Cutting the Cord Read online

  A flute begins to play, and conversations resume. Children run smiling to greet Henry and he welcomes them with open arms and pulls homemade lollies (made by First Mother) out of his pockets, tossing them into the air. ‘Later there will be a piñata,’ he says. They jump up and down and want to know when and how long they will have to wait. Amira tightens.

  Britta will never fall into her grandfather’s arms again.

  Second Mother and her Biologicals come towards them, then. Selena is taller than Mother and wears a lavender sari with beaded parrots down one side. Her eyelashes, heavily painted, are like long spider legs. Light, fluttery kisses on cheeks are exchanged in a show of false friendliness.

  ‘How lovely you could make it,’ Selena croons, her smile exaggerated. ‘It’s so nice to have the family together, although it’s only for such a short time.’

  The three Biologicals – all girls ranging from eighteen to Amira’s age – stand off to the side, pouting and doing their best to look cheerful whenever Father or Selena turns their way. These are Father and Selena’s offspring. Selena has not allowed them to be trained. Unlike Mother, who is unable to have children, but will do anything for the Cause.

  ‘Randy and Kolya aren’t here yet,’ Amira points out, her voice coarser than she intends. On seeing how her comment silences Selena, she quickly adds: ‘The house and garden look immaculate.’

  Selena blushes at this, and Edith looks down at her fingernails. Amira immediately regrets her clumsy comment. Mother, who has no self-esteem, will interpret this as a failure on her behalf, believing her home is not as well kept. Why can Amira never think of the right words? Why are the wrong ones always coming out?

  ‘Thank you, Mira,’ Selena says. ‘I have a lot of help, of course.’

  ‘Don’t be so modest, Mum,’ Jocie says (so the Biologicals are listening after all). ‘You work hard enough at it: accept some recognition for something, for Pete’s sake.’

  Selena’s role as a trophy is well known and, despite Jocie’s comment, they all know that she only tells the gardeners and the housekeepers what to do. But this is considered work by some, including Jocie, who is every bit like her mother. Edith, on the other hand, knows all about real work. She is the woman of substance and Selena resents the fact. The sound of the horn saves them all, marking the beginning of Father’s speech. Voices hush and eyes turn to him.

  He smiles broadly, opening his arms to the crowd and declaring in his confident melodic voice: ‘Friends, tonight we have much to celebrate. Our period of waiting and unarmed battle is well and truly over. Already, we have successes! Already the masses are talking about our Movement and our message is spreading around the globe: the infected will be sent on, freed, and Authenticity will come!’

  The crowd claps and whistles.

  ‘And I’m pleased to announce that First Mother and I are the proud parents of another daughter. We give you Amelia!’ he gestures at the infant still snug in Amira’s arms. ‘May her life be blessed!’

  Splendid applause breaks out and people rise from their seats. A fiddle and other instruments start playing a tune and Father makes his way around the crowd, shaking hands and hugging people, taking the time to speak with them, finding out about their ailments and goings-on. Singers, the finest in the Movement (which include, much to Amira’s chagrin, the Biologicals) begin to sing songs about the New World they will witness. Laith and Oscar go to collect glasses of punch, as she and Mother wander the yard with Amelia.

  Edith puts a cool hand on Amira’s cheek. It seems Mother feels just as cold as she does. ‘My two beautiful daughters.’

  People stare expectantly at Amira as she passes and, with a sense of trepidation, she lowers her gaze to her new sister.

  ‘Your father and I are very impressed with your work,’ Mother says.

  Amira lowers her chin. ‘It’s lonely.’

  ‘Yes, it would be.’ Mother strokes her arm. ‘I get lonely, too, now you are gone. But we have to think positively. At least you’re not at home all day, cooking and cleaning, making sure your children have done their calculus, learned a new set of French vocabulary, memorised a segment of the Manifesto, run their ten kilometres and all the while trying to look attractive in case the love of your life pops in.’

  Amira chuckles.

  ‘You’ve come so far, Mira. I’m so proud of you and everything you’ve achieved. You hold a big piece of my heart in your hands.’

  At this, Amira smiles, as Laith and Oscar approach with glasses of punch.

