by Pip Harry
In my room, I closed the door and crawled back into bed. I’d let him cry it out and get a few hours more sleep.
With a table between us at a half-full cafe, Mum stares me down.
‘You look different,’ she says. ‘You’re so skinny. Do they feed you, where you live?’
‘Actually I feed them. I’m cooking. Working in the kitchen.’
‘Oh. So you have a life now? This is your life, is it?’ We both go quiet, Mum fiddling with her cutlery, then dropping her knife on the floor. ‘For pity’s sake, let’s get out of here,’ Mum says finally. We order takeaway coffees and I try to pay.
Mum slaps my hand away. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she whispers under her breath.
‘I have a little cash. I’d like to.’
‘If you have money you could have spent it on a bus ticket back to Dubbo,’ she snaps. We walk around for a while, then settle at a public table in the square. It starts raining, but neither of us moves.
I left it until the very last second to make the meeting. Deciding to go so I didn’t have to listen to Charlie bawl in the next room. I couldn’t face walking him up and down the long hallway, jiggling him awkwardly until he fell asleep again. I wasn’t breastfeeding – it didn’t take – but he constantly tried to latch on anyway. It was as if he wanted to take over my whole body. Every last cell.
Packing the car took all my energy, and once Charlie was finally strapped in his capsule, baby bag in the boot, I had to rest behind the wheel and gather the strength for the drive into town. He didn’t settle with the engine noise and bumpy road. He wailed for the whole eighteen kilometres. Primal screaming that made my skin and teeth hum and crackle. I turned up the radio and opened the windows, but it was hard to focus on the road. I veered onto the raised divider, the tyres clipping the rubber.
In town, I drove past the health centre, where the mums would already be sitting in a circle sharing their names. They’d all be much older than me and have lovely hubbies at home. I parked outside Mum’s work and took Charlie out of his capsule. He was wet through, still crying in my ear. I had a splitting headache and my thoughts were cloudy. I struggled with the stroller, got it open and put him into the seat roughly.
‘Shut up. Shut up. Shut up,’ I said through gritted teeth.
I rolled the stroller towards the nursing home where Mum was a carer four days a week. I coaxed a dummy into Charlie’s mouth. He took it, sucking heavily and was finally quiet. There was no one at the front desk. It was morning tea time, so Mum would be helping the old ducks in the dining room.
I put the brake on Charlie’s stroller and rang the front desk buzzer. I planned to hand over Charlie for an hour – the oldies loved babies – and go for a walk and sort out my head. But when nobody came right away, I turned and left Charlie at reception.
Outside, I took off for the car, shaking as I turned the ignition and drove out of the carpark.
I didn’t say goodbye, didn’t look behind or call Mum. She would only make me come back and I didn’t want to.
I chucked away my son like a broken toy I didn’t want to play with anymore and drove hundreds of kilometres in complete silence. I drove until my car had run dry of petrol and I couldn’t hear him crying anymore.
The rain gets heavier, but we sit and face each other, water dripping down our faces.
‘How could you abandon Charlie?’ Mum says.
Shame for what I did slithers from my guts, up my throat. How could I?
‘I sent you a message,’ I say, knowing how little that means. I’d tapped out a single line at the petrol station.
Sorry – it was too much for me. Can you take him for a while?
‘I thought you meant for a couple of days, a week. Not months and months of silence. Not knowing if you were alive or dead.’
‘Is Charlie okay?’ I whisper. My head dipped low to the table, rain running down the back of my neck.
‘He is now. He’s a dear little boy. What were you thinking leaving him like that? He was a newborn. He needed his mum.’ Even make-up can’t hide the bags under Mum’s eyes and the new lines across her forehead. She’s exhausted because of me. Because I couldn’t fulfil the basic role of being a mother. Feed. Care. Protect.
‘Do you want to see him?’ she says.
‘But you said …’
‘I know what I said. Do you want to or not?’
‘I want to.’
