Ambiguous loss is loosely defined as grief that has no definitive boundary or closure. A person enduring prolonged ambiguous loss finds themself in a constant state of limbo, experiencing an all-too-real purgatory suffered without fault of their own.
Everyone has had a small taste of ambiguous loss these last few years, during the universal covid pandemic, when ‘normal’ life was suddenly taken from us, and we all wondered if our ‘lives’ would ever be the same again. The full gamut of individual actions and reactions resulted. I am still coming to terms with the realisation that bog roll seemed to be top of the list for what the average punter was most concerned in losing stock of during that small two-year window of uncertain future.
The studies on ambiguous loss began in the 1970s, with a PhD research opportunity by Ms Pauline Boss. Dr Boss studied the spouses of soldiers MIA (missing in action) during the Vietnam War. Those missing soldiers’ families were observed to experience a “frozen grief”, unable to move through the grieving process without confirmation of their loved one ever possibly coming home.
As with all experiences, emotions, and emissions, ambiguous loss is cast along a wide spectrum. On one end, ‘home engineers’ box-on with their masks on in supermarket aisles over three-ply paper rolls; on the other scale, generations of children grow up sobbing in foetal position cogitating their perceived desertion.
Anyhow, enough of all that telling. Please allow me, with the help of a true exponent of ambiguous loss, to show instead.
Back in October 2017, thirty long months after Ray and Jennie first went “missing”, the WA government released the offer of a $250k reward for information to solve Ray and Jennie’s “mystery” — Ray’s death and Jennie’s disappearance. Politicians and media were all over it like desperate homemakers on the last shelved pack of Sorbent.
"The last two years have seen our family caught in an agonising and exhausting limbo, desperate for answers and for closure," was a small snippet of the media statement released at that time by Jennie’s daughter Kelly, on behalf of her family.
We are now another sixty-six months down that unrelenting road, ninety-six new moons in total, soon stumbling headlong into the ninth dark winter.
I recently reached out to Kelly, begging her for another entry to this blog. Kelly replied: “Hmmm, I have a short story I wrote last year that’s sort of a reflection of grief that pulls from an autobiographical context if you want to look? … Feel free to use it, it's just sitting in a word document gathering dust.”
That short story is posted below. Sorry for the long intro, I feel like the curator standing in front of a work of art, a masterpiece, explaining what the artist was portraying. It felt necessary, only for the purposes of this blog.
Thank you to Kelly for trusting and allowing me to share her breaking and entering, public nudity, citrus theft, boundless grief, and blameless purgatory. The stoicism of Jennie’s progeny in the face of the most horrendous form of ambiguous loss is the utmost credit to her memory.
The White House
“Pull in here,” I manage to rasp, pointing at the curb. I glanced over at him in the driver’s seat, and could see a hint of confusion on his face, the twitch of a frown and a slight tilt to his head. but the crunch of blue metal under wheels told me he wouldn’t argue. The old commodore, once white, now beige from clinging dust, crept up alongside the house. The car rumbled, then spluttered as he turned the key back. The radio was off, and the silence swallowed us.
“What are we—” he began, before I opened the door and stepped out onto the gravel footpath.
Summer heat rolled up off the ground and into the hazy peach sky. Cars dotted the silent street, battered utes and thirty-year-old sedans flogged to an inch of their life. I pay them no mind. My eyes were locked on the building in front of me. The White House. That was what we called it. On a street overwhelmed by the off-white plywood of the 1950’s, the White House was a colonial throwback. A forgotten relic of the past, buried under weeds and cobwebs, left to wither in the unforgiving sun. I heard a car door open behind me, the weight of the machine shift as he clambered out after me.
“What are you doing? We’re going to be late,” he urged, and I could hear the soft rustle of fabric as he checked his watch. I stared at the White House.
There was a large tree transplanted into the yard, soft leaves casting a darker shade than the growing twilight. A few dry native flowers pocked out from shrubs creeping under the fence. The yard was neat in the way only retired couples could achieve, crisp white roses, the perfect flat grass a rich green despite the summer drought. The veranda was warped and dry, 100 years of walking, rain and sunshine leaving the greyed planks lifting from the foundations. I stepped forward, placing a hand on the white picket fence, rubbing my thumb on the rough wood under the porous paint.
