23. Bitter Fruit
He charges into the water with bull-like force, his heavy thighs parting the waves, silver-haired chest open in defiance. It’s always been this way. He is a man who doesn’t fear nature or lose himself when the ocean swallows him whole, whereas I circle in a constant spiral of doubt, fearing the day I will stop. The most intrusive thoughts come at night when the constellations shift and blink above my insignificant head. I lose whatever faint grip I have left on the world and drift towards the unknown territory of death like a startled newborn babe pulled towards life. Perhaps that’s why I sit safely on the sand – a speck amongst the granules of crushed shells with my towel and phone, while he completes his morning laps.
The idea of baring my tightly stretched pregnant body against the sea makes me nauseous. It’s easier to retract instead of expand. He knows this. He can smell my insecurities like he did when I was a little girl. And no matter how old I get, whether it’s ten years old or thirty-six, I exist in a fixed state for him. I am his daughter and nothing else.
“How was the water?” asks Hania when we return to the house.
I smack my sandals against the brick wall outside, releasing flecks of dirt, sand, and dead leaves.
“Good.”
“Not too cold?” her pointed face gathers into a mousey grin. “You know you can’t swim in very cold water. Bad for the baby.”
“It’s okay; I didn’t swim.”
“Good.”
Polish superstitions and old midwives’ tales are all that I’ve inherited from this family. Growing up, the girls at my catholic high school laughed at the poor imitation I did of my mother and her strange warnings. Some favourites were, Going to sleep with wet hair will make you sick; too much Coca-Cola will burn a hole in your stomach; and you will lose money and be poor if you leave your bag on the ground.
Hania isn’t my mother. She is his new-ish wife and hcas lived in Australia for roughly six years. Minus the white-laced tablecloths, proudly framed Pope John Paul II photograph and copious amounts of herbal Polish tea boxes stuffed inside her pantry, she’s adopted a suburban Melbourne lifestyle. Her straight-cut chino pants with black shades, pressed linen shirt and immaculate blonde bob gives her a Brighton, suburban edge.
Beyond this, I don’t have any profound sense of who Hania is. She is nice the way a stranger who holds the door open is nice. It’s fleeting and easy. If I were to tip the balance though, bring up tired and painful memories or challenge him in some unpredictable way, she wouldn’t hesitate to forget me.
I think it’s why he chose her out of all the women he met online. Hania is a woman who mirrors my own mother in most ways except for loyalty. Unlike Mama, she is more compliant. Pliable. On her wedding day, she cried after hearing the sad speeches about how our mama left him. No one said why. Not even my sisters or I uttered the truth. We just sat there, immobile in our seats with our slice of dry cake, listening to his devoted followers. As his children, we were obligated to be there. The fruit left hanging on the tree.
“Want some tea?” Hania asks, pulling out a mug before I can respond.
That eagerness to please. So familiar, so easy to hate. It makes sense I can’t stand her.
“Yes, please.” I reply, my manners just as sticky and sweet.
We don’t say much else for the remainder of the afternoon, a lull period before dinner. My pregnancy is an excuse to stretch out across the bed and read with a pillow tucked between my legs. Their townhouse feels like a holiday rental I can’t fully relax into. No memories tie me here, even though there are photos of me with my two older sisters scattered along the walls, hinting at a family connection. In them, we smile politely in front of a block of flats with our eyeliner and skinny jeans, frozen in the early 2000s.
At dinner, he points at a creased photograph on the dining table while I struggle to cut into an overly marinated and tough piece of steak. “This is your great-grandfather, my grandfather.”
“Oh.”
“He died,” he says in Polish, before dragging his finger toward another young boy in the same family portrait whose pale eyes lock onto mine. “My uncle too. Nazis.”
I nod and chew my food in a way that I hope is solemn and reflective.
“Terrible,” adds Hania.
The story isn’t new and I’m certain Hania has heard it before too. Mama also has stories. They’re about my great-grandfather surviving labour camps, my grandmother being sent away to serve a German family at seventeen, and my grandfather escaping a Siberian camp. No one told us about these things until we were older. As children, we were left defenseless and forced to witness our parents and their nameless shadows screaming with despair. Only later did they give us context instead of an apology.
