olga lorenzo - the light on the water (extract)

7/25/2019 Olga Lorenzo - The Light on the Water (Extract)

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Ligho teWaer

The

F I C T I O N

Cover design: Lisa White

Cover photography: Getty Images

Recently divorced and trying to make sense of her new life,

Anne takes her daughter Aida on an overnight bushwalk

in the moody wilderness of Wilsons Promontory. In a split

second, Aida disappears and a frantic Anne scrambles forhelp. Some of the emergency trackers who search for Aida

already doubt Annes story.

Nearly two years later and still tormented by remorse

and grief, Anne is charged with her daughters murder.

Witnesses have come forward, offering evidence which points

to her guilt. She is stalked by the media and shunned by

friends, former colleagues and neighbours.

On bail and awaiting trial, Anne works to reconstruct her

last hours with Aida. She remembers the sun high in the sky,

the bush noisy with insects, and her own anxiety, as

oppressive as the heat haze.

A superbly written and conceived literary work exploring the best

and the worst aspects of family life, this story asks difficult questions

about society, the media, and our rush to judgement. This is a

thoughtful, provocative and unflinching novel in the tradition of

Helen Garner, Joan London and Charlotte Wood.

An inspiring and redeeming reflection

on motherhood, marriage, friendship and

the things that hold us together.

FRAN CUSWORTH, author of The Near Miss

An unforgettable,aching, magical read.

TONI JORDAN


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Light

eWater

The

OLGA LORENZO


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First published in 2016Copyright Olga Lorenzo 2016

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted inany form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without priorpermission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968(the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whicheveris the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educationalpurposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) hasgiven a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

Allen & Unwin83 Alexander StreetCrows Nest NSW 2065AustraliaPhone: (61 2) 8425 0100Email: [email protected]: www.allenandunwin.com

Cataloguing-in-Publication details are availablefrom the National Library of Australiawww.trove.nla.gov.au

ISBN 978 1 92526 654 2

Set in 12.5/18 pt Minion Pro by Bookhouse, SydneyPrinted and bound in Australia by Griffin Press

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

The paper in this book is FSCcertified.

FSCpromotes environmentally responsible,

socially beneficial and economically viable

management of the worlds forests.C009448

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of theauthors imagination or are used f ictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events,locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.


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Women found guilty of infanticide were executed

by drowning them in a sack in company withsundry fauna according to the code of Justinian.

John A. Davis, The Lancet, 27 February 1999


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1

1

In the months before her arrest, Anne Baxter had many hoursto think about the future. As she dusted Aidas bedroom yet

again, or repaired the last few items of childrens clothing in

the mending basket, or furtively watered her parched garden,

images of prison flashed through her mind. They left her as

restless as a trapped moth.

Almost always these visions began with someone slumpedon a bench, hands dangling between slack knees, face shrouded

by a hank of hair. Sometimes it was a man, but more often it

was a woman.

Of course it could be a woman.

Steel bars soared into the heights and metal clanked in the

distance. A guard sauntered by, his waist bristling with weapons.The guard taunted the prisoner. Afterwards his footsteps echoed

down the corridor, the sound serving to remind everyone that

this was forever and ever and ever.


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2 Olga Lorenzo

There were other dark imaginings, of course. Inexplicable acts

of violence in dimly lit corners. Screams in the night. Curses.But now that Anne has actually arrived, it seems these

notions might have come from television and movies. The first

two inmates she sees are sitting quietly on a bench against a

sunlit wall. They suck on their cigarettes and look away with

what strikes Anne as discretion. Because of their gauntness, their

haunted eyes, she assumes they are drug addicts, or possiblyalcoholics. Perhaps theyre only damaged, sad souls, she thinks.

Neither nasty nor vicious.

In the first minutes of her stay in Ravenhall, shes still able to

kid herself. After all, no one is scraping tin mugs against the bars.

Prison initially seems a quieter, more subdued place than

shed expected. More like a hospital ward at eleven in themorning, but with patients who have been misdiagnosed, with

galling consequences. Injustices that leave them pondering

gloomily, nursing their outrage.

f

Her cell has a floral doona. A rattan-backed chair in the corneralso struggles to suggest cosiness. The room smells of bleach and

stale sweat and cough drops, and the door has a number, 23, the

numerals stridently oversized. It could be a cheap motel room.

