Have You Seen Ally Queen?

by Deb Fitzpatrick

  ‘Yeah, base camp and stuff. Morons.’

  ‘Base camp!’ I snort. ‘Maybe we should bring our crampons.’

  The bell wails.

  ‘Are you gunna go on this camp, or what?’ he says.

  ‘I dunno, haven’t asked the oldies yet. You?’ I look at him. He’s squinting into the sun.

  ‘Think so.’

  Oh. I nod. ‘Cool.’

  Shite.

  There’s a wall of kids crowding the door of the sports shed, chucking in footies and basketballs and softball mitts.

  ‘Better go, then, hey,’ I say. ‘This should be fun. Fun, fun, fun.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He looks at me like he wants to say something, but doesn’t.

  I wait a bit and then say, ‘Do you wanna go down the beach after school?’

  He looks surprised. ‘Yeah. Yep.’

  As I’m walking off, he flings me a yellow snake and calls softly, ‘Good luck, Queenie.’

  I stick it in my gob and chew it, head first.

  MEETING MR CASUAL

  Nice Ally, Nice Ally, Nice Ally, Angelgirl, Angelgirl is pealing through my head like a song riff. The corridors are dead quiet. Everyone else is in class. My shoes on the floor sound straight out of a horror movie. I go past Mr Williamson’s maths class. He’s full-on bellowing at someone, and the door flies open and slams shut again, and then Rory Mills is standing outside, looking like a complete loser.

  ‘What’d you do?’ I grin.

  ‘Piss off, why don’t ya?’

  Nice. I feel my cheeks burst into red. Angelgirl. Right.

  Mr Taylor doesn’t have a couch, or anything made of black leather in his room. He’s just got daggy old school chairs like everyone else. He indicates for me to sit down on one.

  ‘Is this going to take long?’ I blurt, and then, meeting his eyes, I say, ‘Sir,’ like I was going to all along.

  ‘Well, that depends on you, Alison.’

  Inner groan. I already hate him. I take a slow breath to compose myself and put on my best angel eyes ... I hope. I wait for him to start.

  ‘So, Alison, we’re trying to make sure all new students come to see me after they’ve been here a couple of weeks, just to see how they’re going.’

  ‘I’ve been here longer than that.’

  He smiles. ‘I know. Better late than never.’

  If you say so.

  ‘So. How’re you finding Peel Senior High?’

  ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘And how does it compare with your old school?’

  ‘About the same, really, just a few more bogans and a lot further away. School’s school.’

  That gets a laugh out of him. ‘Have you been back to Perth at all since your family moved down?’

  I think of the long road over the bridges, the fishermen and tinnies at the Cut, the tall yellow streetlights of the Mandurah bypass at night, and the road into Perth, with all the shops and places I know.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you miss it?’

  I look at him through my old eyes. Shut up, I think. I don’t answer him for a while. Then I say, ‘Why are we talking about this? Why do you need to know if I miss Perth or not?’

  He leans against the arm of his chair. ‘Well, like I said before, we ask all new kids how they’re going when they start here. It’s a big deal for a lot of students—it’s not only a new school but a whole different lifestyle down here. Some kids have trouble adjusting, which is fair enough. It’s a big move.’

  ‘Well, I’m not having any trouble, if that’s what you want to know. I don’t like it here—and I’ve adjusted to that already, okay? Now can I go?’

  He doesn’t blink. ‘If you must.’

  I can’t believe I can be so rude to this guy and get away with it. He doesn’t even care.

  Someone comes to the door. He gets up and says, ‘Excuse me just for a minute,’ and then heads out, leaving the door wide open.

  I sit there, a bit stunned. He said I could leave, so why don’t I? I stare at the gap into the grey corridor. It looks so much more exciting out there, I think sarcastically, and go back to staring at the whiteboard behind his desk.

  He walks back in, like Mr Super-Casual, holding a packet of chocolate biscuits and a cup of coffee.

  Bribes.

  ‘No, you can’t have any,’ he says. ‘Still here, then.’

  I raise my eyebrows inadvertently.

  ‘I said you could go if you wanted. You’re missing ... English, right?’

  I nod.

  ‘With Ms Carey.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘She’s a great teacher.’

  He opens the biscuit packet but doesn’t take one out. Instead he says, ‘You’re allowed to ask me questions, you know. This can be a conversation.’

  A maggie swoops past the window.

  ‘Am I really here because I’m new?’ I say, watching the powerline bow under the bird’s weight.

  ‘Partly.’

  ‘What’s the other part?’

  He holds his mug with both hands for a moment and then says, ‘The other part is that if kids have some troubles at home, we like to keep an eye on them.’

  I keep my gaze on Maggie’s tightrope skills so I don’t have to look at him. But he doesn’t say anything, not for the longest time, until I look to see if he’s still alive. He is.

  And then I ask if I can go.

  BARBIE GOES TO THE BEACH

  I sling the bag over my head. I’m trying to concentrate. Things I need: towel, thongs, snacks. I’ve got some lavash chips and a tub of tzatziki for munchies, though Rel could hate tzatziki, for all I know.

