by Penny Tangey
Penny Tangey’s first young adult novel, Loving Richard Feynman, was shortlisted in the 2010 CBCA Awards (Book of the Year for Older Readers), 2010 Western Australian Premier’s Awards and longlisted in the 2010 Inky Awards.
Penny lives in Melbourne.
www.pennytangey.com.au
To Lincoln
Chapter One
Our enemies are innovative and resourceful, and so are we. They never stop thinking about new ways to harm our country and our people, and neither do we.
George W. Bush, 41st President of the United States of America
‘We really should go through now,’ I say, but no one pays any attention. So I say it a little louder. ‘It’s time to go!’
‘Calm down, Clara. The flight’s not for two hours,’ says Mum.
‘But they said to go through now.’
Dad backs me up. ‘Security is tighter to the US, Camille. There might be an extra screening.’
Mum rolls her eyes but says, ‘Okay, if you’re going to get stressed.’ Mum stands up and the rest of us follow. At the departure gates we stop. Everyone looks expectantly at Mum and me.
Mum starts with Dad, pecking him on the cheek in their usual awkward but resolutely civil way.
Dad hugs me next. ‘I’m sorry I can’t come to the beach,’ I say, my voice muffled in his shoulder.
‘That’s okay, I understand,’ he says. ‘Have a great time. And don’t forget to call me on the fifteenth.’
My travel nerves are now compounded by anxiety about my Year Twelve results, causing a sick feeling to surge through my stomach. Three weeks seems a long time to wait. I say, ‘Of course.’
Mum is hugging Anna and Damian tightly, one on each side, pressing them into her cheeks. Damian wriggles to escape and comes over to me.
My siblings and I don’t hug; in fact, we don’t do physical affection of any kind. So I stand in front of Damian and Anna not knowing what to do. I say, ‘I’ll bring you back a present.’
Anna, who is being unusually quiet, is staring at the ground. ‘I won’t go into your room,’ she blurts out.
Damian adds eagerly, ‘And I’ll tell you if she does.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, feeling quite fond of them. None of us wants things to get emotional, though, or admit that we actually like each other, so I move around the circle to Bethany and Yingmei.
‘Have a great time,’ Yingmei says.
‘I’ll try.’
‘You’re so lucky,’ says Bethany. ‘Why can’t my mum get a posting with the World Bank?’
‘Because she’s a kindergarten teacher,’ says Yingmei.
‘True.’
‘Anyway, we really should go now,’ I say.
Yingmei suddenly has a million things to tell me. ‘Go to New York. Have a travel romance. We’ll Skype. Eat lots of bagels.’
Yingmei and I hug and then I’ve said goodbye to everyone. There’s nothing left to do, except leave.
Mum and I walk to the silver departure doors and I turn to look at the group. Dad is waving. Bethany has her arm around Yingmei, who is actually crying. Then the doors close and I can’t see them anymore.
That’s the first moment that it seems real. I won’t see my friends for months. I’m going to the other side of the world.
And things will never be the same again. Of course Yingmei, Bethany and I will stay friends at university, we’ve all promised that. But we won’t share the same daily rituals anymore. Like having a thermos of Milo at recess during winter, doing our maths homework in the library, catching the tram to netball. These things seemed boring and mundane at the time, but now I know I’ll never do them again, I miss them.
Mum and I stop at a row of seats to fill in our departure forms. My vision is blurring slightly with tears, which makes it harder to see the boxes I need to tick. Beside me, Mum makes a big fuss, huffing and puffing and searching around in her bag for her passport.
‘Here, I’ll do it,’ I say. I take her form.
Once we’re through the security area a tingle of excitement starts building up again. I’ve always loved airports. When I was eight we came to wave goodbye to Mum when she went on a business trip to Greece. We stood on the viewing deck to watch her plane take off. We waited for ages, but I loved it. As each plane lifted into the sky I thought about all the people in the planes off on exciting adventures.
