No One Can Hear You

by Nikki Crutchley

  Mrs Haywood would know what to do. She always understood. She treated teens like equals, unlike some of the other teachers and do-gooders in the community, putting on a sympathetic smile all the while judging behind closed doors.

  Aroha turned on the shower and stripped. Ignoring her flat belly, loath to think what she’d look like in six months. She soaped up her coffee-coloured skin — the product of a Māori father and an English mother who had packed up twelve years ago and headed back to York without her partner or four-year-old daughter.

  ‘Finally got sick of slumming it,’ her dad had said. His explanation to four-year-old Aroha when she begged to know why her mother had left them.

  She shampooed her thick dark hair that fell to her hips. It was never tied up, and the teachers were constantly on at her to either cut it or tie it up. She did neither. They didn’t own her.

  Fifteen minutes later she locked the front door of their two-bedroom rental and, ignoring the wolf-whistles from passing cars, made her way to Lillian’s. It was a Monday and school would be out soon. They’d contact her dad. Talk to him yet again about her cutting school. He would sit Aroha down and talk to her about it when he got home, putting on his ill-fitting parent hat and doing his duty, giving her a half-hearted lecture on why school was important. But he didn’t care. Aroha didn’t care and when it came down to it, the school didn’t either. Not really.

  She walked up the concrete driveway to Lillian’s house, the ache in her head and neck abating slightly, knowing she could get this off her chest, hand her problem over to someone who knew what the hell to do. She knocked and, through the frosted glass, saw a shadow walking down the hallway to the door. She tucked her hair behind her ears and smiled.

  Good impression, Aroha, she told herself. She’s going to help you.

  The door opened.

  ‘Who are you?’ Aroha asked, shocked, the question coming out more abruptly than she’d meant.

  ‘I’m Zoe Haywood.’ The woman’s dark eyes were not unfriendly. She stood, her hand on the door, staring back at Aroha. The other hand smoothed back her ponytail. ‘I’m Lillian’s daughter.’

  ‘Oh, OK.’ She had no idea Mrs Haywood had a daughter. ‘Is she home?’

  ‘I’m sorry, but she died a few days ago.’

  Aroha stood on the spot, unable move. What the hell am I supposed to do now?

  ‘Can I help with something?’

  ‘She’s dead? She’s really dead?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What? Of like a heart attack or something?’ Mrs Haywood was old — like grandma old. She’d heard around school that Mrs Keegan, the principal, wanted her out but she wouldn’t leave. She always told Aroha she cared about her kids too much.

  Zoe hesitated. Her hand brushed through her hair again. ‘Sorry, this is a bit hard to say, but … she killed herself.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ Aroha got the feeling Zoe was more concerned with how she was taking the news than upset about her own mother’s death. ‘Did you know Lillian well?’

  ‘She was my counsellor at school.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘She was really good at her job.’ Aroha felt she needed to say something positive about Mrs Haywood. ‘She was really nice to me.’ Aroha felt a lump forming in her throat and was disgusted to find tears pricking the corners of her eyes.

  Zoe moved closer to her and put an arm around her shoulder. She wasn’t much taller than Aroha, who was unused to this type of affection and shrugged her off. ‘I’m sorry that you’re so upset,’ Zoe said. ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’

  Aroha stared back at her. What a weird thing to say.

  ‘The funeral’s tomorrow, if you’d like to come.’

  Aroha nodded. ‘I gotta go.’

  ‘Sure. It was nice meeting you …’

  ‘Aroha. Aroha Kingi.’ She turned and walked from the property feeling utterly screwed. Mrs Haywood was out of the picture. There was no one left to help. Well, maybe one, but he wasn’t going to be impressed.