Mum opens the door to her hotel room. A girl is sitting on a chair next to a travel cot and she holds a finger to her mouth. It takes me a few seconds to realise it’s Mari.
She gets up and hugs me violently, nearly knocking me over, sobbing silently. Neither of us lets go for a long time and when we do, Mari holds my hand tightly.
‘Why are you here?’ I ask.
‘I drove down to help your mum with Charlie,’ says Mari. ‘We’ve kept in touch since you’ve been gone.’
‘She’s my number one babysitter,’ says Mum. ‘What this girl didn’t do to find you. She set up a Facebook group, put you on the Missing Person’s Register. We searched for you together in Sydney. I couldn’t have gone on without her.’
‘Don’t you ever do that again,’ Mari says. She’s tough, got three rugby-playing brothers, and I don’t dare argue with her.
‘I won’t.’
‘I’ll leave you to catch up with Charlie, but I’m not done with you yet,’ she says, grabbing her handbag and leaving the room, closing the door gently behind her.
Charlie is sleeping in the cot, on his knees with his bum in the air like a duck, one side of his face pushed into the mattress. His hair is a different colour. When he was born it was a tuft of fresh rust. It’s darker now. More like mine. Soy mixed with ginger.
He’s wearing a long-sleeve blue onesie with fluffy white socks on his feet. In his cot is a toy I gave him. A flat sheepskin bear I nicknamed Flathead. It used to be soft, clean and new. Now it’s missing a ribbon and its fur is balding and washed out. I pick it up and hug it to my chest.
‘He’s so big,’ I say to Mum, who’s watching me. Monitoring.
‘Don’t wake him,’ she whispers. ‘He needs this nap. He’s usually out for a couple of hours.’
I bend over to look more closely at Charlie’s giant body. What used to be so fragile is now round and sturdy. He has rolls of fat on his arms and thighs, curled up eyelashes and chubby cheeks. There’s not much of the baby I remember, with his turned-up nose and sucking mouth. Who fought sleep and squirmed in colicky pain.
Charlie is so peaceful now. Snoring gently with his mouth open. Hands curled at his ears.
I want to pick him up and feel his weight and smell. Tell him I’m sorry. Mummy will never go away again. I promise I’ll get up to him in the night, and wake up to him in the morning. Feed him, wash him and change his nappies. Play silly games and take him for walks. I want to do all that and more. But I don’t know how. I’m terrified.
‘How do I get him back?’
Mum puts her arm gently around me. ‘Don’t you see? You’re doing it already.’
Mari and I walk down Oxford Street together, talking non-stop. It’s like we’ve never been apart. We sit at a cafe and she orders a burger and fries for us to share.
‘Why didn’t you tell me you were struggling?’ she asks. ‘I could’ve helped you look after Charlie. I didn’t know you were going to shoot through like that. No warning. I wish I’d been there for you, mate. I’m sorry.’
After Charlie was born, Mari’s texts and calls had stopped after a few weeks. I assumed she had better things to do than hang around with a teen mum and her crying kid.
‘I thought you were bored by all the baby stuff. I couldn’t go out anymore. I was no fun to hang around with anyway. Things were weird back then. I didn’t feel like myself, Mari. I was so down and I didn’t know how to fix it. I thought it’d be be
tter for everyone if I disappeared.’
‘I wasn’t bored. I was waiting until you had it all worked out. I thought giving you a bit of space was a good thing. Stupid. Your kid is the best thing ever by the way. I bloody love him.’
Mari’s been caring for Charlie while Mum’s been at work. I’m jealous of her. She’s had all those months with him. Watching him grow up. He knows her and he doesn’t know me.
‘Will you look out for him while I sort myself out?’
‘Yeah, course. Aren’t you coming back home with us?’
Seeing Mum and Mari has made me even more determined to make a life for myself in Sydney. A life I can be proud of.
‘Nah, not yet. I want to stay here.’
I can’t imagine driving into town with my bags and settling into my old room. Everything is different now. I can’t go back to who I was.