Except, of course, for the thick metal door, inset with a

double-plated window. And the cameras placed every few feet

along the corridors.Shes been told she can keep her clothes for now, but she

had to relinquish her sunglasses. What harm could she have

done with them?


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3The Light on t he Water

Shes been given other things in compensation. A Master Index

Number, for instance. Apparently no one else in the Australianpenal system has the same one, and it will always be hers. The

six digits at first raised the faint hope that her notoriety might

be temporarily annulled.

That illusion ended a few hours into her stay, as she

prepared for her first shower. A young woman bursting out

of her guards uniform accompanied her to the washroom.No yakking here, she snarled. Anne saw there were neither

discrete stalls nor curtains, just shallow walled recesses with

showerheads.

A dark-haired woman in the prisoners dull green tracksuit

was brushing her teeth. She met Annes eyes in the mirror above

the basin. Toothpaste froth flecked her lips. Anne Baxter, thewoman mouthed. Her smile was more a baring of the teeth,

an angry rictus.

Anne kept her gaze blank, looking down at the grey towel

shed been issued, the small cube of prison soap. She tried to

imagine disrobing. Washing her breasts, between her legs, as

the guard and the woman watched.

For now she would put off the shower. There was a hand

basin in her room. She would use that. She gathered up her

things. Ive changed my mind, she told the guard.

As she walked out, she saw the other inmates strange grimace

again, and realised how foolish shed been to think she might

not be known.

After that she read recognition in every prisoners gaze.

f


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4 Olga Lorenzo

There will be activities, shes been promised. Theres a recreation

room with a television. There are gardens. But also musters,thrice daily, which she must attend. She waits, curious to see

if she will be summoned by a dinging bell, or a siren, or an

omniscient voice.

Shes also required to make sure her clothes are washed, at

least every other day. Shed nodded at thisher mother had

that same rule.

She lies curled in the bed in her cell. Its airless and shes

thrown the flowered doona off the bed. She would never

normally do that, would never place something on the floor if

she thought she might need to sleep under it, but shes certain

shes only staying a few nights, and those will be equally hot.

Shell get bail, she tells herselfof course she will. The altern-

ative doesnt bear thinking about.

The prison settles around her, discordant snores and odd

muffled whoops and footfalls in the distance. Scraps of voices,

a sudden hyenas laugh, then intermittent screams shushed by

shouts of shut the fuck up, bitch. The light from the corridor

streams in through the doors window. Sleep is impossible. Her

mind courses between dire fears of what tomorrow will bring

and memories of todays awfulness. She scratches herself until

she draws blood; shes sure there are bedbugs. The pain in her

knotted shoulders is searing.

How could it have come to this? No signpost ever pointedhere. The idea would have been laughable. Anne Baxter, a former

journalist with the citys leading newspaper, once married to a

senior barrister. A tuckshop volunteer at her childrens school,


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a fete organiser. A woman born to be a mother. Yet here she

is, in a prison cell in Ravenhall, peering back along a windingroad. Craning her head, trying to see which was the first in a

series of ill-considered turns.


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6

2

Its a still November day, a high, clear sky. The bush shimmersin the heat and light glints on the gums. Quartz crystals sparkle

underfoot. But theres also something sombrethe birdcalls are

muted. Tea-tree roots reach through the earth like the skeletal

hands of the dead.

Anne used to make up stories about those ossified hands

as she and Hannah walked along these tracks, back when Hanwas young and wanted spooky tales.

She looks at her other daughter, Aida, scampering just ahead,

her attention snared by a clump of wombat droppings here, some

lichen there, sometimes by nothing at all as far as Anne can tell.

Aida is six. Shes special. Thats how they put it, these days.

And in fact, although Anne dislikes such words, she does feelher daughter is exceptionalshes just hard put to say in exactly

what way. She watches Aida stumble, then lurch forward. Theres

a small damp patch between her narrow shoulders.


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Anne wipes sweat from her own eyes and pauses to readjust

the pack, hoisting it off her back. She searches for her childsdark head. Aida has walked in the bush other times, day walks

in the Dandenongs and along the Great Ocean Road. And

theyve camped by the carthey did it last night. Shed thought

a short overnight walk, just three hours to Sealers Cove, would

be manageable.

Shes no longer so sure. She doesnt look away from her,

is careful to ensure Aida is never more than a few paces in

front. But the little girl isnt burdened by a pack. Annes is too

heavy. Shes less fit than shed thought. This brief stop, barely a

moments pause, and already the gap between them has widened.

