Because of You

by Pip Harry

  I glance at Lolly and she smiles at me. We might as well not be here. It’s the Ebony and Kara show.

  ‘Kara, is the before-party sorted?’ asks Ebony.

  ‘Sorted. Garden party theme. Fairy floss bar and a slushy machine. Invites go out this week.’

  ‘I’d like to go over the guest list with you,’ says Ebony.

  ‘Definitely. Also, everyone needs to give me $158 per couple for the hummer, okay?’ says Kara.

  I make a tiny oh-my-god face and Lolly notices it. We stare at each other, horrified. This formal is adding up to hundreds, maybe thousands of dollars. For one night. My parents won’t like all these added extras and I don’t have a job to help pay for it all.

  ‘Lolly, are your parents cool with the after-party? You’ll need to put a bouncer on to control numbers.’

  ‘Mum said she doesn’t want a bunch of drunk teenagers messing up her new renovation. Sorry guys.’

  Ebony and Kara simultaneously scribble in their organisers and give each other a panicked look.

  ‘That’s terrible news,’ says Ebony. ‘Maybe we can hire a venue. I’ll see what’s around. Gosh, I feel like I’m doing all the work. Meanwhile, we still haven’t decided on the selfie booth and do we want flowers or other decorations on the tables? Nola?’

  ‘I don’t care. Whatever you think.’

  ‘You don’t care? You’re still on the committee, don’t forget.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m …’ Not that interested.

  ‘So, dresses. Wouldn’t it be amazing if we all colour coordinate? Blue is having a major moment this formal season. Metallic is also hot, so let’s shimmer where possible.’

  Ebony brings up the website of a designer boutique on her iPad and passes it around the group.

  ‘I think we should all get our dresses from Sass & Sami in Double Bay. They’re incredible.’

  I don’t want to be railroaded into having to wear the colour of the season from some overpriced boutique. But I don’t have the energy to argue.

  ‘This dress is amazing, don’t you think?’ Ebony asks me, pointing to a Tiffany blue halter neck gown with OTT beading.

  ‘It’s gorgeous,’ I say. ‘You’re going to look beautiful, Ebony.’

  ‘We’re going to look beautiful,’ she says.

  ‘Of course. That’s what I meant.’

  Dad meets me for mani-pedis at his favourite nail place after school. We soak our feet in the spas and lean back in comfy chairs. Dad’s flipping through a fashion mag and I’m on my phone. It’s a little tense between us after the emotions of our last dinner.

  ‘Colour?’ asks the girl.

  ‘I don’t care. Dad?’

  Dad looks at the colour chart. ‘This one would be great on you,’ he says, pointing to a glittery grape shade. ‘Purple Rain.’

  ‘I’m sorry about the other night,’ I say quietly.

  Dad puts his magazine down and takes my unpainted hand.

  ‘We cleared the air and hopefully you’ll be more honest with your friends about our family in future. So, on a more important note, I see some of your sparkle returning. Would I be right? Is there some magic boy dust in the air? Hmmm?’

  ‘Nothing to report, sorry.’

  ‘No gorgeous new love interest?’

  ‘Nope.’

  For some reason a guy’s face does pop into my head. I shake my head to reset the image, but it stays there for a while, twinkling. I rest my head back and let the therapist wash and dry my feet. It feels amazing.

  ‘Dad …’

  ‘Yes, daughter.’

  ‘I miss you at home.’

  ‘I miss you too, darling. How are you and Mum getting along?’

  ‘It’s too quiet.’

  ‘Enjoy it. I hear you have plenty of study to do.’

  ‘Don’t you start.’

  ‘Look, I scraped through my final year with very little distinction, so you’re not going to get an academic lecture from me. What Mum and I are hoping is you’ll discover your passion. Something that sets your heart on fire.’

  ‘Okay. Sure. I’ll let you know if I find my life’s calling.’

  ‘Remember Mum loves you to bits, but she struggles with the touchy-feely stuff. She always has.’

  ‘It’s fine. When do you leave again? It feels like you only just got back.’

