Finding Artemisia: A Journey into Ancient Women’S Business

Prologue

Dear Diana,

Please don’t hate me! I am so sorry. And please don’t think I’m ungrateful for everything you and the others have done, but the truth is I can never say no to Mum.

We never really got to talk about her, even though I know you wanted to. You said I am very protective of her, and I guess it’s true, but I’ve had to protect her against Dad and Grandma Vera.

Vera hates Mum, and I can see her point of view, but that’s my problem, as you know. Artemisia, the omniscient. Like a movie camera on a swivel, I’m always capturing point of views—or is it points of view? You know how a camera has a mirror inside? Well, I have a maze of them.

It’s hard to talk about Mum. She’s like a mirage shimmering in the desert; no matter how many times I try to get to her, even when I crawl across hot sand and pebbles, she’s never there when I arrive.

At other times, she likes to do the crawling, carrying her big, splintery cross on her back. That’s how she showed up this time. And even though I knew it would worry Gran sick, I packed, wrote the Dear Gran, don’t worry, but Mum needs me (again) note, and sneaked out into the dark, like a cat burglar.

We steal across the lawn to the getaway car, and I throw my loot in the back. Here we go again—another car, another escape.

We roll silently down the hill. I look back at Gran’s window to check that her light hasn’t come on. It seems like a lifetime before the engine kicks over. Do brakes work if the motor’s dead? Finally, the car starts to chug and we kangaroo-hop down the road, with no headlights.

Saving batteries. Mum glances my way for a second.

I can hardly see her face, just the trace of her profile. Whose car is this anyway? Her silence tells me it’s his, what’s-his-face’s. Did he leave it for you?

Sort of.

Well, I hope he’s not going to show up looking for it.

We’ll see.

I try to see what she’s thinking as the headlights come on. But her face is like a scary mask; the eyes are missing, and the mouth is just a slit. The cheekbones look like they’re carved out of rock. For a minute, I think no one’s in there.

As the lights hit the palm trees on the beach side, their fronds wave at me. I wave back. Wait for me, amigos. I need you to be there when I get back. And I will be back, I promise you.

Whenever Mum breaks up with someone, she always comes and gets me. And I just go along. But this time, I had a choice now that Gran’s my official guardian. But it’s a bit of a Sophie’s choice. I’ve read the book and seen the movie. I know.

When the car swings north onto the highway, I’m suddenly pissed off. Sucked in again! Where are we actually going?

I was thinking Queensland might be warmer this time of year.

Queensland? I hate Queenslanders. You know that.

Some places must be nice. She sounds nervous. The Glass House Mountains, the reef, she says, glancing at me. There are no stingers in winter.

Is she mad? I’ve got school, Mum, and therapy.

What do you need therapy for? You’re barely fourteen. She makes a pathetic attempt at smiling. Look at you. You’re beautiful.

Looks can be deceptive. I turn my head away from her. But I can still feel her looking at me.

Well you’ve put on weight.

Mum! I can’t believe she’s talking about my appearance. Hasn’t she learned anything? You’ve been told about the weight word. Even Gran doesn’t use it.

Vera! she says, raising her voice. That bitch stole you from me! And the other one.

She means you, Diana. And it’s on!

I’m getting out! My hand jerks at the door handle. I can see myself hurtling down the embankment and running off without a scratch. Gran wouldn’t even have to know I’d left. But what about Pinky in the boot?

I’m sorry. Her hand moves across the seat towards mine. I didn’t mean it.

I move away.

I promise I won’t talk about them.

Her face looks like it’s melting in the half-light.

There’s a servo up the road. We can have a hot chocolate.

Can you believe that? Chocolate?

I’ve tried so often to draw Mum. I can’t. Not even a sketch, but I guess that’s a sketch—a word sketch. Classic! I’ll keep it for my novel. I am going to write one someday. I’ve decided I’m going to be a professional writer; ever since you helped me with The Oracle. And now that I’ve got Pinky, I can write wherever I go.

I’m also going to be a psychologist like you. I used to want to be a dietician because I know so much about food, but now I want to do therapy. I like it. It’s just like chess, but both players are on the same side. You’re a tough player, though.

Anyway, back to the writing.

