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His smile was bland and fixed. But a shadow passed across his eyes. She couldn’t read his expression.
“Just a girl I know in Bali,” he said.
* * *
JOHN TIED A traditional Balinese brown cotton band around his head. He didn’t know Tuti, his six-year-old daughter. He was about to meet her for the first time at the funeral of her mother, Nena. He was mixed-up and confused, not sure how he was supposed to feel. This meeting was never supposed to happen. What would he say? What should he do? What was going to happen to Tuti now?
Incense wafted over the high stone walls of the family compound. Drumming and chanting floated on the sea breeze. Wearing a borrowed batik sarong beneath his short-sleeved shirt John went through the gates to join the dozens of family and friends behind the funeral tower, a thirty-foot-high golden pagoda-like structure built of wood and bamboo that transported Nena’s body.
Women dressed in silk batik sarongs and lace blouses carried offerings of flowers and fruit on their heads. The men wore cotton headdresses and sarongs. The funeral procession slowly wound through the tiny fishing village. There was no crying, no sadness, even though Nena had died prematurely in a motorcycle accident. In Bali, death wasn’t a cause for grief but a celebration of a life that had moved to a higher plane.
John recognized Tuti among the throng by the pigtails that stuck out on either side of her head. She also wore traditional clothing and carried her niece, a toddler almost as big as she was. He hadn’t had a chance to speak to her yet. He’d arrived late last night and the elaborate funeral preparations, already two days old, consumed everyone’s time.
Tuti had no idea who he was. Was there any point in telling her? He’d only come to pay his respects to Nena and to make sure the girl would be cared for.
There’d never been any question that he and Nena might stay together long term. They’d both been clear it was a holiday fling. He’d been on the rebound and Nena, who worked in a souvenir shop in Kuta, a tourist hot spot and part of the surfing scene, wasn’t looking for a husband. When she found out she was pregnant, she made her intentions known. She didn’t want to live in Australia, nor did she want her child to pine for a father who only visited once a year. It was better to raise the child without John. That had hurt but he’d sent her money regularly and extra whenever she needed it. He would continue to help out Nena’s brother and the family.
Being back in Bali, among Nena’s people, brought back memories and emotions from that turbulent time. What he’d wanted out of life and what he’d ended up with were, sadly, two different things. He’d wanted a home and family with Katie but instead she’d gotten cancer and broken their engagement. Fleeing to Bali, he’d had a fling with Nena and accidentally fathered her child.
Katie had been near death but she’d survived. Nena, the picture of health, had died at the age of thirty-three. He and Katie lived in the same small town and he saw her frequently, but their relationship was strained. After his affair with Nena, despite telephone and email communication, he’d never seen her again. It was a tribute to the generosity of her family and community that he was now welcomed into her world.
When he’d known Nena seven years ago she’d seemed very Western. Her funeral, and village life on the less-populated side of the island, was revealing a foreign culture with unfamiliar rituals. He didn’t know whether nonfamily members were aware he was Tuti’s father, but his presence seemed to be accepted.
He joined the procession that wound its way to the cremation grounds next to a temple overlooking the ocean. The coffin was placed in a ten-foot-high wooden bull painted in black and gold standing atop a funeral pyre. The white-robed priest said prayers. There was more chanting, more incense. The dissonant notes of a gamelan orchestra—gongs, bells, xylophones and drums—filled the air.
Someone doused the bull with petrol and set it alight. Flames shot skyward. Heat pushed the crowd back. Silently, John said a few words of remembrance. He hadn’t known Nena long but he’d cared about her. She was gone far too soon.
He glanced around for Tuti. She stood a little apart, on her tiptoes, trying to see through the crowd. Her headdress was askew, her pigtails sagging. Someone must have taken the toddler. In her hands she held an offering of woven palm frond containing boiled rice and marigold petals.
John nudged through the crowd to get to her. He touched her shoulder and mimed picking her up so she could see. She nodded shyly. He hoisted her onto his hip and carried her to the front where he lowered her briefly so she could place her offering by the fire. He didn’t know if he was breaking any customs or committing an impropriety but it felt like the right thing to do. Then her small arm circled his shoulders. He blinked and swallowed around a lump in his throat. Tuti was too young to be without her mother.
* * *
AFTER THE CEREMONY, the feasting began. John set Tuti on the ground and they made their way to a bale, a raised wooden platform where the women were laying out rice, fruits, vegetables and spicy grilled meats on banana leaves.