  Mum says we should support Dad’s career taking off now because he made sacrifices to be a stay-at-home parent to me. I get that he did a lot of banana mashing, playgroup sessions, school drop-offs and tuckshop duties, but it’s not like his job is done the moment I turn eighteen. I still need him. Now, more than ever.

  ‘Friday. Fiji for five days. It’s tough, but someone has to do it.’

  Dad works in PR for a big hotel chain and is always off with media groups, showing them a good time. It sounds glamorous, and he loves the perks, but it’s not all island junkets and hammocks. He lives his life in business lounges, planes and hotel rooms, constantly having to be happy and enthusiastic, even when he’s got the flu or is horribly jetlagged.

  ‘When I get back let’s plan a trip for the two of us, a pre-HSC exam de-stressor, okay?’

  ‘That would be good.’

  ‘Something with pool lounges and mocktails with tiny umbrellas in them. Leave it with me.’

  Dr Robinson is a very cheerful old guy with a wiry body, tons of energy and greying ginger hair. He rarely blinks or breaks eye contact. We sit down together and he gives me paper and a pen for some kind of test.

  ‘This is basic, Tiny, but it’s a starting point. Don’t think about the questions too much. Answer quickly and truthfully.’

  The first question screams at me like it’s printed in bold red ink.

  Q. Do you feel guilty about things in your life?

  There are four circles to shade in my feelings. Not true. Slightly true. Moderately true. Very true. Guilt about the choices I made is the one feeling I do have, in a sea of numbness. I put my pen to the very true circle and shade it in. My hand shakes.

  Q. Do you feel as if you’ve lost your core and essence?

  Essence is a funny word to use for a person. It makes me think of vanilla essence. Dripping it into a thick, creamy batter. Did my essence smell like cake? Back when I was happy? Now I stink like rotting dead animal. My core is hollowed out. I put my pen to very true.

  Q. Do you feel distant from other people?

  My family and friends are orbiting another galaxy and I don’t have a spaceship, or an astronaut suit to visit them. I am stuck on a cold, dark, far planet made of ice. No oxygen. No sun. No living matter.

  I put my pen to very true and follow the line down the page – each sad question being very, very true for me.

  I hand the Am I Crazy? quiz back to Dr Robinson and wait for the verdict.

  Dr Robinson reads my answers. For a minute he stops being so cheerful.

  ‘You’re in a bad spot, aren’t you?’

  The ocean I’ve rammed into a small cup pushes out with the force of a blowhole. He hands me a tissue from his bag.

  ‘I can’t sleep. I need to sleep. I keep thinking over the mistakes I made. Over and over.’

  ‘You don’t have to feel like this.’ He leans on his palm, looks me intensely in the eyes.

  ‘I suffer from depression, Tiny. My black dog takes me to a very dark place. The sort of place you’re in. I’m well medicated now. When I’m not, I’m a miserable bastard.’

  ‘I can’t imagine that.’

  ‘True. Ask my wife. Now, let’s sort you out.’

  I wait for Eddie outside Hope Lane. He comes up the path, his arms overloaded as usual. Sweat on his forehead.

  ‘Tiny! I am very pleased to see you.’

  He smiles and hands me two bags of vegetables.

  ‘Thank you for agreein
g to be my sous chef.’

  ‘No worries.’

  ‘We’ll split the wage, fifty-fifty.’

  ‘Sure.’

  I would help him, even if I wasn’t being paid. Being in the kitchen feels like home.

  ‘Going to writing group later?’ Eddie asks as we head into the kitchen and turn on the blinking fluorescent tubes overhead.

  ‘Yeah. I’ll come.’

  I take out chopping boards and a sharp paring knife and unload the beans into a colander. Eddie throws me a hairnet and an apron.

  ‘What’s for arvo tea this time?’ I say.

  He pulls a tray of Greek pastries out of the fridge, golden brown and glistening with honey and chopped nuts.

  ‘Sydney Eats dropped them off this morning.’

  Sydney Eats turns up to the shelter in a bright yellow van a few times a week, delivering rescued food from cafes and supermarkets. I like what they do.

  Eddie takes a slice for each of us. ‘Extra energy for the cooks.’

