by Emily Gale
When I light the joint, all I can taste is the burnt end of it, but after a few tokes the true flavour comes through and there’s a numb sensation right between my eyes. Someone knocks and I struggle to get up, wondering how to ditch the joint, before remembering I’d locked my door in preparation.
‘Who is it?’
‘Me. Have you got time for a chat?’
‘Not now, Mum.’
‘It’s important, Ben.’
‘I said not now! I’m finishing off some homework.’
I wait, perfectly still, until I hear the friction of her shoes on the stair carpet.
Mum’s done a whole snapper because Noah’s become a pescetarian all of a sudden. What a joke. I load up my plate with her famous lemon, garlic and oregano roast potatoes, green beans and eggplant.
‘Steady on there, Benjamin, you’ll end up with a pot belly like David,’ says Pop. ‘Now, shall I be the one to make a toast?’
Dad looks at his plate of food morosely, but rights himself and picks up his wineglass. ‘Go ahead, Dad,’ he says.
‘To Katie, for this wonderful spread. Cheers!’
‘Cheers!’ we dutifully repeat.
Pop moves seamlessly into one of his favourite topics. ‘And when are you getting a haircut, young Noah?’
My brother stares at his plate, chewing rhythmically, and ignores our grandfather.
‘Noah, answer Pop,’ says Dad. ‘I’ve told him a hundred times. He looks like a girl.’
‘Maybe I need to step in and deal with it if you can’t, David. Hey, Noah?’
‘Let’s just eat, shall we?’ says Mum. ‘Talk about it another time.’
Dad pours me half a glass of white wine and I nod a thank you at him with my mouth stuffed full. I shouldn’t really have a drink on top of the joint. But I need to relax.
I let the conversation wash over me, helping myself to more potatoes glistening in olive oil, sprinkling on more salt, sipping the wine. My tastebuds feel alive; my belly starts to feel warm and satisfied.
‘What did I tell you about those Icelandic shares, David?’ Pop speaks to Dad like no one else would dare. He’s nearly eighty, but it’s as if he has a secret source of strength. ‘If you’d sold when I told you to, you’d have doubled your money.’
‘All right, Dad. We can’t win ’em all.’
‘Yes, you can – if you listen.’
‘I make my own decisions about money. I’m not doing too badly.’ Dad makes trails with his knife around the room.
‘You had a head start, thanks to me,’ says Pop.
Dad drops his cutlery and the clatter makes Mum jump in her chair.
‘So, Pop,’ I say, louder than I meant to but sticking with it, ‘did Dad tell you I made the water polo team?’
‘Ah!’ Pop says, raising his glass.
I glance sideways at Dad to see if he’s realised that I did that for him. He stares at his unfinished food and there’s a clump of chewed potato in the corner of his mouth that makes me look away.
Mr Witheridge is giving stultifying readings of Emily Dickinson poetry. He’s oblivious to the sounds of our groaning, the frequent ping of text messaging and the fact that Christian is playing rap music on low volume through his phone. Adie hasn’t showed up to school again.
I nudge Hari and lean close to whisper, ‘Hope Adie’s okay.’
‘Told you – she slept it off in Luca’s room. He said she was gone by the time he woke up.’ Hari stares straight ahead at Mr Witheridge. She seems colder, remote. Maybe she’s worried about leaving Adie and Luca alone all night. I don’t press it.
I wonder if Adie likes boys.
Or girls.
Or both.
Or neither.
Or, preferably, just me.
I glance to my right to find Milo mesmerised by Mr Witheridge murdering poetry. Milo usually hates this class. I switch to daydream mode and think back to Saturday night. I’d used Hari’s phone to call Dad after my shower. Out on Luca’s front porch, I found Milo about to get into Julie’s car with Ben Bloody Brearley. Julie offered me a lift, but, praise be, Dad had pulled up, so I had an excuse not to sit in the back with Ben and share oxygen with that revolting piece of afterbirth.