  ‘No vodka,’ Laith says, sulkily.

  ‘Some things never change,’ Amira replies.

  ‘Hey, you can’t complain,’ Laith says. ‘Father gave you and Kolya the interesting work. Must be because you’re better looking. It’s the pale blue eyes with the dark hair, fools them every time.’ He sticks out his index finger and thumb in the shape of a gun and fires it at her, like when they were young and they played slaves versus masters and Kolya and she were always the slaves. She is lucky to be paired with Kolya, who is the best fighter of the Warrior Brothers.

  I’m no slave! Are you calling me a slave? Are you calling our sister a slave? We’re completely free spirits.

  Oscar looks at the baby. Amira senses a weariness about him that she isn’t accustomed to seeing in her younger brother.

  ‘Computers?’ she asks him.

  ‘Computers,’ Oscar repeats with a sigh.

  ‘Important work,’ she replies.

  He shrugs and his eyes flit to Mother. ‘Are Kolya and Randy coming at all?’

  Mother bites her lip. ‘From what I know. But that isn’t always much.’

  People continue to gaze at them, closing them in on each other, Amira feels. Her brothers notice the looks too.

  ‘They’re all jealous,’ Laith says.

  ‘They’re not jealous,’ Mother responds. ‘They’re afraid.’

  Laith smiles. He revels in the power their fear gives him.

  Kolya finally arrives; he steps off the verandah, clean-shaven and tall in a white kaftan with matching pants. He looks exactly the same as when Amira last saw him (except for the outfit). She wants to run over and hug him and notices that she isn’t the only one staring at him: many of the women are stealing glances at him.

  Mother gazes affectionately up at him. ‘Your brother looks strong,’ she says proudly. And indeed his appearance lives up to the Slavic meaning of his name: victory of the people.

  Amira smiles half-heartedly. ‘That’s what you wanted him to be. You and Father,’ she tries to keep her voice casual.

  Father embraces Kolya and the elder man’s smile becomes a curdling grimace as the younger murmurs something in his ear. Then Kolya’s smile stretches too far.

  Where is Randy? Surely they all have to be here tonight.

  The two men stride vigorously into the house, followed by Father’s bodyguard, and an unexpected feeling of uneasiness comes over her. She lifts Amelia from her chest and hands her to Mother. ‘I won’t be long.’

  She trails through the house after the men, up the stairs. Their pace is so quick, so determined, she almost has to jog to see their backs, to hear the snippets of their chatter.

  ‘Why do you have to interrupt me with this now?’ Father says. ‘… always working … important occasion.’

  Kolya rakes a hand through his dark brown hair. ‘Sorry, Father. Sorry.’

  From the top of the stairwell, they enter the study. She makes it to the open door, just as Kolya is about to close it. Beyond Kolya, Father’s eyes watch her from under his glasses and he says to her: ‘This is a private meeting.’

  Kolya mouths ‘Talk soon’ and shuts the door.

  She stands in the corridor with her hand pressed against the wood. Listening. Silence, broken only by her short breaths. Then she is startled by a creak behind her. She turns around and Mother is outside one of the bedrooms, a baby monitor strapped to her waist, but no Amelia. She presses a finger up to her lips – shh – and tiptoes down t
he stairs.

  Amira moves quietly down the hall and pauses to look in on her sister. The door is ajar. She presses it open. The light from the corridor spills into the room and slants onto the cot by the window. Amelia lies sprawled out on her back, the blanket pushed to her feet. Her hands are half-closed fists. Already a Warrior, Father would say.

  Amira’s heart rate increases. She steps forwards, reaches out and gently touches Amelia, feeling the baby’s chest rise and fall under the weight of her hand. A heavy load, indeed.

  4

  The minutes pass and still the men do not appear. Amira goes back out to the garden where the night is rapidly growing colder and the festive atmosphere more boisterous. She begins to imagine painting the crowd and tossing several different lights and mediums around in her mind. Her usual mixture of abstract and figurative would work well here. Purples, charcoals, blacks. Oil on canvas. Then she smiles, as she remembers when Mother had first given her oil pastels.

  She was ten years old. Mother came into her room, handed her a box. Micador oil pastels.

