Inside my room, I close the door and rest on it to catch my breath. Easier to breathe on the bed, though. I hobble over, put my crutches aside and lie back. The bed is too narrow, too short. It’s the same one I’ve had since I was twelve.
What’s my mum doing now? I’m trying to keep my mind on the prize. I imagine Mum making dinner for herself and my sister. Something nutritious and colourful, not the shrivelled sausages and mashed potato and blanched carrots she always served up under Dad’s orders. Maybe she’s making salad, or pancakes. Maybe she’s coming home from work, and she’s tired, and my sister helps her, and they make dinner together…
I try to imagine Kelly, but I can’t picture her any way except the way she looked when she and Mum left: all pudgy fists and soft two-year-old hair. Which is dumb, because she’ll be thirteen now. I wonder if her hair went dark or if it stayed blonde, like mine. Like Mum’s. I wonder if she even remembers who I am.
It’s the same question I ask myself about my mother, sometimes. Does she remember me? Does she think about me, like I think about her? Did she know what it would mean when she left me behind?
Of course she knew. But she didn’t have a choice. On bad days, I have to remind myself of that.
I push my heels against the baseboard, tuck my arms up under my head. My muscles feel tight. When Dad went in to Five Mile today, I searched the house again for clues. Dad hasn’t told me anything useful yet. He could be lying about knowing where Mum is. She’s been impossible to track online. She might’ve remarried, or just flown under the radar to avoid him. Shit, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s taken out a no-contact order against my dad, or even changed her name.
But I have a feeling Dad knows exactly where my mother is. He’s probably planning to drip-feed me the info until he goes in for chemo, and then – when he’s practically in the hospital foyer – he’ll finally tell me the truth. I think Dad’s gonna lean hard on that leverage. He knows there’s no fucking way I’d be staying here without it.
Because here feels dangerous. I have to be on my guard all the time.
Before now, there’s always been an out. I’ve been able to rely on being a taller, heavier opponent. If things got serious, I could always walk away. Go to a mate’s place or squat somewhere until things blew over. I used to crash at Mike’s sometimes. I even slept at the quarry once. I think Mark West, my old boss there, understood more than he let on.
But now that’s not the case. I can’t walk distances on my crutches. I can’t drive away in the ute because it’s a manual and I can’t handle the clutch with my bung leg. Most importantly, I can’t hold my own with Dad physically, and he knows it.
I push myself up, stumble to the door, shove the back of the only chair in the room – an old wooden one – under the door handle. Then I take out the tiny foil of pot from the cavity under my old footy trophy and roll up. Lie back on the bed again, stare at the ceiling, and smoke the joint as the August dark settles around and inside the house. The pressed tin patterns high above me are smeared with dust.
When I was a kid, I realised something: nobody wants to hear your bullshit sob story. Everyone’s got their own lives, their own troubles. Folks like to know the gossip, but they don’t like to be asked to do anything about it.
So usually I keep my own counsel. But this whole situation would be easier if I could hash it out with somebody. I could call Rachel – I think about that for three long seconds, discount it. I’m past that, past the ‘What Would Rachel Do?’ stage. I could call Mike, but it’s kind of the same thing – and he’s not here, he’sthere, where I can’t be. Melbourne is a long way from Five Mile. Right now, I think you could measure the distance in light years.
My thigh is tender, throbbing and annoyingly itchy by turns. I think again about Amie Blunt at the hospital, the way I ignored her on the day I left. It was a bastard act, but she made me feel exposed. I can handle people’s scorn but not their pity. My hackles were up that day, though. Maybe I read it all wrong.
I study the tin on the ceiling. You’d need a lot of pressure to stamp those designs into the metal. Maybe I’m being tempered here. Maybe this is character-building. Maybe, when I meet my mum and my sister again, I’ll be a stronger, more decent person…
I slow my breathing, and try not to wonder whether the price I’m paying for the info about my mum and my sister is too high.
*
‘The pub,’ I say.
‘What?’
‘I wanna go to the pub.’ I rub a hand across my mouth, slouch in my chair at the kitchen table.
I’m itchy with old sweat, and my stubble has grown into a full-blown beard, but shaving is awkward and I can’t take a shower. The shower is outside, under the same tin roof as the toilet and laundry tubs. Navigating the stairs is a pain in the arse. Plus I’m not supposed to get the bandage wet. I tried wrapping my leg in plastic, but it didn’t work. I even tried standing under the spray with my foot up on a chair. Couldn’t keep my balance. I ended up crawling over the concrete for my crutches, buck naked and sopping. Got so fucking angry, I slammed my crutch through the wood-veneer door.
It just reminded me of all the times I’d spent there, shivering in the dark while Dad raged through the house, knowing I couldn’t hide forever –
I feel like a kid again. Helpless. Hopeless. Is it the injury, or is it being in this house, being near Dad? Fuck, I don’t know. All I know for sure is, I stink, and if I have to sit on that moth-eaten couch watching TV for one more meaningless night, I’m gonna fucking explode.
‘C’mon, Dad.’ I make my voice encouraging. ‘Let’s go to the pub. Stuff baked beans on toast – we could get a counter meal. Have a beer. Three beers.’
‘Got beer.’ Dad sits across from me at the kitchen table while we’re waiting for the baked beans to heat. ‘In the fridge.’
And vodka.And Tang. Just the memory of the smell makes me wanna heave.
‘I want a UDL,’ I say, traitorous. ‘Bourbon and coke. Play a game of pool or something. Haven’t you had enough of the telly?’
‘Play pool on crutches, can ya?’ He’s giving me the look I recognise. The fucking-with-you look.
I glare back, try not to sound desperate. This won’t work if I sound desperate. ‘People’ll think you’ve disappeared. They’ll think we’ve gone stir-crazy and offed each other.’ If I don’t get outta here soon, that could still happen.
‘On tap might be nice,’ Dad says contemplatively.