Now it’s my turn.
I hope a terrorist doesn’t blow up the plane.
‘I can’t find my keys.’ Mum’s panicked voice infiltrates my bedroom wall. I roll onto my back and give up the idea of getting more sleep.
‘Have you checked on top of the fridge?’ I yell.
‘Yes! They’re really lost.’ I hear her picking up cups and books and banging them back down in an exaggerated search.
Accepting the inevitable, I get out of bed, go to the lounge room and look for the keys. Or I pretend to, at least. Mum will eventually find them herself. Until then, she likes to feel supported in her search. I attempt to appear busy and avoid the temptation to ask, ‘Where did you last have them?’ because she’ll get mad and say, ‘If I knew where I’d last had them then I’d know where they are!’ I take all the cushions off the couch and grope down the sides. I find four quarters, a nickel and an Australian five-cent piece.
Mum is becoming increasingly frantic, and is muttering about South Korean delegations and eight-thirty-sharp starts.
‘Oh!’ she says suddenly. ‘They’re in my pocket.’
Now she’s relieved and cheerful. ‘Sorry about that. Thanks for helping.’
‘That’s okay.’
She walks towards the door and begins putting on her coat, gloves and scarf.
‘What time will you be home?’
‘Around seven.’
‘Yesterday was more like eight.’
‘Was it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay, I suppose the same time then.’
‘I’ll cook.’
‘Would you? Lovely.’ She tugs her hat down over her ears. The dark purple beanie clashes disastrously with her fierce orange-and-red dyed hair.
Mum opens the door and chirps, ‘Okay. Bye!’ She pulls the door shut with a bang.
The apartment is silent. I’m alone.
My laptop is on the coffee table where I left it last night. I plonk down on the couch and pick it up.
I log onto Facebook. My status is: Just made a snowman. He looks a bit like Harold from Neighbours. I smile when I see that Bethany has added a comment: I’m so jealous!! Not of Harold from Neighbours, I mean of the snowman making!
On my first morning in DC, I looked out my window and saw the entire street blanketed in white. The trees had a thin, glistening crust of white snow on every branch. It looked like a beautiful winter wonderland like I’d only ever seen on Christmas cards. Mum and I played in the snow all morning and then drank hot chocolate in the deli on Connecticut Avenue.
Yesterday Mum went to work. By the time she came home I felt like I was going insane with boredom.
I know I shouldn’t sit around the house all day waiting for Mum to come home. I should go out and have experiences. Liam was only a year older than me when he backpacked solo through South America. I should be capable of visiting a museum.
I get out my Lonely Planet guide to Washington DC. On the front cover is a picture of the Lincoln Memorial. That seems a good place to start, since it’s very famous.
I look at the maps in the back of the book. It’s quite far. It would probably take over an hour
to walk there. On the other hand, the Cleveland Park station is only three minutes from the apartment. I could be at the memorial in twenty minutes if I catch the train. I should catch the train. It makes sense to catch the train. But it makes me feel sick.
I change my Facebook status to Decided on my first DC tourist attraction to visit – the Lincoln Memorial.
It sounds good, so now I have to go.
The Cleveland Park station escalator descends into a long tunnel. The roof is rounded and patterned with a square geometric design. It makes me think of being swallowed by a big, fat snake. My woollen scarf is hot and prickly against my sweaty neck.
I wish I’d never spoken to Dad’s friend Bill about my trip. Bill said that the Washington DC Metro is the number-one terrorist target in the world. Of course, Bill is a plumber based in Dandenong, who gets all his information from Channel Ten’s News at Five. Arguably he is not an authority on global politics. But what if he’s right?
I want to get this over with as quickly as possible. I follow a man in a suit who charges down the escalator. I count the steps to distract myself. I reach 105 before I step off the end.
