by Nikki Buick
‘What?’ Sophie turned to face me, her eyes flaming.
‘Mum reckons Dad’s a bad influence on me … she won’t forgive him for nearly killing me.’
‘He didn’t do it on purpose,’ she stated firmly. ‘Jail is such a rotten place. My brother lives just for our visits.’
Dad had sent me a letter once, early in the piece, but Mum threw it in the bin without opening it. I saw her do it. I saw her read the envelope and her face went dark as she scrunched it into the rubbish. I just knew it was for me. It was not long after the court case and Dad’s conviction. The next day I got up before the sun and crept out to the wheelie bin. After grubbing through three disgusting plastic bags full of the worst imaginable stuff, I found the soggy letter. I tried to open it but it fell apart in a sludgy mess and I couldn’t make out a single word.
‘Mum says jail’s no place for kids,’ I mumbled.
‘Jail’s no place for humans,’ Sophie said and looked out over the water blankly. ‘My brother’s there for a long, long time.’
‘What’d he do?’ I asked and then wished I hadn’t. It wasn’t really polite to ask such a personal question but Sophie seemed almost pleased that I’d asked it.
‘He got in a fight at the pub. Just drunk stupid stuff. But he king-hit a guy and the guy fell and hit his head and died. So Terry’s in for manslaughter. Twelve years. Nine or so if he’s real good. He was only 18 and he’s been there for two years now.’
When Sophie talked about her brother I could tell she really loved him just like she could probably tell that I loved my dad. I really did want to visit him some day. But it seemed like the longer I left it the harder it got. It had been over three years since I’d seen him and I just wouldn’t know what to say anymore.
‘Dad got four and a half years,’ I said, staring into the starry sea.
‘That’s a long time to miss your kids. You should just go and visit him. Stuff your mum,’ Sophie said, giving her line a tug. She didn’t dress it up none, just gave it to me straight. ‘You’re not a frickin’ baby, Hunter. She hasn’t got a monitor on you. Just go.’
I had thought about visiting him. More than once I’d seen the bus go past and jangled the change in my pocket. What stopped me was Mum’s pain. Dad had really broken her heart and I had been in the front line of her grief. A woman who’s had her heart ripped out is a very sad and traumatic thing to be around. When she’d come across the accident, that had been the final straw. That must have been the rawest, most devastating day for her. I understood that Dad was a symbol for all of that pain. The guilt would kill me if I saw him behind her back. And my betrayal would kill her if she found out about it. I didn’t want to be responsible for that.
‘Maybe,’ I said so that Sophie wouldn’t dig any further into that gaping wound.
‘Even just write him a letter or something. I write to Terry all the time ’cos we can only get down to Townsville about once a month.’
I wanted to tell her about Mum’s breakdown and suicide attempt. About her depression and all. But that felt like betraying Mum and I couldn’t do it. Just then, rather conveniently, because I was not enjoying the conversation, I got tugged by a strong bite. I nearly dropped the plastic reel and gave the line a sharp tug. The rapid jerking motion that followed told me I’d hooked one.
‘Got one!’ I yelled triumphantly and began spinning the line back around the green plastic loop. The line got heavier and I had to stand up and really pull. Eventually, I saw the silver flash beneath the surface and a glimpse of tail. With a final heave I lifted the creature from the water and swung him over onto the deck.
‘Let’s have a look,’ Mick said as he awkwardly moved down the side of the boat. ‘Oh, he’s a little ripper.’
‘A coral trout,’ Sophie nodded.
He was a pink fish with a menacing set of jaws. He wasn’t nearly as big as I’d anticipated, just big enough to keep though. I let Mick take over and fiddle his knife into the mouth to dislodge the hook.
‘Good catch,’ Sophie smiled and gave her line another tug. She shook her golden hair away from her eyes and frowned at me.
‘Now, promise me you’ll write to your dad.’
She was bossy.
‘I’ll think about it,’ I said. And I was going to. I was really going to think about it.