The next day we visit the beach again while the sun still burns clear. Cold gusts mark a shift in the season and pick up as we near the water. I can barely keep the towel down. Only two more days, I remind myself. Then it’s home. More hospital appointments. Resting. Holding my husband in bed.
There’s a bronzed man gesturing wildly while on a phone call nearby as sand sprays against my ankles.
“I might go to the cafe,” I tell him.
He rummages through a netted bag and pulls out his swimming goggles. “I saw your sister at the flower and garden show.”
“What?”
“I saw her,” he repeats in Polish, as if I’m hard of hearing. “I know she wants an apology from me.”
We never talk about my sisters. At least, I thought we didn’t.
“I’m a very proud man,” he goes on, the goggles pinching his wide nose. “I will not apologise. I am her father. My blood runs through her veins. Through all of you.”
“I understand,” I start and stop, not knowing where to go, my heart too tight. “Are you sure the water isn’t too cold? We can grab a coffee and go. We don’t have to stay.”
“Water is fine. I’ll be forty minutes.”
“Okay. I’ll wait here.”
He leaves me with his thoughts, a netted bag and sunscreen. Beneath the blue expanse with nothing around to distract me, not even the bronzed man who must have wandered off elsewhere, I anchor my racing pulse into the sand.
Later, Hania serves us creamy dill pasta for dinner. The rich sauce sits too high in my stomach, but I obediently continue eating, twisting the noodles tight around my fork.
“We sold out of those black leather belts at the store,” she tells me in Polish. “The one I wanted to get you. Remember?”
“M-hmm.”
“When we order more, I’ll get you one.”
“It’s fine, I can’t wear it now anyway.”
“What do you mean? It will look good after you have the baby. You can wear it out.”
“I don’t think I’ll be going out much.”
“Why not?”
“Because you don’t go out after you have a baby.”
She shakes her head.
Across from me, he continues to eat his food in silence. He probably thinks I enjoy these pointless conversations about belts and whether I want one. To him, I am just another woman in his orbit devoid of interesting thought. He doesn’t know I’d rather discuss Camus’s essays in the The Myth of Sisyphus or that I signed up to be a volunteer hospice care worker. My erratic broken ideas are constantly circling and looking for a place to go—for someone to listen.
“Do you remember when I was little, and I asked if you could see my future?” I ask him. His eyebrows dip. I have his attention.
“We were at the cinema.” I continue, switching back to Polish. Hania’s fingers twitch on the wine glass.
“I asked what you saw and you laughed in my face.”
“I did? When?”
“A long time ago. We were on the stairs and your eyes changed. Remember?”
“No, I don’t remember any of this.”
“Your pupils grew wide and your eyes turned black. It scared me.”
He takes a sip of water. “I don’t remember.”
Tea and babka are served with a heavy thud. Hania leaves the teabag in and doesn’t offer a spoon or honey. The granular cake is colder than usual. It might be a sign she’s ready for me to leave, but I always overanalyse interactions like these. A habit I formed as a child when trying to find patterns in the flickering and changing of moods.
I’ve been ruminating a lot about the past. Hard not to when a child is growing within you at a rapid pace. I told my husband it’s an anthropological study, involving the study of my dreams and dissecting aspects of my childhood. Later that night, I take out a leather-bound notebook and place it ceremoniously on the bedside table. Inside are dormant wishes, resurrected secrets, stories about old lovers, and noted sacrifices.
In the past few days, I have dreamed of shifting rooms, screamed incomprehensible things at Mama, laid down next to an ex high school boyfriend who held my hand and convinced me I was beautiful, and swam like a snake in a weed strewn river. Dreams are freedom. No consequences or questions. I only document the ones I care about or don’t understand.
A trickling sound wakes me in the night. Hania is peeing.
3 a.m. flashes on the digital clock and I roll over, opening my notebook.
Baby in my arms. I write. She was too small. Not ready. I passed her back into this white space and tried again. She came out bigger. A real baby. I still couldn’t see her face. From somewhere above, his hands came down, thumbs digging into her cheeks. Hurting her.
I fell back asleep.
* * *
“He’s upset you didn’t go with him to the beach this morning,” says Hania.
Polish people are surprisingly sensitive. It doesn’t matter that they survived numerous wars, labour camps and lived under Soviet rule. Making a small social misstep can cause the greatest of grievances. Mama would know. She got a divorce over ten years ago and our community still can’t shut up about it.
