Creepy and Maud by Dianne Touchell Page A

she does not see me at all. When I put my hand out, as tentative as the insect wing my Nanna had become, and rest it on her arm, she slaps it away. She goes inside then. And I see I have blood under my fingernails.
     
    She did not even cry when she found out her mother was dead.
     
    Coda: When I put out my hand, I feel scared and I hate her for it.
     

EIGHTEEN

    I think you are wrong to want a heart.
    It makes most people unhappy. If you only knew it,
    you are in luck not to have a heart.
    —L. Frank Baum, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz (1900)

    I’ve always wanted to believe in religion. It all seems so nice. The idea of life having a formula, a recipe, is really quite comforting. Do this and this, add this, mix with this, live three score and ten, and come out cooked. And you go to Heaven. Capital H. A real place. Then there’s Jesus, of course. So even if you miss a few steps of the recipe along the way, Jesus is a sort of prescription to cover up the mistakes—the cornflour in the gravy, the crushed pineapple in the chilli, the bicarb in the toffee pudding. (I took cooking at school because thealternatives were fencing or synchronised swimming.)
     
    I could never get all in, though. I was sort of embarrassed about struggling to accept something so unreasonable. I still like the idea of it. Maybe I should go with one of those religions with a living prophet. One of those groups that dress like pioneers. (Maud would look good in a bonnet.) Do they get updated revelation? Maybe there have been doctrinal advances that the rest of us haven’t heard about. Those groups would probably keep that kind of information close to their chest. You’d have to be on the inside to hear what God was saying to his people these days.
     
    My mum has got religion. She picked it up at the supermarket. There were these young, attractive people handing out pamphlets and salvation one day when she was popping in for some sausages and stewing meat. She always goes to church. Not just at Christmas and Easter, but always. She talks about her religion and Dad has a go at her and she feels persecuted and that seems to please her. My understanding is you’re supposed to feel persecuted if you’re saved. Something about being closer to God through suffering. And Mum does suffer. There are days Dad would gladly nail her to the back fence.
     
    Mum used to take me to church with her for a while, when I was still young enough to be dressed in clothes that would otherwise get me beaten up. I likedit. The building was cool and dark and old, and all the wood was polished. There was always singing and it didn’t matter how badly you sang; it always seemed to sound good. Before the sermon started, I would be taken out the back to a big hall, where all of us kids were told stories and got to colour in pictures of saints. It was the day some lady told us that animals don’t have souls that the whole thing started sounding a bit iffy to me. I remember my crayon stopping in mid-stroke while I considered this new information. They were those awful wax crayons that never give good coverage. The ones where you have to press really hard and end up getting colourer’s cramp. Anyway, I was quite cross. I remember thinking two things: how the hell would she know whether animals have souls, and why wouldn’t anyone spring for some decent coloured pencils or textas for us?
     
    On the way home in the car, I asked my mum about animals and souls. It was before I knew that parents are really the last people you go to with real questions. The only questions you should ever ask parents are the ones that begin with ‘Can I have’ and ‘Can I go’ and that’s only because those questions usually involve the need for cash. But you only find that out through trial and error (mostly error on their part), so I asked her, ‘Do animals have souls?’
     
    My mum didn’t answer me straight away. But thatwas okay. The Sunday school ladies never answered straight away,