Dad and I ended up giving a few randoms a lift home because he felt sorry for them drifting outside Luca’s place waiting for taxis. Driving around with him was a good end to a grim night. After the last one had been dispatched, I explained why I was wearing a black t-shirt and thin black running shorts, which Hari said was the closest Luca’s wardrobe could get to goth. Dad and I had a laugh about my puke story. He said he’d once had to be hosed down in someone’s front yard when he’d puked on himself after drinking too much at the end of Year Twelve.
‘Thanks for that cautionary tale, Dad,’ I said.
‘I have many more stories to put you off for life.’
‘It’s okay, Dad, alcohol tastes like shit to me.’
‘That’s good. And don’t say “shit”.’
Then at home in bed, wide awake, I thought of Adie – all the things she’d ever said to me – rummaging for proof that I was more to her than someone to vomit on.
Even in the dark, her eyes wouldn’t leave me alone. I couldn’t settle. At last, I got out of bed and peeled off the tape that held the drawing at each corner. I laid it face up on my desk and got back into bed. At least then she couldn’t see me.
When I get home from my shift at the art shop on Wednesday, Mum’s all fancy and made-up for the first time in ages.
‘Swanky invitation to the portrait prize announcement. Margrete can’t come, so I’ve got a plus one if you’re interested.’
‘Yes! How long do I have to get changed?’
‘Half an hour. Wow, Wren, I’m so happy to see you so keen to come along.’
Uh-huh, keen for some art prize announcements, Mum. This has nothing to do with the very real possibility that Adie is going to be there with her dad.
I hurry up the stairs and throw my entire wardrobe on the floor. Everything looks old and samey. There’s one stark contrast – a dress I bought at the op shop on a whim six months ago and never looked at since. It’s not me – fifties style with a little collar and a full skirt, but it’s green with a pattern of black ravens and a black belt. Tonight is the time to try something different. I put my hair up in the messiest bun I can make by backcombing and teasing, and I add a pair of sheer patterned black tights and the malachite pendant as well as a black velvet choker and some other pieces that stop the dress from looking twee. Docs, obviously.
‘Smokin’ hot,’ says Dad, when I come downstairs.
The corner of my mouth twitches. ‘Dad, seriously. Never use that phrase again.’
‘As you wish,’ he says in a deep, fake-sorrowful voice.
‘You look really good.’ Summer tentatively holds up her phone to take a photo, but lowers it when she sees my death stare.
‘Enough, everyone! Go about your business!’
Dad and Summer laugh and I storm off dramatically to find my bag.
‘We’ll see you arty-farty types later then,’ says Dad.
‘Not if we see you musos first,’ says Mum.
The party is in a huge modern gallery that used to be an old warehouse. It’s laid out in a dreamlike way, room after room of polished concrete floors leading off one another, a single portrait on each vast white wall. There are all sorts at the party, from edgy-looking people to more conservative types. I can’t see Adie yet, but I spy the portrait of her and her not-mother straight away. It’s five times bigger than I’d expected. It’s imposing and siren-like, calling across a crowded room. Watching the people around me, I can tell I’m not the only one who thinks so. I’m scared to go closer, as if I’m giving myself away with everything I do. I hold the malachite stone and follow Mum around.
Mum finds someone she knows and starts chatting. I feel a brush against the back of my arm.
‘Hey,’ says Adie. She looks anxious.
‘
Hey, how’s it going?’ I want to add, Where’ve you been? Other than constantly in my head?
She covers her face with her hands, shakes her head and then peeks through her fingers. ‘I’m so sorry, Wren. I’ll never live that down.’
I smile and take one of her wrists, tugging gently. ‘It’s okay. Don’t hide.’ She slowly lowers her hands. ‘Forget about it.’
‘I’ll buy you a new dress.’
‘No way. It was an old one. Seriously.’
‘You’re being so great. I swear I’ve never done anything like that before.’
A man’s amplified voice welcomes everyone to the gallery. He starts with an acknowledgement of country like we have at school assembly.
‘I think I need to get out of here,’ Adie whispers as he continues with his speech.
