Liv’s mum shook her head. She sat up and began swinging the pendant around her neck in ever-widening circles. Then she said, ‘When I was a kid I had this dog that got hit by a car. Did I ever tell you that? I’d taken it out for a walk and it got away from me, ran onto the road. At first I thought it was all right. It was limping but it was keeping up. It was a long walk home. But by the time we got there the dog had sort of swelled up and it wasn’t walking right. My dad said it was probably bleeding internally, so he put it in the car and drove away. When he came back the dog wasn’t with him. And we never talked about it. Nobody said to me, “We had to have the dog put to sleep.” Nobody said a word. The dog was just gone, as if it had never been there.’
‘What was the dog’s name?’ Liv asked.
‘I was too little to be walking that dog alone. I wasn’t supposed to. I couldn’t control it if it decided to piss off, which is exactly what it did. So I pretended it had never happened, because that’s what everyone else was doing.’
Liv didn’t know what to say. She watched her mother’s pendant spiralling in the light, the tiny bell at its centre purring through the arcs. It was Liv’s favourite.
‘Do you know,’ her mum continued, ‘I don’t even remember that goddamn dog’s name.’
That smoky light that always bloomed before sunrise itself was beginning to settle on Rose’s windowpane. It wasn’t really light so much as the shallow end of the night stretching translucent arms into the moments before day. Rose had always liked the colour of this predawn air. It was the colour of a spider’s web. Layers of dark kept being peeled away, real morning light creeping over treetops and buildings to find people’s openings. Rose felt her eyes adjusting, felt her pupils narrow with an aperture-like whir, and wondered if the light was encroaching or the dark receding. The transition from one to the other seemed very smooth first thing in the morning and late in the afternoon: they just bled into each other.
Rose had decided to stay in bed all day. She was unaware of the process that had led to that decision. She had been having trouble making decisions lately. It wasn’t even really a decision. It was more a conclusion that had simply landed on her and stuck. It came from far away, this desire to remain motionless, thoughtless, speechless. She didn’t think she could raise her head from the pillow.
It only seemed like five minutes later that she heard people at the front door. When she opened her eyes though, the light in the room was high and polished so she must have slept for a while. Rose could hear her mother and father talking to other people, and sometimes her mother’s voice rose into that frightened, resolute chirrup. They were coming down the hall. Those voices were all getting closer, like a marching band that began two blocks away and was about to pass right by. Except it didn’t pass by. Rose heard her mother say, ‘She has been unwell!’ before the door opened and the band arrived.
Then there were two police officers in her bedroom. A man and a lady.
Rose’s mother walked quickly to the side of her bed and said, ‘These people would like to talk to you, Rosie.’
Rose sat up, bringing her knees to her chest, just as her phone rang. She went to reach for it. It was Liv.
That’s when the lady police officer stepped forward and said, ‘Do you mind if we have a talk before you answer that, Rose?’ and she said it in such a pleasant, firm way that Rose let the phone ring out and go to voicemail. The pleasant, firm lady continued, ‘Rose? We were wondering if you would mind getting dressed and coming with us for a while. Your mum and dad have said it’s okay and they can come too.’
‘Okay,’ Rose said.
Rose looked at her mother and managed a trembling smile. That’s when she saw it. The thing that had started in her mother’s bones that day in the hospital, that mixture of shame and fear that both paralysed and motivated in varying and conflicting degrees, had crawled right through her and landed, in this moment, on her face louder than a scream: Rose hadn’t asked why the pleasant, firm police lady wanted to talk to her. Rose knew immediately that something had changed forever between all of them but she didn’t care. It was strangely comforting, this disconnection.
The band stepped into the hall and gently pulled the door to, without fully closing it. They were waiting for her to get dressed. She didn’t want to keep them waiting but couldn’t make a decision about what to wear. It was hot in this room, and probably much hotter outside. Rose peeled a shift dress off her floor and pulled it over her head. She could only find one sandal and the frustration of it almost defeated her. She sat heavily on the edge of her bed.
‘Are you almost ready, Rose?’ A different voice now, the man, from the other side of the door, from the other side of everything. Rose could hear them all whispering to each other.
‘Just a minute,’ Rose said. She dropped to her knees to look in the only place she hadn’t for her missing sandal. Under the bed. That’s when she saw it. The gym bag. Pushed against the wall, its shiny surface dulled by a patina of dust. She leaned in and grabbed one handle, then gently dragged it towards her.
‘We have to go now, Rose.’ Nice lady again. And the door slowly eased open.
Rose was kneeling on the floor by her bed gripping the gym bag. She looked up and said, ‘Can I bring this with me?’
Her mother was crying. Her father extended a tentative hand towards Violet as if to comfort her, but dropped it to his side again before contact was made.
