by Pip Harry
‘Can I have a coffee, please?’ I ask Eddie.
‘Absolutely.’ He leans over the counter to look at me. ‘You okay, Nola? You look a bit pale.’
‘I’m fine. Tiny just had a panic attack though. It was pretty full on.’
‘She alright now? Should we get someone to talk to her?’
‘I think she’s okay. She’s gone for a walk.’
Eddie scribbles something on my paper cup and pours me a strong filter coffee, milk and sugar. ‘I’m due for a break. Want to go outside?’ he says. I follow him out the front of the cafe and he pulls up two milk crates.
We’re not alone. There’s three dogs of different shapes and sizes lounging on the pavement waiting for their owners. A beagle noses my knee and licks my hand. Eddie reaches over and pats his droopy ears.
‘To open mic night,’ I say, holding up my cup. ‘It was amazing.’
‘It was, wasn’t it? Always such a mixed bag, but that’s what I love about our community.’
‘That poem you read, what was it about?’
Eddie stares at the pavement beneath his feet.
‘It wasn’t my poem. It was my dad’s,’ he says. ‘He died of an overdose when I was nine. The police found him under the escalator at Central. Covered in a huge pile of blankets. Nobody knew he was dead for three days.’
‘Oh.’ Three days. What happens to a dead body in that time?
‘Some of his writing was druggie nonsense. Unreadable. But some of it was magic. The poems he wrote when he was younger were really good. When he was in rehab he said he wrote to keep himself from going under. I call myself a writer. But I’m a fraud. What Dad wrote was the truth. That’s all he had. He didn’t do that tricksy writer stuff I do to get good marks from my tutors. He wrote about love, falling apart and how hard life can be sometimes.’
Eddie looks into my eyes and I see a scared little kid whose dad died with a needle and a pen in his hand. I understand now why he sometimes gets caught up in that slow, sad fog.
‘I set up writing group to give people like my dad a place to write. Maybe it’ll keep them alive.’
Eddie reaches out and grabs my hand. The way he closes his fingers over mine feels like coming home, with a fireworks display in the backyard. He’s the first boy to make my heart beat faster and slower at the same time. I squeeze his palm.
‘This is because of you, Eddie. You do know that right? All these happy people. All this pride they have in their writing. You did this.’
Eddie nods and drops our hands out of view. Nerve endings shoot across my skin as he runs his thumb gently over mine. I’ve fallen for Eddie’s mind, the way he cares about other people and how he sees the world, as much as I have his crazy beautiful face. He makes all my other crushes seem flimsy and pointless.
‘We’re holding hands,’ I whisper.
‘Is it wrong?’ Eddie asks. ‘I’m supposed to be your supervisor now since Aimee is off on leave. She asked me to keep an eye on you. I don’t think this is what she had in mind.’
‘It doesn’t matter. I don’t care.’
‘You’re still at school.’
‘Another few months and I’ll be done. My exams finish in November.’
I want to stall this perfect moment but Eddie drops my hand and pulls away.
‘Better if we wait then.’
I feel confused, this felt like the right time for declarations of mutual like, but Eddie has put the brakes on. I close my hand into a fist and quietly sip my awful, lukewarm coffee.
‘I heard back from the Fresh Voices Festival,’ says Eddie.
‘What did they say?’
‘They said no. Maybe it’s for the best. We have writers who don’t even have money to buy their own pens and paper. Who disappear for weeks. Who don’t show up. Who steal food. Swear. Fall asleep. Fart in public.’
‘What if we get a face-to-face meeting with the organisers?’ I say. ‘Once they meet them they won’t be able to say no.’
‘I want these guys to perform on a bigger stage. But I don’t have time for this.’ He sizes me up. ‘Know anyone who could plead our case?’
‘I might know someone who can get our argument across. I’ll ask her.’
‘Let’s meet up and plan our next move when I finish my uni work.’
‘Sounds good.’
Eddie holds out his hand again – but this time it’s matey. I slap my palm against his, high-fiving the chance to spend more alone time with him.