‘Don’t you want to hear the result?’ I whisper back. ‘Where’s your dad?’
The crowd swells around us as people gather to get a view of the man speaking.
Adie’s pale, panicking. I spy a nearby exit, put my hand on Mum’s shoulder and say close to her ear that I’ll be back in a minute; she nods without taking her eyes off the speaker. Then I take Adie’s fingertips and guide her out of the crowd. Her hand slides into mine and she squeezes it.
Once we’re out the front, I lead us around the side of the building. It’s a narrow laneway of cobbles and high brick walls. I stop before one of the gallery windows.
‘Here?’ I say. She nods and her hand slips away. ‘I can just about see in.’
‘Thanks. I’m so nervous for my dad. I can’t look at his face if he doesn’t win.’
‘I know what you mean. My mum’s an artist.’
‘So you get it. All of this build-up and emotional fucked-upness. Makes me want to ditch art for good.’
‘Me too, sometimes. Right now I feel like I’m good at art, it’s something I love. But being an artist – that’s something different. It switches from being something you enjoy to something that takes over and basically ruins your life.’ I laugh, but Adie bites her lip.
‘Exactly.’
I was exaggerating a bit – Mum’s not that bad. She’s had other things that have made her irreversibly sad, but I don’t think it’s an exaggeration from Adie’s point of view.
‘Does your mum paint you?’ she asks.
‘Once or twice. Sketches when we were little. Mostly, she’s focused on landscapes as far back as I can remember.’
‘That sounds better. My dad only ever paints me. Or his girlfriends. Or me with his girlfriends.’
‘That’s intense.’
‘Yep.’ Her eyes shine with a secret sadness. ‘Can you look in, see if anything’s happening yet?’
I edge closer to the window. ‘People are clapping.’
‘Oh God. Look for my dad. He’s six foot and wearing a kind of smart straw hat and a blue jacket.’
‘Is he with a woman with bright red hair?’
‘The latest victim. Has he won? Please tell me he’s won.’
I watch a woman approach the man with the microphone and shake his hand. She takes the mic and speaks to the crowd. I look back at Adie’s dad. His face is in shadow.
‘Well?’
‘I can’t tell yet.’
I keep watching. The woman’s still talking, smiling broadly. I have a feeling it’s bad news for Adie and I don’t want to be the messenger. The crowd applauds again, the woman raises her glass at them. They break apart and form smaller groups, spreading out into new spaces, heading for the other rooms. It’s over. I can’t see Frank Ryan any more.
‘Sorry, Adie,’ I say, turning to her.
At that moment a tall figure storms across the laneway entrance, followed by a redhead. Adie turns to see where I’m looking. Her dad and ‘the latest victim’. I reach for Adie’s shoulder, but she seems to sense it before I touch her and walks forward. She stops at the end of the laneway.
‘Are they going without you?’ I say.
She walks in that direction without turning back. Adie, wait, is on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t let myself say it.
Chantal’s gone and Dara’s back.
A newspaper lies open on the half-moon table. It’s been there for days. The article about the portrait prize says that Dad was robbed, that his portrait of me and Dara was the best. Somehow that’s only made the loss worse. Even the fact that it sold to a private buyer for more money than all of Dad’s work put together hasn’t taken away the sting. I thought he’d be happy to have money at last. But he wants everything.
They’re out tonight. It’s not a celebration, it’s self-destruction – and I’ve got a bad feeling about what’s next for me. I’m waiting for Dad to say we’re getting out of this place and heading back to the middle of nowhere, and I don’t know what I’ll do then.
I want to stay. But if Dad asks me why I feel that way, I won’t have enough ammunition. Do I have friends? Not exactly. Is there anyone who cares whether I stay or go?
We’ve run out of food, so at around nine I walk to the IGA. I weave up and down the aisles getting bread, eggs, a small tin of tuna for Malachite – that’s all she likes. There’s a cavernous storeroom at the back of the shop with grimy plastic curtains. A man parts them with large brown hands and steps out in front of me, carrying a small box in the crook of one arm.
