Because of You

by Pip Harry

  He may be a druggie, but he talks like someone with three degrees.

  ‘This so called defensive architecture – water sprays, spikes and such tactics – is an open hostility towards the destitute and downtrodden. These corporate bullies don’t want to see our suffering or acknowledge our humanity. They simply want to eradicate us.’

  ‘Where?’ whispers Hattie. ‘Where do we go?’

  The room falls silent and I feel ashamed. I try not to see homeless people too. I told a hungry, desperate man to piss off, when I could’ve bought him a sandwich.

  ‘Sometimes writing makes you think,’ says Eddie. ‘And yours always does that for us Drew. Thank you.’

  ‘You want to share, Nola?’ asks Eddie. Everyone looks at me expectantly. I remember Eddie’s words. Nola’s a terrific writer. I wish he hadn’t said that.

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Go on. We’d love to hear what you’ve been working on,’ he pushes.

  ‘I can’t,’ I say. My words are too revealing. I don’t want to share them with a roomful of strangers.

  ‘Sure. Maybe next time. Great work everyone, and now the real reason you’re all here – arvo tea!’

  In the kitchen I make a pot of tea, arrange stale pastries and fruit on a plate and take it out to the table. Tiny shovels food into her mouth, barely stopping to chew. She’s taken off her hoodie and I scan her arms for needle marks, but they’re clean.

  ‘What’s your story, Princess?’ asks Drew.

  ‘What’s yours?’ I say, cornered. He smells and doesn’t know how to keep a polite distance. When he talks he spits food and drink in my face. I could get hepatitis from him. Anything. Plus, his fly is open and he hasn’t even realised.

  ‘I’ll tell ya my story. I never got nothing growing up. When I was eleven my mum left us and I had to cook and clean for me five little brothers and sisters. Didn’t have no money for food half the time. Then me Dad died in a car accident and we all had ta go to foster homes. Got a trade, until I hurt me back and wound up sleeping in Central Station. Yeah, I’ve had a lovely life … thanks for asking.’

  Around the room Eddie is locked in a serious discussion with Zak. Aimee is laughing with Pee Wee, a mug of tea in her hand, feet up. On the couch, Hattie sifts through a massive handbag, filled with dirty cosmetics, rubbish and god knows what else. She pulls out a lipstick and dabs it onto her mouth. Two gatecrashers have turned up for the food and they’re kissing in the corner. I stare at them, shocked. They seem properly in love.

  I don’t want to be with these people. I have no idea what to say to them and they don’t want me here either. I’m out of my depth. I pretend to fill up the kettle in the kitchen, then I slip out the side door. I feel a rush of relief at escaping so easily.

  Halfway down the stairs, I hear footsteps behind me. I stop and wait for Aimee or Eddie to catch up to me. They’d want help mopping up stale crumbs and rinsing tea cups. They’d talk me into staying on.

  I’m a terrible creative writing helper and tea lady. I don’t want to spend any more time with these lonely people as they write their tragic stories in exercise books, which no one will ever read. As I turn to face the music, I’m surprised to see Tiny staring at me with serious eyes. She shivers and pulls her hood over her head.

  ‘Escaping too?’ I say.

  Tiny looks startled, then she grins. Her smile changes her face completely.

  ‘Got my feed, I’m out of here,’ she says. We continue walking down the stairs, side-by-side.

  Next to Tiny I’m tall and awkward. She’s the sort of person who’s almost not there at all. Like a cat burglar. Any minute I could turn around and see she’s vanished. We push through the front door. Outside it’s bright and cold. My eyes burn.

  ‘Okay, see ya,’ says Tiny, sitting on the steps in front of the hostel and resting her head on her dirty jeans.

  Looking at this mixed-up girl I feel pity and curiosity. If I’m never coming back I might as well do one good deed.

  ‘What are you doing now?’ I ask.

  Tiny motions to the stone steps. ‘This.’

  ‘Just sitting here?’

  ‘Yep.’

