Because of You

by Pip Harry

  ‘There were bashings, hate crimes. It wasn’t a good place to find yourself,’ Eddie says. ‘I’ll show you something else, if you’ve got time? Do you have to be back home?’

  ‘It’s okay, I’ll text my mum that I’m going to be late.’ I take out my phone, surprised to see it’s past eight, and send Mum a quick message that I’m on a neighbourhood tour with my volunteer supervisor, Eddie.

  OK! Glad you are enjoying writing group! No later than 10.30. Take a cab.

  We walk further, the backs of our hands brushing lightly against each other.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ Eddie says. ‘I have praying mantis arms and legs. No control over them at all.’

  I’ve missed being touched and I’m disappointed when Eddie puts his hands in his jacket.

  ‘There. Captured.’

  We stop at a pink triangle in Green Park, surrounded by a cluster of black poles.

  ‘What’s this?’ I ask. On the monument are faces of Jewish men in a concentration camp.

  ‘The pink triangle,’ says Eddie. ‘It’s a gay and lesbian Holocaust memorial. During World War II gay people were persecuted and killed because they were different.’

  We bend down to read the words on it.

  We remember you who have suffered or died at the hands of others. Women who have loved women. Men who have loved men. And all those who have refused the roles others have expected us to play. Nothing shall purge your deaths from our memories.

  Thinking of my parents being murdered for being gay makes my stomach hurt. ‘My Mum and Dad could’ve been killed,’ I say, words tumbling out unedited.

  ‘Your parents are gay?’ Eddie asks.

  ‘Yes, they are.’

  ‘Huh. Wouldn’t have picked you for a gayby.’

  I’m shocked but then I notice Eddie is smiling. He’s messing with me.

  ‘This memorial was founded by a survivor called Kitty Fischer who was in the Auschwitz death camp. She was kept alive by a gay inmate, who smuggled in food for her. He was forced to wear a pink triangle on his clothes, all the gay people were … so …’

  I try to hide my tears behind my sleeve. It doesn’t work.

  ‘Oh, Nola. I didn’t mean to upset you.’ Eddie’s praying-mantis arms fold over me. He hugs me tightly and quickly – like a reflex. He smells like chlorine and citrusy deodorant with undertones of Indian spice.

  ‘You smell like a swimming pool,’ I say.

  ‘Fifty laps. Enmore Aquatic. It’s good for my mental health. Come on, let’s get out of here.’

  We keep walking. Eddie shows me his uni campus at UTS and we end up at Victoria Park, sitting on a bench.

  ‘I know this park,’ I say. ‘We used to come here for Fair Day as a family.’

  ‘Fair Day? For the LGBTQI community?’

  Memories flood back. It was bright and sunny and there were marquees. Music and people having fun. Hairy bears. Lifesavers in tiny speedos. Fluffy dogs in tiny jackets. Big dogs with kerchiefs. The three of us would dress up. Me holding a rainbow flag, my face painted. Dad dressed in full drag, gorgeous as always. Mum holding up a heart sign that said: ‘All love is equal’.

  ‘I used to really like it. Then, one year, I wouldn’t go. I wanted to be the same as the girls at school. I didn’t want to be different. I was worried someone would see me. I’d get teased … my parents would get teased. I couldn’t stand that.’

  ‘I was bullied at school. Longest years of my life.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I was a skinny Asian kid who lived in a housing commission flat and didn’t have a dad around. It was tough, but it taught me that different is a good thing, Nola. Different isn’t always easy, but it makes you interesting.’

  ‘You think I’m interesting?’

  ‘Yeah, I think you’re fascinating.’

  He looks at me for a few long seconds, his gaze serious and unblinking. His eyes do flippy, fluttery things to my insides.

  ‘Come on. Let’s get a bus back to the Cross. I’ve got one more stop on our tour.’

  We get off near the glittery Coke sign hanging over the Cross like a beacon. Eddie leads me towards an ice-cream shop.

  ‘Gelato Messina. Mecca of ice-creameries.’

  ‘Okay, but it’s my shout.’

  We stand in front of ant hills of ice-cream. All kinds of crazy flavours. Eddie tests four and chooses peanut butter with marshmallow and salted caramel.

