by Pip Harry
I’m not only breaking up with Tom. I’m breaking up with his whole family. Jem, Ivy, Viola, Tilly, Mr and Mrs Maloney and their cat, Cake Pop.
I’m devastated.
At the station I fumble with the ticket machine, finding it hard to focus on the screen. My head whirls. There’s the formal a few months away. Our HSC exams, schoolies week and summer holidays looming. A gap year, maybe. We’d talked about travelling around Europe. Tom was my future.
I wipe my nose with the sleeve of my school jumper. I don’t have enough change for a ticket to Stanmore. After emptying my wallet, I’m twenty cents short.
‘Work with me,’ I say to the machine.
I rifle though my bag and find the fare, but the machine spits out my coins. Time expired. I sigh and start again. As I finally collect my ticket I notice a guy standing next to me.
His feet are bare and black and there are weeping, open sores on his legs. His clothes are shredded. God, he stinks. I hold my hand to my nose and mouth and tense up, feeling anxious about what he might do. I shove my ticket into my pocket, thinking, leave me alone. I grab my schoolbag, but he steps in front of me.
‘Can I have two dollars?’ he asks.
His hair is matted into dreadlocks, which fall over his face. His eyes are glazed and look through me. He’s more animal than human.
‘No, not today,’ I say.
He moves closer and I take a step back, panicked. Frightened now. I check the station for help and wonder if I should shout out. Scream. Is he going to hurt me? He’s skinny, but tall. If I push him, I could make a run for it. I’m strong. I’ve done self-defence.
‘Two dollars? I haven’t eaten today. I’m hungry. Please?’ he says.
‘I said no, so piss off,’ I say in a voice I hardly recognise. It’s low and threatening and takes us both by surprise.
I run to my train platform, feeling even worse about myself than before. How on earth am I going to be a volunteer at a homeless shelter if I can’t even handle bumping into one of them at a train station?
There’s a light on in the study. Mum’s home. ‘Hi! Down here, Nola!’ she shouts.
I drag my feet down the hall, preparing for her to be mad at me, too. She’s sitting in front of her computer, working on a case, her face glowing in the screen glare.
‘I thought you were at Tom’s for dinner tonight?’ she asks.
‘Yeah – he … Tom. Um. He broke up with me.’ I drop my chin and sob into my hands.
‘Oh, Nola.’
Mum jumps up and hugs me awkwardly before I have a chance to dart away, fish-like. The last time we properly hugged was months ago. Around the time Dad moved into his own place, things got strained between us. He’s the parent I’ve always gone to for cuddles and heart-to-hearts. Mum has set the rules and schedules, paid the bills on time and supervised homework. Without him around the house – playing his music, cooking and filling in the spaces while Mum works – we’ve both been lost.
At first, my arms hang by my side, then I grab onto her, burrowing my face into her shoulder.
‘Are you okay?’ she asks.
‘I don’t think so.’
I can’t tell her that in the moments after Tom broke up with me, I thought I might die. That the pain was so sharp, so excruciating, I didn’t see how living was a viable option. That the reason he broke up with me was because she told the truth, when I couldn’t.
‘I think I know why,’ Mum says.
She looks as disappointed in me as Tom. It makes me feel small and guilty.
‘Tom came around yesterday. I had no idea you hadn’t told him about Dad and I. Is it some big secret that we’re gay? Why did you let him think we were straight, Nola? He seemed very confused that you’d lied to him. I must admit I feel the same way.’
‘Can we not talk about it now? I can’t … I just can’t …’
I’m crying even harder now, my nose running.
‘Alright. It can hold. Let’s sit down as a family when Dad gets back from his work trip. Come on. You might feel better if you eat something.’
Mum scoops my favourite cookies and cream ice-cream into a bowl and I eat it at the kitchen bench. The cold feels good on my salty, swollen throat.
‘How much devastation and heartbreak on a scale of one to ten?’ asks Mum.
‘Twelve,’ I say, miserably. She chucks a ready meal for herself into the microwave from our bomb-shelter size stash.
‘You sure you don’t want a freezer feed?’ she asks. ‘I’ve got butter chicken, Thai chicken and parma chicken. Or I could make you two-minute noodles with cheese?’