  I have a hundred bucks in my pocket and nowhere to be either. Mum won’t be home for hours yet. She’s working on a new case. Figuring it out.

  There’s a cafe-slash-bakery across the street, with chairs and tables in the sun, boxes of fruit and cut flowers in mason jars. People are lined up to get to the counter of sourdough breads, shiny tarts and cakes. Outside, a couple hold hands as they read books separately, the guy with a long hipster beard and the girl wearing a gingham bow in her hair. I know it won’t make Tiny’s life any better to sit at Miss Jones Bakery, instead of on the steps of Hope Lane. But I don’t know what else to offer.

  ‘Want to get a coffee with me? I won’t make you do any writing. Promise.’

  Tiny eyes me warily. ‘I’m fine. Really. You can go back to your normal life now.’

  ‘Okay. Suit yourself.’

  I cross the road to the bakery and order myself a hot chocolate with extra marshmallows. People jostle and shout their orders in the cramped space. The air is warm and buttery.

  ‘Hot choc for Nola!’ shouts the barista. I grab my cup and have a change of heart.

  ‘I’ll get another one please!’ I shout, another note over the counter. ‘And some of those.’

  When I return Tiny is dozing on her knees, her hood over her head like a blanket.

  ‘Hey,’ I say gently, holding the cup under her chin. I shake a paper bag full of croissants and sit down next to her.

  ‘Still hungry? I got chocolate, almond or plain. Fresh from the oven.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Tiny takes a pastry and sips the drink tentatively.

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Eighteen,’ she says.

  ‘I’m eighteen next year. I can’t wait.’

  ‘Why?’ Tiny asks.

  ‘So I can drive, drink. Not be a kid anymore.’

  ‘Being a kid is pretty good. People do stuff for you. Cook your food. Clean your clothes. Put a roof over your head. Drive you around. I’d be a kid again in a minute.’

  She takes the lid off her drink and scoops up the sludge on the bottom, dribbling some on her chin.

  I do the same, melted chocolate filling the cracks between my teeth. I smile at her with a crazed cocoa grin and we laugh.

  ‘You coming back next week?’ asks Tiny. ‘You’re alright, aye. Not what I thought.’

  ‘Don’t think so,’ I say. ‘It’s not really my thing.’

  ‘Eddie’s pretty cute, though, right?’ She gives me a cheeky smile. ‘I saw him checking you out.’

  ‘You didn’t.’

  ‘I did, I swear.’

  She crosses her heart with her finger.

  ‘He’s alright. If you’re into arty hipster guys with an abundance of eyelashes and feelings,’ I say.

  ‘You’re not?’

  ‘I don’t like boys at the moment. Got my heart broken.’

  ‘Me too,’ she says.

  Tiny reaches into her pocket and pulls out a sheet of paper. ‘Here. If I’m not going to see you again, you might as well have this. The only thing I wrote today.’

  ‘You sure?’

  I take it, reach into my bag and rip a page out of my journal. ‘Have mine. It’s probably rubbish.’

  ‘It’s not rubbish.’

  I get up to leave. The workshop will finish soon and I don’t want to get caught by Eddie or Aimee.

  ‘See you, Tiny.’

  ‘Bye Nola. Thanks for the hot chocolate.’

  Mum isn’t home yet, and our house is dark. I lock the door behind me and throw my schoolbag in the entrance, too tired to unpack my lunchbox or sort through my folders. There’s a stack of homework I’m going to igno
re. I turn on the TV for company and grab a frozen lasagne from the freezer. I stand in silence in the kitchen for the full seven minutes it takes to cook. How many kids are sleeping on the streets tonight? Kids my age. Younger.

  The microwave dings and I eat four scathing mouthfuls of the tomato slop, sitting at the kitchen bench.

  ‘Yuk.’

  I chuck the container in the bin and take ice-cream out of the freezer.

  My phone rings. Ebony. I let it go through to voicemail and play her message on loudspeaker, spooning hokey-pokey into my mouth.