He stands up to go back inside and puts so much air between us, it feels like a rush of cold water. I’m about to throw out my paper cup, when I notice writing on it.
Eddie has drawn an N inside a black texta heart. I wash the cup and slip it into my bag as evidence.
My phone rings – it’s Mum.
‘Hi. Did you get my text about Tiny? Is it okay if she stays tonight?’
‘About that. You know I think it’s great that you want to help her out, but is it okay if I meet her first, before she sleeps over?’
‘She’s nice, you’ll like her,’ I say, on the defensive. Why did she want to meet Tiny first? If it was a friend from school would she even blink?
‘I know I will, she sounds like an incredible young woman, but let’s take it slow. Err on the side of caution.’
‘She’s not going to steal from us if that’s what you’re worried about.’
‘That’s not what I’m worried about.’
There’s a silence, and I wonder why Mum and I so often get tangled in crossed wires.
‘I need to go now,’ I say, disappointed. How could I possibly renege on my offer to Tiny?
‘I’ll leave the hall light on and if you’re hungry, there’s leftover sushi in the fridge.’
‘Sure, see you later.’ I hang up, deciding to bring Tiny home anyway. I couldn’t let her go. Not tonight.
When we arrive at Nola’s house, it’s dark. I loiter at the entrance.
‘Come in.’
‘I don’t think this is a good idea,’ I say, second guessing this sleepover. This is a house for rich people. I don’t belong.
She pushes me inside and turns on a lamp. It feels like a break and enter. The place is triple the size of my house back home with shiny concrete floors and furniture that belongs on an episode of The Block. Nola flops onto a huge couch, behind her is art that looks like a kindy finger-painting and on the other wall a flat screen TV the size of our dining room table. I stand next to the couch, not wanting to sit on it.
She chucks her shoes on the floor and leads me into the kitchen with creamy marble benchtops and stainless steel appliances. The stove top has six burners and they have two ovens. What for?
‘Should we tell your mum I’m here?’ I whisper.
‘I already did, don’t worry.’
‘What if she wakes up?’ I don’t want to scare her in my dirty jeans and hoodie. I’ll try not to touch anything.
‘Shhh. Can you hear that?’
I listen to the hum of the fridge and rain beating at the windows. Then I hear a low, deep rumble down the hall.
‘She takes a sleeping pill. Then snores her head off for exactly eight hours. Nothing wakes her. You want something to eat?’
After the panic attack, I feel wobbly and sore. My chest aches. ‘Let’s go to bed. I’m knackered.’
The kookaburras wake me. It starts as bickering, then their squawks grow louder and angrier. Like a couple having a blue.
‘Shut up birds,’ I whisper at the drawn curtains. ‘Whatever it is, sort it out.’
I’m cocooned in a clean doona and silky sheets. Safe and warm right through. I’ve slept all night without waking to a nightmare.
I wonder if Aimee has had her baby by now and is it a boy or a girl? I look at the clock next to Nola’s bed. It’s early. She might still be in l
abour, wondering if the pain will ever end, and if she has the strength to scream and sweat through another contraction. I picture her in the hospital with her baby wrapped up in soft muslin, its wrinkled face yawning and blinking. I hope it went well for her, and she doesn’t feel scared or alone.
Nola is a messy sleeper. One side of her face is pushed into the mattress, an arm flung out towards me, a retainer over her teeth. I’m surrounded by her stuff. Rows of clothes hung in her open walk-in wardrobe. School books stacked beside a computer. An iPad plugged into the wall, next to her phone blinking with unread messages. This is Nola’s life. What am I doing in the middle of it?
I’ll go before Nola’s mum sees me in her house, like a stain on a white sheet. I don’t want her feeling sorry for me. I crawl out of bed into the cold air, goosebumps on my arms and legs. I take off the PJs Nola lent me, folding them on top of the pillow.