My stomach swims from too much ice-cream. Will I ever eat at the Maloneys’ table again? I’d gotten used to buttering freshly baked bread, scooping up grilled vegetables in a rainbow of colours. Cutting into tender meat, cooked by Tom’s dad on the barbecue. Joining the family kitchen clean-up roster, with a sponge or a broom.
Mum hates cooking and I don’t know how. There’s a lot of toast in my future. ‘I’m not hungry, Mum. I might have a shower.’
Under the shower I cry until my ribs hurt and the water runs cold. I pull on a pair of pyjamas – my softest, oldest ones with a strawberry print – and fall miserably into bed.
Mum knocks at the door and swings it open tentatively.
‘It’s still early … we could watch something on Netflix? There’s a Norwegian crime drama that looks okay.’
‘I want to sleep.’
If I can pass out, at least I’ll get through the next eight hours. She walks to my bed and rests a warm hand on the side of my face. I close my eyes and miss Dad with an intensity that I haven’t felt since I was a little kid. I want him to pat my back until I fall asleep. ‘You’ll survive this,’ she whispers.
‘If you say so.’
‘I say so. Sleep tight.’
‘Mum? When does Dad get back?’
‘Week after next? I’ll check.’
‘I wish he was here.’
Mum pauses at the door.
‘Yes. Me too.’
In the dark I reach for my phone and turn it on. There are no messages from Tom and he hasn’t posted on social media, which isn’t a surprise. I pushed him to get a Facebook account and he never even checks it. I type a text to Ebony telling her about the break-up that I slowly delete, letter by letter. I don’t have the energy to re-live the nightmare or explain why Tom dumped me. The only thing I can do is close my eyes and hope I can fix it, all of it, somehow.
A little boy stares at me as I huddle in a bus shelter, pretending I’m going somewhere. I eat a banana from breakfast, mashed into a slice of white bread. It’s gluggy and tasteless. I want soup and crusty bread. Pasta with cream sauce and seafood. Hot chips straight from the fryer, covered in chicken salt.
‘Are you a boy or a girl?’ the kid asks.
He’s lost his two bottom teeth and speaks with a lisp. He’s wearing a school uniform that looks like my old one. Red trackkie pants and a white T-shirt. A waterproof zip jacket. I don’t miss studying, but I do miss school. It was nice having the bell ring to tell you where to go. Warm classrooms and the tuckshop. Things to do. My mates around.
I wonder what Mari is doing right now. Probably chucking rosettes onto a wedding cake or sneaking a smoke out the back lane and checking her phone. I can almost feel her hug me. She doesn’t hold back or give air kisses like some girls. I wish I’d said goodbye to her before I left. Wish I knew how to say hello again. I shrug and stare back at the kid. I don’t feel much like a girl these days. Any boobs I had are practically gone. I’m wearing baggy jeans and a hoodie. Old trainers that smell like mildew.
‘Ethan, ssshhh! Don’t be rude to the boy,’ says his mum, grabbing his arm and clutching her takeaway coffee. They get on the 381 bus. I want to be on it, too.
Ethan peers out the window and waves at me
. I wave back, stick my tongue out and cross my eyes. He smiles. I walk away from the bus shelter. My feet hurt and a blister is blooming on my heel.
I’m waiting outside Hope Lane for the doors to open. There’s a few hours to kill, but at least it feels familiar here. I’m getting to know the regulars. A volunteer called Eddie pulls up on a dodgy motorbike and releases the kickstand. He has a helmet under one arm, a courier bag over his shoulder and is carrying bags of groceries.
He tries to open the gate with his foot and drops the bags on the ground, stray oranges rolling in my direction. He’s about my age, maybe a bit older. Asian, with girl’s eyelashes and long black hair he ties back. He works in the kitchen sometimes. Nice enough, but no clue how to cook up a decent feed. What he does to food should be a crime.
‘Afternoon,’ Eddie says. ‘Tiny, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, that’s me. Need a hand?’
I pick up the fruit and put it back in the plastic bag.