  Are you okay, Nola? I can’t believe Tom is already with Holly. I’m so sorry, babe. But hey, I had this idea. Maybe it’s too soon, but what about you ask Collie to the formal? Beau told me he thinks you’re cute, and he’s definitely cute, don’t you think? Anyway, think about it. I’ll see you tomorrow at school, kay? Night.

  Colin ‘Collie’ Smith plays first-grade cricket and styles his hair in a carefully gelled wave. He recently had his braces off, revealing a smooth smile. But I can’t see him as my formal date. Instead, I imagine Tom in black tie. Crooked grin and a sneaky hippy in his back pocket. We’d leave early and find a dark place to muck around. Usually I’d call Ebony or at least text her back. But today has worn me out. All I want is quiet and sleep. I turn my phone and the telly off and take out Tiny’s poem.

  What Came After You

  You’re here. At last.

  More perfect than I could imagine.

  My body aches from letting go of you

  I’m bruised and raw.

  Empty, but full of joy.

  I miss you, even in the shower,

  Washing away the dry blood

  With soap that smells like roses.

  Washing away hours of sweat and tears

  and pain.

  I wanted it to end. Begged for you to stop coming.

  But now …

  I want to have it back. That moment.

  Screaming. One last push.

  One more.

  Nearly there.

  Your sticky body on my chest.

  Meeting for the first time. Blinking at each other.

  Surprised. Relieved. Exhausted.

  You are mine.

  Your eyes. Blue and serious

  Look at me like you know me.

  Trusting me.

  Needing me.

  I hold the paper in my hands. My mouth open. Tiny has a baby? Where is her baby now?

  Mum’s sipping a double long black as we run to the car, a backpack on her shoulder. She’s representing a man accused of murdering his girlfriend. She’s a criminal lawyer known for taking the worst-of-the-worst cases. She says everybody deserves a fair trial and a decent defence because we never know the full story. To say she takes her work seriously is an understatement. She regularly goes to bed at 4am, after staying up all night at the computer. When she’s on a case she turns it over and over in her mind, from every angle, which makes her almost permanently distracted.

  She spills a little coffee on her white shirt and swears as she rubs at the mark. ‘Oww, come on. At least one day I’d like to turn up to work unsoiled.’

  ‘Maybe you should try drinking coffee at home. At the kitchen table. With a bib on.’

  ‘Hey, some respect. I used to wipe poo off your bum, missy.’

  ‘Lovely visual. Wasn’t it Dad who changed all my nappies while you were off defending crims?’

  I’m deliberately poking a sore spot. Mum jokes that she had all the mothering equipment, but Dad got all the maternal instincts. But it bothers her when I remind her she wasn’t around all that much when I was growing up.

  Mum gives me an irritated look and puts the plastic mug on the roof as she tosses her backpack into the boot. She gets into the driver’s seat and I tap on the window.

  ‘Forgetting something?’ I say, handing her the mug.

  In the car Mum likes to hands-free her first calls of the day, but this morning she wants to chat. This is unusual. We haven’t been talking much lately. I’ve been closing the door to my room after school, and she’s been happy to spend more time on conference calls and replying to never-ending emails.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Dad’s home from the States, and I think we need a family meeting to catch up on a few things.’

  ‘Dad’s back?’

  ‘Early this morning.’

  I check my phone and sure enough he’s sent a text.

  Can’t wait to see my girl! Missed you! xx

  Does he know I lied to all my friends and my boyfriend and pretended he was straight? I don’t know how I’ll explain it.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Tonight. Dad’s got a table at a flash restaurant he’s been dying to try. We want to check in with you, find out what went on with Tom and how you’re coping with the HSC. It’s a big year for you, Nola, lots of decisions to make. Any idea about your uni preferences yet?’

  I’m still drawing a blank on what to do with my life after graduation.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘What about a communications course? You write beautifully, it could be a career? Journalism, marketing, that sort of thing?’

  I can feel Mum’s frustration building the more I stall on my choices. She got a scholarship to study law at Sydney University when she was my age, after topping the state in her HSC exams.

