by Tess Woods
CJ’s mouth went dry. What? What did Nan just say?
Her mum loudly blew her nose. ‘Please don’t bring him up. Not tonight of all nights. What if she’s predisposed to being a drug addict? Isn’t that a thing? Genetically?’ The panic was clear in her voice.
‘Of course she’s not predisposed, don’t be so ridiculous. She’s just going through some things, that’s all.’
CJ had held her breath for so long she felt dizzy.
What the hell were they talking about?
‘At least this explains why she’s failing every assessment at school, why she never comes out of her room. My child’s a train wreck,’ Jamie said, sobbing. ‘I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what to say. Everything I say is the wrong thing. Here I am, organising parent workshops on how to raise healthy, well-balanced teens, and look at the mess I’ve made of my own child. I’ve lost all control.’
But I’ve never touched drugs, Mum! CJ wanted to call out. I was set up!
‘She doesn’t tell me anything anymore,’ Jamie said. ‘She’s unreachable. I only know where her head’s at when I eavesdrop on her singing. And have you even heard the songs she’s been writing lately? They’re terrifying!’
CJ touched the skin of her inner thigh. Her fingers traced along the bumps. She was comforted by the feel of the thickened lines. She counted them — one, two, three . . .
Jamie continued, ‘How can that be healthy for her, spending hours and hours writing depressing songs like that? And now drugs! What’s next? She’s following exactly in his footsteps.’ She paused. ‘Why did I even bother keeping him away from her all these years? I’ve been struggling on my own, just to protect her from his influence. Look at where she’s at now! It’s as if he raised her himself single-handedly.’
Who was she talking about? Who was her dad? Why had her mum lied to her all this time?
‘Don’t get ahead of yourself, Jamie. Just because she’s inherited his talent, that doesn’t mean she’ll have his addictions too. It doesn’t work that way, love.’
‘I was so determined to get it right.’ Jamie’s voice dropped another notch. CJ strained to hear what she said next. ‘It’s always been about her. All I wanted was to raise her with love and stability.’ She broke down again. ‘It’s all I wanted.’
‘I know, love. And you did do that. You’ve done it better than anyone else could have.’
‘How can you think that?’ Jamie kept crying. ‘Look at her! It’s hopeless. I give up. I just give up.’
It was getting hard to breathe. CJ closed the door and walked unsteadily towards her bed.
Her entire life was nothing more than a lie.
She opened the top drawer of the bedside table and wriggled her hand in under the stack of underwear. Her fingers made contact with the cool nail scissors right at the back and she pressed down to slide them forwards.
The words coming from outside her room were blurry now. Everything was faint.
With her special scissors in her hand, she leaned against her closed door and lifted up her skirt. She took a few seconds to admire the lines.
They were so ugly, so perfect. She’d miss not being able to see those lines.
In the background, her nan and her mum had quietened.
She thought about never seeing them again, about how much she would miss them. But she couldn’t actually miss them when she was dead, could she? So it didn’t matter.
They’d be sad at first. They’d miss her. Of course they would. But they’d get over it eventually.
If she cut properly, she wouldn’t need to wake up tomorrow to face the family who’d lied to her all her life. She wouldn’t have to worry about the video being leaked. She wouldn’t need to deal with the police or face her mum’s questioning. She’d never have to see Finn again. So much pain would be gone. Even her mum agreed it was hopeless. It was what she’d just said. And she said she’d given up. If her mum had given up on her, what was the point in even trying?
Everything would be okay forever, there’d be nothing left to worry about, if she cut properly.
One more cut. That’s all it would take. One more cut.
She’d read online that thigh cuts were little league. Wrists, they were the big league.
Only for the bravest of the brave.
Are you brave enough? was the forum heading.
Was she? Yes. Yes, she was!
From her research she knew how to be effective and fast, she wasn’t going to be someone who stuffed this up.
She turned her left hand palm side up.
It was time.
As her knees buckled, before her body slumped forwards, and her head slammed onto the shiny floorboards with a resounding thump, she had one final thought.