When the doorbell finished its final diminuendo, Michael’s father walked down the hall in purposeful strides and swung the front door open without a moment’s hesitation. It was one fluid movement, one arm extending towards the doorknob before he reached the door, the other spontaneously straightening his tie. The last sound of the bell was still resonating in Michael’s head, and the house, when Michael realised how odd it was for his father to be wearing a tie when he was at home. The door was opened and Michael listened to his father’s perfectly clipped consonants ricochet off the cornices just as the doorbell had. Everyone knew that tone. The tone that accompanied the tie. Michael and Tim had often laughed about their father’s tie-tone. It was his voice for outsiders.
Two police officers stepped across the threshold looking purposeful yet somehow apologetic. There were handshakes. Michael watched from his perch on the arm of a lounge chair. Ludicrously, he waited for his father to introduce him to the outsiders. Then it occurred to him that they knew who he was and that’s why they were here. For just a moment he let himself imagine, and believe, that they were here because they had discovered he was one of the ringbarking culprits. But that didn’t wash. He stood up and waited, feeling sick and wanting to cry, feeling the burn of tears backwashing into a salty swallow. He realised then he had no idea where his mother was.
He hadn’t been following the conversation between his father and the police. Panic had bunged his ears. Had there been a conversation? Suddenly all three were standing in front of Michael and someone had their hand on his shoulder saying, ‘You’ll have to come with us for a bit, Mike,’ and the shock of hearing the unfamiliar abbreviation of his name snapped him back into the present moment at the same time that Tim opened the front door.
Tim stepped forward, the big loop of his keychain hooked onto one finger, the hand forming a fist. He said the first words Michael actually heard completely clearly, ‘Michael, are you okay?’
‘Tim, this is not your business,’ his father said.
The police were leading Michael towards the front door. Tim had to step aside to let them pass. He said to Michael, ‘I’ll be right behind you.’
‘No, you won’t,’ was his father’s response.
‘You’re not making him go alone?’ Tim asked. He looked from his father to Michael to the police and back to his father. The police led Michael outside. One of them held Michael’s upper arm. Michael was listing slightly and it appeared as if he might tip over without the restrained grip of the officer fastened above his elbow.
‘Dad, please!’ Tim sai
d.
‘He’s eighteen,’ his father said, adjusting his tie slightly. Tim noticed that his father’s hand was shaking. ‘He doesn’t need . . . babysitting,’ this last word after a slight pause. Then, turning to face Tim and standing close, ‘And don’t think I haven’t noticed that you haven’t asked why the police are here.’
Tim knew then it was all falling apart and that he, his dad, his mum, were about to become a part of the human debris.
His father walked away, loosening his tie. Tim realised his car keys were digging into his palm and so he threw them onto the coffee table. He knew his mother wasn’t home. He knew because this front room was awash with light. On hot days his mother always shut the house up against the heat. That’s what she called it. ‘We have to shut up against the heat,’ she would say, running about first thing in the morning closing windows, snapping blinds shut, drawing curtains and sometimes even securing the drops in the centre with a peg. But this morning the light was barrelling through the panes. A wedge of luminous sun fell across the carpet sharp as a knife, bringing glare and dusty heat. Tim found being caught in this strident light quite shocking.
It didn’t take a lot of thought. He grabbed his car keys off the coffee table and ran out the front door, letting it slam behind him.
The first thing Rose noticed was the Christmas decorations. There was a real tree in the entrance. They had a plastic one at home with threadbare branches that had to be placed in the holes in the trunk in the correct order. If you didn’t stick them in the holes in the correct order then the tree didn’t end up the right shape and had a tendency to tip over. Rose couldn’t stop looking at this one. It was thick and smelled luxurious. Instead of tinsel it had been draped with that bright yellow crime-scene tape. Rose thought that was very funny. She smiled as she reached in through the needles, soft as hair, and pierced a sap blister on its knobby trunk with her thumbnail. When she withdrew her hand, the sticky remnant’s sharp perfume cleared her head like a slap in the face.
‘What are you doing!’ Violet wasn’t asking. There was no question in it at all.
Rose rubbed the gummy tree blood between her thumb and forefinger and held it up to her mother’s face. ‘Can we have a real Christmas tree next time, Mum?’
Tim watched Rose sniffing her fingers from the other side of the room in disbelief. It wasn’t the oddness of her gesture but rather his shock at almost not recognising her. He hadn’t seen her for months and was unprepared for the vacuous caricature that presented itself at the reception desk with her mother and two police officers. She was cadaverously thin, her facial bones stretching her skin like sharpened knuckles. It was as if the Rose he knew had somehow vanished and her incremental return was only half done. The eyes weren’t back. Not by a long shot. Jesus Christ, did she just ask for a Christmas tree?
Michael had already been taken somewhere else. Somewhere inside. Somewhere in there, behind the shiny formica desk adorned with a fringe of tinsel. They had asked Tim to wait here. They had said he could see Michael soon. They asked if Michael’s parents were coming. The last thing Tim had been able to say to Michael as he was manoeuvred into the police car was, ‘Don’t say anything!’ But Michael’s eyes had been closed and there was such a look of liberation on his face, Tim felt sickeningly worried that Michael had every intention of saying everything.