  Chapter 11

  Megan paced the room like a caged animal, pulling at her fitted black singlet which had ridden up. She rubbed at her bare legs below a pair of skimpy denim shorts, her work uniform, trying to get rid of the pins and needles that prickled her body from too much sitting and lying. The storage room was cramped and windowless, filled with stale muggy air. Light from the lantern cut through the dark, its pathetic beam leaving over half the small room in blackness. She picked at a piece of bread and tried to think of a way out. There was nothing. Her head ached, and she was tired, even though all she’d done for the last few days was lie in a dejected, semi-conscious heap on her mattress.

  Her only full, trusted memory was throwing the last drunken customer out from the Crawton Tavern that night — Sunday night? she asked herself. The days had all seamlessly combined into one long nightmare since then. She remembered sitting on the couch in Garth’s office having drinks with him and Tai. She remembered wanting to go straight home after her shift. She was about to ring Lillian, but Tai had managed to persuade her, saying that he had some meth and was willing to share. She’d already spent last week’s wages on meth, couldn’t afford food for another few days but the promise of a hit was too much. Against her better instincts, and after promising Lillian she wouldn’t ever be in a situation with Tai and Garth alone, she’d followed. Garth was loud and brash as always. He poured her a straight vodka which she gulped back, waiting for the main event.

  There was no family, no flatmates. There were friends that called themselves friends but weren’t really, just hung out at the bar for free drinks and drugs. When they saw she wasn’t there they’d scrounge off someone else. But there was someone. Lillian.

  Megan had turned up in Crawton at the end of January. She’d slept rough out at the lake for a couple of nights but needed to sort something. Auckland would’ve been her next move but there was something about Crawton that compelled her to stay. She spent the day visiting cafés and petrol stations looking for work with no luck. She came upon the community house at the end of the day. Lillian was about to leave but unlocked the office, made her a cup of coffee and went about putting a life together for her. Megan had been grateful. She looked on her as more of a mother figure and had often dropped in to the community centre to see her for a coffee and a catch-up. Lillian knew most of her life story. Her rebellious early teens, her parents’ accident and subsequent deaths. But she had never confided in her about her drug use. She felt she’d be a disappointment to Lillian, but more than that she grudgingly admitted to herself that Lillian would make her stop and she didn’t want to.

  ‘Lillian,’ she said out loud. A memory flared at the sound of the woman’s name. She’d knocked back the vodka Garth had given her. She remembered him watching her, too closely, and not in his normal pervy way: it was as if he was waiting for something to happen. She’d excused herself from the office, saying she needed to use the toilet. She was light-headed, and she remembered stumbling into a chair, both men laughing. She’d walked down the hallway away from the office and rung Lillian. There was no answer, but she was positive she’d left a message. She’d told her she was feeling ill, that something wasn’t right. After that it was a blank. A giant gaping hole. It was the GHB taking effect, she knew now.

  Lillian knew she was missing. The relief she felt made her feel nauseous. Lillian would do something about it.

  Chapter 12

  Zoe sat at Lillian’s desk, sipping coffee, mentally preparing herself for the afternoon ahead. She flicked through the notebook on Lillian’s desk. One page was covered in doodles. Hundreds of five-pointed stars, some coloured in black ink, others not. There were intricate patterns made up of squares and triangles that took up an entire page. She continued flicking through the pages. On the last page was a list.

  Barbara Keegan – Principal
Crawton High School

  Your office, main admin building, third door on right. You’ll know it when you see it. It has a plaque on the door with your name.

  Harriet Smith – receptionist at community centre.

  Your office down the main hallway, last door on the right. You share it with other people.

  Next door neighbours are Pam Buchanan on the right and Mavis Stanley on the left.

  Zoe continued reading the little reminders Lillian had left herself. She breathed in sharply when she read:

  Zoe is your daughter. You haven’t seen her in many, many years, even though you’d like to.

  She shook her head in surprise. Closing the notebook, she walked into the kitchen for her third cup of coffee but never got that far as the previous cups came up in one violent gush into the kitchen sink. She wasn’t sad, but she was nervous about the funeral. She was going to be the centre of attention whether she liked it or not. The prodigal daughter returning. She wondered if Lillian had spoken to friends about her. New friends she’d made since Zoe had left. What, if anything, had she said? Did they even know she existed?