  ‘All my favourite things,’ Eddie says.

  ‘Cherry Pie, please.’

  The server hands me a sphere of custard ice-cream, swirled with cherry sauce.

  We take our cups and make our way to where we started. My ice-cream is sweet and sour. The right flavour for this night.

  ‘Hey, Eddie!’ a guy calls out from his seat on the ground.

  ‘Don’t get up,’ Eddie says, laughing. The guy laughs too. His legs are stumps. Gone from the knee down. He’s got a sign out for money. Usually I wouldn’t stop. In fact, I’d speed up and put my headphones in. ‘This is Nola,’ Eddie says, and I shake his hand. ‘Nola, this is Gazza.’

  ‘She your girlfriend?’ says Gazza.

  ‘No!’ says Eddie. And I wince at how quickly he dismisses the idea. ‘She’s a school kid. One of our volunteers.’

  Kid. Ouch.

  ‘She’s an absolute knockout. I’d keep her in mind for future reference,’ says Gazza, whose eyes are kind and twinkly.

  He’s got a sketchbook in his lap. ‘Mind if I do a portrait, luv?’ he asks me. ‘Ten minutes.’

  I sit down on the pavement on my schoolbag and try not to move.

  He works quickly, and a few minutes later he holds up a wispy charcoal drawing of me.

  ‘I love it,’ I say. ‘Can I buy it from you?’

  ‘Nah, it’s yours,’ says Gazza. ‘Any friend of Eddie’s is a mate of mine.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say.

  I hold the drawing carefully between my fingers, not wanting it to smudge. He’s gotten my facial details right and the shape of my shoulders and neck. My unruly curls and the way I’ve tried to hide my long legs by sitting with them tucked under my bum.

  As we leave, Eddie bends down and slips a note into his upturned cap. Gazza puts his palms together and bows his head towards his fingertips.

  ‘How did he lose his legs?’ I ask, when we’re out of earshot.

  ‘Diabetes. Had to have them surgically amputated. He’s an epic boozer. But in his younger days he studied fine art at the Julian Ashton School. I think he got a scholarship there. Better hang onto that drawing, might be worth a fortune one day.’

  I look at my phone. It’s time to go.

  ‘I have to go home now,’ I say.

  ‘I could double you on my motorbike? It’s parked at Hope Lane.’

  I’m tempted, but his bike doesn’t look roadworthy.

  ‘It’s okay. I’ll get a taxi.’

  I order an Uber. It arrives quickly and I wish I didn’t have school tomorrow. I could stay out for hours longer. See the sunrise, even. Eddie unpeeled the city for me. Showed me its secrets and dark corners. I want more.

  ‘Well, thanks for tonight,’ I say, wanting to tell him how much tonight has meant to me.

  ‘Anytime.’

  I get into the car and Eddie closes the door behind me, holds up his fingers in a peace sign. I do the same.

  I turn around in my seat and watch Eddie from the back window as he heads off towards his bike, propping his collar up against the cold. I realise, like a whack to the head, that I like him. I like-like him. And he called me a school kid.

  Mum’s working in the study when I get home, a stack of papers spread out around her. Mum stares into her laptop, typing with one hand. She doesn’t notice I’m there until I’m right at her shoulder and she nearly jumps out of her skin with fright
.

  ‘Nola! Please make more noise on your approach.’

  ‘You do know the effects of screens on the human brain prior to sleep?’ I say. She sent me a link to a TED talk a few months ago that outlined why I shouldn’t be texting Ebony at 1am. ‘You should go to bed,’ I add.

  ‘I can’t. Court tomorrow. Big day.’

  ‘Guilty or innocent?’

  ‘Innocent. They’re always innocent. Even the guilty ones.’

  I flop down on a chair and take my shoes off, flinging them into the hallway.

  ‘Can you at least put them in your room?’ Mum says.

  ‘Later.’

  ‘How was writing group?’

  ‘Good. Until one of the residents came in off his head on heroin and then ran off.’

  Mum looks at me sharply, turning her chair to face me. ‘I don’t like what I’m hearing, Nola.’