Aida, walk with me, Anne calls. Come here, sweetheart.

She racks her mind for some inducement to bring her closer.

Aida doesnt like her hand held at the best of times. Let me tell

you a story, Anne offers.

She says this, but she knows no words can hold this daughters

attention. In fact, Aida isnt listening. Shes clutching Sealy to

her chest, the ragged toys long ribbon dragging behind her like

a tail. Shes darting forward, her sneakers pounding the path,

increasing the distance between herself and her mother.

Anne attempts a slight jog but shes too encumbered. Then

the path turns, and then quickly twists again. She loses sight

of Aida. The pack bounces on her sore shoulders. She wishes

she had dressed her daughter in brighter colours. Aidas greyt-shirt disappears in the scrub.

Has she done anything right, from the moment Robert left,

and she began contemplating this walk?


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8 Olga Lorenzo

It was never supposed to include Aida. Shes only here

because of the new girlfriend. It was meant to be Roberts turnwith Aida, but he wanted the new woman to meet Hannah first.

To meet Hannah without Aida there. It might be too much in

one go, Robert said.

Remembering this, Anne is momentarily unnerved and trips

on a tea-tree root. She staggers, just managing to stay upright.

Jarred, the blister on her foot is rekindled, flaring into a small

blaze on her heel. She smothers a curse.

A flock of parrots startles into the air just ahead, cawing in

annoyance. Aida stops to stare at the crimsons and violets and

greens, fluttering like streamers. They reel and soar. Birds,

Anne says. Rosellas, Aida. Arent they pretty?

Aida grins. A skein of drool catches the light. Anne recog-

nises the faraway look in her eye, the tilt of her head. Shes tiring.

Anne asks herself if shes gone ahead with the walk to spite

Robert. But she doesnt think so. She was looking forward to

walking alone, has always been happiest outdoors, and thought

it was still doable when Robert changed the arrangement.

She remembers a mother, newly single, who failed to super-

vise a party when Hannah was fourteen. Anne arrived to collect

Han and found her vomiting on the nature strip. Its my exs

fault, the woman inside said. I had to leave for half an hour to

get more food, and look what happened while I was away. She

indicated the liquor piled on the dining table. How can anyonebe expected to raise a child alone? she demanded.

Anne had wanted to slap her. Surely shes not like that woman.

Up ahead Aida is crouching, Sealy clasped in her lap. Like


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a much younger child she has stopped to examine a leaf. She

turns to her mother, exclaiming in delight. It sounds like a bark.Show me, Anne calls out. What are you looking at, Aida?

The ploy doesnt work. Aida springs up, hurries on, arms

flailing. Anne loses sight of her again.

Its just after two. Theyve been walking nearly three hours,

gently but steadily uphill. They should almost be there, should

at least have reached the boardwalk, but theyre scarcely beyondWindy Saddle. She looks around, wondering if it would be

possible to camp here, to pitch a tent on the path.

Of course not. They need cleared, level ground. But even

back at Windy Saddle wouldnt do. Above all, they need clean,

clear water, and theres no guarantee of any before Sealers.

She still hasnt caught up with Aida. Anxiety claws her. Itsa dark brooding bird that lives in her chest. Now it stretches,

beating its wings. What was she thinking, bringing Aida out here?

It suddenly seems an utterly foolish undertaking. Her

marriage ended, people will say. She took her daughter into

the bush.


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10

3

Almost a year and a half after the walk, Anne is increasingly

held in the cold gaze of those who are certain they know her,and know what happened to Aida.

Women who used to invite her around for coffee now clump

together outside the supermarket and, like sly schoolgirls, stop

speaking as she walks by. Neighbours who have asked her in

for Christmas drinks are distracted by the weeds in their lawns.

In the health food shop, the friendly attendant disappears outthe back.

Her phone rings but no one speaks. Parents pull their chil-

dren closer as she walks past.

Can that be right? Or are they just politely making room

as they do for everyone? Perhaps shes seeing things that

arentthere.Youre never as interesting to others as you think, Robert

used to tell her. It was meant to be a corrective to her social

anxietyshe shouldnt worry about what people thought of her,


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as they didnt spend that much time thinking about her anyway.