“I needed more sleep.”
“He would have waited for you. Are you not feeling well? Is something wrong with the baby?”
“No,” I laugh. “I’m just tired.”
Hania nods and looks around as if there’s something to do. “Would you like a coffee? What about breakfast? Do you eat breakfast?”
“Sure. I’ve been known to eat breakfast.”
“What do you want? There are eggs and bread. Nice bread. Fresh. Or yoghurt, do you eat yoghurt?”
She’s right, I should have gone to the beach.
“I can make myself something. It’s fine. Thank you, really. I’ll just have yoghurt.”
She takes everything out and lays it on the kitchen countertop, including the spoon. The constant hovering is familiar, how she picks up and puts away anything I’ve used. When I was little, there was a mean Polish woman who lived up the street and drank too much with my parents on the weekends. Each time she came over, she’d lean against the counter as I washed the dishes and comment loudly on anything I missed.
One day, when he threatened to kill Mama for trying to leave with us in the car, the mean Polish neighbour visited us. She sat me down in front of our house and said, “He’s just sick. Be a good girl and help him get better. Tell your sisters not to get so upset too.”
The large dark mole with hairs on her right cheek stole my attention. I can’t remember what I did or said next, but I know I was lost in what it all meant.
We watch a movie later in the evening and sing him happy birthday. Since having a stroke seven years ago, he doesn’t drink as much. One glass of red wine with cheese, crackers, and grapes. He dances with Hania in the living room. She bends with every dip and laughs at each joke with a bashful look. Up close, their happiness is stitched tightly in place. She enjoys this life. This tenuous fantasy.
I reread the dream entry while in bed and do some research. The unexpected find makes me curl up. I message my husband.
If we don’t want him to be in our child’s life, he still has legal rights as a grandparent.
What legal rights?
I don’t know. He can file a thing with the courts, asking to see her. Even if I don’t want him to.
Do you think he would really go to those ends?
Yes, was the answer. Mama couldn’t shake him for years and, when my sisters texted their goodbyes, he kept going – plaguing them with his wants, his needs, finding crumbs and clues about their lives through social media, or sometimes even through me.
In the morning, I carry the bag with his clothes and sunscreen.
“Not too heavy?” he asks.
“No,” I say in Polish. “I’m still lifting weights when I workout at home.”
“You’re strong. Like me.” His stained teeth flash into a smile.
The beach is busier than usual because it’s a Saturday. Everyone is out running in their activewear, mouths slightly agape. A basset hound lies down on the pavement outside the cafe, taking in a sideways view of the world. Seagulls drop and drift, their extended wings as smooth as paper kites. My corner on the sand is still free amongst the sun-drenched twenty-year-olds who drop down their bikini straps. Next to them, I feel reclusive with my long dark pants and shirt. At least I’m not alone, further down the shoreline there are others who defy the sunshine with their unfashionable wide brimmed hats and protective layers.
“Good waves,” he says, staring out with hands on hips.
“Definitely.”
He rubs extra sunscreen into his dry arms and when he places it back into the bag, he bends down further and places a firm hand on my stomach. “Not long now.”
I flinch.
Luckily, he pulls away before feeling the movement.
“I’ll be longer today,” he says in Polish. “When are you driving home?”
I check my phone. “Not until two.”
“Good.”
Out in the water, his pointed elbows blend into the foam. I never noticed how the ocean goes from a light sick green before plunging into a blue so frighteningly deep. It’s a clear line between a frolic in the waves or dipping in with no return.
Two women run into the water together and shriek. A simple, daring joy.
Mama says Australians know how to swim the best. I remember being taught to fear and respect the ocean at school. Slip, slop, slap, my teachers told me, and watch out for those riptides too, they’ll carry you away.
I fear the water too much these days.
The respect is also there, but fear can be confused for respect. By respecting the ocean too much as a kid, I may have accidentally grown to fear it.
I came close to drowning once at a family friend’s outdoor pool. We were playing, my sister and I, dropping things into the deep end – jewellery, rocks, any pool toy that could sink. We dived down, clasping at whatever precious item waited for us at the bottom, and I loved pushing off and floating back up afterwards, seeing the world through a glimmering veil.