  ‘What? You work with murderers and rapists every day.’

  ‘Yes, but I’m not seventeen. I can handle myself.’

  ‘So can I.’

  ‘Mmmm.’ She pauses and I know what she means. She’s the spider killer at our place. ‘This Eddie guy – he’s watching out for you? You went out for dinner with him?’

  ‘I did. Well, dinner and then a tour of the area where I’m volunteering.’

  ‘What’s Eddie’s story?’

  ‘He’s a uni student. He runs the writing group.’

  There must be something about the way I talk about Eddie because Mum’s romance sensor goes off.

  ‘And this Eddie, he’s fetch?’ We had a Mean Girls movie night once with Dad and she’s never forgotten it.

  ‘Mum, stop trying to make fetch happen.’

  ‘Alright. But you seem very happy tonight. If this is Fetch Eddie’s influence, I like it.’

  ‘Hey, Mum?’

  ‘Mmmm.’

  ‘That Fair Day at Victoria Park. Is it still on?’

  ‘Every year. All the gayness you can handle. Plus a dog show, dodgem cars and dagwood dogs.’

  ‘Maybe this year, we could go? You, me and Dad?’

  ‘That would be wonderful.’

  ‘Night, Mum.’

  Mum reaches out as if to touch my cheek, but I’ve already stepped away. ‘Sleep tight.’

  I read Tiny’s story before bed and post it up on the wall next to the other. She took a clipping about dolphins getting caught in trawling nets.

  I’m not here.

  Not there.

  Not anywhere.

  I’m nothing.

  And no one.

  Trying to find my way out

  With a bloody, broken fin.

  Going round and round in circles,

  Drowning in my own net.

  After I read it I wonder how I can throw a life raft to Tiny. Or if she has to build one herself?

  Dr Robinson arrives for our weekly appointment in a cycling outfit fitted with padding and reflective strips, a helmet in one hand.

  ‘Apologies for my attire. I’m cycling into my office this morning.’

  ‘Isn’t this your job?’

  ‘It is, but it’s pro bono work.’

  ‘Pro what?’

  ‘I do it for free.’

  ‘Why would you do that?’

  ‘It makes me feel like I’m doing more than lining my own pockets. Helping. I suppose. In my small way.’

  ‘Like riding bikes, do you?’ I ask.

  ‘I do. Immensely. My wife reminds me daily that my body is not the sculpted work of art it used to be and should not be encased in a fabric which leaves so little to the imagination. But two wheels is my happy place. I don’t care that I’m a MAMIL.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Middle-aged man in lycra. Now, how are you feeling?’ he says, taking my paperwork out of his backpack.

  ‘Okay.’

  That isn’t the whole truth. Zak has been gone for days. I’ve lost my family. Again. I am lonely.

  ‘Meds doing their thing? Any side effects we need to talk about? You were saying last time you felt a bit foggy.’

  ‘That’s gone. I feel better.’

  ‘Any suicidal thoughts? Self-harm?’

  I shake my head. I used to feel like a dinghy in rough seas tipping from side to side. Now I am a cruise ship, level and steady. I wouldn’t say I am happy, but at least I’m not being thrown overboard.

  ‘Anxiety? Panic attacks?’

  ‘A bit of anxiety. No panic attacks.’

  It’s been a while since my last one. They always come without warning. The first was a few days after Scott shot through. I was in the supermarket picking up milk and fruit. I dropped a bag of apples on the ground, panting on my hands and knees like a thirsty dog, sweating and disorientated; sure that something terrible was about to happen to my baby. One of the girls on the check-out had to take me to the break room and sit me down with a glass of water until Mum could come and pick me up. I had a couple later, when I was left alone with Charlie and couldn’t handle his constant screaming. Those ones felt like being buried alive – someone slowly packing dirt into my mouth and nose.

  ‘I heard about the incident with Zak at writing group. He’s a very troubled man. A long-term addict.’

  ‘He was my friend. He rescued me on the street.’

  ‘Yes. It’s a shame when people backslide, I do hope he comes back. We could arrange residential rehab perhaps. So, anything else you want to discuss?’

  I trust Dr Robinson. There’s no reason to keep secrets from him. He might even be able to help me.