Maybe shes still exaggerating their interest, and their judgements.But who is she kidding? Nothing remotely similar has ever

happened before in this neighbourhood.

f

She spends her days on the net, doing whatever she can to keep

people interested in the search. More often than not her effortsseem fruitless and she doesnt sleep well. Tonight is one of those

nights. She wakes in the mad stillness of three in the morning,

sure shes heard the police shuffling on the porch. Arguing over

who should lift the knocker. Shes roused by a scrap of their

talk. Wake her, Warren, one of them says.

She lies motionless, straining to hear, certain they are there.Recalling the police car that cruised past her house that morning.

Shed been bent over the garden and had looked up, nodding, but

the policewoman on the passenger side had looked through her.

Maybe they were just cruising the neighbourhood. But thats

not how it felt.

Breathless, she waits for the knock. Wondering why shesstalled so long about getting a lawyer. Denial. Shes been in

denial. Its not something she can afford any longer.

The minutes multiply towards an hour. The only sound is

a dry susurrus, possibly the trees on the foreshore, but just

as likely the echoes of her neighbours gossip lingering in the

night air.So much crowds in on her then that she gives up trying to

sleep. She stays in bed, attempting to figure out where the weeks

went, how they could have flashed by with so little to show.


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12 Olga Lorenzo

Seventeen months and five days. And not a footprint, not a

scrap of clothing, not so much as a single hair.

f

By six-thirty, the light still sulking outside, shes already cleaned

the kitchen, extracting and rinsing the filter in the dishwasher,

scrubbing around the rubbish bin, wiping water spots on

thefloor.Perhaps the police will admire her housekeeping.

She heads downstairs, allowing herself the small pleasure

she gets from the aquarium. Its a rectangle, a hundred and

thirty litres on a stand in the front hall, the darkest place in a

house full of windows. Two days ago the guppies, live breeders,

hadwhat? Not babies. Fry.She turns on the fluorescent lamps and the sleeping fish are

startled into motion. The angelfish come to the surface like

eager puppies.

She counts the guppy fry floating in their plastic nursery

within the aquarium. She counts them again because origin-

ally there were ten, shes positive there were ten, and then lastnight there were nine.

Now there are eight.

Her heart flops towards her throat, the smallest stab of the

grief and fear of the last year and a half.

She pushes the water plants aside. The fry dash away. She can

see to the bottom and there are definitely only eight coweringin a corner. Yet theres no tiny cadaver, no floating chewed fish.

She considers the goldfish. He often cruises past the nursery,

gulping hungrily. Its possible that he has sucked up any fry who


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lingered too close to the slits between the nursery and the rest

of the tank. The goldfish is the largest fish, and the most vitalin his obese way. But she also examines the cold-water catfish,

who she knows is not delicate or well-mannered.

These days she wakes at night worrying. If shes lucky,

worrying about the fish. Ridiculous, she knows. But its easier

to worry about fish, and less likely to keep her awake all night.

Easier to think about lost minnows than about her ownlostchild.

f

To avoid giving her erstwhile friends more to talk about (to be

honest, to avoid them altogether), she does her shopping at odd

hours. Its not even eight oclock and shes considering a pyramidof apples when she sees Aida sitting in another womans trolley.

Her heart jolts. Aida!

But almost immediately she realises her mind is playing

tricks, something that happens several times a day. She sees

Aida everywhere, rediscovers her at various ages, her mind

unspooling time. In those moments she almost forgets thatAida is still missing, that she would be seven now, nearly eight.

This realisation stuns Anne. She forces herself to look again at

the little girl and sees she cant be more than three. So, no, not

Aida. But like her, like she once was.

Anne stares, feeling a wild movement inside her chest,

a sudden whooshing, as if some vital organ had slipped itsmoorings. She arrests the vertiginous drop by examining

the apples and pearsall overpricedbefore picking up a

small hand of bananas. And hears the tuneless, harsh voice.


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14 Olga Lorenzo

Saying one word, only one. Mu-um. Mu-um. Turning it into

twosyllables.How is it that a childs voice can be such an assaultmore

than a knife on stone, more than the wet snore of a former lover?

Mu-um. So inappropriately loud for any time of day. Mu-um.

Mu-um. Loud, but flat. No upward inflection, no intonation

whatsoever. Not asking a question, not even whining.

The hands flapping; the loose, useless gestures.But in other ways this little girl isnt all that much like Aida,

whose hair is curly and whose dark eyes shine like a birds.