It feels good to be on my feet. I’m cold right through. My bum is freezing. No feeling left in my toes. Winter is nearly here.
‘Got an idea,’ Eddie says. ‘Better than sitting out here. Come inside and help me with dinner prep. Earn a little cash?’
‘Sure,’ I agree, walking inside with Eddie gratefully, pins and needles shooting down my legs. ‘Thank you.’
‘You won’t be thanking me when you see how many potatoes we have to peel.’
As we sign in, I notice one of the longer-term residents is in the waiting room. A Maori guy who keeps to himself. He’s crying into his beefy arms, talking to his counsellor. Around the shelter people say he played rugby back in New Zealand. He coulda gone pro. Shoulda played for the All Blacks. Woulda been famous if it wasn’t for his knee blowing out or the gambling addiction that sent him broke.
There are a lot of stories like that around Hope Lane. People who reached for the champagne, but ended up with a fistful of broken glass.
The shelter’s security door shuts behind me in a solid lock.
The stench hits me like a slap. An eye-watering combo of body odour, overcooked vegetables and baked-in grime. Twenty hours of this smell? I don’t think so. I cover my mouth and fight a clench of nausea. I can’t stay here. I can’t do this. I’ll tell Mr J that I’d rather pick up rubbish.
‘Are you Nola?’ shouts a lady behind the glassed-in reception. She waves me over and shoves a sign-in book under the partition.
‘Autograph please,’ she says. ‘I’m Aimee. Take a seat and I’ll be out in a sec. Gotta send a couple of emails.’
I find a chair in the waiting area and sweep the plastic seat with the hem of my blazer. Nobody seems to notice the smell and there are no windows open. No fresh air. No air freshener. Everyone going about their business. A steady tap of computers and quiet chatting. I’ve come early to do my volunteer training with Aimee, and then my first full writing workshop.
An older woman is buzzed through the doors and I pick my bag up off the floor protectively. I’m carrying my laptop and fresh pocket money. I don’t want to take any chances. The woman has a hospital tag hanging from her frail wrist and she leans against the counter and yells ‘oi!’ repeatedly at Aimee.
‘I bin sick! I can’t be standing outside for hours waiting for a bed! I had pneumonia. Been at the Royal. Doc says you need to find me a house. Proper accommodation. I need to move up the waiting list. Been on that list for two years now. I got me rights.’
I pull my bag tighter to my chest and try not to stare at her. I feel a rush of nerves. Will she be in the writing group today? I hope not.
‘Hattie, you look awful, mate,’ says Aimee, sounding defeated.
Hattie takes offence, gathers herself upright and tries to fluff her matted hair. ‘I do not!’ She sits in the chair next to me, her arm touching mine. Can you catch pneumonia? The crepey skin on her hand is dotted purple from needle sticks.
‘You’re a pretty thing,’ she says to me, then bends over and coughs phlegm into her mouth. Swallows it. She smiles and leans in too close, her wrinkled brown eyes roaming over my body, invading my personal space. I want to be friendly, but she makes me feel uncomfortable. I switch seats and immediately feel terrible about the empty chair between us. Aimee gives me a disappointed glance and Hattie’s smile fades. ‘I’m not contagious!’ she shouts. ‘You think you gunna catch something from me?’ I draw a breath and look away from the woman. Wishing I was anywhere else. But mostly with Tom. It’s been ten days since our break-up, and he won’t return my messages or pick up when I call him. It’s like we were never a couple. Ebony says it’s for the best, there are plenty of other boys for me. But I want Tom.
‘Easy there, Hattie,’ says Aimee, finally emerging from the front booth. ‘I’m sure Nola didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.’
‘I didn’t. I’m sorry,’ I say.
Aimee looks like the reliable type. She’d have a first-aid kit stashed in her car. A spare water bottle. CPR skills up to date. Meeting her eases my panic slightly.
‘Don’t worry, you’ll settle in,’ Aimee says, a plastic bag of fresh herbs and flowers swinging from her hand for no apparent reason.
I am breathing under my hand.
She gives me a stem of lavender and I put it to my nose, breathing in the perfume and cancelling out the stink of the shelter.