  Eddie and Tiny come up to the writing room straight from kitchen prep. Aimee and I have already set up the room, and we’re sitting down to plan the writing activities.

  ‘Mind if we join you?’ says Eddie. ‘So, what are we doing with our scribes this week? Any ideas?’

  ‘I brought these,’ I say to Eddie, putting a pile of magazines and today’s newspapers out on the table.

  ‘Good, Nola. Right, let’s all cut out anything that might start a story,’ he says. ‘Like this one.’

  He holds up a photo of a woman heading into rough seas, a small surfboard tucked under one arm, her leg a metal stump.

  ‘Her leg was taken by a shark, and she went on to compete in a longboarding comp. She got into the semi-finals. Now, that’s a good yarn.’

  I scan the pages for a story starter. What inspires people to write? I cut out a headline: ‘Homeless Funding Cuts: Crisis Deepens’.

  ‘This?’ I say to Eddie. He takes the paper, frowns and sets it aside.

  ‘If you were in a room with no sound, no light and no food, what would you write about?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I’d write about hiking up a mountain at sunrise, seeing paintings in a gallery in Paris, all you can eat buffets in Vegas or catching a breakout band at my local pub,’ he says. ‘Writing gives people a place to escape all that misery out there.’ Eddie waves in the general direction of the open window. ‘We let them be someone else for a while. Give them a place to dream. Try again. You’ll find something good.’

  I appreciate Eddie’s pep talk, but everything in today’s paper is bleak and violent.

  A politician resigning from office after being caught on CCTV shaking his crying toddler. A refugee dying from a hunger strike in offshore processing. An eight-year-old boy shooting his sister in the head with the family gun in the United States. But there is something. Maybe it’s what Eddie means. I press my scissors around the words. ‘What about this? “Secret Millionaire Leaves Fortune in Surprise Donations”.’

  The story is about an eighty-two-year-old man who held his coat together with safety pins, foraged for firewood and worked at a convenience store. He died alone, leaving millions to his local library, school and hospital. Seven million to be exact.

  Eddie laughs and shakes the paper. ‘Perfect Nola! They’ll love that.’

  A small knife wound on my hand stings, reminding me I’m working and earning money. It feels good. I put my thumb in my mouth and suck on it, waiting for the writing exercise. Next to me Nola kicks my foot gently with hers. She looks away and pretends it wasn’t her and I smile.

  ‘I loved your beach poem,’ I whisper.

  ‘Thanks. Your turn to write to me next.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Let’s start by writing a group story,’ says Eddie. ‘We each write a line and see where the story goes. Like pass the parcel with words. So I’ll write something, then Drew, then Pee Wee, Aimee … get it?’

  The group starts writing our story. I can’t imagine it’ll be any good. All of us writing on the same scrappy bit of paper. How will it even make sense? When the story gets to me I read down the lines with different coloured pens and handwriting. Some of it scrawly scribble, some of it neat and careful.

  Icy fingers grabbed my arm in the dark …

  It was the abominable snowman! He’d come back to find me after all these years.

  I owed him my soul and he’d come to collect, the bastard.

  I offered to make him a cup of tea but he didn’t want to talk.

  He came towards me with his icicle fingers clawing for my heart! He wanted to rip it, still beating, from my chest!

  Well, he’d have to catch me, I thought, and started running, slipping and falling -

  What would I write? The last time I’d done anything like this was in primary school – princesses and unicorns.

  ‘I don’t know what to do next,’ I say, chewing the end of my pen.

  ‘Write, Tiny, don’t think,’ says Nola.

  I get to my feet and run deep into the black forest, where I find the magic ladder, hanging from the tree. I start to climb it …

  Nola finishes the story. I read over her shoulder. The ending is the best bit.

  As I climb the tall tree, it gets warmer … the snowman melts behind me in an icy rain storm. As I reach the top of the branches, looking out to a view of the lake, I realise, I’ve escaped. I’m free of the monster.

  One day, I’d like to be free of my monster too.

  ‘Will you read it out for us, Nola?’ Eddie asks.

  She hesitates.

  ‘Go on,’ I say. ‘It’s so good.’