A primitive area in my brain switched on when I stayed down there too long one Saturday afternoon and ordered me to breathe. I thought my body would wait until it reached the surface, but it inhaled big mouthfuls of water mechanically instead. The utter relief I felt surprised me. Death had shooshed and soothed me in its arms, keeping the pain at bay until I surfaced and cried out for Mama.
A bright slice breaks through the clouds and warms my sandal-marked feet.
With my book and bag on the towel, I hide my phone inside a sock and lean sideways to avoid diastasis recti when getting up. The sand collapses under each step as I near the water. Broken shells wink at me. I don’t like the muddy ooze between my toes as I dip my feet in. Still, the cold stroke is welcoming. In and out. In and out. Breathing against my skin.
Another shriek breaks the meditation. The same two women have waded further out into the water and baptised themselves. I laugh.
Orange and black buoys stick out in the distance. He uses them as a starting and end point to swim between for his laps. I trace the line, my eyes drifting back and forth. There are other swimmers in wetsuits – he’s the only one who goes out that far with a bare chest and trunks.
Amongst the other bodies, I can’t see him.
I check again.
He’s not walking along the sand back in my direction. Nothing.
I rest my sights on the waves.
Is that a hand? His raised arm asking for help? I can’t tell.
The people around me don’t seem concerned. Neither do the other swimmers who complete their morning laps.
Lightheaded, I find the towel and sit back down. A dachshund runs past and spins in a few circles as I drink some water. I’ve never been a beach person. Not unless it’s winter and I can climb along the rocks with a heavy coat. Being in the forest, trail walking, hiking, seeking out birds and strange plants. That’s what I enjoy. This heat can dry you out in minutes. Everyone knows Australia’s summers are no joke.
I check my phone. It’s late.
An older man in a high-visibility yellow vest carefully approaches me. “I saw you reading before,” he says. “Nice to see people still enjoy reading.” He’s holding his bike up on the sand and has a bandaged hand.
“I try to make time for it,” I say, shielding my face.
“That’s good. A lot of people don’t. I actually help others read and write, you know? People who are learning English as a second language. I was marking a student’s paper before, and he just keeps getting better and better.”
“Amazing.”
“It truly is,” he says before pausing briefly. “I don’t think we’ve run into each other yet. Are you local here?”
“Visiting, but I live in Melbourne.”
“Oh, that’s nice.”
“What happened to your hand?” I ask, grateful for a distraction.
“Well, it’s the darndest thing. I was sitting at the cafe, just over there, on a bench. This lady is sitting across from me with her dog. I give it my hand for a sniff, and it bites me.”
“No, really?”
“Can you believe it? Goodness, it hurt. And the lady said, you know, Oh it’s a rescue and he gets a bit jumpy. A bit jumpy? I didn’t ask her for a number or anything, but that’s not good. Two weeks later and I’m paying for surgery.”
“I’m sorry. Is it healing okay?”
“Oh, it’s healing just fine,” he smiles. “I’m waiting to run into her again. Maybe she’ll feel bad enough to buy me a coffee. You know my son said it was my fault. That I shouldn’t pat a stranger’s dog. But I only offered my hand. I’m seventy-five, so I try not to be reckless. Anyway, I saw you sitting here on your own with that book and thought it would be nice to say a quick hello. My name is Terry.”
He extends out his healthy hand and I shake it.
“Lovely to meet you, Terry. I’m Anna.”
“Anna,” he smiles again. “Well, I should leave you to it then.”
Terry’s face is littered with warm lines. In him, I search for my grandparents, who died without knowing me, who I only ever wrote letters to. The aunts, uncles, and cousins who never visited or helped us to understand the horrors inside our home, who left us to rot.
“What do you have on for the rest of the day, Terry?”
“Me? Well, I suppose I’ll go have some tea at the cafe and head off home.”
“I might join you. If that’s okay?”
His eyes creased with delight. “Of course, Anna. Always happy for some company.”
I roll up the towel and carefully place it into the bag. The waves behind me pull back, building momentum before crashing. I check I have everything. Only my imprint on the sand is left, which will be swept away.
Good, I think.
This piece was shortlisted for The Varnish Prize for Fiction 2025.
Iza Baranowski is a Polish-Australian writer based in Tasmania, though she has also lived in New Zealand, Oregon, Tennessee, and New York. She holds writing degrees from RMIT and Deakin University, and is currently working on her debut novel.