‘After a few weeks you don’t even notice the smell. Come on, we’d better do your training and then get set up.’
‘You coming later, Hattie?’ she asks the old woman.
‘I got no energy for storytelling. I got no energy for this life.’
I’m relieved Hattie won’t be in the group, then guilty for having the thought. Aimee puts a hand on Hattie’s shoulder, and gives her a small yellow rose. ‘I found you a bed, Hattie. We’ll be up on level six, if you want to listen in.’
‘You’re a good girl,’ Hattie says, weaving the rose into her bird’s nest bun. ‘Not like that one. That one needs to learn some manners.’
Aimee punches at the lift button, waits for a few seconds, then sighs. ‘Lift still broken, Eddie?’ she shouts at a young guy working in the kitchen.
He’s probably in his late teens or even twenties and is ridiculously good-looking, verging on beautiful. Half Asian, with straight black eyebrows and eyes the colour of apple cider.
‘Been out all week,’ says Eddie. ‘At least it’s a good workout.’
‘I’m doing a volunteer induction, then I’ll set up,’ says Aimee. ‘This is Nola, she’s doing her school community service.’
‘Hi!’ says Eddie. ‘Welcome! This is my new assistant chef, Tiny.’
Behind him a girl peels vegetables at the sink, deftly flicking away the skin with pale, delicate hands. Is she a student, like me? Or does she live here? She can’t be more than fourteen or fifteen. Tiny. Is that her real name? The girl looks up from the sink and our gaze locks for a few seconds. Hers are the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen. Like she’s seen everything the world has to offer and decided it’s not enough.
A hundred potatoes are skinned and chopped in a massive plastic bucket, with three kilos of carrots and a small mountain of broccoli. I’m a little rusty on the tools but I’m proud of myself. I haven’t felt that in a long time.
‘How long did you work in a kitchen, Tiny?’ asks Eddie, stacking the dishwasher. ‘You after my job? Take it, please.’
‘I was a dish pig at the RSL back home, then kitchen hand. I was plating entrees and desserts until …’
‘Until what?’ asks Eddie, his face curious. I shut down, hanging up my apron and pulling my hoodie back on.
‘Nuthin.’
Eddie gets out his wallet and hands me twenty dollars.
‘You don’t need to pay me,’ I say. ‘You did me a favour giving me something to do.’
‘You earned it,’ he says. ‘Take it.’
I hesitate, then fold it into my back pocket.
With twenty dollars I could take Zak down to the fish market for lunch. Dangle our feet over the pier.
‘Where you from, Tiny?’ Eddie asks.
‘Nowhere interesting,’ I say, not wanting to give too much away. Eddie’s easy to talk to.
I wipe down the benches with a cloth and think of home. Flat, dry land in every direction. More sheep than people. Icy cold in winter and blazing hot in the summer. Stuck in the middle of the map. A full day’s drive from any city or beach. Outside the visitor centre there’s a rhino statue. A bronze cow and calf grazing. That’s the main reason people stop in Dubbo – to go to the famous local zoo. Everyone else is speeding through on their way to somewhere better.
‘How’d you end up in Sydney?’ asks Eddie.
‘I went for a drive and ended up here. What about you?’
‘My dad’s from the Philippines, Mum’s from Sydney. I was born here. Have you got family, Tiny?’
‘Dad left us when I was eight. Said he was going to find work in the mines. Disappeared underground.’
‘I grew up without a dad around, too,’ says Eddie. ‘It was just Mum and me, we battled. I was a houso kid for a few years. Down the road, actually, the Surry Hills flats. What about your mum? Is she looking for you?’
Eddie has a way of wheeling questions back to you.
‘Dunno. Probably never wants to see me again.’
‘I don’t know how that could be true.’
Eddie takes off his apron and throws it on a hook.
‘The writing group is on now. Why don’t you come?’
‘Might give it a miss.’
Eddie takes a platter of fruit and cakes out of the fridge, which makes my stomach rumble.
‘At writing group you get to eat that?’ I ask, eyeing off the flaky pastries drizzled with shiny white icing. Fat strawberries, slices of orange, watermelon and apple.
‘Sure do. And a cuppa at half time.’