“They can start without us,” I said with a shrug, keeping my back to him. A pause, then a slow intake of breath from behind me at my words. Along the side of the house the fruit trees were overloaded, branches almost brushing the ground.
“Are you sure about this?” he murmured, the tension in his gridlocked teeth audible. I didn’t reply.
I opened the gate.
The faint sound of AC/DC echoed up through the town from the pub down the main drag. A few voices carrying with the beat as it thrummed through the air. Their favourite song. I closed my eyes as I took the first step into the yard. The red brick path through the garden was mossy and uneven. I opened my eyes.
The yard is filled with wormwood and cat’s eye, their grey-green leaves reaching my waist. I brush my hands over their soft, flowery tops, and giggle at the tickle their flowers kiss into my skin. I can hear my dad swearing from the trailer in the driveway as he tries—and fails—to start the lawnmower. Rather than pull the thousands of weeds that litter every inch of the yard, he has elected to mow it all down. By the end of the week, the stubs of the remaining weeds will harden to woody stalks, and cut our feet as we run and play. It will never occur to us to put on shoes.
“Bella!”
My mother’s voice bounces up from the doorway, deep and lyrical like the Avon that cuts through town. I open my eyes.
The house was dark and silent. I stepped off the path, and the plush grass gave way under my dark shoes. I twisted the ball of my foot, feeling the damp earth shift under it. I crept over to the garden bed by the fence that pinned in the yard. The limestone blocks crumbled, their once sharp edges wearing away to a smooth finish. I sat down, knees up around my ears, feeling the cool centre of the stone seep up into me.
I run along the stone, barefoot, a trapeze artist, master thief, pirate captain. I jump and twist, leaping the infinite distance between garden beds, imagined grace in skinny, short limbs.
“Be careful Bella!” Mum calls from the veranda, but I don’t reply. I sprint along the limestone, arms shooting out to self-correct as I run back and forth, determined to make the leap again.
Before I can take my next step, there is a rustle in the daisy bush, and a light brown thread rises up. I pause, and before I can tumble forward there are arms around my waist, my body lifted into the golden afternoon sun. I can hear my mother’s terrified shudders beneath me, but all I see is azure unbroken.
“Mum?” I ask, but she hisses, and I stay silent. After long seconds she lowers me into her embrace and carries me to the veranda.
“Gwardar,” she says, pulling out a cigarette from her pocket. I pout at the long, white cylinder.
“You’re meant to be quitting,” I complain as she moves to light it, eyes fixed on the bushes. I shuffle my feet on the splintery grey planks, watching her shake her head and pull the cigarette from her lips.
“If I’m going to quit smoking, you need to stop frightening me like that,” she replies, and I hug her leg, letting her tangle a hand in my un-brushed golden hair.
“Please tell me you’re done with whatever this is? They’ve clearly started down there,” he asked as I stood up, brushing the powdery stone from my behind. I walked over to the veranda, climbing up from the garden bed, dodging the thorns of the rose bushes as best I can. The boards groaned under my weight, and I smiled at the familiar sound. I crossed to the window, and brushed away the dust that had settled on the wooden frame. Thick curtains were pulled shut, but there was a small gap to the inside where they couldn’t quite reach. I pressed my fingers to the wobbly, uneven glass that was blown a century earlier, and peered through the sliver between the heavy curtains, into the darkness within.
I sit, legs crossed on the queen bed, watching my mum push the roller up and down on the wall. A deep red spreads across the section of wall that juts out above the fireplace, its cool colour sucking in the light. A soft breeze drifts in from the door that opens to the veranda carrying with it the smell of the mandarin blossoms. It mixes with the smell of sandalwood incense and the wet paint, a heady mix that has me spinning. Mum sings, off key and loud, as she pushes more paint around. I sing along, and she turns and smiles at me. She puts on a voice as she sings, and I laugh, rolling around on the bed as she does.
“Can I help paint?” I ask as the song comes to an end. Mum smiles and comes down from the ladder, handing me the roller.
“You have to go slow, and steady, like this,” she says, guiding my hands as the roller glides up the wall. My eyes go wide and I grin up at her.
“That’s good, now back down again,” she explains, and I follow her instructions, biting my lip as a concentrate.
“You have to paint a house when you move in, make it yours,” she says, letting go and leaving me to push the roller up again on my own. A geyser of pride erupts in my chest as I cover the old paint with my own, helping mum make her room her own.
