She Is Haunted Read online

  Praise for

  SHE IS HAUNTED

  ‘The real meets the ethereal here and becomes something all its own. Clark is the best new writer in Australia and this book is like nothing else.’ Robert Lukins, author of The Everlasting Sunday

  ‘The stories in She Is Haunted grapple with a mix of timeless human problems and uniquely contemporary dilemmas: grief, illness, identity, and heartbreak, but also who gets custody of the dog after a break-up, bureaucratic responses to deeply personal relationship issues, and the politics of food. Paige Clark writes with wit, warmth and nuance, using precise, playful language, giving us a collection of (sometimes embarrassingly) relatable characters, sneaky insights and surprising bursts of joy.’ Emily Maguire, author of Love Objects and An Isolated Incident

  ‘A wondrous spirit animates She Is Haunted. In sentences of bracing snap and clarity, Clark’s stories delight and amuse, even as they expose tender truths and secrets. An astonishing debut.’ Wells Tower, author of Everything Ravaged, Everything Burned

  ‘Paige Clark’s stories contain worlds within pages. Like Carmen Maria Machado, she takes ideas and runs with them into strange, often uneasy places. From the ordinary to the bizarre, these compelling stories reveal biting truths about race, relationships and life.’ Giselle Au-Nhien Nguyen, writer and critic

  ‘A stunning collection of short stories about identity, connection and trying to make sense of our modern world. Paige Clark is a star.’ Hannah-Rose Yee, journalist and writer

  Paige Clark is a Chinese/American/Australian writer. She lives in Melbourne with her partner, Alex, and their dog, Freddie.

  This book was written on the lands of the Wurundjeri people of the Kulin nation. Sovereignty was never ceded.

  P. 189 excerpt from The Hidden Reality © 2012 by Brian Greene, Vintage, New York.

  Grateful acknowledgement is given for permission to reprint pp. 107 and 128 excerpts from ‘The City of Paris Has You in Mind Tonight’ from The Uses of the Body. Copyright © 2015 by Deborah Landau. Reprinted with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Copper Canyon Press, coppercanyonpress.org.

  First published in 2021

  Copyright © Paige Clark 2021

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

  ‘Elisabeth Kübler-Ross’ was originally published in Meanjin Quarterly 78.3 (Spring, 2009); ‘Fortune’ was originally published in Meniscus (7.1, 2019); ‘Dead Summer’ was originally published in New World Writing (July, 2016); and ‘Why My Hair Is Long’ was originally published in New World Writing (Spring, 2015).

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.allenandunwin.com

  ISBN 978 1 76087 997 6

  eISBN 978 1 76106 218 6

  Internal design by Simon Paterson, Bookhouse

  Set by Bookhouse, Sydney

  Cover design: Design by Committee

  Cover image: Stocksy

  For all the Elizabeths who have lived through this and more

  CONTENTS

  Elisabeth Kübler-Ross

  Lie-in

  Gwendolyn Wakes

  Safety Triangle

  Times I’ve Wanted to Be You

  In a Room of Chinese Women

  Cracks

  A Woman in Love

  Conversations with My Brother about Trees

  Private Eating

  Why My Hair Is Long

  The Cranes

  Amygdala

  She Is Haunted

  Snow Angels

  Fortune

  What We Deserve

  Dead Summer

  Acknowledgements

  ELISABETH KÜBLER-ROSS

  I make a deal with God.

  He stands on my verandah and asks after my husband.

  We’re not married, I say.

  God was passing by, admiring the horses, when he saw the man in the field.

  A handsome man, God says, but much more than plain handsome—strong too. His hands are as thick as two decks of cards shuffled together. The horses are well trained.

  I twist a bit of hair that has fallen in my face. I am twenty weeks pregnant. My lover is mild. Every night before we go to sleep, he gets down on both knees. He holds his hands together and they do not shake.

  God, those are my horses and that is my lover. We made a baby together and that baby is twenty weeks old, I say.

  That pinto is a good horse, even-tempered, he says, but the man is better. I’ll take him.

  I think God must be lonely. His face is not what I expected. His eyes are kind but they shine with early tears. I have so much.

  What about the baby? I ask.

  You won’t keep your end of the deal, God says. You’ll want the baby.

  But I need the man, I say.

  A baby could be nice, he says.

  Lucky you’re patient, God.

  Until then, he says. He eyes my belly.

  On his way down the driveway, he stops to admire the horses again. He runs a thin, silver hand along the ute parked at the gate.

  I lock the door, but I am unsettled. I want my lover safe. We can make another baby. When that baby is born, it will bounce on my lover’s knee, practising. One day the baby will be big enough to ride the horse in the field. That pinto doesn’t spook easily.

  See, I’m patient too. I’ll wait for God.

  My lover pats down the horses and feeds them each a piece of black liquorice. God was generous when he made this man. He comes inside and lights a fire and I go to draw the curtains. Out of the corner of my eye I catch God mounting the pinto. He rides it in large loops through the field. Our house radiates with warmth but God does not knock to come in.