  ‘Okay.’ Nola starts reading and it’s amazing how we could find a story and pass it like a ball between us.

  Next we do something called story starters. It’s Nola’s idea.

  ‘Use the real-life media story you pick out to start your own story,’ she says. ‘Write it as a sequel, action adventure, poem, dialogue. Whatever you like. Is twenty minutes okay?’

  ‘Perfect! Thanks, Nola,’ says Eddie.

  I read the leaf of newspaper I’ve chosen, the ink smudged on my fingers. It makes me sad, but gives me a place to start writing. I put my pen on the paper and let go.

  ‘This is a masterpiece!’ Drew declares when we’re finished.

  ‘Is it, Drew? Well, you’d better read it to us, then,’ says Aimee.

  ‘I shall.’ Drew holds up a clipping about a man who gave all his millions to charity.

  Millionaire Madness

  Rich old derro kicks the bucket,

  You know what,

  rellos,

  You can all suck it!

  I’m giving my fortune to the poor and needy,

  The rest of you were too bloody greedy.

  I laugh out loud at his funny rhyme and Drew stops and lowers his wonky glasses to stare at me. But at the corner of his mouth, I see a smile begin.

  ‘You like it do ya, Tiny?’

  ‘Yeah, I like it.’

  ‘Good, because there’s more.’

  Eddie stands up to make an announcement as we scramble for our feed. ‘This month’s open mic night is coming up,’ he says. ‘Rough cafe, 7pm, next Friday. As usual everyone is welcome to come and share their writing, sing a song, or tell a joke. Come one, come all. Tell your friends.’

  I put a baklava in my mouth, enjoying the crunch of the filo pastry with the sweet, sticky honey. I cram another piece down with a wash of lemon cordial. I’ve gained some weight lately – my jeans are staying up now.

  ‘There are these things called teeth, you use them to chew,’ says Nola.

  ‘Yeah, I’m hungry, aren’t I? Try one.’

  She nibbles on it delicately and then shoves it whole in her mouth. ‘So yummy!’

&
nbsp; ‘Here. Have this,’ I say, handing Nola the poem I wrote in group.

  ‘Thank you. I’ll add it to your anthology,’ she says, tucking the paper in her schoolbag.

  ‘Are you going to this open mic night?’ I say.

  ‘I’ll go if you go.’

  ‘Deal.’

  I’m sitting with Tiny and the rest of the writing group on the balcony, soaking up the winter sun.

  Hattie’s having trouble with afternoon tea on account of her false teeth and she plops them on a plate and resumes eating with her gums. I try not to look shocked as the teeth sit there, hung with strands of saliva.

  ‘Where are you from girl?’ Hattie asks.

  ‘I live in Stanmore with my mum.’

  ‘Where’s your dad?’

  ‘He lives here, but not with us.’

  ‘You miss your daddy?’

  ‘Yes. Sometimes.’

  ‘My dad worked at a station, up north. Bulman. You know it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘There plenty of cattle there, mind, but not much else. In the wet season does it ever rain.’

  She laughs and puts her teeth back in. ‘Rained so much it closed the roads, closed the airport. For months we go nowhere. Until the river let us. The river takes what she wants. Took my brother. A baby. She snatched him and he drowned.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, ‘I’m sorry.’ I’ve never heard anyone talk about their brother dying, even if it was years ago.

  ‘Mum didn’t want to live in Bulman no more. No more wet for us. We came down to Sydney. My dad stayed back. Said nothing could make him leave the land, not even his kids. Not even his missus. You never seen sky like up north. So big and blue. Sometimes I dream of that sky. Nothing like a city sky, that’s for sure.’

  She closes her eyes and I imagine behind her wrinkled eyelids there’s a young, strong girl, her bare feet in the red dirt. Hattie lifts herself out of her chair, coughing wetly. She shuffles for the door, her hair wilder than ever, sticking out from all sides. She doesn’t say goodbye.

  ‘She does that,’ Eddie says. ‘Sometimes we don’t see her for months, then she turns up again.’

  ‘She told me her brother died when they were kids. I don’t know if I said the right thing.’ I think back to the training I did with Aimee before I started, it’s all a blur now.