‘Serious? What’s wrong with Dubbo? Not good enough for you now you’re a city chick?’
I think she’s serious, then she smiles and punches my arm.
‘Joking! Maybe I’ll come down to Sydney to live. Work in a fancy cake shop or something.’
After our meal we walk past a big clothing store. There’s a sale on. In the old days we would’ve gone in together, rifling through the racks. Trying on wacky outfits.
‘Oh, let’s go in,’ Mari says. ‘Can we? Please?’
‘You go,’ I say. ‘I’ll meet you back at the hotel later.’
Mari grips my arm, like she’s not sure if she wants to let go.
‘Okay,’ she says, her fingers relaxing. ‘See you later.’
I leave Mari shopping and walk past Mink, the tattoo parlour on Crown Street. I go in, flipping through one of the design books on the counter, running my fingers across the swirls and patterns. I want one but I can’t afford it. All the money I have is important and I’m working hard to get it. Slicing, dicing and peeling vegetables. Breaking down meat and frying onions. It’s my money, but it’s Charlie’s too. Mum’s. I’ve got debts to repay.
The artist finishes up with a client. ‘Hello again,’ he says to me.
‘Hi.’ This isn’t my first visit here. I’m good at lurking in the background, but he’s seen me.
‘Window shopping?’
‘Yes.’
‘You live around here?’
‘I’m at Hope Lane, but they’re going to kick me out soon, then …’ I shrug. I don’t know where my next bed will be. ‘Homeless, I guess.’ He pulls out a stool opposite the front counter.
‘You got any ink, darling?’
‘Nuh.’
He cracks his knuckles and stretches his neck. Takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. His body is an artwork, from the neck down.
‘Why now?’
I want to remember the moment I found my way back to Charlie. Watching him sleep and whispering that I will never leave him again. He is mine. We belong to each other and I love him. Now and always.
‘I want to write something on my skin, for my son. For me, too. A reminder of how much he means to me. Does that make sense?’
‘Yeah. Sure.’ He shows me a tattoo on his bicep. Reagan & Harley. ‘My two kids. Eight and four. They’re a pair.’ He throws me a bottle of water from the bar fridge. ‘You eighteen?’
‘Yep.’
‘Can you prove it?’
I slide my licence out of my wallet and hand it to him.
‘Don’t tell anyone I gave you a freebie.’
‘I won’t.’
‘Good, because I’m not in the business of charity work. Next time, you pay me, right?’
‘I will.’
‘Okay then, let’s get started. I’ve gotta pick up my kids from daycare by five.’
As the artist takes out the needle, it feels like a warm scratch against my skin. It’s painful, but it feels good.
Eddie and I wait for Mum to arrive. I reach playfully for Eddie’s hands under the table, but he pulls away.
‘Your uniform,’ he says, pained by the sight of my checked school tunic. I can’t wait to burn the dress when I’m finally free of Zara College.
Mum arrives in a tornado of lateness. Carrying her laptop, a tablet and phone in a stack.
‘Sorry, sorry, sorry. Did you order coffee?’
She plonks down all her stuff. ‘Eddie?’ she says, and he gets up too quickly, almost knocking over his chair and toppling a bowl of sugar. He shakes her hand and she seems pleased with him.
While he’s ineffectually cleaning up the mess with napkins she gives me an approving look and whispers.
‘Fetch.’
I push her gently as a warning and she laughs.
‘So, caffeinate me first,’ says Mum. ‘Then a plan of attack. Who’s the director of this festival?’
‘Gayle Greco,’ says Eddie.
‘Right – then we need to work out how we can get to her.’
I try to listen to Mum’s strategy for getting our group into the writers’ festival, but I’m distracted by the way Eddie pulls his silky, black hair back into a half bun by winding it around his finger and the frown that brings his eyebrows together as he jots notes into his ever-present journal. I’ve got it bad.