It’s early morning, and we’ve left the coast behind. We’re already over the border and up in the tablelands. I’ve managed to sleep all the way. I can do that in cars. I ask how long it’s going to be, and then I pass out.

I wake up to putrid caravan-park light.

Where are we?

In apple country, she says, like it’s meant to be magic or something. The place is famous for it.

With the engine off, it’s really cold. I start shivering.

Won’t be long. She reaches across to touch my hand. The guy’s just gone to get the keys to our van.

Was he expecting us?

Yeah, I made a booking.

That is so not like her.

Now my whole body is shaking. I thought you said Queensland would be warm.

Didn’t you bring a jacket?

Hello! What am I wearing?

There’ll be a heater inside.

And there is. It’s a two-bar thing on the wall. It smells like shit when I turn it on.

You know I’m always cold. But then again—

I’ll put the kettle on, and we can have some tea, she says, checking the cupboards for cups and things.

Huddled on the bench seat under the radiator, I want to remind her I don’t drink tea.

Everything seems to be here. She looks pleased with herself. Bed linen and plenty of blankets. She smiles at me.

Mum. I’m not planning on staying.

I know that, she says, filling the kettle. I just want some time with you before I go to work.

Work? She never works.

Picking apples. She tries to look enthusiastic. I’m starting a new life.

How many times have I heard that?

I repeat! I am only staying for four days. I grab a blanket. The stupid heater is only warming the top of my head.

Is that one of your magical numbers? she asks in her annoying, little doll voice.

I pull the blanket over my head. I so don’t want to be here.

The caravan rocks as she moves about. If only it was a boat going somewhere.

She brings her tea and sits beside me. I should be settled in by then.

So is that what you wanted me for? I stick my head out of the blanket.

Not really, she says, trying to sound convincing. I thought we could, you know, hang out and read like we used to.

Mum and I love reading. That’s one thing she’s given me—books.

And I’ve brought my watercolours.

And art. But she’s a much better artist than I’ll ever be.

You can catch the train back from here whenever you like.

A train? She’s been doing some serious homework!

Yep. This is the new me, getting organised. She gets up, stands in front of the stove, and then totally vagues out.

I hate it when she does that. Mum! I shout at her.

She snaps back in. But you can’t tell Vera.

What? I sit up. Do you mean where we are?

You can’t make contact at all.

What about? I mean you, Diana.

None of them. They could trace the call.

That makes me laugh. As if you would do that.

I could go to jail.

For what? She can’t be serious. But then I see she is. Very serious.

Kidnapping!

You can’t kidnap your own daughter.

Vera’s got custody until you’re sixteen.

I know that. I was there, remember?

The court made me out to be a bad mother. She starts sniffling.

I so hate this story, the-all-about-her story.

I put my fingers in my ears and stare at her. She looks like a cut-out character in an electric orange pop-up book. Everything in here is orange; the vinyl, the tabletop, the seats—even the bedspreads! And you know what I think about orange!

I yell at her, It’s so ugly in here—so unbelievably ugly.

She starts to laugh because she knows it’s true. That makes me laugh. I love it when she laughs. I’ll do anything to make her smile. Anything.

But then she stops, like the tap’s been shut off. She turns off the light and takes her tea and blankets into the weird bedroom thingy. I need to sleep, she says.

The windows are all steamed up now. I rub at the one behind me and see the pale sun breaking through the grey mist. Then I open Blue, my old food box with all my emergency supplies. All measured out. Enough for four days.

But the rice milk’s not there! It was before; I’m sure of it. It always is.

I leap up and start rummaging through everything. She hears me.

What are you looking for? she calls out.

Nothing, don’t worry. By now, I’m frantic. Go back to sleep.

If you’re looking for the rice milk, I’ve put it in the fridge.

She touched my milk! The nerve of her.

I open the fridge. It’s the only thing in there. Thank God. I wipe off any contamination and put it back in its place before I lock Blue down. Then I grab Pinky and break out of the sucky, plastic, orange prison.

I hate you, I yell outside her window and make my way through the maze of gigantic mobile homes until I come to the only decent tree I can see, a Queenslandish tree.

By now my knees are weak, and my hands are shaking. I can hardly breathe. I hold Pinky against the panic in my chest. I try to breathe in the pink light, like you taught me. By the way, that’s what I was doing when Pinky arrived on my birthday. That’s why I named her Pinky, even though she’s white. Oh, and she was wrapped in pink, too.