HELL
I was lying in bed stewing over the stuff I’d discussed with Sophie. On the one hand I was very attracted to her, physically, but she had almost become like a counsellor telling me what I should be doing. I was consumed by this growing guilt that it was me who had abandoned Dad and not the other way around. Sophie was right. I could have gone and seen him. I could so easily have rung my paternal Nanna and Pop and asked them how he was going and how I could go about organising a visit. I’d been paralysed by Mum’s demand for loyalty. She seemed to want to deny any biological attachment we had to Dad. It was wrong and I was starting to see that.
My arms were as red as beetroot juice. Burnt to a crisp. I rubbed them and could already feel the sting.
‘Haven’t those people heard of sunblock?’ Mum grumbled as she came in waving a tube of pawpaw ointment around.
‘I put some on before I left,’ I lied. ‘Maybe it’s gone off. Past its use-by date or something.’ A plausible excuse.
‘Well you’ll probably peel,’ she fussed.
‘And die of skin cancer,’ Pippa added with a big smile on her face.
‘You can wear my long-sleeved rashie today. Those arms are banned from the sun for at least a week,’ Mum smiled.
She had to be joking. Her rashtop was pink with frangipanis on it!
‘Pink is a perfectly acceptable colour for a boy to wear. Da … Brad has a very nice Ralph Lauren shirt in pink.’
‘Yeah, but Mum, it’s not the pinkness … it’s the flowers. The flowers are … well Step might like to wear a frangipani rashtop but I couldn’t see any of my mates or Dad in one! It’s not exactly macho. It’s a bit lame.’
‘Well if being macho lands you in prison … then I’ll take the lame guy in the pink shirt!’ Mum threw the pawpaw cream into my lap and flew out of the tent, biting back tears.
I’d really just been joking and she’d taken it all the wrong way. Geez, talk about foot in mouth. I was trying to be funny and I’d made her upset. Couldn’t I do anything right?
‘Now look what you’ve done!’ Pippa glared at me and went to follow Mum. She turned at the entrance and then had an afterthought. Another pointed arrow to fling at me. ‘And Step isn’t lame. He’s the best father in the world! You just won’t see it.’
See this you little cow, I thought as I pegged the ointment tube at her face. It hit her right on the forehead. Bullseye! The volcano of overacting bubbled to the surface and she let out the most awful howl as if someone had just branded her with a red-hot poker. Mum came running back into the tent and I felt like crawling into the bottom of my sleeping-bag.
‘What’s going on? What did he do? Pippa?’
Evil, heinous brother strikes again. But this time Pippa definitely had it coming. ‘She asked for it,’ I offered by way of defence.
‘What is the matter with you, Hunter? You’ve become such a beast. Really. Sometimes you are just like …’
‘Stop it, Mum. I’m just like who? Dad? Good!’ I shouted at her as I stood up. ‘What happened to you, hey? What happened to you, Mum? You used to be fun. You used to be nice. No wonder Dad left you!’ I continued to yell while shoving my shorts and a t-shirt on. I knew I’d gone too far. But I was caught up in an avalanche and I couldn’t stop. ‘As soon as Dad gets out of prison, I’m going to live with him. I’m sick of you pretending he doesn’t exist. Imagine if we’d all done that to you after …’ I stopped short of saying it but realised immediately I’d already gone way too far.
I had to get out of there. I had no intention of hanging around to see the damage I’d ju
st caused. I pushed past Mum and Pippa and stepped over Ranger who was lying on a picnic rug in the dirt slurping on a bottle of water like the village idiot. I broke into a run, up through the camp kitchen and out onto the street. I stopped when a stitch in my side became too painful to ignore.
And then, as if things weren’t bad enough, I saw Step walking back from the library with his laptop bag slung over his shoulder. He liked to be the first one there most mornings. He gave me a try-hard grin and a wave. I put my head down and kept walking. As soon as he was out of sight, I broke into a trot. The blood pumped through my body and helped to move the anger about, diluting it with adrenalin. Running helped me to clear my head. I just concentrated on my feet and my breathing. The rhythm calmed me down. I eventually stopped running and breathed deeply before walking into the cemetery. Flowers decorated headstones and the mountain behind frowned down on me.
I was angry at everyone. At the world. Even angry at Dad. Why did he have to leave Mum? He left her for some woman who up and left him five minutes later. Was she so much more important than us? If he’d stayed everything would have been different.
