Enza Gandolfo - The Bridge

‘I don’t usually talk about Ada.’ Sarah paused, surprised at how raw and close her grief remained even after all this time.

When Sarah visited Ada’s mother, they sat together on the couch; Mrs Haris held her hands and they both cried. Sarah was so angry at Ada, but also angry at herself — maybe there was something she could’ve done to save Ada. She was angry at Ada’s mother too: wasn’t a mother supposed to know? Sarah remembered noticing that the crystal ornaments were no longer on the mantel. And wanting to ask about the black Greek urn that Ada’s grandmother had brought with her when she came to Australia, about the framed cross-stitch with a map of Greece inside a map of Australia, and the wind-up clown on a unicycle that was the first thing Nick had pinched. ‘Mum thinks it was a gift from one of his friends,’ Ada had told her.

Those ornaments were so different to the objects Sarah’s mother collected; the only objects allowed in her parents’ house were original. Original . Her mother loved that word. ‘These are original , one of a kind ,’ she said and gave the history of the object, when it was made, by who, and where. She never said, ‘Of course it cost a packet’ — to talk about money was crude — but it was implied, and everyone understood.

‘It must be nice to be surrounded by beautiful things,’ people had said to Sarah when she still lived at home. Sarah didn’t tell anyone except Ada how much she hated it. If you were lucky enough to have so much, the least you could do was be grateful.

Sarah shook one of the glass bells, the Christmasy tinkling echoed down the hallway, too light, too frivolous. She felt the urge to keep confiding in Mandy, to tell her how much she hated walking around her parents’ house — how she seemed unable to estimate the size of herself and was constantly knocking into tables and couches. She had a series of bruises on her hips from the sharp corners of her own table. But at her parents’ house, everything was worth money, a great deal of money; everything was irreplaceable. If she broke something, which she’d done from time to time — an English vase from the 1800s, a fine china teacup from a set like the ones in the Lodge — her mother would scream, get on her knees, and pick up each piece as if it were gold. She’d give Sarah that look: How in the hell did I end up with a daughter like you?

Mandy’s bell was cheap, replaceable. There were hundreds of them in bargain and gift shops, at the big trash-and-treasure markets. It’s the thought that counts. But for Sarah’s mother it wasn’t the thought that counted. ‘That’s what people say,’ she’d told Sarah, ‘when they are too cheap to buy a worthy gift.’ Sarah put the bell back on the doily.

The door opened. ‘You can come in,’ Jo said.

The blinds were pulled down. The curtains were drawn. The only light in the room came in through the opened door behind Sarah. It took a few minutes for her eyes to adjust and for objects in the room to emerge. A desk with a computer. A dresser. Two chairs. There were clothes and a stack of books on the floor. There was a wardrobe and a bed, on the edge of which Jo tentatively perched. In the kitchen the outside world had been silent, but in the bedroom there was no escape: cars and trucks driving past, the click of the traffic lights, the voices of cyclists and pedestrians.

‘Sorry, it’s a mess,’ Jo whispered.

Sarah left the door slightly ajar and walked around the clothes on the floor to sit on the bed next to Jo. Jo’s hair was a mess of tangles. ‘Do you mind if I open the curtains?’

‘I prefer the dark,’ she said quickly.

‘Okay.’

A melancholia pervaded the room like a fog hovering low over a valley.

‘I heard the doorbell earlier?’

‘Ashleigh’s mother.’

‘She came here? Why? I didn’t think she’d come here.’

‘She doesn’t want you or your mother at the funeral. I know it might sound harsh,’ Sarah said.

‘I didn’t know if I could go. Whether I’d be allowed to go. I don’t know if I could go even if they let me. I can’t… I can’t imagine…’ There was a tremor in her voice. She paused. ‘I can’t believe she’s dead.’

‘It’s sad. It must be difficult for you. We don’t expect young people to die, it’s always shocking.’

‘I never, ever thought about Ash dying. I thought about my mother dying, my father, my grandmother, all sorts of people, but never Ash. I keep thinking I should run around to Ash’s house to tell her about this bad nightmare I had, about her dying. And Ash would tell me off for killing her in my sleep, and we’d be laughing about it.’

‘That’s tough. There’s one other thing. Ashleigh’s mother wants the stuff you have that belonged to her daughter.’

‘Does she hate me? I’m sure they all hate me.’

‘She’s grieving for her daughter. She’s sad.’

‘What does she want?’

‘Anything that belonged to Ashleigh.’

‘Her clothes are here… and her make-up, and other things… We’re always leaving things.’ Jo’s voice softened back to a whisper. ‘I keep thinking she’ll race through the door, she’ll be laughing. Telling me it was some joke.’

‘That would be a cruel joke. Did Ashleigh play jokes on you?’

‘Do I have to give her everything?’

‘Yes. Yes, Jo, you do. Legally, everything belongs to Ashleigh’s mother. I know you were friends. I’m sure that Ashleigh would like you to have something of hers, but I doubt she had a will, and at this point, it’s better if you do what her mother asks.’

‘So I have to do it now.’

‘Yes. I can help you. Can we turn on a light? The bedside lamp.’

‘Okay.’

The small fluorescent lamp radiated a yellow light that gave the room a jaundiced pallor. Even in the dimness Sarah could see Jo’s face was pale, the shadows under her eyes deep purple. They both turned to scan the untidy piles of clothes on the floor, in front of the wardrobe, at the end of the bed, hanging over both chairs. Picking up a backpack that was leaning against the desk, Jo opened the zipper. ‘This is Ash’s,’ she said. ‘We can put things in here.’

Sarah held the bag open as Jo moved slowly around the room. She picked up a pair of track pants, shook them, folded them, and dropped them into the bag. She did the same with a t-shirt and jacket. Rummaging under the bed, she emerged with a plastic bag, in which she put a pair of white thongs.

Numerous bottles, tubes, and containers were scattered across the top of the dressing table. ‘We shared our make-up. Not sure what is hers and what is mine.’ Selecting one of the two make-up bags, the green one, Jo gathered lipsticks, eyebrow pencils, brushes, tubes of shiny cream and foundation, and stuffed them into the bag until it was overflowing. She crammed in as much as possible and did up the zipper and passed it to Sarah. She picked up two pairs of earrings and a ring. Sarah slipped them into the side pocket of the bag and zipped it up.

Jo slid the wardrobe doors open and pushed aside dresses and shirts; clothes fell off hangers and onto the floor. ‘They only had one in the shop,’ she said, holding up black jacket with a row of silver studs on each shoulder. ‘We both wanted our own one. We bought it half each. Do you think I should give her this?’ Jo brought the jacket up to her face and closed her eyes.

‘You could keep that one.’

Jo didn’t move. ‘It’s so soft. And it smells like Ash, her perfume: Be Delicious.’ But she folded it and handed it to Sarah, who put it in the bag.

‘Is there anything else?’

‘I don’t know,’ Jo said. ‘I can’t think what else now.’

‘Okay, this will do.’