought they might not have been real, but they were.

  It wasn’t the first time I’d been with someone, but it was different this time. Maybe it was because when I told them I was bisexual they weren’t like the girls who thought I was really a lesbian; they weren’t like the boys who thought it was hot. Maybe it was because when they told me they were genderqueer I just said that I knew and they cried as they smiled at me. Or maybe it was just because our limbs fit together, maybe because it tasted like salt water and was the colour of sunlight through grass. Or maybe it was just all these things.

  And I could have gone back and lived that night a hundred times, but I didn’t. Only once. I keep that memory safe, deep.

  Now, Daisy’s started snoring like they were that morning. Small, barely there. It’s only for half a minute and then they’re silent.

  The garden is noiseless again. Where are all the birds? Maybe they’re all getting birdseed. At the same time. Yeah.

  No one’s watching. No one’s hiding in the bushes, but my limbs still prickle. There’s nothing out here, but I don’t have anything to defend myself. It’s fine, it’s fine, but what if it’s not?

  The tea came back but that’s okay. I made a mistake. It’s fine. Maybe I’d just been tired from my shitty job, maybe too excited about seeing Daisy, and I thought I’d gone back but I hadn’t. Maybe it was another dream, like those fucked-up snakes. They seemed real enough. It’d be easier, maybe, if I could tell someone.

  Daisy mumbles not-words and rolls onto their side so they’re facing my way. Their eyes move under their eyelids and I wonder if they’d believe me. If they didn’t, I wouldn’t blame them. It’s too much. I think they would though, but I don’t want to drag them into anything.

>   My phone buzzes in my pocket and I jump, get it out. It’s an email from an online job board and there’s a bubble of hope in me before I realise that it’s just an automated message letting me know I can update my profile any time I want. My lungs deflate and I put my phone back in my pocket.

  There’s a twig snap to the left. It’s probably Pilgrim. Probably. The wind picks up the tiniest bit and the hair on my arms stands up. The backyard is enclosed, but I am so out in the open here.

  ‘Daisy,’ I finally whisper, prodding them lightly with my elbow. ‘You awake?’

  They groan, blink, taste their mouth. ‘Whassa time?’

  ‘Been asleep for maybe half an hour?’

  They roll onto their back and rub their eyes with the backs of their hands.

  ‘I had a weird dream, castles and things.’

  ‘Princesses?’

  ‘Just one.’

  I snort. ‘You dork.’ I tap their arm. ‘Wanna go inside?’

  It’s still too silent. Even with Daisy awake and talking, it’s so quiet, it’s so quiet.

  ‘Sure,’ Daisy says. ‘Bit cold, anyway.’ They drain their cup in one, grimacing when they realise it’s cold.

  I load up all the things on the tray and we go inside, Daisy still wobbling from sleep.

  There’s something I missed, I feel like there is, but I don’t look back in case I see something I won’t be able to understand. My neck is getting pricklier, my spine jumps, and then when I get to the doorway, I look back.

  Everything is still. Shadows from the clouds play along the grass, against the greenery and the shed. It’s going to rain soon; deep clouds are close. There is nothing extraordinary out there.

  ‘Ida?’

  I jump, the breakfast things rattle, and I turn to Daisy. ‘Sorry, coming.’

  Daisy takes the tray and I go to close the back door. There’s a flick of something. Maybe it is just a bird.

  Unremembered space

  ‘Who was having the cappuccino?’ I ask the group of people sitting by the window, holding up the coffee. They all stare at me blankly. ‘Did anyone order a cap?’

  ‘Yes,’ a person says at the back, putting their hand up a little. I place it in front of them. ‘Um, it’s actually for Mum?’ they say like I should know, pushing it her way and giving me a glare.