I shook my head and I looked again. The walls were a pale, sickly yellow. Shelves had been built into the wall, covered in books and knick-knacks. There are only a few books on each shelf, all arranged the exact same way. The jarrah mantle survived, though the fireplace looks clean, like it hasn’t been used for years. Two leather armchairs, black and shiny, dominate the centre of the room. Above the fireplace, an old LCD television, covered in dust. There for show. The hardwood floors are covered with beige carpet, vacuumed and fluffed up. No paintings. No photos.
“No one is home. Which is lucky, because you’re trespassing. If we don’t head off soon people are going to talk,” he insists from the other side of the fence. I hazarded a glance back and his eyes were darting, head turning left and right, as though watching for a predator. The street is empty, the last of the light slipping away into the cool evening.
I pushed off from the frame and brushed my hands on my black pants. Ghostly impressions lingered on my thighs, and I closed my eyes, taking in a final, deep breath. I freeze as I smell it, the thick perfume of the mandarin tree. My eyes snap open and I round the corner of the front veranda.
I run through the backyard, squealing as my brother hurls another kumquat at me. It explodes against my skin, splitting its thick outside and leaving a drop of juice on my arm.
“That hurts!” I yell as I scramble up the mandarin tree. He laughs and ditches another one, but the soft, waxy leaves of the tree protect me.
“That’s kinda the point!” he yells back, but he drops his final piece of ammunition. He jumps up onto the veranda and plucks a mandarin off of the tree. I hear him wiggle into the hammock strung between two columns, slurping on the fruit as our game ends. I grab a ripe fruit from the branch above me, holding it in my hands. It is too big for one hand, so I clasp it like a newborn bird in both, staring down at the shiny orange skin.
“Come inside you two, we need to get ready to go!” Mum calls from somewhere in the house. My brother grunts as he tips himself out of the hammock with a thud, and runs off towards the backyard. I climb out of the tree, placing the fruit on the lip of the porch. I leave it there and run after him, pulling twigs from my hair that lodged in there during the chase.
“Wait for me!”
I jumped from the creaking veranda into the garden bed, edging around to the mandarin tree. The fruit was small, sitting in the palm of my hand as I reached out to touch them. There were dozens on every branch, with fruit left to rot by the roots. I reached out and plucked a dark mandarin, twisting the stem, and it fell into my hand. The skin felt loose, like a jumper two sizes too big, and I pulled at its thread where it met the stem. The skin fell away without resistance, dropping silently to the mulched earth. I pulled a piece of the fruit free, and brought it to my lips. I am home, I couldn’t go home. She is here. She was gone.
I swallowed thickly, and popped the segment into my mouth. My eyes burned as my mouth puckered against the sugar and citrus. The juice dribbled down my chin as I shoved another piece into my mouth. I wiped my face with my bare arm, then ripped off my shirt. My breasts puckered in the evening air as I dropped to my knees and pulled overripe fruit into my lap.
“What are you doing? Put your shirt on before someone sees you!” he hisses as the gate’s hinges protest at being opened. I sobbed, body shuddering as I pushed the mulch aside, scooping up handfuls of dirt and piling it into the white cotton. He swore and half-jogged towards me, dropping down into the garden bed.
“We have to go, come on,” he insisted, pulling me to my feet. A mandarin slipped from my bag and landed on the veranda, coming to rest near the door. He reached for the shirt and I pulled it to my chest, crumbs of dirt spilling from improvised handles.
“You can’t seriously mean to haul all the dirt into the car?” he asked, eyes wide. I crushed the shirt to my chest and he groaned, pulling on my arm.
“God fine! At least you’re kind of covered up right now. Now please get in before someone sees you!” he insisted, ushering me into the front. I cradled the dirt in my lap, fishing out the mandarins and placing them on the floor. He rushed around to the driver’s side, fumbling with the keys. I wind down the window as the engine ticks over. He sighed and placed a hand on my naked shoulder.
“Come on, I’ll take you home. I can call and make up some excuse,” he said, peeling back onto the road, and leaving the white house behind. I turned around in my seat, watching the point on the road until it was a point on the horizon, indistinguishable. Unremarkable. Gone.
Great memories let’s hope she is found one day. xxx
Beautifully written, absolutely heart wrenching ♥️