I already have a ticket. Mum bought me one because she doesn’t want me to watch television all day. I walk through the turnstile and towards the platform for Silver Spring, the train that will take me into the centre of DC.
A sign says Silver Spring: 3 minutes. It’s not peak hour, but quite a few people are waiting on the platform. A lot of them are wearing suits and carrying briefcases, on their way to important jobs. I should have waited until later in the morning. People travelling to work are such an obvious target.
It’s chilly in the station; there doesn’t seem to be any heating. I suppose it’s hard to heat a tunnel effectively so they don’t even try. I wonder how far underground I am, and hope there’s more than one exit.
I sit on a cold stone bench and pass the time by watching the people around me. The lady next to me is wearing a terrible suit. It has tapered pants that stop about fifteen centimetres above her ankles, exposing bunchy white socks. Looking around I see that a couple of other women are wearing pants that are too short. I’m surprised because I expected Americans to be stylish.
The loudspeaker blares out an announcement: ‘If you see anything or hear anything unusual, please report it to a Metro officer.’
What if the terrorists don’t do or say anything unusual? No one will notice them until it’s too late.
I hope it’s quick and I don’t know what’s happening. I imagine running back to the escalators only to find the path blocked, turning in panic, being trapped.
Maybe I should go back to the warm apartment. I could watch The Gilmore Girls all day. That would be better than a terrifying death or maiming.
The information board says Silver Spring: 1 minute. A dull, rushing ominous sound builds as the train pulls into the station.
When the train doors open, a handful of people get off. The people on the platform then rush forward to get into the carriage. I hang back; if I wait till last I can stand near the door. I’ll be happier near an exit. But before I have a chance to board, the doors start beeping and a voice says, ‘Doors closing.’ I’m going to miss the train. I don’t want to wait any longer at the station. So I run towards the carriage, push past the man standing in front of me and jump on just as the doors slam shut. My bag is caught in the door. I panic because my arm is caught in the straps. I tug frantically at the bag. It comes free. I’m in.
I see several people look away quickly and I know they all saw my clumsiness. The station platform starts to slide away. On the platform the man who I pushed past is shaking his head at my rudeness. I hope I never see him again.
The carriage isn’t full. I move towards an empty seat. Then I pause. The man sitting in the seat opposite sees me hesitate. I perch on the seat and clutch the pole beside me, ready to leap up if I have to. My palms are sweaty inside my woollen gloves. I’m nauseous. I don’t want to die.
Once I’m off the train and back in the bright day I feel incredibly stupid. The train was not blown up in a terrorist attack.
I hate being paranoid. I know it’s far more likely that I’ll die in a car accident, or from salmonella poisoning. You can’t be too careful with chicken. Why am I so irrational? I’m such an idiot.
I stomp along the pavement angrily. Then I slip on some ice and start to skid. Windmilling my arms frantically, I just manage to regain my balance.
‘Whoa there!’ a man exclaims. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Fine,’ I say, keeping my eyes on the ground so I won’t see how many people saw me lurching around. I need to be more careful. It would be stupid to die while being annoyed with myself for overestimating the risk of death. I concentrate on taking small, cautious steps along the pavement, watching the ground carefully for icy patches.
I am ashamed of myself. I was scared because the man sitting opposite me looked like he was from the Middle East and he had a backpack. I hate people being racist. I’m always outraged on Yingmei’s behalf when someone assumes she can’t speak English because she’s Asian. But then I was scared the man on the train was a terrorist. I’m not only irrational, I’m a contemptible hypocrite.
I stop at a set of pedestrian lights, look up and see it. The memorial is like something you’d see on a postcard. The black branches of the leafless trees contrast with the creamy white columns of the building, which is surrounded by dazzling white snow.
I trudge past a group of schoolkids jumping around on the steps of the memorial. I wish I was on a school excursion. I wish I had friends to muck around with, a teacher to tell me what to do and a lovely warm coach to take me back to school at the end of the day.
