Joan Kilby - To Be a Family

Katie walked back to the lectern and took another sip of water. This was a roundabout way of talking about her writing journey, but she couldn’t see how she could take a shortcut and still be authentic. Children and writing demanded honesty.

“From my illness I learned life was too short not to be true to yourself. I loved teaching but I still had a dream of being a writer. How would I feel if I’d been given this second chance at life and at the end of it, I had regrets for what I hadn’t done?” Her voice vibrated and she held out her hands, inviting a response from the audience. A few heads nodded.

“After I recovered I vowed I’d never again put anything on hold. As soon as I felt well enough, I started to write. Soon I was hooked. Storytelling became my passion. After I went back to teaching, I wrote in my spare time. It was as if all my life I’d been waiting to discover what I really wanted to do—tell my own stories.”

A young girl, about seven years old, put up her hand. “Are you Lizzy? Is that what you mean by your own stories?”

“That’s a good question. I am like Lizzy in some ways.” Katie walked slowly across the dais as she thought out her answer. “When I was younger I had a friend who reminded me of a cheeky, mischievous monkey. He made me challenge myself. To climb trees and cliffs, to swim over my head in the ocean, to be brave enough to take risks.”

But when she’d taken a life-and-death risk he didn’t approve of—not getting a double mastectomy—well, he couldn’t handle that. Which was really unfair considering he regularly risked his life with surf and sharks.

“When this boy and I ventured out together I never knew how the day was going to pan out. As we got older we went rock climbing, paragliding, even bodysurfing at Gunnamatta Beach. It was always something a bit dangerous.”

“Weren’t you scared?” a boy called out.

“Often I was frightened out of my wits. But I did it, anyway. Que sera sera.” She spread her hands wide. “Whatever will be, will be. We can’t plan our lives completely. Sometimes we have to trust that things will work out.”

Take her writing, for example. She’d thrown herself into it, not worrying whether or not she got published. Lo and behold, after years and a lot of hard work, she’d sold her first book. Before her cancer she’d been a planner and a rule follower. A perfectionist, she liked being in control of her life. It had taken facing her own mortality to know that control wasn’t possible all the time. She’d given herself permission to break free, to be more spontaneous. Because you never knew what was coming around the next bend.

“Even with that belief, I don’t take chances with my health,” she added. “I’m very careful with my diet, only eating organic, whole foods, mostly vegetarian. I see my naturopath regularly and I take special dietary supplements.” Some blank faces stared at her. Laughing, she waved a hand. “But you don’t want to know all that.”

“Do you still have adventures with your Monkey man?” a brunette woman asked, a small smile playing over her lips.

O-kay. That was striking too close to the bone. Some of these people might know that she and John Forster had grown up together and been engaged and put two and two together.

“I have my own adventures nowadays. I’ve been in remission for six years but my gratitude for being alive hasn’t faded. I regularly take what I call Adventure Days. I get in my car and tootle off down the coast road, heading south on the peninsula. I take my camera and notebook, my hiking shoes and rugged clothing. I’m ready for anything but with no plans whatsoever.”

Mostly, though, she found a quiet spot to walk, read and take photos. Maybe write a little. Pretty tame, really. “Any more questions?”

“Where do you get your ideas?”

From memories of her times with John. They’d had so many wonderful experiences together. She didn’t know what she would do when they ran out. Her own adventures were all solitary ones.

“Don’t tell anyone, but…” She cupped a hand around her mouth and spoke in a stage whisper. “I have an idea tree in my backyard. When I need a new one I go outside and pick it.”

An appreciative chuckle ran through the audience. Katie used that to springboard into talking about her writing habits, the way she organized her office, the books she’d loved in childhood. It was a relief to move on to less personal topics.

She worried she may have inadvertently given a wrong impression that she still took part in dangerous activities. Truth was, she hadn’t done anything risky in years, not since John. Why was that? Had she gotten scared or just lazy? Or was she simply not the adventurous person she liked to think she was? Maybe she’d only done those things because he’d pushed her and without him she was a wuss.

She didn’t like that thought. John didn’t rule her life. She’d proved that when she’d had cancer and they’d disagreed on her treatment. She’d stuck to her guns on no mastectomy. He couldn’t handle that and had abandoned her. That’s when she’d realized she had to rely on herself.

She wanted to be strong. She didn’t want to be sedentary and soft. She needed to push herself. And she would. As soon as she thought of something exciting to do.

CHAPTER TWO

A ROOSTER CROWED. John sat up and stretched, his back sore from the thin mat in the unmarried men’s quarters of the family compound. He’d booked a hotel room down the road then decided he wanted a closer look at how Tuti was living and make sure she was okay. In the bigger towns Balinese life approximated a Western lifestyle. Here in this remote fishing village time seemed to have stood still for the past fifty years.

Nena’s two teenage nephews, with whom he shared the small hut, had already risen and left. Their mats were rolled and stacked against the wall. Just inside the open door was a tray with a teapot and a plate of fresh tropical fruits. He was being treated like an honored guest.

He pulled on shorts and a T-shirt, poured himself a cup of fragrant, fresh ginger tea, and stood in the doorway looking onto the courtyard of the walled compound. Grouped around the outer wall were separate rooms for sleeping, cooking and storage. Judging by the grunts he’d heard from next door, accommodation for pigs, as well.

Ketut, Wayan’s wife, was sweeping the ground clean of leaves and bits of palm frond and flowers left over from the funeral offerings. She glanced over and smiled at him but made no move to talk. That suited him just fine. After yesterday’s exotic festival of people, color, noise—and yes, too much rice wine—he needed time to himself.

He carried the plate of fruit and his copy of Lizzy And Monkey out to the bale shaded by a thatched roof in the center of the courtyard. He sat, crossing his legs on the woven mat that covered the raised platform, and reached for a slice of papaya. The compound was peaceful, with a pleasant smell of wood smoke from the cooking fire. A slender young woman in a sarong lit incense sticks on a small shrine in a shady corner. Chickens scratched in the dust at her feet.

Wayan was a fisherman, but from what John could see, the women did most of the work. The men saved their energy for religious rituals and chatting over a glass of rice wine in the evening.

Tuti came through the ornate stone gate that guarded the entrance to the compound. Her hair was again in pigtails and she wore a pink T-shirt and pink shorts. The toddler was once again glued to her hip, which couldn’t be good for Tuti’s back. But these people were strong, used to doing manual labor from an early age.

She was halfway across the courtyard when she saw him sitting in the bale. She paused, uncertain. He motioned to her. Obediently she walked over, adjusting the baby, a little girl with wisps of black hair and a drooly smile.