Penumbra Awakening

Judy McNelley

‘A sister is a gift to the heart, a friend to the spirit, a golden thread to the meaning of life.’ - Isadora James

Sisters. A female sibling. Sounds simplistically familial – a double helix of similarity. But not the same. A commonality through birth. A relationship by choice. This is the memorial evolution of my sisterly experience.

*

Being the eldest child, my 1960s toddlerdom consisted of undivided parental adoration until, at the age of three years, my self-indulged world detonated. Mum and Dad brought home a brand-new baby girl. Why would they purchase another one when they already had me? The parental love and affection which had been wholly generated towards me was now dispensed dyadically. My individual spotlight was dimming.

Eventually, time and reassurance helped nullify the chasm of my sibling discontent. From rug-rat tolerance to favourite playfellow, to protector, to school mate, to best friend - my sister, Piera.

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What’s In a Name?

‘Jud-ITH!’ That was my in-trouble name. The crescendo of those final three letters elicited anxious sweats, and a propensity to hide until the threat of ruction had subsided. I despised my birth moniker. Four other pupils were also named Judy in my primary school class alone. My name was … common. In nominal contrast, Piera had the best name. Being an Italian feminine derivation of Peter, her name offered a European je ne sais quoi upon utterance; rock solid in voice and meaning; a unique identifier. Piera = distinguishable. Judy = ordinary.

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School Day Groove (Toowoomba 70s Style)

uniform uniforms

knee high socks

sturdy Clarks’ afoot

tough brown Globite

broad brimmed straw hat

home-sewn elastic chin strap

times tables x 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

rods to add, and subtract

by colour, not numbers

Staedtler tins with a trusty HB

claggy glue decoupage,

lined books for cursive

spelling bees, ball games

penguin nuns in habit

warm, mini glass-bottled milk

jam waves surf atop mock cream buns

meat pies doused in Heinz

Fish Finger Fridays

big sis, l’il sis, hand in hand

with Hector the Cat jingles

walk don’t run on mental replay

ring-a-ding-a-ling – school’s in.

*

The Man From the Moon

Sharing is caring, except when it comes to childhood pathogens. In a simultaneous eruption of chickenpox blisters, Piera and I convalesced in front of the telly. We resembled an abstract Jackson Pollock masterpiece. Spotty and wild. Coated in a thick, beige smear of Calamine lotion, our fingernails shuttled to-and-fro in search of itch relief. The brown coloured carpet under bum was dappled with contrasting ointment tones. Our wooden box television set blared the ABC’s Mr Squiggle, aiding our recovery. Miss Jane queried as to how she and Mr Squiggle could outsmart that grumpy Blackboard. We would ponder, scratch, ponder more thoughtfully, then scratch some more. And scratch each other. Chickenpox teamwork! Mum could be heard asserting in the background, ‘I hope you two aren’t scratching those blisters. If you do, you will end up with terrible scars.’ Mum was a registered nurse who knew the ramifications of scratching that incessant itch. Did we heed her medical and motherly advice? Heck no – we foraged our respective epidermal layers with grit sandpaper intent. The scars remain to tell the tale – our varicella-zoster remnants. These together-like moments were the joyous building blocks of our juvenescence.

*

Spunk, Dag or Drongo?

Our single sex, Catholic primary school upbringing was quickly consigned to the educational archives as we progressed to Home EC culinary disasters; Mothercraft lectures; coconut scented Reef Oil lunch bathing; tucked up hemlines; QWERTY instruction; boys. The nuances of High School!

Piera and I had always shared a bedroom in the tiny, post-war Queenslander we called home. Nightly pre-sleep conversations progressed from petty juvenile meanderings to current crushes of the heart. We would giggle, cheer, jeer, or console each other in our mutual quest for teenage love.

‘Time for sleep. Goodnight!’ echoed authoritatively from our parents’ bedroom. We complied. Reluctantly.