In the black tiled bathroom I wee quietly and pull on my jeans and shoes as the sun rises, letting a cool grey light in through the frosted window. I grab my backpack from the living room, keeping my steps light. I scribble a note and tuck it into the glass beside Nola.
See you at writing group Tx
I open the fridge, my stomach rumbling. Inside, there’s two ready meals, sliced bread, a wrinkled apple, Vegemite, tomato sauce, a bottle of wine and a nearly empty milk container. I take out bread and butter. They have the good kind. White, creamy and expensive. I’ll make a quick sandwich and go.
I cut off a piece of the butter, and let it melt on my tongue.
‘Morning,’ says a sleepy voice behind me.
I turn around and see a small woman standing opposite me, her arms folded over her chest. She’s wearing baggy boxer shorts and her short hair sticks up. I put down the buttery knife and swallow what’s left in my mouth guiltily.
‘Are you Tiny?’ she asks.
‘Yeah.’
‘Are you hungry?’
‘Yeah.’
‘We don’t have any food, as you can see,’ she says. ‘We always eat out on a Saturday. Pancakes.’
She turns on a huge silver coffee machine, pulls out two mugs. ‘I do make a decent coffee. You want one?’
On the street, nothing will be open yet. Not for a few hours.
‘Black with three sugars.’
‘That’s a heart starter.’
Nola’s bedroom is still quiet. ‘She sleeps until noon some days. Then wakes up like a grumpy cat. She told me we would meet before you stayed over, which is why I’m a little surprised to see you.’
‘Sorry. I’ll go after the coffee.’
She stops packing ground coffee beans in the machine, comes over to the bench and stares at me. She looks nothing like Nola.
‘I was worried. Nola’s not street smart. Not like you and me. I’m her mum. It’s my job to look out for her.’
She leans closer into my face. ‘God, you’re just a kid …’
I’m not a kid, I want to say. I’m a mother. Like you.
‘How did this happen?’
‘It’s hard to explain.’
‘You want to talk about it?’
‘Nup.’
‘Fair enough.’
She hands me the coffee and we sit at the counter, until Nola stumbles down the hall.
‘Mum, I can explain,’ she says.
‘I thought we were done with the lying.’
‘That’s not fair. I was trying to be a good person.’
‘What’s not fair is that you didn’t give me a chance to meet Tiny and understand her circumstances before you brought her home. You always have to do things on your terms, Nola.’
I pick up my backpack and swig the last of the coffee. I have my own family domestic to go to.
‘Okay. Well, see ya,’ I say. ‘Thanks for the coffee.’
‘Wait!’ says Nola. ‘Come out for breakfast with us.’
‘Nah, I don’t stay where I’m not welcome. I’ll eat at the shelter.’
‘You are welcome, Tiny,’ says Nola’s mum. ‘Let’s try again. Find out more about each other.’
‘Not today. Thanks anyway.’
Nola follows me down the hall to the front door. I can’t wait to leave. This was a bad idea.
‘Wait! I should’ve told you that Mum wasn’t okay with you staying over yet. I wanted to help.’
‘Do me a favour. Don’t invite me over again unless I’m expected.’
My voice shakes with anger.
‘I won’t. I’m sorry. Are you feeling okay after last night?’
Was I okay or barely keeping my chin above water most of the time?
‘Yeah, don’t worry about me.’
‘I do worry, you’re my friend. You’ve got that doctor to talk to about your panic attack, right? Will you go see him?’
I sigh. ‘I’ll talk to him, alright? Can I go?’ Nola has put herself between me and the front door, but she stands back to let me through.
‘Good luck with your mum.’
I rest my hand on the door handle and consider asking Nola to come with me, then I decide it’s something I should do on my own.
I think about Dr Robinson on the bus on the way to the hotel, and follow his instructions to cross the road, go inside and sit down to wait for Mum. It sounds simple, but it’s hard. I feel crook, like I might throw up. I’m not sure whether to cross my legs, sit up straight or stand up and pace. Pacing would be better than sitting. I walk up and down the carpeted floor and hope I can keep my shit together long enough to talk to her and explain why I did it.