What have I done?
And then there was nothing.
PART TWO
OTHER BATTLES
1 MARCH 2018 — 9.15 PM
Jess and Jamie locked eyes in alarm at the thud that came from CJ’s room.
‘What was that?’ Jamie whispered, already bolting in the direction of the sound.
Jess was hot on her heels.
‘CJ? Are you okay?’ Jamie called, turning the doorknob. ‘CJ?’ she repeated, with a note of panic this time.
Silence.
‘Open the door!’ Jess ordered, her heart racing like mad.
‘I’m trying!’ Jamie twisted the doorknob again. ‘Something’s wrong. I can’t open it.’ Her hands began to shake. ‘Oh God! I can’t open the door!’ She leaned her body against the doorframe and pushed until the opening was just wide enough for her to force her way into the room.
Jess followed her in and saw CJ slumped on the floor, a white shade of blue. Her eyes were rolled back in her head, and much of her body, as well as the floor around her, was covered in blood.
Jamie dropped to her knees and cradled CJ’s bruised and bloodied head against her chest. ‘She’s not breathing,’ she cried. ‘She’s dead.’
Jess took a deep breath, trying to stop the heart attack she swore was about to hit her.
Think clearly. Think. She knelt next to Jamie. Her shins rested on CJ’s cold blood on the floorboards. Carefully she took CJ’s limp body out of Jamie’s arms and laid her gently on her side.
‘Call an ambulance,’ she ordered Jamie.
‘Mum, she’s dead!’
‘Jamie, listen to me, call an ambulance. Do it now.’
Jamie ran from the room and was back seconds later, holding the phone against her ear. She knelt beside Jess. ‘Ambulance . . . 8 Kingham Street, Brighton,’ she said between large racking sobs. ‘Jamie Stone . . . Charlotte Stone . . . seventeen . . . my daughter . . . She’s, I don’t know, she’s bleeding . . . everywhere . . . No, she’s not breathing . . . I think she’s dead! I don’t know . . . There’s a lot of blood . . . Thank you. Tell them to hurry!’
Jess checked that CJ’s airway was clear and determined for certain that she wasn’t breathing. She discovered the long gash up CJ’s forearm. Bile rose in her throat but she forced herself to think rationally.
She rolled CJ onto her back and hurried to the bathroom, returning with a bandage.
Jess handed Jamie the bandage and knelt back down next to CJ. ‘Wrap up her left wrist tightly. As tightly as you can, you hear?’ And then she began CPR.
‘Oh my God!’ Jamie’s scream was blood curdling. ‘She killed herself!’
Jess spoke quickly, as she pushed down over CJ’s heart. ‘Jamie! Get that bandage on! Now!’
With trembling fingers Jamie did as she was told. ‘Is she breathing yet?’ she asked between sobs.
Jess pulled her mouth away from CJ’s and began to push down again just underneath CJ’s breastbone. ‘Not yet, but she will,’ she wished out loud. She counted each compression in a whisper until she got to thirty. She hadn’t needed to perform CPR for over twenty years.
‘Come on, CJ. Come on, sweet,’ she said before bending her head down again to share two more of her breaths with
her granddaughter. ‘Breathe, my love.’
CJ didn’t breathe.
‘Jamie, you need to help me,’ Jess panted a few minutes later. ‘I’m tired.’ Jamie was looking a little fuzzy to her, and so was CJ. She blinked hard but it didn’t make much difference.
‘Help you?’ Jamie’s voice was that of a scared child’s. Her eyes were wide. ‘How?’
‘Do the compressions. You know how.’
Jamie froze, her eyes fixated on CJ’s lifeless face.
‘Jamie!’ she snapped. ‘Push down. Count out loud to thirty. Go!’
Jamie pushed on CJ’s chest and counted.
Jess kept her eyes shut until Jamie said, ‘Thirty.’
And then she blew another two big breaths into CJ’s mouth and watched as her chest rose and fell with each one.
‘Count to thirty, Jamie,’ she whispered. The room was spinning faster and faster. She shut her eyes again.