  ‘You’ve quite a collection of pictures under your bed,’ she said. ‘Along with my watercolours and paintbrushes.’

  Amira met her mother’s soft gaze, blushed and dropped her eyes. Her paintings and drawings were supposed to be her secret, one thing that was just for her. Besides, whenever Randy found her sketches he called her a scribbler.

  Amira looked at the pastels, their vibrant tips showing through the packaging. The pigment was so strong, she wanted to touch it with her fingers, smear the colour across white paper, rub it into her skin.

  ‘Are they mine? Or for everyone?’

  ‘Keep them; don’t let the others find them,’ Mother said.

  Mother moved to the door, and hesitated. Turned back to face her.

  ‘Mira, if you can, draw the sun, not rain and clouds. Flowers. Not decapitated chickens with no feathers.’

  Amira nodded.

  When Mother left, Amira closed the door and scrambled under her bed. All of her paintings and drawings were still there, plus a new pack of bleached A4 paper. Mother must have put it there. She took the first sheet from the top, placed it on her desk, carefully opened the oil pastels, selected the yellow.

  Sun.

  Her hand began to circle, the brightness overlaying the stark white paper. She blended the colour with some orange and alternated between the two, building lines and layers. Time seemed to evaporate as she drew flowers for Mother. Fields of flowers beneath blue skies. Her fingers shaped forms, creating plants and new worlds, imperfect representations that nonetheless existed perfectly on the paper. She finished a picture, then another and several more. There was a knock at the door.

  She said nothing, hoping the intruder would go elsewhere.

  ‘I know you’re in there, Mira.’

  Kolya.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Come for a bike ride.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Down to the dam?’

  ‘Take Laith.’

  Silence.

  ‘What are you doing in there, Mira? Mother said to leave you be.’

  ‘Then why don’t you?’

  ‘Randy’s being a pain.’

  She stared miserably at the door. The red oil pastel in her warm palm became sticky. She turned and began the outline of a red tulip. After a moment, she heard Kolya leaving.

  Her mind wandered, and so did her hand. Before she knew it, a tulip was encased in a teardrop. A lake of flowers in tears. She didn’t know what it meant, only that it felt secure, right, and like she was connected to something real. The drawing allowed her to completely let go. Even though she had destroyed Mother’s pretty flowers.

  Outside her window the sky gradually darkened. She was aware at one point that Mother came in, asked her a question, switched on the light, left again. When it was black outside and the pastels were worn thin, the door opened, and she let out a cry.

  ‘Mira, what is it?’ Mother asked.

  ‘Nothing. I just got a fright.’

  Mother stepped towards her. Looked at the pictures scattered on Amira’s bed, on the floor. Grimaced.

  ‘It’s teatime. You need to wash your hands.’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  Mother’s eyes moved to a plate on her desk. There was a sandwich on it. ‘You didn’t eat your lunch.’

  Amira shrugged. Father would make her eat it if he were here. Maybe she’d receive a smack for not looking after herself. But he was at Selena’s, and she would eat what she wanted, just as, when she had the time, she would paint or draw without him bossing her about.

  ‘Mira, I don’t know what has gotten into you lately, but I’m not having you go without tea again. Wash those hands.’

  She did as Mother said, but at the dinner table, as her brothers munched their food, she nudged the shepherd’s pie around on her plate until it was time to do the dishes. Mother stood next to her, staring into her eyes.

  ‘Boys, leave us, please; I need to talk to your sister.’

  ‘Oh, Mira’s in trouble!’ Randy said. He led the others into the living room.

  Mother cleared her throat. ‘I thought if you had the day to draw it would make you happier.’

  ‘It did,’ Amira said.

  Mother shook her head. Glanced at Amira’s plate of food. ‘How about I make you some wedges? You love those.’

  ‘I want to go back to my room.’

  Mother pulled out a chair, sat beside her. ‘How about we make a deal?’

  Amira didn’t like the sound of this.

  ‘You eat your dinner and tomorrow, after the run, I’ll take you into Nowra and you can pick out some new paints.’

  Amira lifted up a forkful of pie and shoved it into her mouth.

  Mother grinned. ‘That’s my girl.’