  Looking in her wardrobe, where she’d hung up the few outfits she’d brought with her from Auckland, she decided to forgo the tailored black dress even though the day was warm, Harold Paynter’s words still ringing in her ears about femininity. She changed into a pair of black tailored pants and shrugged on a navy chiffon blouse. She slipped her feet into a pair of black kitten-heel shoes. Looking in the mirror, she wished she hadn’t. She never wore make-up, couldn’t be bothered with it, even back in high school when girls her age were expertly covering pimples and highlighting their eyes with mascara, eyeliner and eyeshadow. She was blessed with good skin and had never felt the need to hide behind products. But today she looked as though she could do with some blush and lipstick. Who gives a fuck? I’m not out to impress anyone.

  She started at a knock on the door. Grabbing her handbag from the lounge, she greeted Alex at the door.

  ‘Ready?’ he asked, his blue eyes scanning her face to make sure she was OK.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said, answering his unasked question. ‘Let’s get this over and done with.’

  *

  They parked out the front of the high-school hall. It looked a lot different from the last time Zoe had been here. Cleaner, more modern. She had never been cool or popular back then, but she was never different enough to cause unwanted attention from the in-crowd. She and Alex flew under the radar through their years at school and it seemed to work. Crawton High teens had a selection of parties on the weekend. There were usually a couple of girls with older boyfriends who had parties at their flats, or someone’s parents were out of town and their teen was making the most of it. There was an unspoken rule that everyone was welcome, but at those parties, social barriers were always in place — just like at school. The pretty, popular girls hung out with the guys from the First Fifteen rugby team in prime position, whether it was in front of a bonfire at the lake or sitting in chairs in someone’s garage. Everyone else spiralled outwards based on popularity.

  She sat glued to her seat while Alex and Pam got out of the car.

  ‘Zo?’

  ‘I’ll be there soon.’

  ‘I can wait with you,’ Alex said, laying a hand on hers.

  She smiled at him, appreciating the gesture. ‘No, I’ll come in a second.’

  He squeezed her hand and got out of the car, leaving her in silence.

  The car park was relatively empty. Students had left for the day; a few people dressed in black were making their way towards the hall. Lillian would have hated a church funeral — that much Zoe knew. The principal of the school, Barbara Keegan, had rung her the day after she arrived offering the use of the hall. ‘We all loved and cared for Lillian a great deal,’ she said, sniffling down the phone. ‘Let us do this for her.’

  Zoe had no objection.

  She sat in the car and cracked the window — it was getting stuffy. She plucked her chiffon blouse from her skin and reflected on what other daughters went through when they buried their mothers. She should feel broken, she should be questioning what her life was now that her mother was no longer here.

  A steady stream of people, all unknown to Zoe, were now heading into the hall. She got out of the car and followed them in, avoiding eye contact. She walked up the side aisle towards Pam and Alex at the front. She’d asked them to sit with her; she couldn’t think of anything worse than sitting in an empty row all by herself while people, better people, mourned the death of their friend.

  She felt a hand on her shoulder and Jeff came into view. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he whispered and took a seat next to Pam, taking her hand in his.

  The three people next to her were the definition of family; Zoe felt like an imposter. She sat in the chair and stared at Lillian’s coffin. Dark mahogany wood was a backdrop to a wreath of white lilies. White envelopes littered the top of the coffin and she wondered what they were. She turned as she heard footsteps on the wooden floor. A couple of students smiled shyly at her, deposited envelopes on the coffin and walked back to their seats.

  She leaned into Alex. ‘The envelopes?’

  ‘Some of the students took Lillian’s death hard. I suggested they write letters to her, thanking her, saying goodbye, to help them cope.’