I look at her, but I can’t open her. I’m far too upset to deal with a reflective surface. If only I could rock myself under this tree, but I’m not going to, not in Queensland. I’d get arrested and sent back to one of those bloody Brisbane hospitals.

By the way, thank you for not sending me back to hospital, Diana. I know I’m still really fucked up, but I wouldn’t have survived another re-feed. You know the night Mum first rang you? She’d just been shaking me and shouting, You’re gonna die! You’re gonna die.

She does care for me. And I do love her.

Maybe she thinks I should be better after everything you and the others have done for me. Maybe she doesn’t get that it’s only been six months and I still need you. And maybe Vera’s right and Mum is jealous of you.

Oops, here she comes.

Come and have your breakfast, she sniffs. Her nose is red from crying.

I don’t cry anymore, I can proudly say.

Aren’t you meant to be on a plan?

What do you reckon? She makes me so angry.

How can I help?

You can’t. I need professional help. Remember?

I know that. That’s why I called that woman in the first place.

Her name is Diana, Mum.

But she took Vera’s side.

No, she didn’t. Here we go again.

She wrote a report to the court.

That’s the first I’ve heard of it. And it is.

That’s why I wanted to have time with you, to make it up to you.

Do you really want to help me, Mum?

She nods pathetically.

Then leave me alone.

And she does.

I watch her walk away until she disappears. Then I want her to come back. Then I miss her.

I’m always missing someone. When I’m with Gran, I miss Mum. And when I’m with Mum, I miss Gran. And now I’m missing you.

By now, the lights are on at the office building. I wonder if they’ve got Wi-Fi in this hick place. Then I could send all this to you, so you could know why I left. I turn Pinky on and open the bomb file. ’Cause that’s what it’d be like if I sent it. It would blow Mum away.

There’s a fat guy in the office. Doesn’t look like he’d know what Wi-Fi was if he fell over it.

So here’s what I’m going to do. Pray! That’s what I always do when I’m desperate. When I was little, Gran taught me to pray to the Virgin in the sky. I wish I still believed in her. But I do believe in you, Diana, so I am going to pray to you.

Dear Diana, this is very hard to say—I mean pray. Please don’t give up on me. You’re the best psychologist I ever had. Never give up on me.

Artemisia

Part 1

The Retreat

My life raft is leaking. I can’t let anyone else on board; there’d be too much weight.

From The Oracle

Chapter 1

Diana braced herself and turned the shower on full-bore, squealing as the cold water pelted her head and leaked into her wetsuit top. She held her breath and peeled off the warm, rubbery skin.

The water pounded her chest and arms, turning them red. Aghh! she yelled. No one was in earshot except a barking Rex and her son Jack, playing Frisbee with his father. She could have kept on yelling, even stomped her heels had she wanted. Their sundeck was completely private.

Instead she turned off the tap and looked down at her feet—bits of sandy seaweed stuck between the decking cracks. Mindlessly, she squelched them with her toes, wrapped herself in a beach robe, and stood staring at her family playing on the beach in front of her. There was an awful lot to lose.

Ten years—certainly the longest relationship she’d ever had. And what about Jack? All the evidence was conclusive about the mental health of children subjected to divorce. Even when the couple approached it in a civilised way, children often carried a sense of guilt or resentment at the inconvenience of living in separate houses, missing one parent or the other. And then, of course, there were the acrimonious divorces where partners not only hurled venom at each other in front of the children but also used them as venting boards.

Marcello had been glad there were no children involved in his first marriage. He told her so. In fact, she was certain his keenness to have Jack was proportional to how secure he felt in his marriage to her. But his expectations since she’d become a mother were changing the way she felt about him.

When they’d first met, children weren’t even on their agendas. They were both committed to their careers and their media profiles.

Initially, when she’d sought out the media as part of her advocacy for girls, anorexia was not a popular subject. But not long after, two networks were vying to have her on their chat shows. That’s how she’d met him—in the make-up room before a Sydney morning show. He was the darling of Melbourne’s orthopaedic circuit, and was in Sydney overseeing some of his repaired Olympic athletes. She was doing her weekly spot.

Under the bright lights of the dressing room, he joked with her. And what are you famous for?