  ‘I’m a mum. I had a baby.’

  If Dr Robinson is surprised, he doesn’t show it. He calmly makes a few notes in his pad, looking up at me with his wise, kind eyes.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Ten months ago.’

  ‘Where’s your child now?’

  ‘With my mum. In Dubbo. That’s where I’m from.’

  ‘Dubbo. Don’t they have that fabulous zoo? Yes, I’ve been meaning to drive up there. So, your baby’s name is?’

  ‘Charlie.’

  ‘Do you want to be reconciled? Is it something you think about?’

  Holding Charlie, loving him, being his mum. It’s all I ever think about. I want to see him again, course I do. But I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready to protect something so fragile. I had my chance and I stuffed it up.

  ‘Yes, but I’m scared,’ I admit.

  ‘What are you scared of, Tiny?’

  ‘I’ll be a bad mum again. I’ll lose it. I’ll hurt him.’

  ‘Do you know how many new mothers feel exactly the same way as you?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Thousands. Millions.’

  Is that true? I always felt so alone with my anger and black thoughts.

  Dr Robinson puts his helmet on and puts my file into his backpack. ‘Let’s keep talking about it. A supervised visit might be really good for you. For Charlie, too.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Tiny, you know this is only a temporary shelter. Have you thought at all about what’s next for you?’

  I’m petrified at the thought of going back to sleeping rough in the rain and cold. Without Zak, nobody has my back.

  ‘I don’t wanna go back to the street.’

  I expect him to say something encouraging. Something about how I’m safe now. I’ll be okay. But he doesn’t.

  ‘Talk to Aimee. Make a solid plan. I know it’s hard, but you need to.’

  ‘Okay. Thanks for the pro bono.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  I sit outside the shelter and shrink into a ball against the fence. I’ll help Eddie in the kitchen later, but that’s hours away. I read one of Meredith’s books, picking it up from the middle where the warrior princess is asse
mbling her troll army for a battle to save her planet.

  I’ve been reading a lot lately. Living someone else’s life and trying to forget my own. The daily Sydney Eats van pulls up out front and a girl jumps from the passenger seat and starts unloading boxes of food. She has a tattoo on her forearm and she’s wearing silky happy pants. The boxes look heavy.

  ‘Can I help?’ I say.

  She smiles. ‘Thanks. I would love a hand. I’m Siena.’

  ‘I’m Tiny.’ I go ahead up the path and ring the doorbell of the shelter with a free elbow.

  Aimee lets us in and we unload boxes in the kitchen. Aimee is slow and puffy now. She can’t be too far off. It reminds me of my last weeks before Charlie was born. I sat on the couch most of the time, watching daytime TV, eating icy poles and checking for bloody shows and mucus plugs. Taking long, bouncy walks out to the back paddocks, my stomach clenching in Braxton Hicks false alarms. None of my maternity clothes fitted anymore and the only thing I could shove my fat feet into were thongs. Mum took photos and we laughed at how round my face had gotten.

  It wasn’t all happy days. I was nervous the birth would be long and painful, panicking about how I would manage in the first few months. Worried I might never get my life back. I had a fantasy Scott would turn up as my first real contraction kicked in, saying he was ready to be a father after all. That wasn’t going to happen. Gossip around town was that Scott had moved to Queensland and had a new girlfriend. He’d gotten his pilot licence, too. I tried not to check my phone for messages from him that never came. Tried to remind myself, over and over, that I could do this on my own.

  ‘How long now?’ Siena asks Aimee.

  ‘Couple of weeks. I’m off on maternity leave tonight, so at least I can stop putting on work clothes and driving here every day. I see you found our resident foodie,’ says Aimee. ‘Tiny knows her way around a kitchen She helps Eddie with meal prep here.’

  ‘You want to come with me and do a couple of collections, Tiny?’ Siena asks me. ‘I’m going to some restaurants you might be interested to check out.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I’d like that.’

  ‘How long have you been at Hope Lane?’ asks Siena as we drive the van back to the Sydney Eats head office to unload our haul of still-fresh food.

  ‘Coming up to three months. Before that I was sleeping rough.’