  I shake my head. ‘I won’t get a high enough ATAR for comms.’

  ‘How do you know unless you try? I have a friend who works for a magazine. Would you like to do some work experience there? I could call her.’

  ‘Mum – please. I don’t want to be a journalist. Can we talk about something else?’

  ‘Okay, how was the writing group yesterday? You were already asleep when I came in.’

  ‘I don’t want to go back. They smelt rank and one of them called me a princess.’

  She’s quiet for a while, and I can hear her mind whirring. A lecture is imminent.

  ‘Do you remember your eighth birthday party?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Dad and I said you could invite eight kids. Anyone you liked from your class.’

  ‘I’m not sure how this is relevant.’

  ‘Three of the kids on your list, we’d never heard of. They weren’t your friends. When we asked why you were inviting them you said they were the kids who never got invited to parties. You didn’t want to see them left out. When they arrived, Nola, I was so proud of you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You were kind. You were inclusive. You looked out for the ones that fell behind.’

  ‘I’m still kind.’

  ‘Then go to the next writing group. Pick up the stragglers.’

  I turn towards the window and look at the morning-commute traffic, remembering those kids.

  Rick Yu – he pooed his pants in Year One. Sat in it for half the day, stinking. Nobody could let it go. They called him Rick Poo and waved their hands over their noses whenever he walked past.

  Sophie Janelli – she was allergic to everything and her lunchbox was full of the weirdest food imaginable. Gluten-free, nut-free, dairy-free, taste-free snacks. She was always sniffling into a hanky and her skin was covered in fierce eczema. She carried an EpiPen in her bag and the teachers were anxious around her, like she was a ticking time bomb.

  Jason Herndoff – he had a stutter and was prone to cold sores. He liked computer games and ran with his feet flailing from side to side. He was always picked last.

  Dinner is on at the shelter. Tasteless frozen carrot, peas and corn medley, dried-out chicken and slimy, undercooked potatoes. I don’t want to brag, but if I’d been cooking, they’d be crispy and golden brown with oil, butter, salt and rosemary. I push my plate away, wondering if I can get into the kit
chen again and rescue Eddie.

  Aimee pulls out a chair opposite mine.

  ‘Did you enjoy writing group?’ she says. ‘Eddie’s amazing. Always thinking up new ways to get everyone excited about stories.’

  ‘Yeah. It was okay,’ I say. The best part was laughing on the steps with Nola.

  ‘Will you come back?’

  ‘Nah, don’t think so. And I don’t want to sing in the choir or do theatre or painting either.’

  Aimee looks gutted. She’s been pushing me to get involved in the shelter’s busy rec program. As if that will save me.

  ‘Suit yourself. Those things are optional. But your appointment with your psychologist isn’t. You need to be properly assessed.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘On Monday Centrelink will be here. They can sort out the right benefits. Maybe even help you get a job. Will you do it, Tiny? I see potential in you. I don’t want you back on the streets. You could even study. Have you got your HSC?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Year Ten?’

  I nod. Before I got pregnant my boss at the bistro said he was thinking about making me sous chef. I was booked into a baking and patisserie course at the TAFE. Afterwards it got hard. I was sick as. Couldn’t keep anything down. Right up until Charlie was born. I left school and stopped work. The smell of food in the kitchen made me crook. Study was impossible. I was always sleeping, barely putting one foot in front of the other.

  ‘What are you interested in, Tiny? What skills could we help you develop?’ Aimee asks brightly.

  I grab my plate and stand up.

  ‘I don’t wanna talk about this stuff right now.’

  ‘Next Monday, 10am, Dr Robinson,’ says Aimee. ‘We’re only trying to help you get involved in your life. Start caring about it. About yourself.’

  Getting my life together means I’ll have to think about Charlie. Talk to Mum and face up to my mistakes. I’m not ready. I climb the stairs to my room with feet like bricks. Once the door is closed, I smooth Nola’s writing out on the bed. It feels like spying.

  Three Haikus About Tom

  1. A stolen moment

  We break each other apart