A few minutes later came the welcome sound of the siren.
‘Ambulance,’ she announced. ‘Get the door, I’ll keep going here.’
The paramedics came charging up the corridor.
Jess moved out of the way.
‘How long have you been giving her CPR?’ a paramedic asked.
‘She’s been doing it since I called you,’ Jamie replied to the young woman.
‘Well done.’ The male paramedic gave Jess a brief smile before bending over CJ.
Ignoring her overwhelming need to collapse, Jess wrapped her arms around her daughter and held her close as the paramedics hooked CJ up to a defibrillator and passed a current so strong through her almost-skeletal body that her entire torso lifted high off the floor and landed back down with a thud — once, twice.
‘Heartbeat,’ the woman announced. ‘We’ve got a heartbeat.’
CJ’s chest began to rise and fall ever so slightly on its own.
‘She’s alive,’ Jess said into Jamie’s hair as she held her tight. ‘She’s alive, sweet.’
Jess was barely aware of what the ambulance officers did next. There was an oxygen machine and more bandages involved and lots of hurried yet calm conversation between them.
In the middle of all the fussing — CJ being manhandled onto a stretcher, Jamie crying huge loud sobs — the world went hazy again for Jess. She steadied herself against the wall and all the mayhem and noise disappeared.
She saw her precious granddaughter through the haze, her life hanging in the balance, and she felt something she could only describe as a kind of force, a knowing. The force had an intensity that was foreign to her. Was it God? A ghost? She couldn’t tell.
But suddenly she knew for certain, deep in her bones, that CJ would be okay — a knowing she couldn’t explain but that she was convinced was utterly true.
Relief washed over her and the haze lifted, the dizziness eased and she was back, helping Jamie into the ambulance before she watched it disappear down the road.
Slowly, she walked back into the empty house and mopped CJ’s bedroom floorboards. She took the blood-drenched rug out to the bin.
With a heavy heart she went into her own room and sat on the edge of the bed. It was almost eleven o’clock now but there wasn’t a remote chance that she would sleep. She didn’t know what to do to pass the time while she waited for news from Jamie. She was far too agitated to watch TV or knit or read a book.
Then she remembered the letters. It had been years since she’d read them. She lowered herself to the floor and peered under her bed. The wooden box that Frank had bought for her in Saigon was where she’d kept them. She reached for it, groaning at the pain as she stretched.
The box was covered in dust that she blew off. Her fingers traced the image on the lid and, despite everything, she smiled. A flower child for my Flower Child.
She plumped up the pillows on her bed and crawled underneath the covers. She checked to make sure the volume was up on her phone and that she hadn’t missed any messages from Jamie, and then she opened the box and took out the first of the letters. Shutting out the present and going back to another time felt like the only way she could survive the wait.
5 SEPTEMBER 1969
Miss Jessica James
The Alfred Nurses’ Quarters
110B Commercial Road
Melbourne 3004
Flower Child,
Well, I made it and I’ve got lots to tell you.
The flight was long but they fed us and gave us beers so it wasn’t too bad. We had an hour in Singapore to walk around but they made us change into our civvies for that. Then it was another two-hour leg before we landed in Saigon.
Jess, the humidity! Far out, it felt like a wet slap in the face as soon as I got off the plane and I haven’t stopped sweating since. Without a word of a lie, it feels like I’m sweating from my eyeballs. Nobody wears pyjamas to bed here — too hot.
And it stinks. It stinks like nothing I’ve ever known. It’s like old damp socks but worse, much worse. They say you get used to it.
I’m at the base in Nui Dat now and I’ve got my rifle. Have to have it on me all the time, even if I go to the dunny. It feels real now.
I’m writing to you from my bunk inside a mosquito net — I’ve got nine thousand mozzie bites on me already. Apparently you get used to that too.
We get eggs, bacon, toast, mushrooms and beans for breakfast. So far no complaints about the food. There’s a boozer too. Beers are only fifteen cents! There’s a piss-up later to welcome those of us who just turned up. Well, that’s what they’re saying it’s for, but I reckon any excuse.
