alien gestures in his tiresome ‘ET phone home’ routine. I’m playing his extended belly like a bongo drum.
I tap my knuckle gently on the glass panel. She doesn’t hear. I knock, hard and quick. She doesn’t hear me. I slip off the door and I jump back on again. ‘Mummmmmm,’ I whisper. I knock again, knock twice then three times, the last one too loud, too hard. I look right, up along the corridor. Laughter and applause still echo around the corner of B Block as the stars of When a Child Is Born to Hand Jive make their triumphant end-show bows. ‘Mummmm!’ I strain in a whisper. I knock louder. Two heavy bangs and she turns her head to me. Finds me looking frantically at her through the window. ‘Mum,’ I whisper. I smile. And she lights up for a flicker, a light switches on inside her and switches off just as fast. ‘Merry Christmas, Mum.’ And I’m crying now. Of course I’m crying now. I didn’t know how much I needed to cry for her until now, hanging by my fingers to the door of cell 24 in the Boggo Road women’s clink. ‘Merry Christmas, Mum.’
I beam at her. See, Mum. See. After all this, after all these mad moments, after Lyle, after Slim, after you getting put away, it’s still the same old me. Nothing changes, Mum. Nothing changes me. Nothing changes you. I love you more, Mum. You think I love you less but I love you more because of it all. I love you. See. See that on my face.
‘Open the door, Mum,’ I whisper. ‘Open the door.’
I slip off and I climb back up and a nail splits hard on my right hand middle finger and blood runs down the top of my hand. ‘Open the door, Mum.’ And I can’t hold on now and I wipe my eyes and the tears make my fingers slippery but I cling on again just long enough to see her staring blankly at me, shaking her head. No, Eli. I read that. I read it like I spent a decade reading my brother’s silent gestures. No, Eli. Not here. Not like this. No. ‘Open the door, Mum,’ I spill. ‘Open the door, Mum,’ I beg. She shakes her head. She’s crying now too. No, Eli. I’m sorry, Eli. No. No. No.
My fingers slip off the door and I fall to the hard polished-concrete floor of the prison corridor. I struggle to find my breath in my tears and I lean back against the door. I bang my head twice, hard, against the door, which is harder than my head.
And I breathe. I breathe deep. And I see the red telephone in Lyle’s secret room. And I see the sky-blue walls of Lena Orlik’s bedroom. I see the picture frame of Jesus who was born today. And I see Mum in that room. And I sing.
Because she needs her song. I don’t have a record player to play her song, so I sing her song instead. The one she played so much. Side one, third thick line from the edge. That song about a girl who never said where she came from.
And I turn and sing into the cracks in the door. I sing into the light of a crack one centimetre wide. I lay down on my belly and sing into the crack in the bottom of the door.
Ruby Tuesday and her pain and her longing and her leaving and my cracking Christmas Day voice. I sing it. I sing it. Over and over. I sing it.
And I stop. And there is silence. I bang my forehead against the door. And I don’t care any more. I’ll let her go. I’ll let them all go. Lyle. Slim. August. Dad. And my mum. And I’ll go find Caitlyn Spies and I’ll tell her I’m letting her go too. And I’ll be dumb. And I won’t dream. And I will crawl into a hole and read about dreamers like my dad does and I’ll read and read and drink and drink and smoke and smoke and die. Goodbye Ruby Tuesday. Goodbye Emerald Wednesday. Goodbye Sapphire Sunday. Goodbye.
But the cell door opens. I can smell the cell immediately and it smells like sweat and damp and body odour. Mum’s rubber sandals squish on the floor by my side. She falls to the floor, crying. She puts a hand on my shoulder, weeping. She falls on me in the doorway of