  Before he says his prayers, my lover pats my stomach with wide, flat strokes. When the baby is born, he says, we will be happy.

  I thought we were happy, I say.

  I am, he says, but I can’t wait.

  For what? I say.

  For God’s little miracle.

  Don’t joke, I say.

  I thought you didn’t believe in God, he says.

  I remember the deal, made in hushed tones so as not to disturb the man in the paddock. I remember God circling our house, riding that majestic horse—its black and white spots flashing in the wheaten sky.

  Oh, God. I made a mistake. Can we make another deal?

  I told you, God says. I knew you couldn’t keep your end of the bargain. I knew you didn’t like deals.

  God is smug. He didn’t come to check on me. He came to check on his baby. He asked me for a cup of tea—white with two sugars.

  My lover wants the baby, I say. I’ll lose him without it. Then you’ll have it all, God. Is that what you want? What about the dog?

  Do you think the dog compares to the baby?

  What will you do with my baby anyway, God? They’re a lot of work.

  I’d take good care of a baby, God says.

  God, you know that’s not what I meant. What about my mother? She is old but she is fit, I say. She is mostly good company. She has a red-hot wit and a knack for making dessert.

 
; You don’t even like your mother, he says.

  Nobody likes their mother. Don’t worry. You two will have the best time. She won a competition once for her pav.

  The baby kicks, but I do not put hand to stomach.

  The baby will be a lot of work, but my mother, she is easy, I say.

  I don’t know if she seems easy, God says. I think she might be more difficult than the baby. I’ll try her out. If I don’t like her, then we’ll talk again.

  At her funeral, I am fat with child. My brother gives the eulogy. He only lies a little. She was a fantastic mother, he says, and an even better grandmother. She was very good with shortcrust.

  My face is red and wet. By all accounts, I am sad. After the service, mourners gather around me, drinking cups of lukewarm tea—white, no sugar. They talk about my mother’s perfect health.

  She had a soft spot though, I say, for meringue.

  I waddle through the grieving, one hand in my lover’s. The other I leave on my large belly. I glow. I’ve made a good deal. I think about God. I hope they’re okay.

  In the viewing room, I take my mother’s stone hands in mine. Mama, you are cold, I say. You’ll never meet my baby.

  I remember my mother standing in the kitchen, her face pink from the heat of the oven. I could have been a pastry chef, she said. Her hands were cold even then.

  I bathe in relief. No take-backs, God. She is ready for the ground.

  God called me on the phone.

  Goddamnit, I say. How did you even get my number?

  I looked it up on the internet.

  You know how to use the internet?

  Your mother taught me.

  The baby is restless. I feel her turning inside me. She does not like to hear from God, but I’ve got him on the phone and he’s wanting.

  You probably know why I’m calling.

  I know, God. How is my mother?

  She’s a lot of work actually. I need something to entertain her.

  What about the dog, I say.

  The dog could work, he says. Maybe the cat too.

  My lover digs a grave for the dog and a grave for the cat in the paddock near a large tree. The vet came round last night and said there was nothing more he could do for either of them. He said they’d both be dead by morning.

  My lover suspects the neighbour. He’s poisoned them, he says. They were both in perfect health. I look out to our field. The pinto runs untroubled.

  I am accepting. I stoop to pat the dog one last time but my big tummy makes me unsteady. Whoa, I say, careful.

  I’ll miss the dog, but I’m counting my blessings. At our last appointment, the doctor said my baby is as big as a pineapple. I’ll name her Eve.

  The cat died but the dog just won’t die. As soon as my lover made a hole in the ground, the dog got scared. I don’t want to hear from God. I try to coax that dog to death.

  Maybe the dog will make it, my lover says. He likes the dog more than the cat and more than my mother. He doesn’t like the dog as much as the baby. I am parked on the couch, a baby beluga.

  Die, dog, die, I think.

  My lover sits next to me and strokes my stomach and my big boobs. He wants to be my lover again but I can’t focus. I want that dog gone. Every day I think I’ll get a phone call or an email from God.

  Every day that dog lives I am nervous.

  Well, the dog died.

  My lover cries and buries the dog next to the cat. I cry too. I liked the dog. He was a gentleman. He never jumped on you to say hello when he had muddy paws. He didn’t smell too bad.

  God, do you like the dog? I ask, but God’s not answering me today. He must be busy with my mother and the dog and the cat.

  I saw a mouse the other day. My lover set a trap. I remembered the cat then, her incandescent body slinking through the paddock.

  Jesus Christ, I said, when I saw that mouse.

  My lover says maybe we should buy some things for the baby. We go to the baby shop and we buy a cot, a pram, some nappies and some other things a baby needs. He builds the pram and rolls it around the living room. I imagine him putting the cat in the pram—a joke.

  There is no cat. There is no cat and there is no dog and there is no grandmother. We are a family of three. It is enough for me.