I sat down next to an old headstone and looked up at the double-peaked mountain that lay behind the town. If Dad had never left, those teenagers would still be alive and he wouldn’t be in jail. We’d be happy back in Brisbane. Mum would be happy. Step would cease to exist. I just wanted everything, time, everything to go back, to rewind by five years to when it was all okay. Before that day when Dad had come to school to tell me he’d moved out.
Life wasn’t fair. Life was really quite cruel. I wanted a mum and a dad. Wasn’t that my right as a kid? I didn’t want an annoying stepfather. I didn’t want a half-brother. I wanted my mum and dad to love me and to love each other. They said they did once. Love is supposed to be forever. I guessed that was just another lie. I sure wasn’t going to get married to someone unless I meant it.
I knew I had to go back. I couldn’t spend all day in the cemetery. Besides, we’d been invited out to Wonga Beach to have a barbeque lunch with Sophie’s family. Maybe if Mum found out about Terry being in jail she’d get to thinking about Dad and how hard it was for him there. Sure, he had hurt her but she did love him once and that might count for something. If I could just visit Dad regularly and have him in my life, it might help me adjust to having a stepfamily. A stepfamily is supposed to be an adjunct to a family – not in place of it!
Right then, in the Mossman cemetery, which was a pretty place if you didn’t think about what was underground, I decided to write to Dad. That would break the ice and be a starting place to build from. A letter from me would really make his day. Make his year. Make his last three years. I knew Dad loved me. It was time I sat down and told Mum that I was really sorry that her heart got broken but that two broken hearts didn’t make a whole one.
I walked back through town. The shopping centre car park was full and a group of kids screamed by on skateboards.
‘Hey, loser!’ one of them yelled at me and I stuck my head down to hide the embarrassment.
‘Jerks,’ I muttered to myself.
‘Where’s your retarded mongo sister, eh?’ one of them shouted and I clenched my fists. I wasn’t going to get into a fight but I sure felt like decking that dickhead. It was true what Mum said, that the people who paid out on people with disabilities were more disabled than most people. Pippa might look a bit different and have an extra chromosome but she was just like any other annoying ten-year-old. Jesse’s supposedly ‘normal’ ten-year-old sister was possibly even more annoying than mine. ‘Normal’ was such an illusory word. What the hell was normal? What benchmark? What framework?
Back at camp I kept my head down. Step looked unusually grim. Pippa was playing blocks with the baby. I strolled over to the tent with a false look of contrition painted on my face. Step was a Christian. He’d have to forgive me. That was what Christians did. Mum … I wasn’t so sure. And Pippa … she looked at me like she’d already hired the hit man.
‘I’m sorry, Mum.’ It came out a bit too briskly, not tempered with that sincere wilting whine. I tried again. ‘I’m really, really sorry.’ That came out better. Just the right level of pathetic remorse. It obviously worked because she came straight over and wrapped her arms around me.
‘Oh, Hunter. It’s been hard for us all. Let’s just put it behind us and have a nice day.’
I took a deep breath and smelled her musky vanilla scent. It was only the laundry liquid but it always seemed to smell more pungent on Mum’s clothes. It was warm and comforting.
I couldn’t meet Step’s gaze, and Pippa had her fuming demonic look happening. I was clearly the black sheep that morning. Again. The odd man out of this picture-perfect happy family. Even pressure cookers have a valve to let off steam. I just needed to blow like a frustrated volcano. I was sorry that Mum had to get burned in the fallout but I didn’t have any other outlet for all the stuff building up inside me. If I’d had some other interest, such as boxing or wrestling or even punching a bag, I might not need to load my stress on those around me. Even Xbox and a good dose of zombie slaughtering might have eased real-life pressures. I was being denied normal teenage outlets for frustration so the family copped it.
In a way it was all their fault. Yes, that was it. I was going insane and becoming emotionally violent because of Xbox withdrawals. But I had basically gotten over my Facebook withdrawal symptoms. Having Sophie to hang out with was more fun than stalking Katie Ford, who probably just thought of me as the nerdy heavy-metal dude. Sophie was right here and right now and my thoughts about her were maturing into some full-blown triple x-rated funky good times. I’d been thinking about her a lot lately. Mainly in the shower.