Unless they need to replace a medic in the field, I’ll mostly be staying inside the wire here on hospital duties. I thought you’d be pleased to hear that. It’s only a twelve-bed hospital so there isn’t much to do for thirty medics. They haven’t even used the operating theatre for a year. The CO said they’ll use me around base doing whatever other jobs need doing.
I hope I make some mates here. There’s a young lad, Mick, who came in on the same flight and is in my bunk room. But he’s only eighteen, and regular army not a nasho. So we haven’t really got anything in common. This posting is all his dreams come true.
A couple of guys had a laugh when I said I had a girlfriend. They reckon a lot of women get sick of waiting for their fellas to come home and take off with someone else. There’s a big corkboard along a wall in the mess with Dear John letters pinned to it and they’re stacked three or four deep.
Everyone counts the days they have left. Eleven months, twenty-nine days and a wakey — that means I wake up here on the last day but sleep back home in Melbourne that night. We can count down together. I’ll try and write to you every week, like you wanted. It’s not like there’s much else to do around here!
Love,
Frank
2 MARCH 2018
It was just after midnight and Jamie was making herself a coffee in the visitors’ lounge.
CJ had woken up briefly, soon after arriving at the emergency department. She’d been confused, drowsy, and then drifted back to sleep again, but not before she’d given Jamie a dozy stare of recognition.
Her vital signs were all good. Her scan showed no brain damage. It was nothing short of a miracle.
Jamie had sent her mother a text when CJ was transferred into the ICU. She thanked her for all she’d done to save CJ’s life. The drama about the marijuana, the arrest, the charges, all that was forgotten. What mattered was that her daughter was still alive and that she was going to be okay, thanks to Jess.
She took her steaming mug back into CJ’s room. She’d agreed with the specialist that once CJ was up and about and in the clear, which the specialist had assured her would happen sooner rather than later, then a transfer to a private mental health clinic should be the next step. For the time being, though, CJ had a nurse with her twenty-four seven.
‘All okay?’ Jamie asked the nurse as she walked up to CJ’s bedside.
CJ was too pale, too thin. She had wires poking out fr
om her attached to a machine that monitored her. Jamie rested her hand on CJ’s. She was cold to the touch.
‘She’s doing great. How about you? Are you okay?’ Louise, the nurse, replied.
Am I okay? My only child has been self-harming for God knows how long, she’s shredded her thighs to ribbons, she’s a drug-taker, and a few hours ago she attempted suicide.
‘I’m okay, thank you. All good.’ She forced a smile and stroked the back of CJ’s hand with her thumb.
Louise obviously wasn’t fooled. ‘I hope you know this isn’t your fault.’
‘No, I know,’ she lied. She slurped on the coffee that scalded her mouth.
‘Is it all right if I go through this form with you now?’ Louise asked gently. She’d tried to pin Jamie down earlier to fill in the missing sections of CJ’s admission papers, but they’d barely started when Jamie had had to walk away.
‘Sure.’ The distraction of the form for a few minutes felt like a welcome relief.
‘Excellent, thanks.’ Louise pulled out a file and motioned for Jamie to sit down. ‘So, your mobile number?’
Jamie answered the questions easily until she got to the one that always gave her a sharp ache in the temples.
‘Charlotte’s father’s name?’ Louise raised her eyebrows.
Jamie gulped. She was about to reply with her standard response of ‘That’s unknown, I’m sorry,’ but then paused.
She looked over at CJ, asleep, her wrist tightly bandaged and the sheet covering her legs. But neither the bandage nor the bedsheet could hide from Jamie’s mind the scars that she knew were under them. Her daughter was hurting and she had no idea how to help her. Maybe her father could?
It was time. Time to let go of the secret she’d kept inside for eighteen years.
She cleared her throat. ‘His name’s Simon Gorenski.’ She spelled Gorenski. She pushed a cuticle back far enough to make herself wince.
‘Oh. That name sounds familiar to me for some reason.’ Louise frowned. ‘Could I have his address, please?’