  Still, I can’t forget God, his white hair liquid behind him in the winter wind, riding that pinto through the field. Of course, he did not need a saddle. That horse is a good horse, strong with an even temper. There’s plenty of space for him to run in heaven. I wonder if we have a gun. My lover packs a bag for the hospital.

  It’s almost time, he says.

  It’s not that close to the time, I say.

  God, are we good? The baby is almost here. I don’t dare look down.

  But I can’t stop this baby from being born. It’s all part of God’s plan. My lover and I drive the ute to the hospital and I am sweating from pain and from fear. The doctors give me medicine because I’m green with dread and they think I don’t want to have this baby. My lover holds my hands steady.

  I want to have this baby. I want to love this baby. And I want to hear from God.

  I talk to him instead. Take the ute, take the house, take the horses if you want, take my job, take my lover’s job, take my favourite tree in the field—the Wollemi pine we buried the dog beside—take my brother and his wife and their baby too. It’s only young! She still smells good. She can already crawl.

  Take me if you must.

  My lover looks at me with big black eyes and I know I am not doing well. I am not having this baby in the right way. I don’t know how to stop being afraid because God has the cat and the dog and my mother and he wanted my lover and my baby too. Why would he stop wanting them now? I haven’t.

  I can hear myself crying for God.

  That’s the thing about him. He doesn’t answer when you call. When he wants something, he takes it, and when you want something, he’s busy. He has a lot on his plate. He has to reprimand the cat for bringing in stray mice. He has to feed the dog and the dog is always hungry. He has to entertain my mother and she’s a real pain. I lied a bit when I said she was a good match for God.

  The nurse places my daughter in my arms. I stare at her miniature hands folded together. Now that she is here, I can forget about God for good.

  In the morning, we walk out of the hospital and into the parking lot. My baby is in my arms, wrapped in a woollen blanket. The sun touches her face for the first time.

  In the distance, I see our ute being towed. My lover curses under his breath so as not to wake the baby.

  She is so beautiful. She is so goddamned beautiful. I hope you like the ute, God. It is a good ute with worn leather seats. The air conditioning is new and the stereo goes loud. My lover and I drove it across this country once. We camped on the Nullarbor Plain and slept every night under the open sky.

  I’m sure you know what that feels like.

  LIE-IN

  The chihuahua liked to sleep in. There was nothing special for us to get up for, just food and a walk if I felt like it. When Paul was away on tour, I stayed in bed and scrolled. Sometimes I tracked his flights around Europe, refreshing every forty minutes or so, watching the plane inch across my phone screen. I’d do this until my phone ran out of battery. Then I’d switch over to my computer. When I swapped screens, his destination seemed further away than it had before. Even though it wasn’t. That was the trick of the internet.

  I was on a break. Not from Paul but from the company. I had Achilles tendonitis. I overheard the company director talking to the physio about it. He used the word ‘geriatric’. It’s a term they use for a person who is going to die or a woman who is too old to be having babies. Turns out, it’s also a term the company director uses for a ballerina who is on her last leg. Paul is younger than I am. His ankles are tender, springy. He danced the lead last night in Don Quixote.

  A principal from the Royal Ballet was on tour with Paul. Akane was originally from Japan. They paid her lots
of money to dance with the company for the season. I watched videos of her online. In my most viewed, she is at a rehearsal. The choreographer teaches her how to use a decorative fan. He critiques her arms.

  ‘Make them more Spanish,’ he says. ‘Spanish arms!’ In the middle of the video, as she’s dancing, he berates her, shouting, ‘Faster, faster, faster!’ I always stopped at this part, before the end of the clip, when she finishes the number and the choreographer says the thing I hate to hear—‘Perfect.’

  A few days after the tour started, Paul sent me a picture of the two of them in Budapest. I wrote back, She’s pretty. I already knew what she looked like. By then, I’d lost days of my life zooming in and out on her photographs, examining her head of shiny hairs for any greys, hating and admiring in turns her bouncy fringe. I thought curling irons were out of fashion, was what I wanted to write back but didn’t.

  When Paul’s plane landed in Düsseldorf and I still hadn’t heard from him, I got out of bed and fed the dog. This was the hardest part of any given day because the dog had no teeth. I soaked a quarter of a cup of dry food, a pinch of turmeric, a spoonful of coconut oil and a crack of ground pepper in boiled water. For myself, I mixed together half a scoop of instant coffee, three sugars and a tablespoon of milk. I ate this sludge like cereal, while the chihuahua enjoyed his curry.

  I was back in bed by the time Paul called. It was past midnight in Germany but his voice was cheery, bright. It reminded me of the photographs of Akane’s teeth that I had examined the day before—pearlescent. I asked if he’d had a good show and he was talking before I got the question out.

  ‘The footwork,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve seen it,’ I said. ‘On YouTube.’

  ‘But the emotion in it. When she points her foot, there’s just so much feeling. It’s like how expressive your arms are, babe, but with her legs.’

  ‘My legs have feelings too. Right now, they’re screaming at me.’

  ‘Wait, are you still in bed?’