Wayan, Nena’s older brother, was seated cross-legged on the bale, his legs tucked beneath his brown-and-purple sarong. At his invitation John kicked off his sandals and climbed up, folding his legs into a cross-legged posture. Tuti brought him a glass of rice liquor.
From previous visits to Bali John knew the Balinese often spent their life savings on cremation ceremonies. He had ready an envelope containing several hundred dollars. This he passed to Wayan. “To help with the funeral.”
Wayan nodded his thanks and slipped the envelope into a fold of his sarong. Then he gestured at the array of food. “Please, have something to eat.”
John spent the hours until sundown among Nena’s family and friends. He spoke with the adults but his gaze frequently drifted to Tuti. Now that the formal ceremony was over she and the other children ran around and played. She was a tomboy, climbing barefoot up a palm tree with her sarong hiked up, revealing pink shorts underneath. He smiled to himself. As a boy he’d spent half his life up in trees. Somehow he’d always imagined his son—when he had one—would be a tree climber. He’d never thought of a daughter that way. Yet here was Tuti, just like him in that respect.
One of Tuti’s aunts spoke to her in Balinese with what sounded like a gentle reprimand. Tuti shook her head and giggled, showing her dimples. The aunt smiled and gestured for her to come down. Tuti just tilted her head and laughed again.
John blinked. Until this moment, he hadn’t thought Tuti bore any physical resemblance to him or his family. In appearance she looked much like her mother’s side—brown skin, dark hair, almond-shaped eyes. But the way she’d tilted her head just then…she reminded him of his mother.
The realization rocked him. All through Tuti’s short life he’d been able to hold himself apart from her. Yes, he’d had the DNA test to prove she was his and he did the right thing with support payments. But he’d done that as though sending money to a sponsor child, as if he had no personal ties to Tuti. Even when he’d first seen her it was easy to feel separate because superficially she looked nothing like him.
Witnessing their connection in the small mannerism was living proof they were connected, that Tuti wasn’t just a distant responsibility. She was his daughter. His parents’ granddaughter. His brother and sisters’ niece. It was a bizarre thing to realize here and now—surrounded by Nena’s family—but the foreignness just made the recognition sharper.
Tuti belonged to him. She was part of his family, too. He simply couldn’t walk away from that.
* * *
“THE CROWD IS BIG,” Katie said to Melissa, the woman running the mini writer’s festival at the Summerside Library. She peeked through the doorway at rows of chairs filled with children and their parents. “I thought I’d just be speaking to kids.”
“You’ll be fine.” Melissa touched her arm and smiled. “You’ve got a warm personality. Just be yourself. Let your positivity shine through.”
“But what can I talk about that will interest the adults?” Katie leafed through her notes. “I was planning on telling a story about an adventure Lizzy and Monkey had that didn’t make it into the book.”
“The children will love that. Most authors also talk about how they came to be a writer, what inspires them, their journey to publication, et cetera. The adults will feel they can connect with you as a person.”
“At least I won’t need notes for that.”
Katie followed Melissa into the room and waited to one side of the lectern while the librarian introduced her. A brief round of applause and then a sea of faces—fifty, sixty?—gazed up at her expectantly. She spotted some of her students. Paula Drummond and her son Jamie were also in the audience. Paula, a police detective who would soon be Katie’s sister-in-law, winked at her.
“Good morning, everyone.” Katie tilted her head, waiting.
Her students in the audience chanted, “Good morning, Miss Henning.” A ripple of laughter broke Katie’s tension.
“Thanks for coming. Shortly I’ll talk about how I came to be a writer but first…” She detached the microphone from the lectern, pinned it to the lapel of her blouse and walked onto the dais. “I want to tell you a story about the time Lizzy and Monkey were walking on the beach and found a pirate’s treasure chest....”
For fifteen minutes, the audience listened, rapt. At the end of her story, Katie concluded, “Monkey was sorry to see the pirate ship sail away, but Lizzy was ready to go home for supper. She knew there would be more adventures the next time she and Monkey went for a walk.”
Applause greeted the end of her story, allowing Katie time to take a drink of water. She was buzzing on the energy in the room and grinning inside at the response of the children to her storytelling. The reworked version of this particular adventure had gone down well. For her next book she might test the stories on her class, even pass out a simple questionnaire to better refine the story.