The mother must feel Annes scrutiny; they exchange stud-

iedly neutral glances. The childs legs kick out, her back arches.

Mu-um.

Shush, the woman says gently, with an abstracted air.A beatthe suspension of the assault. Anne plucks up a jar

of fig jam. But then it starts again, louder. Mu-um.

Theyre stubborn at that age, Anne says.

The woman looks through Anne but the child pauses,

studying her.

Anne smiles and waggles her fingers at her. I like your shoes,she says, staring at an ordinary pair of small soiled runners.

Annes own voice disappoints hershe hasnt managed the

right tone.

The drone resumes. Anne reels away, hurries to the cash

register even though she doesnt have half the things she meant

to get.She didnt hurt her daughter, she reminds herself. No

matter what her neighbours say, what the polices questions

insinuate, what anyone in Tidal River thinks they saw.


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Just the same, shes had the same thoughts as everyone

else this morning. When one hears that flat monotone, thatrelentless and unfulfillable demand, the madness of it, the sweet

unreasonableness . . . Well, anyone would have felt the same.

Would have wanted to rush away.

The young mothers husband will have sprinted for the train

by seven-thirty, pretending there would be no parking at the

station were he to leave any later. His wife knows it isnt true butwhat does it matter? No day care will accept her, no kinder has

a place if she takes her there on enrolment day. Perhaps even

the local state school will turn them away (though the mother

will try to enrol her daughter without taking her along. She will

not even wait until shes five years old).

Every time her name has been in the news Anne has wantedto tell the world: You dont understand. No one could love a

child more than I.

She was interested in bibs and baby bottles at twelve, when

other girls were swooning over music idols. By nineteen, she had

thought that the worst tragedy of her life would be to not have

children. She has never seen a sleeping infant without thinking,Not fair! Its her little joke with herselfnot fair, she means,

that someone else has a baby. The truth is that shes felt truly

blessed to be a mother. Anything else would have been a disaster,

a half-life, no life at all. Not for every woman, of courseshe

knows there are many ways to have a rich, wondrous life that

dont involve children. But for Anne, being Anne, a childlesslife was never worth contemplating.

But its equally true that there have been moments when she

wished her daughter gone, at least for a heartbeat. There were


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16 Olga Lorenzo

times, however fleeting, when she let herself think that she

would do almost anything for a moments respite.

f

Shes putting her groceries into the Forester when she sees Gladys

mincing towards her in her high heels. Anne has known her

for years, since their kids were in school together. She supposes

she was once a friend, of sorts, at least back when Hannahwas young. Until Gladyss sons bullied Aida. She wonders how

she can avoid the woman but her heart is hammering and her

mindclouds.

Gladyss youngest was the only child Anne has ever seen

change his own nappy, unfolding it and placing it under himself

on the floor, taking his dummy out of his mouth to betterconcentrate on the sticky tabs. All of Gladyss boys will make

their ruthless way in the world. Theyre mostly grown now, but

Gladys remains in the mansion she managed to cling to in her

divorce settlement after her ex absconded to Perth.

Oh, Anne, have you been shopping? Gladys calls, stretching

out shoppingas if it were some secret, nefarious activity. Shesin tight jeans that dont quite meet her fluoro green t-shirt.

Mascara clumps her eyelids like sleep. Everything she says

is infused with innuendo, everything she does has a sexual

undercurrent. It once made Anne laugh; there arent so many

characters in their staid neighbourhood. But Gladys stopped

being amusing when she refused to do anything about her sonsattitude to Aida.

Yes, Anne answers shortly, and then reminds herself that she

has to make more of an effort with people. Shes not winning


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any hearts lately. But How are you, Gladys? is all she can think

to say, and its not the right tack.Im fine. How are you? Gladys assumes her version of a

warm and caring look. In a benevolent moment, Annes mother

would have called her a scrubber. As far as Anne knows, all

that Gladys has done since her divorce is to sip wine with her

girlfriends by her swimming pool and flirt with their husbands.

Anne searches for her sunglasses. When she doesnt answer,

Gladys shakes her head, making a long, supposedly commis-

erating ooh sound.

Anne pushes her sunglasses onto her face and puts a hand

on the Foresters door.