A group of girls around my age hang out in the lounge. One of them snaps a group shot, squeezing all of them into the frame using a selfie stick. Mum and I always said we’d come to Sydney for a girls’ weekend and eat grub that was hard to come by back home. Fresh seafood, sushi and yum cha. We never did.
I have a clear view of the lifts and I jump every time they open and unload people into the busy lobby. A big tour group with wheelie suitcases blocks my line of sight, standing around gabbing in British accents about doing the Bridge Climb. I push past them.
‘Can I help you?’ a woman in a hotel uniform asks me as I walk in circles around the lift area, biting my thumbnail so hard it bleeds. ‘Are you checking in with us this morning?’
She smiles at me, but I can see it in her eyes. Hotel rule number one: no homeless people in the lobby.
I’ve tried to clean myself up and I’m wearing my least trashed clothes, but I don’t have any other shoes than my smelly trainers and I’m carrying my filthy backpack. The street hangs on me like second-hand smoke.
‘I’m waiting for my mum,’ I say.
Where is she? The clock above reception says she’s twenty minutes late. Mum’s a stickler for being on time. Has she decided to call it off? I feel Charlie slipping further away from me.
The woman stands there, a smile still fixed on her face. She’s wearing too much make-up.
‘Her name’s Fiona Marsh. You can check your computer if you don’t believe me.’
The woman gives me a once over, nods and moves away. But she still has her beady eyes on me as she checks another guest in at the desk.
I have enough cash in my pocket to pay for coffee and even lunch, if Mum can stand to eat with me. I’ve been practising in my head, like Dr Robinson said, but I still have no idea what to say. How to explain what went wrong that day. But being able to shout feels like a good start.
I check the clock again. Where is she? I take out my book, Graffiti Moon by Cath Crowley, and fold back into the story. All the chatter, the ringing phones and jumpy waiting disappears. I’m back with Lucy, a girl chasing a mysterious graffiti artist called Shadow across the city on a long, hot night. I’m lost in that other world when Mum puts her hand on my shoulder.
I don’t have a chance to say hello or wo
rry about first impressions. She pulls me into her arms and hugs me hard enough to know how much I’ve hurt her.
I was supposed to go to mothers’ group at the Women’s Health Centre in town. All the mums with babies born six weeks earlier at the local hospital would be there. But I was still in my nightie. The fabric reeked and I hadn’t showered in days. My hair was matted and greasy. I didn’t care about myself. About anything.
‘I don’t wanna go to Mums and Bubs!’ I called out to Mum.
She was rushing to get ready for her first day back. Pulling on her shirt, still hot from the iron, stepping into a pleated skirt and joggers. She grabbed her bag and I realised she was really leaving me alone. How would I survive the day? It was only 7am.
‘You should go. Everyone loves mothers’ group. You’ll make some new friends. Have a whinge about sleep deprivation,’ Mum said. ‘I’ve taken all my sick leave, all my holidays. All my compassionate leave. I know you’ve had troubles … settling. But I’ll lose my job if I don’t go back today. We really need the money.’
Charlie started to cry and I held the furious red bundle out to her. ‘Take him. Please. I can’t.’
‘No way,’ Mum said. ‘I’m not getting baby spew on my work clothes. I’ve fed him a good bottle so take him for a walk round the paddocks. It calms him down.’
Mum bent down and kissed my forehead. ‘You need a shower. Wash your hair. It’ll make you feel better.’ She kissed Charlie’s head too. ‘Be good for your mum,’ she told him. ‘I’ll be back at six. Please go today. You need a support network for when I’m at work.’
‘Mum – don’t go,’ I said, desperation rising.
‘You’ll be fine.’
I watched from the verandah as Mum drove down our driveway to the main road. Charlie screamed into my ear, his back tight and sweaty.
‘Shhh,’ I said. ‘What do you want?’
I took him to his room and dropped him lightly on the cot mattress. He screamed even louder, his fists balled up, chest rising and falling.