*

Greased Lightning

Ready! Set! Bang! The sound of the starter’s whistle propelled Piera into terrestrial locomotion. A swift leg cadence with a lengthy stride were early identifiers of her kinetic prowess. Athletics her chosen sport. Running her happy place.

I hated running. Aqueous pursuits were more my thing. The submerged, unfaltering black line was my meditative companion. Lap after lap after lap. Chlorine wafts my scent of choice. Despite the polarity of sporting agendas and personal preferences, our core passions were a Venn diagram nexus - steadfastly united.

*

Greyhound to Success

Studying to become a teacher was my post-school calling. University Drama and Human Movements were my chosen majors. Caught in the oppositional amalgam of sport and creativity, I struggled to find my campus tribe. Eighteen months in, I chose to defer my studies for a year to consider other life options. Returning to the family fold was welcoming. I was fortunate to gain employment with a retail firm in the interim. Piera was now a Senior in high school. After Year 10, she had relocated to a school which offered a rural vocational pathway. Tending to the animal stock in this school’s rural centre solidified her desire to become a jillaroo. During her final September school holidays, she was allocated an interview date to attend the Longreach Pastoral College – a further footstep towards her country dream. After Longreach formalities, she would then visit a friend’s property at Mitchell for the remainder of her school vacation.

We all trundled to the Greyhound bus station to bid Piera farewell on her college quest. Mum and Dad squeezed her affectionately with parental pride. ‘Good luck!’ they effused. I wrapped my arms around her back, lifting her upwards into an exuberant throttle of a bear hug. ‘Dazzle them Pep!’ I elatedly chimed. Once seated, her excitement lay evident as she squelched her face against the bus window in sheer silliness. Our vocal trio of ‘Bye Piera’ was in sync with a metronome of family waves. The bus slowly pulled away from the depot. Waves and smiles. More waves and smiles, until the bus disappeared beyond the urban horizon.

*

An Ordinary Day

Friday, 27 September 1985. A perfect Spring day. Clear blue skies. Warmish.

Wake up. Breakfast. Shower. Dress. Bye Mum. Bye Dad. Off to work.

Following my lunchbreak this day, I was summoned to the Human Resources Department. Uh-oh! Am I in trouble? Customer complaint? What did I do wrong?

A simple ‘Judy you have to go home.’ message was relayed to me.

‘But why?’ I required some form of clarity.

‘Just go home NOW!’ was the pithy response. No explanations. Just urgency. Homebound abidance forthwith.

Driving into my street, I noticed a police car parked directly outside of our house. Oh no! Mum! Dad! As I rushed inside, I could see my parents slumped together, sobbing uncontrollably on our couch. A tall, moustached Senior Constable introduced himself before empathetically stating, ‘Judy, there’s been an accident. Piera has fallen off a horse whilst mustering cattle. I am so sorry.’ He paused, then added, ‘She has died as a result of this fall.’

In that moment, our lives changed irrevocably, on an ordinary day.

*

So Long, Farewell, Auf Wiedersehen, Goodbye

Mum and Dad were a blithering mess. They had lost a daughter. Their child. I had lost a sister. They still had a daughter. But I no longer had a sister. Am I still a sister, even though I now have no sister? Who will be my bridesmaid? I am never going to become an aunt. Step up Judy! Survival mode kicked in. There were calls to be made. Details to organise. Funeral director engagement. Coffin. Flowers. Mass booklets. School notification. Incoming phone calls abound. Seventy-six in all. I transcribed every caller detail, sentiment and contact number. A journalist from the local newspaper rang asking questions about Piera’s accident. Tomorrow’s tabloid-filler article. I should have answered more glowingly on Piera’s behalf, but generic answers were all that I could muster in my addled state. A lingering regret.

My parents were adamant they wanted to see Piera’s body. I respected their decision, however I wanted to remember Piera in our last moment together; smiling; waving; happy; excited; ALIVE. So, I declined.