How is Hannah holding up? Gladys asks, and Anne cant

win. She cant say that Hannah is fine. That would make

Hannah sound indifferent and callous. But neither can she

admit anything that will be pawed over in the cafe.

Shes trying to concentrate on uni, Anne says. Shes been

working on a filmIve inherited her unemployed actors.

Theyve come to live with me.

Thats nice, Gladys says.

Anne isnt going to explain that the unemployed actors are

the fish in the aquarium, a prop in a film for a course. You

know how to keep fish, Mum, Hannah said. It will give you

something to dowas tactfully left unspoken.

Gladys is still staring. Anne imagines her small mindwhirring, trying to think how to deliver her coup de grce.

Desperate to get away, Anne scratches around in her bag for her

car keys, remembering Gladyss sons cruel taunting of Aida.


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18 Olga Lorenzo

Boys will be boys, Gladys claimed when Anne spoke to her about

it. There was a cold glint in her eye.She manages to get into the car. But before she can start the

engine, Gladys says it. I saw your name in the paper the other

day. She waits, goggle-eyed.

Anne isnt about to answer.

It must be hard to lose a kid like that, Gladys coos, as if

she were speaking to a lover. You just cant take your eyes offthem, huh? Especially when Aida was, you know . . . whats it

called? Autistic. She smirks at Anne. This is not the sort of word

Gladys normally uses and, like a teenager, shes uncomfortable

with it. What she probably says to her friends is that Aida was

retarded. Thats more the sort of word Gladys would use.

Anne stares up at her. You dont know what youre talkingabout, she says.

What do you mean? Gladys assumes a confused tone.

Wasnt Aida lost?

Anne might have been tempted to slap her if she werent

already seated. What do you know about autism? she says.

Gladys grins vacantly and shrugs but wont look away.You really have no idea, do you? Anne continues. Then she

stops herself. Aida did have problems, of course she did. But

shes not going to canvass them, especially not with Gladys.

I guess you cant believe everything you read in the news-

papers, huh? Gladys says.

No, you cant, Anne snaps. And promptly feels another stabof disloyalty. Her first real job was as a reporter for the Age. In

her dreams shes sometimes still working there, but then her

dreams lag as much as ten years behind her waking life. She


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has sometimes caught herself thinking that she was going to

theAgewhen in fact shed been preparing for some errand. Butsuch loyalty is irrational. The editors were never good to her

newspaper offices are notoriously sexist places. Just the same,

the paper holds her, she supposes because of the wild idealism

she experienced when she first got the job, when she thought

something she wrote might actually help someone, improve the

world a small bit. It was her first and only real, grown-up job.Shes altogether sick of Gladys. I have to go, she says, concen-

trating on placing the key into the ignition. Hannah stayed the

night and if I dont get home to wake her shell miss her class.

She doesnt usually lie, doesnt even know why she feels she has

to. Perhaps to summon Hannah to her side. How sad.

Dont think, she tells herself. Just get away. Leave.

f


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Praise for The Light on the Water

Olga Lorenzo is a writer of sublime skill and intelligence and in

The Light on the Waterall her power is on display. Toni Jordan,

author of Nine Days

I couldnt turn away from this novel, even when it hurt to bear

witness. A mesmerising, beautifully wrought story about the limits

and lengths of a mothers love. Myfanwy Jones, author of Leap

A shimmering, luminous, sea-filled novel that balances the horror

of what has happened and the fear of what is ahead, with the daily

business of love, family and seasonal change. Haunting, potent and

redeeming; I could not put it down. Fran Cusworth, author of

The Near Miss

Compelling and insightful, The Light on the Watercracks open

one of our most feared and reviled stereotypesthe bad mother

and gives us a truth that is complex, relatable, and utterly human.

Broaching dark and difficult terrain with intelligence, compassion

and wit, Lorenzo does not flinch, nor falter. Peggy Frew, author

of Hope Farm

An author who writes of a parents greatest fearthat of the lost

childis courting unease. But in The Light on the Water Olga

Lorenzos unflinching gaze transcends the stark subject to explore

larger themes: guilt, the power of the media to drive judgement and

social discourse, and society and the limits of its compassion. Its

a vision of brutality and tenderness shot through with mordant

wit. Lorenzos richly imagined settings form the backdrop to thiscompelling and resonant fiction, its troubling present illuminated

by the refracted past. Lucy Treloar, author of Salt Creek

olga lorenzo - the light on the water (extract)

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