‘Aslan.’
‘Yes?’
I didn’t realise I’d said it out loud. ‘Hi. You probably won’t remember me – Adie. I used to come in here a long time ago.’
One of his great big hands forms a loose fist at his lips. I’m so much taller, so different in every way. He looks the same. I’m about to tell him that it doesn’t matter if he can’t remember, when he looks at me with a new light in his face.
‘Adie, of course!’ He puts the box down by his feet and holds out both hands. ‘How are you?’
My hand is sandwiched in two of his, which are warm and rough. Does he really remember me or is he being nice?
‘How good it is to see you.’ His deep voice is familiar and so is the way he stresses words in a different way. When I take my hand away he picks up his box again. ‘I saw your mother not long ago, but it has been much, much longer since I’ve seen you, Adie. Many years. You must be busy with school and so on.’
Your mother. I swallow it. No one’s said ‘your mother’ to me for so long. Mother. Mum. Not in my vocab. ‘She comes in here?’
‘She comes for her special bread. We always keep it in for her.’
Aslan has no idea that I haven’t seen her for years. That I don’t know where she lives, let alone what bread she eats. That I had been led to believe by my father that she … she …
That she what?
Left. But in my head it feels more like she dissolved. It wasn’t a single, memorable moment. I didn’t store a big goodbye. There was no hard-impact trauma. My mother faded to less than a word. How can she be here, shopping in the same place as me, walking the same streets?
I’ve got to get more out of Aslan.
‘I’ve been away with my dad. All over Europe first and then to Tassie. We’ve only just come home.’
‘I did not know this. Is he well, your father?’
‘He’s good. Um, this might sound strange, but … do you know where my mother lives?’
He frowns, and says softly, ‘I do not.’
Something urgent is building inside me. I put down my shopping basket between us. ‘I have to go. I’ve forgotten my wallet. Sorry.’ I start to walk away, gaining speed.
‘Do you want me to give your mother a message when she comes in?’
‘No!’ I turn around. ‘Please don’t say anything. Please.’
Outside, the world is dark and swimming even in daylight. To imagine her so close makes everything different.
Does Dad know she’s still around? For the first time, it crosses my mind that he might be keeping things from me – not for my protection, but for his. I’ve seen him lie and steal to get his way with
other people, but I thought I had immunity from that. Because if you can’t believe a single thing about your life from the only person who’s always been in it, where do you go from there?
My past is here, but I have to look properly if I want to find it.
Do I want to find my mother? Why haven’t I tried before? Why hasn’t she?
On Angus Road, I stand and look at our lifeless house. All the lights are out next door too. I put my hand in my pocket and find Piper’s key on its string. Elise said they were driving down the Great Ocean Road tonight, staying with her parents for the weekend. Something about this house …
The tree at the back of the garden fits the pictures in my head. When I asked Elise what the place looked like before she decorated it, she said ‘very dated’ and laughed. Then she said that the only room she hadn’t touched was Tav’s because he likes it the way it is. The middle room.
I wouldn’t touch anything, move anything, take anything. It wouldn’t exactly be right. But how wrong, really, on a scale of one to ten, would it be?
A six?
The key slides in – I jiggle it – and the door gives. I close it behind me with a subtle click. My shoes whisper on the Twister rug and then I slip into Tav’s room without opening the door any more than it already is. There’s a black blind pulled down over the window, a single bed covered in clothes and books, vinyl records stacked all along the other wall and a single turntable. A small desk messy with textbooks and papers. Nothing looks familiar, maybe because there are so many layers of Tav covering anything I might recognise.
The fireplace has the same shiny blue tiles I have in mine. A corner tile that matches the one which, on my first day back, I’d had this vague feeling would come loose. I kneel down to test its edges. It moves under my touch and lifts out easily. On the other side there’s a drawing and some letters, but it’s too dark in here to see them, so I walk closer to the chink of sunshine around the blinds.
A light comes on.
‘Adie! What the hell?’
‘Tav!’ Shit. ‘Oh God. I know this is bad.’
