Free Portraits of Celina by Sue Whiting Page B

plummet.
    Has Amelia hooked up with him already? I turn to leave.
    “Where are you off to?” asks Gran.
    “Oh, you know, better get back to it. There’re boxes to move and stuff. The builders need the barn cleared.” I swing my arms like the village fool and take a few faltering steps backwards as I speak.
Get back to it? Boxes to move?
Duh! I sound like such a nana.
    “Yeah,” says Oliver and for a moment I worry that I have broadcast my thoughts somehow and that Oliver is agreeing with me. “Yeah, I have to go too,” he continues to my enormous relief. “Thanks, anyway. But Mum asked me to row across and see if you guys would like to come over on the weekend for a barbecue. She is going to ask the Ralphs as well. She would have rung, but she doesn’t know your name …” He reaches into his shorts pocket and pulls out an envelope. “Anyway, she said to give you this. It’s got our phone number and everything.”
    Mum takes the envelope. She pushes her hair behind her ears. “Why, thanks … Oliver. That is … so … kind. But …” Her voice is quavery.
    “Tell your mum that we’d love to come,” says Gran. “Kath will give her a ring later. Won’t you, Kath?”
    Mum stares at the envelope and eases herself onto one of the kitchen chairs.
    “Kath?”
    “Ah, yes, yes – I’ll ring as soon as the phone’s sorted. It’s not connected yet and we’ve no mobile coverage … hopefully this afternoon.”
    “Great. Okay, thanks.” Oliver backs away and we clatter out and down the front steps together.
    Stop being an idiot
, I tell myself, all too late as I stumble on the last step and do an embarrassing trying-to-keep-your-balance dance involving flailing arms and bendy legs.
    “Whoa.” Oliver reaches out to catch me.
    I manage to dodge his grasp, regain my footing and walk on like nothing happened. I slip into the barn, saying, “Gotta get the trolley – for the boxes. See you.”
    Oliver pauses outside the barn, then nods and says, “Yeah, okay. Saturday, I guess.” And heads off to the lake.
    I prop myself up against the barn wall, sure my unsteady legs will give out at any moment.

thirteen
    Now pretty much empty, the barn is a great hollow space – almost cathedral-like with its high pitched ceiling, strips of afternoon sun slicing in through the gaps in the weatherboards. Sitting cross-legged in the middle of the dirt floor, I am overwhelmed by it.
    I am stuffed. Grimy. Grotty. Stinky. My body aches from hours of hard slog and I lust for a shower. If only I had the energy to get up.
    I flop back and gaze up at the patches of blue peeping at me through the roof, too tired to care that my hair is resting in a pile of swept up crap.
    Exhaustion: I know you well
. There’s nothing like throwing yourself into work to keep your mind off your troubles. That’s something I’ve learned over the past months.
Bayley Anderson, Family Workhorse and Resident Slave
. Though in all honesty, I know that I have sought out the role – it’s been my survival tactic.
    But now, stretched out here, pooped, my worries come rushing back in: looping, rotating, flicking from one to the other inside my head.
    Celina. Dad. Mum. Oliver. Oliver and Amelia.
    Oliver and Amelia
. Was it jealousy that drove me so hard today? That made me work like a demon? And what is there to be jealous about? Every time I have seen Oliver I have acted like an absolute tool. If Oliver is interested in Amelia, who could blame him? Besides, who would want to hang out with a loony who believes the ghost of Celina O’Malley is communicating with her?
    For God’s sake, brain, shut up! Give me a rest
.
    I close my eyes and command my mind to be still, but a new thought nudges its way in. My eyes shoot open.
    Mum. The barn. Mum and the barn.
    And it seems so obvious.
    This place oozes with possibility, begs for creativity. I sit up and look around. On my feet now, I walk to the far end, lean up against the wall and take it all in. Yes.