There are security guards behind a desk at the top of the stairs. Perhaps the memorial is closed for a special event? I don’t want to be a stupid tourist who doesn’t know what’s going on. I slow down, not wanting to reach the top. A group of nanna ladies wearing matching pink windcheaters overtakes me. They walk straight up to the security desk where the guards search their bum bags and wave them through.
I approach the guards nervously. I haven’t done anything wrong, but people in uniform make me feel guilty. I fumble as I pass my bag to the guard. He pokes at the contents with a clear plastic stick.
I concentrate on looking innocent. I glance around nonchalantly like a harmless tourist enjoying the sites. Of course, I am a harmless tourist enjoying the sites, but how’s he to know that?
He hands me my bag. ‘Have a good day, Miss.’
I’ve done it. I’m past the authorities.
Inside, people stand in clusters, staring reverently at the statue of Lincoln.
The sculpture is huge and Lincoln has a piercing stare. But to be honest, after two minutes I’ve pretty much seen it. And given that this is the only activity I’ve planned for the day, it’s not as engaging as I’d hoped.
It’s hard to imagine Australians gazing misty-eyed at a statue of any of our ex-prime ministers. Gough Whitlam might inspire that sort of response in a few people, I guess, but not millions.
Next to me, a five-year-old is trying to get the attention of her parents. She jumps up and down and tugs on her dad’s jacket. ‘Daddy!’ she shouts.
‘Shhhh, Amanda.’ He raps her on the shoulder. ‘People are trying to contemplate.’
I’m sitting in my bedroom, staring at my laptop screen but not looking at anything in particular. Thinking about tomorrow makes me depressed; all those hours alone. I’m here for another two months and I have no idea how I’ll pass the time.
I arrived home from the Lincoln Memorial at eleven this morning with almost the whole day left to fill. None of my friends were online, because it was the middle of the night in Australia, so I ended up spending hours on Facebook. I added some comments. I looked at photos from parties I went to, and photo
s from school. Then I looked for photos of people I don’t like, just to laugh at any unflattering pictures. I trawled through people’s status updates, pinpointing when major gossip events occurred – breakups, hook-ups and fights – and checking what people said about them. Later in the afternoon I had a brief Skype chat with Bethany, but she had a driving lesson and had to go.
I spent hours thinking about my friends and my not-actually-friends-but-friends-on-Facebook friends. But I still felt lonely.
At six o’clock I started cooking dinner. I made pumpkin cannelloni. I enjoy cooking, and I’m usually pretty good at it, but Mum didn’t get home until almost nine o’clock, by which time the pasta was dried up at the edges and chewy. Mum was apologetic, and claimed that three colleagues in succession had bailed her up as she was trying to leave. I tried not to be too sulky. After all, I knew she was coming here to work. I just didn’t expect to hate being on my own so much. In Melbourne I loved the nights when Damian and Anna had sport and music lessons and I got the house to myself.
My life in Melbourne seems so far away. The only thing that is real now is this apartment, filled with solid, practical furniture in an array of dull shades of brown-beige to match the carpet and curtains. This is not the excitement and exhilaration that I imagined when I thought of being in a foreign country.
The days stretch before me. Hours and hours of nothing and no one. With nothing else to do I end up thinking about my exam results. I try to imagine how I’ll feel depending on the outcome. If my score is high enough to get into law I’ll be excited even though I’m not sure if I actually want to do law. The alternative is too awful: getting a low score and having to tell people, seeing their badly disguised disappointment or schadenfreude, and having to listen to their useless platitudes.
It’s sad that I’ve travelled to the other side of the world and all I can think about is my Year Twelve results. Perhaps Dad was right; maybe I shouldn’t have come.
Dad wanted me to go to the beach house as usual. We’ve stayed at Apollo Bay between Christmas and New Year every year since I was ten, the year Mum and Dad got divorced. We stay with Dad’s friend from work, Terry, and his family.
