Being Here by Barry Jonsberg Page B

telling, she is not my mother anymore. She has been transfigured into character. I select the words of her portrayal. If she appears a monster, then the fault is mine for I must lack sufficient skill.’
    The girl is silent for a moment. I’m not sure she understands my point. That is fine. I’m not convinced I understand it either.
    â€˜I mean, I know you loved her and everything,’ she says finally. ‘At least, that’s what you tell me. But she did what she did and how you tell it doesn’t matter. She doesn’t appear a monster. She is a monster. That’s the simple … truth.’
    I smile and shift in my seat. Even something as straightforward as that causes pain. My joints have become laced with ground glass.
    â€˜This was a farm,’ I say. ‘A dog was not a pet, but a worker. Mother could have shot him when he no longer had a function to perform. Most farmers at that time would not have hesitated. He ate food we could not afford and gave nothing back. Yet she allowed me to keep him for no other reason than I loved him. Is that the behaviour of a monster or a caring mother? Then he growled, threatened her. She believed he would attack. Every farmer would have done what mother did. The world has changed, Carly. Don’t judge the past with the standards of the present. It leads to … error.’
    â€˜But …’ She stops for a moment, marshals her thoughts. ‘You already said it wasn’t a farm anymore. Your mum was selling it all off. So that argument doesn’t work, does it? And I reckon you know it.’
    I smile. I am beginning to like this girl.
    â€˜No,’ I say. ‘You are right.’
    She waits and I smile again. I think she is learning my techniques.
    â€˜I have had a lifetime to reflect on things that as a child I barely comprehended,’ I continue. ‘I see it in sharp focus now. Mother was eliminating competition. Now there’s a modern strategy for you. When father died, no one remained but me and God. So she poured her energy into both of us. God is a very special friend and I know He’s always around when you need him. But he’s rather like an imaginary friend, don’t you think? Flesh and blood, no matter your spiritual devotion, always takes precedence.’
    â€˜What do you mean, “eliminating competition”?’
    I take a drink of water. It has a metallic taste. The water of my past was not like this.
    â€˜Conflict.’ I say. ‘My narrative must rely on it, but it is rarely the stuff of day-to-day existence. Mother and I clashed infrequently. When we did it was because someone else intruded on our world, threatened it. The Camerons, later the church. Mother was only truly happy when it was just the three of us. Her, me and God. Alone on the farm.’
    â€˜So what’re you saying? She got rid of your dog ’cos you loved him when you should have only loved her and God?’
    â€˜I don’t think it was anything conscious, but yes. Pagan took love that was rightfully hers. When he was no longer there, the last impediment to total devotion was removed. Mother wanted a world that was always shrinking. The farm. Us. Her image of paradise, I imagine, was a small plot of land, a transfigured Eden, containing only her, me and God.’
    â€˜Oh, right, Mrs C. Not a bitch, then. Just a freakin’ psycho.’
    I laugh so hard my water spills. Carly scoops up her recording device and takes some tissues from my bedside table. She mops my lap first, then her machine.
    â€˜Judgemental, aren’t you?’ I say when I get my breath back.
    â€˜Hey, I just think some things are right and some are wrong.’
    â€˜You’d have got on well with my mother then. That was precisely her philosophy.’
    That stops her. She takes her seat again and we are back in the old position. All we need is a television camera and it would be like a political interview where we