Eating disorders, she mumbled beneath a mound of make-up.

In athletes? He talked to her reflection, his head reclined in the big leather chair.

Not necessarily. The mound spread like mortar across her face. She didn’t want to encourage him. She’d been in make-up often enough to know how pressed for time it was and how little this sort of chat was appreciated.

Look up, please. His beautician waved a mascara wand in front of him. Maybe you could continue this conversation later.

And so they did, over coffee in the studio canteen, with their make-up still on.

So, basically, that whole thing was a beat-up. He placed his espresso cup neatly on its saucer and grinned at her.

His teeth were well-shaped and white, but not porcelain white or manufactured-looking. She noticed teeth. They nearly always are set-ups for a beat-up. There’s a formula. They scour news events and then arrange experts to comment. She hadn’t seen his teeth in the studio, just his mouth and his full lips. They were outlined with a very fine ridge. Buddha lips.

Is that so? He leant back, his suit silken and impeccably cut, Italian for sure. Have they ever asked you to bring a patient along with you?

She liked that he seemed interested in her work. I was ambushed once. She would never forget it. It was on a show where I was describing some of the psychological features of anorexia. After I finished my spiel, they brought out this poor girl. She could barely stand up. They seated her right beside me and asked me what I could do to help her.

That’s outrageous! His eyes still lined with mascara. What did you do?

Took a breath. Diana laughed. "And then I quietly explained that it would take some time—some very private time—with the young lady before we could come up with a plan."

Touché. He seemed genuinely impressed. That’s thinking on your feet.

She tried not to blush. They didn’t think so. She shrugged. They didn’t renew my contract.

They both laughed. And when they stopped, there was an awkward silence, the kind that sits between two people when they realise they’ve just been carried away.

He took control. We haven’t really introduced ourselves . . . Marcello.

There was something about the way he pronounced his own name. The c was a ch, and the double l seemed to roll for a very long time. The o was a round musical note.

We were introduced on the show, Diana said, as he extended his hand. It was fine and slender. She put hers into it. The skin felt softer than her own.

Not like this. His eyes stared into hers.

She withdrew her hand. At his age, he was probably married, a player up in Sydney for a good time.

An Italian name. She tried to sound matter-of-fact.

Exactly, but not Roman like yours.

My mother named me. But her lot’s from Ireland, and my Dad’s come from England. There’s a smattering of French, I believe, but no Roman relics that I know of.

You never know till you start digging them up.

Have you dug up yours?

Didn’t have to. My parents brought theirs with them.

So he was the child of immigrants and a doctor to boot. There was something unpretentious about that. But with his looks and money, he’d have to be taken. Lovely to meet you, Marcello. She stood up. But I have to get back to the other side of the city. He hurried to her side to remove her chair. A gentleman. Charming.

He touched his cheek. And I must get this stuff off my face before I go and enjoy the rest of the day in your fair city.

Neither of them moved. He was much taller than her. She had to look up to him.

I’m not going back to Melbourne till tomorrow.

She knew he was fishing, but she didn’t want to bite. She was tired of being hit on by married men. Besides, she was still smarting from her last relationship.

I don’t suppose you’d be free to have dinner with me tonight. His voice was calmly confident.

Only if— she wanted to say only if you’re single.

Only if what? he teased.

She didn’t want to give herself away. Only if I get to choose the restaurant. She would wait till then to probe his eligibility status. It is my town after all.

Leaving the city had been a huge change for both of them. Work-wise it was effortless, but their private lives quickly felt the strain. For the first time, they were really living together full-time. Before that, their relationship had been an exciting, intercity affair—passionate, even desperate, their gruelling workloads allowing only tantalising snatches of each other.

But then, living together brought predictability, demands, wilfulness, and dwindling spontaneity—especially on weekends. If Marcello wasn’t working, he wanted her to stay in bed with him and forgo her swimming. She’d agreed to Saturdays but not Sundays. Soon, she looked forward to Sundays.

And now there was Jack.

She could hear his laughter floating on the breeze. He must not be sacrificed for either of their sakes.

Chapter 2

Their house was a perfect fit to their wish list: near the beach, north-facing, not in a housing estate, no close neighbours, no bricks or tiles; with retracting glass doors and windows for a no walls feel, an open fireplace,