“I always wanted to be a writer, from the time I was a little girl,” Katie said to begin the second half of her talk. “But I didn’t think an author was something that ordinary people like myself became. So because I loved children, I went into teaching.” She paced the dais, thinking about her next words. “I would have been happy doing that for the rest of my life. Then when I was twenty-five I was diagnosed with breast cancer. Even though it’s so rare at that age, there I was, getting chemo and radiation treatments.” She stopped moving and gazed out at the rows of mostly women and children. “It was pretty bad. The doctors, my family, everyone—including me—thought I was going to die.”
There was a rustling in the audience, a few low murmurs. She hoped the parents wouldn’t think her subject matter was inappropriate for the kids. From her experience children were matter-of-fact about life and death. As long as you were honest and didn’t try to sugarcoat the facts, they could handle almost anything.
She glanced out the floor-to-ceiling windows, past the street and the parked cars to a row of gum trees stretching silver limbs into a blue sky. She still recalled how she’d felt after enduring the long months of surgery and debilitating treatments and finding herself still alive.
“Life is a gift.” She returned her gaze to her audience, now utterly silent. She smiled, wanting them to see how well and happy she was. “A gift to be treasured more than a pirate’s chest of gold and jewels. I didn’t die. I got better. The sun seemed to shine more brightly, the colors of the flowers were more vivid. Friends and family were more precious. Even now, years later, every day I wake up is a blessing.”
Katie walked back to the lectern and took another sip of water. This was a roundabout way of talking about her writing journey, but she couldn’t see how she could take a shortcut and still be authentic. Children and writing demanded honesty.
“From my illness I learned life was too short not to be true to yourself. I loved teaching but I still had a dream of being a writer. How would I feel if I’d been given this second chance at life and at the end of it, I had regrets for what I hadn’t done?” Her voice vibrated and she held out her hands, inviting a response from the audience. A few heads nodded.
“After I recovered I vowed I’d never again put anything on hold. As soon as I felt well enough, I started to write. Soon I was hooked. Storytelling became my passion. After I went back to teaching, I wrote in my spare time. It was as if all my life I’d been waiting to discover what I really wanted to do—tell my own stories.”
A young girl, about seven years old, put up her hand. “Are you Lizzy? Is that what you mean by your own stories?”
“That’s a good question. I am like Lizzy in some ways.” Katie walked slowly across the dais as she thought out her answer. “When I was younger I had a friend who reminded me of a cheeky, mischievous monkey. He made me challenge myself. To climb trees and cliffs, to swim over my head in the ocean, to be brave enough to take risks.”
But when she’d taken a life-and-death risk he didn’t approve of—not getting a double mastectomy—well, he couldn’t handle that. Which was really unfair considering he regularly risked his life with surf and sharks.
“When this boy and I ventured out together I never knew how the day was going to pan out. As we got older we went rock climbing, paragliding, even bodysurfing at Gunnamatta Beach. It was always something a bit dangerous.”
“Weren’t you scared?” a boy called out.
“Often I was frightened out of my wits. But I did it, anyway. Que sera sera.” She spread her hands wide. “Whatever will be, will be. We can’t plan our lives completely. Sometimes we have to trust that things will work out.”
Take her writing, for example. She’d thrown herself into it, not worrying whether or not she got published. Lo and behold, after years and a lot of hard work, she’d sold her first book. Before her cancer she’d been a planner and a rule follower. A perfectionist, she liked being in control of her life. It had taken facing her own mortality to know that control wasn’t possible all the time. She’d given herself permission to break free, to be more spontaneous. Because you never knew what was coming around the next bend.
“Even with that belief, I don’t take chances with my health,” she added. “I’m very careful with my diet, only eating organic, whole foods, mostly vegetarian. I see my naturopath regularly and I take special dietary supplements.” Some blank faces stared at her. Laughing, she waved a hand. “But you don’t want to know all that.”
“Do you still have adventures with your Monkey man?” a brunette woman asked, a small smile playing over her lips.
O-kay. That was striking too close to the bone. Some of these people might know that she and John Forster had grown up together and been engaged and put two and two together.
“I have my own adventures nowadays. I’ve been in remission for six years but my gratitude for being alive hasn’t faded. I regularly take what I call Adventure Days. I get in my car and tootle off down the coast road, heading south on the peninsula. I take my camera and notebook, my hiking shoes and rugged clothing. I’m ready for anything but with no plans whatsoever.”