  There was a collection of faces, young and old, which she didn’t recognise. Then there was one smiling at her, kind, sympathetic. Daniel Hepi. She couldn’t lift the corners of her mouth into a smile so let her gaze settle on other unfamiliar faces. There were a lot of teenagers, students of Lillian’s no doubt, kids she’d helped, sitting with their parents, protected by a loving arm around them, whispered words of support.

  She turned to face the front again. She and Lillian had co-existed in the same house but as Zoe got older they rarely spoke. Zoe had been a naturally meek child, obedient and willing to please, but Lillian’s lack of care and love soon took its toll. Their relationship in the last few years Zoe was at home was that of flatmates who only just tolerated each other. By the time Zoe had noticed Lillian changing, some kind of need to get closer to her daughter after so many years, Zoe had felt unwanted for too long to be able to take the olive branch. She was never sure if it was pride or stubbornness that got in the way. Probably both.

  She turned again, avoiding Daniel’s eye. She looked towards the back, by the door. That girl was there. What was her name? Aroha. She wasn’t dressed in school uniform like the other students attending. She leaned against the wall in a denim miniskirt and a fitted T-shirt. Her long hair had been brought to the side and fell across her right shoulder and breast like a blanket. Aroha met her eye and her expression didn’t change: guarded, sad.

  Zoe wondered, looking at all the people who had cared for Lillian, where Dave, her stepfather, was; whether he knew or cared that Lillian was dead. He’d probably moved on with his life. Zoe could remember the day when Lillian told her she was the product of an affair. It seemed information inappropriate for a child of twelve, but that wouldn’t have bothered Lillian. Zoe had been doing her family tree as part of her social studies class. She’d filled in Lillian’s side and asked, not for the first time, about her father. Instead of doing what she always did, waving away Zoe’s enquiries as if they were nothing, she answered this time. She said, without any sugar-coating, that she had an affair with a man from England. Zoe knew the word ‘affair’ because rumours had been going around school that their teacher, Mr Hart, had had one and now was living alone. Lillian had said her father had to return to England before Zoe was born. Lillian had carried on her story, staring out the window as if Zoe wasn’t in the room. ‘Dave and I had had a great marriage. But he couldn’t have kids. It never bothered me too much. I always had my career but this man came along. When I found out I was pregnant at the age of forty-two, I realised it was my last chance to have a child, even though I ne
ver really missed having one. Dave was angry about the affair but his need to have a child had always been greater than mine and we agreed to give it a go. But your birth put pressure on a marriage that had begun to fall apart.’

  Zoe remembered how these words made her feel as though she’d been punched in the guts. She wasn’t wanted. Her coming into the world had ruined others’ lives. With more information that was drip-fed to her over the years Zoe concluded that her father didn’t even know she existed.

  As she got older, she could see how Lillian resented her. Zoe had wrecked her marriage. Zoe remembered that resentment from an early age, the feeling of it. Where most kids’ first memories were filled with love and laughter, hers were filled with a darkness she was unable to identify. Once every couple of years she felt the need to track down her birth father, but something always stopped her. She was scared, nervous, but most of all she knew she would never be able to get over it if he rejected her just as Lillian had done.

  The funeral went by in a blur. People she didn’t know spoke about Lillian, songs she had chosen were sung. Zoe tried to meet the speakers’ eyes as they looked down to her and told her how wonderful Lillian was. All the while her eyes remained tearless. The memories of the last half hour hardening her heart to Lillian once again. Still unable to forgive.

  Chapter 13

  Back at Pam’s house Lillian’s closest friends gathered in small groups. Zoe could hear snatched bits of conversation as she passed around club sandwiches and refilled teacups. Some cut off their conversation as she approached, turning to her with tight smiles and words of hollow sympathy. A grey-haired woman in her seventies introduced herself as Carla. She’d read one of the poems Zoe had picked out, ‘Because I Could Not Stop for Death’ by Emily Dickinson. She’d found it in a poetry book Lillian had on her shelf. It was morose and depressing and, Zoe assumed, perfect for a funeral. She didn’t have the heart to find something celebratory or life-affirming.