  Twenty minutes go by before Kolya reappears, his face pale. Guests rush to talk with him, but his eyes seek her out. Amira motions to the side of the house, and he nods.

  She waits for him on a small wooden bridge arching over a pond that quivers here and there with goldfish. Solar lamps are scattered on the bank. Behind her there is a sudden stomp; she turns and Kolya stands before her, laughing effortlessly. On impulse she hugs him. His arms are too firm, and she can feel his strong heart pumping. After a few seconds he pinches her in the ribs.

  ‘Ow!’ she protests, looking up at him.

  He winks at her with blue eyes that shine with a contagious optimism that has always belied his past. ‘Getting weak in your old age?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she replies stiffly. ‘Have you met her?’

  Kolya smiles. ‘Amelia? Yes, I’ve met her. You’ll have a rival on your hands with her.’

  Amira rolls her eyes. ‘What kind of adoption agency would let people in their fifties adopt?’

  Kolya shrugs. ‘A desperate one, I guess.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  He sounds blasé. ‘Look, for local adoptions there’s no maximum age limit for an applicant. Besides, it’s good for Mother to have someone at home. She was growing depressed with us away, and having to face Selena and the Biologicals.’

  Amira examines his face. There is a new hint of distraction about him that she can’t quite figure out. ‘What were you talking to Father about? Where is Randy?’ she asks.

  He fixes his gaze on the pond. His jaw clenches, almost imperceptibly, and she finds his silence infuriating.

  ‘Well? What’s happening?’

  ‘Leave it, Mira, would you?’

  She draws a deep breath; it is pointless to press him further. He isn’t going to talk about it, and that is that. Once Kolya has his mind made up, it is almost impossible to budge, and he’ll grow cranky at her for trying. She settles into his silence. After a few moments he turns to her and touches her face, running a finger along her jaw. He frowns.

  ‘You’re too thin. You eat?’

  ‘I eat.’

  ‘Well, eat some more. You’ll star
t to look like Selena.’

  ‘I’ll eat, okay?’

  His hand drops to his side. ‘Nice job on Baumann.’

  ‘Nichols wasn’t too bad either,’ she replies.

  A smile spreads across his face, and she punches him in the upper arm. He rubs the sore spot and says, ‘Still working out, I see.’

  She is silent for a moment. Then she says simply, ‘Yeah.’

  Kolya looks at her. ‘Something’s the matter,’ he says quietly. ‘With you. What is it?’

  She looks at the way the bright moonlight shines on the pond. A fish opens and closes its mouth on the water’s surface. She is aware that Kolya is staring at her, waiting for an answer, but she doesn’t know what to say.

  ‘Well? What’s wrong?’

  Amira rubs the back of her neck. ‘Baumann had a ten-year-old granddaughter who discovered him straight after his death. I saw her.’

  Kolya scratches his forehead. ‘That’s no good.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I assume she didn’t see you?’

  She glares at him, indignant. ‘You really think I’m that slack?’

  ‘No, that’s not what I …’ He takes in her expression for a moment, and she hopes that nothing else will be said about the incident. But Kolya knows her too well. ‘You feel bad for her?’

  The fish plummets into the depths of the pond.

  ‘Yes.’

  He stares at her with wide eyes. ‘A slave girl? A granddaughter of an infected leader? Are you serious?’

  She inhales. It must sound absurd. ‘Yes.’

  He arches a brow. ‘But she’s hardly neutral. It’s her kind we need to be worried about. Don’t be fooled by her, Mira.’

  She rubs her forehead, pressing against the sharp pain that has gathered there. ‘Kolya, I don’t know how much longer I can do this. I’m not as good as you Warrior Brothers. I’m not as strong inside.’

  His eyes are on her. She wants him to really see her, to help her find a way out of her internal mess.

  ‘You’re tired, that’s all.’

  She sighs. ‘Yes. Tired.’ What had she been thinking, expecting Kolya of all people – the best Warrior of them all – to understand? ‘Father seems the same as ever,’ she says, in an effort to change the subject. ‘A hippie who still thinks he can light up the world.’ If another Member hears her comment, she will be reported for disrespect. But she could tell Kolya anything.