Mostly, though, she found a quiet spot to walk, read and take photos. Maybe write a little. Pretty tame, really. “Any more questions?”
“Where do you get your ideas?”
From memories of her times with John. They’d had so many wonderful experiences together. She didn’t know what she would do when they ran out. Her own adventures were all solitary ones.
“Don’t tell anyone, but…” She cupped a hand around her mouth and spoke in a stage whisper. “I have an idea tree in my backyard. When I need a new one I go outside and pick it.”
An appreciative chuckle ran through the audience. Katie used that to springboard into talking about her writing habits, the way she organized her office, the books she’d loved in childhood. It was a relief to move on to less personal topics.
She worried she may have inadvertently given a wrong impression that she still took part in dangerous activities. Truth was, she hadn’t done anything risky in years, not since John. Why was that? Had she gotten scared or just lazy? Or was she simply not the adventurous person she liked to think she was? Maybe she’d only done those things because he’d pushed her and without him she was a wuss.
She didn’t like that thought. John didn’t rule her life. She’d proved that when she’d had cancer and they’d disagreed on her treatment. She’d stuck to her guns on no mastectomy. He couldn’t handle that and had abandoned her. That’s when she’d realized she had to rely on herself.
She wanted to be strong. She didn’t want to be sedentary and soft. She needed to push herself. And she would. As soon as she thought of something exciting to do.
CHAPTER TWO
A ROOSTER CROWED. John sat up and stretched, his back sore from the thin mat in the unmarried men’s quarters of the family compound. He’d booked a hotel room down the road then decided he wanted a closer look at how Tuti was living and make sure she was okay. In the bigger towns Balinese life approximated a Western lifestyle. Here in this remote fishing village time seemed to have stood still for the past fifty years.
Nena’s two teenage nephews, with whom he shared the small hut, had already risen and left. Their mats were rolled and stacked against the wall. Just inside the open door was a tray with a teapot and a plate of fresh tropical fruits. He was being treated like an honored guest.
He pulled on shorts and a T-shirt, poured himself a cup of fragrant, fresh ginger tea, and stood in the doorway looking onto the courtyard of the walled compound. Grouped around the outer wall were separate rooms for sleeping, cooking and storage. Judging by the grunts he’d heard from next door, accommodation for pigs, as well.
Ketut, Wayan’s wife, was sweeping the ground clean of leaves and bits of palm frond and flowers left over from the funeral offerings. She glanced over and smiled at him but made no move to talk. That suited him just fine. After yesterday’s exotic festival of people, color, noise—and yes, too much rice wine—he needed time to himself.
He carried the plate of fruit and his copy of Lizzy And Monkey out to the bale shaded by a thatched roof in the center of the courtyard. He sat, crossing his legs on the woven mat that covered the raised platform, and reached for a slice of papaya. The compound was peaceful, with a pleasant smell of wood smoke from the cooking fire. A slender young woman in a sarong lit incense sticks on a small shrine in a shady corner. Chickens scratched in the dust at her feet.
Wayan was a fisherman, but from what John could see, the women did most of the work. The men saved their energy for religious rituals and chatting over a glass of rice wine in the evening.
Tuti came through the ornate stone gate that guarded the entrance to the compound. Her hair was again in pigtails and she wore a pink T-shirt and pink shorts. The toddler was once again glued to her hip, which couldn’t be good for Tuti’s back. But these people were strong, used to doing manual labor from an early age.
She was halfway across the courtyard when she saw him sitting in the bale. She paused, uncertain. He motioned to her. Obediently she walked over, adjusting the baby, a little girl with wisps of black hair and a drooly smile.
John held the baby while Tuti climbed onto the bale. She took the child back and nestled her between her crossed legs. When he offered her a piece of mango she gave it to the toddler.
“How are you this morning?” he asked.
Tuti smiled shyly, leaving him unsure whether she’d understood him or not.
From his wallet he took out a photo of himself and Nena, a shot of them perched on stools at an outdoor bar on Kuta Beach. He wore a T-shirt and board shorts and had his arm around her. Her black hair was cut short, Western-style, and she wore a yellow dress.
He showed Tuti the photo, watching her face to see if she recognized her mother. And him. She glanced up, her eyes speaking a question.
“Yes, that’s your mother—Meme.” Tuti nodded. He pointed to his photo and then at himself. He started to say, bapa—father—then changed it to, “Nama saya John.” My name is John.