It’s freezing outside, so writing group has swelled in numbers. All the regulars, plus a few hangers on. Everyone’s rugged up in multiple layers, hands around hot cups of tea. Outside it’s ten degrees, but with wind chill it’s really six. It’s snowing in the Blue Mountains. It’s not a good time to be homeless. The mood is sombre.
Between exercises, Tiny and I sit down on the floor to talk.
‘I saw Charlie,’ Tiny says.
‘You did?’
‘He was perfect.’
‘Will you see him again?’
‘Yes. Soon.’ We smile at each other.
‘Okay, gather up,’ says Eddie, standing at the front of the room. ‘I’ve got some good news. This afternoon Nola and I have a meeting about our writing program with Gayle Greco.’
‘Gayle who?’ shouts Pee Wee.
‘Gayle is the director of the Fresh Voices Festival for Emerging Writers. Nola and I think we have a shot at getting you punks on the list to perform. Think of it as open mic night, with about a thousand extra people turning up.’
Excited at the prospect of a massive audience, everyone starts talking over the top of Eddie. I try to calm them down with some shushing and then I stand on a chair and shout.
‘Everyone! Shut up!’
‘What we need is some volunteers,’ says Eddie. ‘Hands up if you’d like to come with us to the meeting and tell Gayle we should be part of her writers’ festival.’
The room is silent. Tumbleweeds roll.
‘Too cold out!’ shouts Hattie. She’s wearing earmuffs.
‘No one? There’s a free coffee in it and a trip to Redfern,’ says Eddie.
‘Pee Wee and I have a gig tonight,’ says Drew. ‘We’re on at Rough at 7pm. Got no time for your meetings, boss.’
Eddie gives me a worried glance. Our plan was to showcase our regulars.
‘Yeah, I’ll go,’ says a small voice.
‘Who said that?’ says Eddie.
Tiny puts up her hand. ‘Me. I’ll volunteer. If you think it’ll help. You want me to read or something?’
‘Would you?’ asks Eddie, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice. Tiny hasn’t shared a single word of her writing to the group. Except to me, in our private notes.
‘I’ve got what I wrote today. That alright?’
‘That’s perfect,’ says Eddie.
We wait for our meeting with Gayle at Carriageworks, an arts centre that used to be a rail yard. We lean our backs against an old brick building that was a blacksmith workshop. The ground under our feet is scored with old metal train tracks. The wind is bitterly cold.
We walk across concrete floors, our voices echoing in the huge open space with its steel columns and high ceilings.
Tiny peers into the glass windows of a studio. ‘They’re dancing,’ she says. ‘Look.’
Inside a group of dancers bend and sway together. It’s not beautiful, but it’s powerful. Their faces and bodies are telling a story of terrible loss.
They don’t notice our faces at the window. They’re so involved. Completely in the moment. Just the same as when we write.
A receptionist takes us up a set of stairs to an office.
‘Gayle, this is Eddie, Nola and Tiny. From Hope Lane shelter.’
Behind a desk piled high with papers and books is a young woman with cropped lilac hair. She looks up from frowning at her screen.
‘Hello! Hello! Come into the chaos. Sit! Please. I gather from your many phone calls and persuasive emails that you want to be part of Fresh Voices?’
‘Yes. We would like that,’ says Eddie. He’s so nervous his voice quavers. I fight the urge to put my hand on his knee to steady his nerves.
‘I like your pitch, guys, but you’re a bit late to be crashing into the program. I’ve already locked in eighty authors for workshops and panels, plus music and dance performances, food stalls, a pop-up book store. This is a big arts event.’
‘Is there anything you can do to fit us in? Our authors write from the heart and they tell really good stories,’ says Eddie. ‘We think people should hear them.’
‘We could arrange some free tickets and you could bring your group along, maybe next year we could consider their participation?’
Eddie widens his eyes at me, this meeting is going up in smoke. Gayle isn’t taking us seriously.
‘We brought one of our regular writers with us,’ I say. ‘Tiny is eighteen. She’s been homeless for almost a year.’
‘Why is this group important to you?’ Gayle asks Tiny.