*

An enormous, bush flower funeral arrangement lay upon Piera’s white coffin at the foot of the Cathedral altar. Her R.M. Williams’ riding boots and dusty Akubra took the spotlight, as beams of stain-glassed colour haloed them in light. Every pew, burst with people. The overflow of numbers huddled around all of the entrances, spilling outside in human layers. Don’t cry Judy! You are in God’s house. God! Why did God do this to our family? For what were we being punished? My faith now faltered. Questioning. Angry. Get a grip Judy! Focus. I have little memory of the remainder of this day. Maybe tomorrow I will wake up and this will all have been a horrible dream. The reality remained - my sister was gone - forever on the edge of seventeen.

Four weeks later, we received an official looking letter in the mail addressed to Piera. We opened it as a family. CONGRATULATIONS! Piera had been accepted into the next year’s intake at Longreach Pastoral College. A bittersweet achievement.

*

Adjustment Blues

The hordes of support dwindled as the weeks, then months passed. Christmas and Piera’s birthday milestones came and went. Numbed by grief, we celebrated, suffocating in pools of tears, sinking lower and lower into the depths of a dark abyss. No light. Airless. Just pain. Indescribable emotional pain. A hurt which severs your heartstrings beyond repair. Others expected our family to return to some sort of normality. ‘Get over it!’ was occasionally spewed in contempt. Why can’t they understand? Death has no time limit. No return policy. My social description became, ‘She’s the dead girl’s sister.’ Isolation was easier than explanation.

*

Groundhog Day

Work. Eat. Sleep. Repeat.

Work, Eat. Sleep. Repeat.

Work. Eat. Sleep. Repeat.

Sleep. Eat. Sleep. Repeat.

Sleep. Eat. Sleep. Repeat. Repeat.

*

My life had become nothing more than a monochromatic Rebus puzzle.

*

Eclipse of the Soul

My father suffered in silence, his wound hidden, quiet. My mother poured herself into patient care. Her purpose refocused on healing others rather than addressing her own loss. The expected solace of the swimming pool left me marooned, floating in limbo. We were all drowning, gasping for some existential resuscitation.

*

Early one Sunday in March, the simmering chuckle of the neighbourhood kookaburra woke me from my sleep. As the raucous laugh split the darkness, I looked out of my bedroom window to see the penumbra of morn struggling to illuminate the horizon. ‘Go for a run,’ echoed in my head, ‘Go for a run.’ ‘Go for a run.’ ‘Judy, get the fuck out of bed and go for a run!’ I begrudgingly obeyed this incessant voice. The filters of dawn dripped shards of light as I headed out onto the street. One step became two, three, then four - a downhill physical rhythm came into play. My vacant mind became absorbed in the motion. I could smell flowers, dewy grass, even bacon crisping in someone’s kitchen. Diesel exhaust plumes floated skyward as a semi-trailer thundered past. The morning chorus of birdsong trilled in anticipation of a new day. This sensorial minutia was surprisingly invigorating.

Thump. Thump. Thump. I could hear someone running behind me. I moved further left to let them pass. No one passed. The trailing pulsatile steps continued. Strangely, this sound felt comforting. A companion to my solitariness. Turning, I realised no one was there.

*

The Running Remedy

Running became part of my weekly routine. This daily prescription contributed to my healing. For the first time in a long time, I felt a sense of content. The phantom footsteps continued to follow me with regularity. Occasionally, I would be startled by an actual person who was much speedier than I, churning past with their own unique foot strike. Mum and Dad beamed when I shared my theory that Piera was running with me. Seeing me in a healthier mental state was beneficial for them too. I had reached the point of a new beginning, a hope for my tomorrow. Maybe this was my Kübler-Ross moment of acceptance. The shadows of sorrow still prevailed, but their menace was not nearly as pronounced. Running was my thoroughfare back to living.

Nearly four decades on, I still run with my little sister. My happy place.

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