WONGA BEACH
The drive out to Wonga Beach was another trip oozing with tension. Mum stared out at the newly harvested cane fields and Pippa played with Ranger and pretended I didn’t exist. Step whistled some banal tune as if acting all Pollyanna was going to make everything all beautiful again.
Sophie’s place was over the road from the beach. It was only one street back. There was a park with a picnic area and a playground directly over the road. Large palm trees waved all along the beach line.
‘Welcome, welcome. I’m Cathy.’ A short woman with a big smile came rushing down the driveway.
Sophie kind of skulked behind her and a little yappy dog danced about their heels. Cathy had a wiry nest of long black hair and looked a bit older than Mum. She wrapped me in a hug that pressed my face into her spongy chest.
‘You must be Hunter. All I ever hear these days is Hunter this and Hunter that … let me look at you …’ She pushed me back and inspected me, still gripping my shoulders. ‘Nice lookin’ fellow, that’s for sure.’ Her green eyes twinkled and she released me from her grasp and barrelled down toward my approaching family.
Sophie just shook her head and shrugged. ‘Mum’s a bit … full on,’ she whispered.
It was no big deal. I had lived on the planet long enough to know that mothers often were.
‘Hi, Cathy,’ my mum said as she held out a hand. ‘I’m Alex and this is my husband Brad and my daughter Pippa.’
Step gave a wave from the back door where he was untangling Ranger from the baby car seat. ‘Hi there,’ he called.
‘And the baby is Ranger.’ Mum smiled at her host.
‘Oh, like the car.’ Sophie’s mum roared with laughter. ‘I’ve got Ranger Barney up there cooking up a storm.’
Barney waved from the upstairs balcony, which ran across the front of the house. Smoke was spiralling up from the barbeque.
Sophie took me inside and introduced her little dog, Charles. ‘Careful. He likes to hump legs. If he latches on just kick him off. It’s so gross.’
That was something to look forward to.
The house was an older two-storey fibro job. Sophie led me up the narrow staircase. The bedrooms were dow
nstairs and the living areas were upstairs to make the most of the view, Sophie explained. The upper level was decorated in true seaside style with nets hanging from the wall, an assortment of fake crabs and starfish attached. The steering wheel of a boat sat above a mosaic bar and there was even a stuffed seagull perched above the bottles, looking down at us with a glassy red glare.
Sophie pointed to a family photograph on the wall. ‘That’s Terry there.’ The photo was of a young boy with a cheeky smile. He looked a bit like Sophie with caramel blond hair and the same dark brown eyes. Then she pointed to another framed picture of a pretty young lady with cat-shaped eyes and a curious look on her face. It could have been Sophie in a few years’ time.
‘That’s my other mum. My birth mother. She passed away when I was two,’ she said. ‘I don’t really remember her much. Cathy’s been my mum for as long as I can remember. Dad married her a year after we lost my birth mother. Terry remembers her more than me.’
‘She’s really pretty,’ I said. ‘Like you.’
It just slipped out. As soon as I’d blurted the compliment, I felt a warmth rush into my cheeks. Sophie just squeezed my elbow.
‘Thanks. And Mum’s right. You’re a bit of a spunk yourself.’
Was this flirting? Mum used to say that Dad was a flirt. Was this hereditary? It didn’t seem to have done any harm. In fact, Sophie looked a little bit more radiant for it.
Barney was fiddling with the barbeque on the front deck and a large table was set with multicoloured plastic plates and cups. The view across to the palm-fringed beach was fantastic, and through the branches you could just catch a glimpse of Snapper Island. Charles rolled like a ball of dirty white cotton wool about our feet, his little sultana eyes staring out from a face of fluff. He seemed to be going out of his way to get trodden on.
‘Hope you’re hungry city boy, ’cos I’ve got a whopping great feed on,’ Barney called over to me.
Mum helped Cathy carry salads to the table and Step was happy to accept a beer from Barney. Ranger lay on a bunny rug on the lounge room floor while Pippa played with the rattle next to him. She was so good with the baby. Better than me that was for sure. We all sat around the table while Barney started to serve a seafood banquet that included my very own fish – the pink thing I’d caught out at Snapper Island. Barney and Mick had reeled in some serious game but poor Sophie only caught tiddlers and had to kiss them and throw them all back.