The feeling of connection with her was persisting—growing even—but he hadn’t come here intending to claim her. And if he wasn’t claiming her there was no point in telling her he was her father. He’d talked to Wayan about this when he’d first arrived and Tuti’s uncle had agreed.
It felt surreal even having such talks. He and Wayan had also discussed setting up a bank account for Tuti’s support payments so Wayan and Ketut could continue to care for her. Was that enough? It didn’t feel like enough. He was Tuti’s only living parent. But what was the alternative? Move here and look after Tuti? That wasn’t going to happen. Bring her back to Australia to live with him? How could he rip her away from her home and the only family she knew to bring her to a foreign country?
Yet it felt wrong to just go away and leave her behind. Tuti was his family. Family was a big part of who he was. He was close to his parents and his sisters and he loved spending time with his nieces and nephews, teaching them to swim, playing cricket with them on the beach.... They would all adore Tuti.
Tuti stared at the photo of her mother for a long time. Reluctantly she held it out to him. John shook his head and gently pushed it back. “You keep.”
She smiled again, her eyes shining. She understood the meaning of his gesture if not the words. John couldn’t help but grin back. With her jaunty pigtails and dimpled smile she was cute as a button. He set his teacup on the platform and brought out Katie’s book. Tuti edged closer, to peer over his arm. Not wanting to hand it to her while she was holding the sticky baby, he opened to the title page and showed her the inscription Katie had written.
“Bukuh for Tuti,” he said in pidgin Balinese, pointing to her name. She have him a half smile, half frown, clearly not understanding. Later he would get Wayan or Ketut to explain.
He read the story aloud, letting her look at the illustrations as long as she liked before he turned each page. He wasn’t sure how much she understood but she listened attentively and more than once laughed, whether at the story or the pictures, he couldn’t tell.
“Do you go to school?” he asked.
Clearly recognizing the word “school,” she nodded vigorously, her face lit. In a flurry of movement she handed him the toddler and scrambled off the bale. John held the tot in one arm, keeping the book away from her sticky, grasping fingers with the other.
On the ground, Tuti reached for the baby. “Come. School.”
John slid off the bale and, with the book tucked beneath his arm, he followed Tuti out of the courtyard and down the stone steps to the narrow potholed street.
High on the hillside, set among lush vegetation, a hotel looked out on the ocean. Across the road was an open-air restaurant with just a few rickety tables and a languid ceiling fan stirring the hot air. The village straggled along a mile or so of coastal road, small houses interspersed with homestays for tourists and a few small shops selling dry goods, fresh produce and, outside, liters of gasoline in glass bottles.
Tuti hurried down the road, glancing over her shoulder to make sure John was following. Between buildings, through banana trees and bougainvillea and coconut palms, he glimpsed the curving sweep of a black sand beach. A ragged fleet of outrigger fishing boats with their triangular sails was returning with the morning’s catch. At a cleared lot John paused to watch as one boat landed. The fishermen hopped out and, joined by other men waiting on the beach, dragged the wooden hull up the sand.
Tuti tugged on his hand, impatient with his interest in what to her was everyday life. Her destination was nearby, a squat cement building covered in chipped green paint. She walked up to the doorless opening. “School,” she said proudly.
John kicked off his flip-flops and ducked his head to step over the threshold. A table and a chair for the teacher were at the front of the room next to a blackboard on an easel. A woven mat covered the floor, presumably for the children to sit on. An old tin can held stubs of pencils and a plastic basket contained perhaps a dozen dog-eared notebooks. There weren’t any desks, or books, or posters depicting the alphabet or the multiplication table, much less anything as expensive as a computer.
He was surprised at how small and ill-equipped the school was. In Bali, elementary school, at least, was compulsory and free. And he’d seen large, modern schools in some of the bigger towns. But Tuti’s village was tiny and remote and no doubt couldn’t attract the government funding needed for a bigger school.
Tuti bounced on her bare feet, wanting his approval.
John forced a smile. “Good. Very nice. Tuti go to school here?”
She nodded, her grin widening, and held up a finger. “One…year.” She sifted through the notebooks and found hers, showing him rows of wobbly Balinese script.
His stomach hollowed. Tuti was so eager to learn, so proud of her tiny school with its acute lack of facilities. How much learning could she do here? Read and write, add and subtract, that seemed to be about it. When he got back to Summerside he would see about sending books, stationery, laptops, whatever he could afford to improve the situation.