Rose saw Tim across the room and waved. It was a reflex, but a genuine pleasantry nonetheless. She was confused by his reaction. He looked appalled. Violet grabbed her hand as it flailed the paltry greeting and yanked it down to her side. She kept holding it.
Rose said, ‘You’re hurting my hand, Mum.’
Violet continued to grip Rose’s hand as they were shown to seats and asked to wait. Violet was not usually overly demonstrative, so this hand-holding was embarrassing and irritating to Rose. There didn’t seem to be much affection in it. Rose tried to flex her fingers against the restrictive heat of her mother’s consistent palm pressure. It was too hot in here. She couldn’t breathe. It felt as if her lungs rather than her fingers were in her mother’s grip. She tried to pull her hand away and found her mother countering with surprising force.
Tim watched this struggle, a strange arm wrestle, and rooted for Violet. Because if Rose waved at him again he just might cross the room and cuff her across the side of the head.
Rose wondered if the air conditioning in here was working. Her head was foggy. She heard her phone ringing from a long way away and found it difficult to focus on the screen. It was Liv. She was going to answer it but her mother reached across and took the phone from her, pocketing it deftly without once releasing her grip on Rose. It didn’t matter because Liv walked through the door then, her phone pressed to the side of her head. She paused briefly before striding across to Rose and landing heavily on the seat beside her.
She nodded towards the Christmas tree in the entrance and said, ‘Police tape? Really? That’s fucking poor taste.’
Violet leaned across Rose and said, ‘Hello, Liv. How are you, dear?’
Tim watched Rose, defined and sheltered by seconds, and thought about Michael alone somewhere in there, behind these clean lines and quiet voices that were disturbingly welcoming. That’s when he saw the two police officers walk across to Rose’s united front. He immediately stood and walked across, himself.
‘Rose, we’d like you to come with us and answer a few questions. Your mum can come with you if you like.’
‘Is she under arrest?’ Liv asked.
‘Yes, is she under arrest?’ Tim said. ‘And can I see my brother now?’
‘Michael’s here?’ Rose asked. ‘Where’s Michael?’
‘Yes, Michael’s here, you stupid bitch.’
‘Sir, we’re going to have to insist that you take your seat again.’
‘Don’t talk to her like that,’ Liv said. ‘Don’t you fucking talk to her at all.’
‘Don’t talk to her? That’s my brother in there!’
‘Oh please, oh please.’ Violet sang it like a hymn, eyes trained squarely on the carpet.
‘Take your seat now, Sir. I’m not going to ask again.’ One of the officers stepped forward and placed himself between Tim and Liv. Rose stood then and found herself anchored by hand-holding on either side. Liv gave Rose’s hand a final squeeze and then released it.
Rose and Violet were led through a door to a long corridor freckled with bulletin boards. It seemed to go on forever. There were glass-walled offices to the left. There were people behind the glass, standing at desks as if to attention, watching Rose as she walked past. It was like a zoo, except Rose was the exhibit. She began to feel claustrophobic. That’s when she saw him, walking towards her from the other end of the enclosure.
Rose hesitated for just a second, her blood galumphing through a pulse roll that smacked her senses wide open. She felt like she had that first day on the beach. Frightened and exhilarated, she watched Michael get closer, recognised his relaxed gait, saw his face ease open as he approached her. What Rose saw on him was relief. He wore it like a skin.
They calculated each other’s approach and positioned themselves such that one would drag their fingers across the back of the other’s. Somehow this small gesture had more significance than the usual body-slam hugging that had been their previous mid-hall greeting. As his fingers grazed hers he turned briefly to her and said, ‘We’re almost there, Rose.’
If you or someone you know needs help, please contact:
Lifeline
www.lifeline.org.au
13 11 14
24-hour crisis support and suicide prevention
beyondblue
www.beyondblue.org.au
www.youthbeyondblue.com
1300 22 4636
For information on depression and anxiety and where to get help
know4sure
www.know4sure.org.au
A project of Children by Choice
www.childrenbychoice.org.au
1800 177 725
Information for young people about all options with an unplanned pregnancy
Kids Helpline
www.kidshelp.com.au
1800 55 1800
24-hour counselling service for young people
I very much want to thank Erica Wagner for believing in this book from the beginning and providing such consistent support and guidance. I also want to thank Sophie Splatt, my editor, for some cracking insights and for putting up with me. And I must thank Joscelyn Evans – friend, confidante, critic, voice of reason, reality check and the only person who gets to read the first draft.
Dianne Touchell was born and raised in Fremantle, Western Australia. Her debut novel Creepy & Maud (Fremantle Press) was shortlisted for the Children’s Book Council of Australia’s Book of the Year Award in 2013 in the Older Readers category. She has worked as a fry cook, a nightclub singer, a housekeeper, a bookseller and an office manager. Sometimes she has time to write books for young adults. She enjoys cold weather and Mexican food. She lives with animals.
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