  I feel like I need the beach—just sand and water, those two simple things, nothing else—but I know it can’t take all this shit away.

  I check my phone. No messages. What did I expect? I turn it off, shove it down to the bottom of my bag.

  The sand stings my legs as I hit the beach. I dig my feet in, grind them down. I look to either side of me. Rel is sitting hard up against a scrubby dune, avoiding the windblast. This was a bad idea.

  I go over to him and grin a bit. ‘Nice conditions,’ I shout into the wind.

  He nods. He looks disappointed.

  ‘I’ve got snacks and everything!’

  More disappointed now.

  I look back over the dunes, see the stumpy chimney for our pot-belly stove. No one’s home.

  I wave vaguely at our house. ‘Do you wanna go to my place? It’s nasty out here.’

  Rel’s eyes lift. He grabs his towel and we head up the skinny track, me first, my thongs dragging over the loose limestone, my toes getting the chalky, dusty look of hot summer days that seem far from here.

  ‘Where’s the rest of the mob?’ he asks as I reach for the key in its super-secret hiding place (i.e. not under a pot plant or in the meter box): buried under the second pylon to the left of the carport.

  ‘Still at work,’ I say evasively, ‘and McJerry—my brother—he’s probably at a friend’s place.’

  Rel’s forehead moves away from his face. ‘Man, so you get the joint to yourself after school? That’s very chilled. My old duck’s at home every arvo.’

  My mum usually is, too, I want to say, but keep my mouth shut. We’re seeing her tomorrow—Dad’s set it up. It feels weird, to have to arrange to see your mum.

  It’s silent once we’re inside, out of the wind. It’s like being in a vacuum. I relax my eyes—didn’t realise they were so screwed up against the sand. I click the door shut and realise we’re looking directly into my room, and it’s hell messy. Mum would call it a bombsite, in that shocked voice of hers.

  ‘Where’s the Barbie wallpaper, then?’ Rel grins. ‘Man, are you a grot.’

  ‘It’s not normally this bad. Barbie? Nah, she’s a plastic bimbo,’ I giggle. ‘What do you think I am? I bet you played with action figures—those little guys with chests the size of fridges. Why are they always naked, except for really big jocks?’

  He’s laughi
ng.

  ‘And a belt—what’s that for, to hold up their Y-fronts?’ I put on my Yank cartoon voice. ‘Hello, Icebuster. Gunna kill some baddies today, and flex your huge muscles? Or shall we wash your underpants instead? You’ve been wearing those things for weeks now. You pong, dude!’

  Rel tries to stop laughing. ‘Did you say I stink, woman? See this here military bazooka? I may have to blow your head off unless you apologise immediately and kiss my army boots.’

  ‘Stuff that, jockman, I’d rather die!’

  We give it up but keep laughing, and I put on Triple J and pull the snacks out of my bag.

  We hoe into the chips and dip. I slide open the doors that go out onto the verandah, and the wind comes in and makes the house salty and moist. It’s dropped off a fair bit, though; usually does around this time. Dad says that’s why it’s good to go fishing just before dark—when the wind’s dropped, when it goes silent like after a big wave, a boomer. That silence, only the fizzing of the water. The tailor fairly jump on your line then, if they’re coming through.

  I’m just about to ask Rel if they go tailor fishing, too, but stop myself. Don’t want to sound like I’m into blokes’ things, or anything.

  Instead I say, ‘Have you guys been prawning again?’

  ‘Nah. Took the boat out into the Cut for some crabbing on Sunday, though. Caught some beauties. Man, did we have a feast.’ He’s playing with his shell, twisting and pulling. ‘You’ll have to come with us, next time. It’s cool fun.’

  I nod. My face is loose from that laughing before. I’d like to, I think. I’d like to.

  GROUP THERAPY

  It’s going to be the first time I’ll have seen Mum since I went to Aunty Trish’s by myself a week ago. Dad’s nervous—I can tell by the number of goes it takes him to plug in his seatbelt. He’s shaved again, too. Classic. McJerry’s face is all squashed in, which means he’s not talking. I look back at the road and roll my eyes. Christ. Just another normal family outing.

  The office is like any other from the outside; you’d never know that all that weird stuff was going down inside. People with obsessive-compulsive disorder who have to wash their hands eighty times a day, or people who are too terrified to leave their home to go to the shops, or ... people like Mum. What is Mum’s problem? Does it have a name, like agoraphobia, or whatever? And will it ever go away?

  Apparently, today is meant to be so that we can all talk about how we’re feeling—can you believe it? What is all this touchy-feely hippie bollocks! Thought I’d had enough of that yesterday with Mr Taylor, for shite’s sake! And how is this going to help Mum, anyway?

  ‘Now kids...’ Dad starts, when we arrive.

  I look over at him, trying hard not to show my total lack of faith in this gig.

  ‘What,’ Jerry huffs.

  ‘Look, kids.’ Dad sighs and turns off the ignition.

  ‘This is your opportunity to ask Mum any questions you have, okay? The doctor will be there and she can answer your questions, too.’

  ‘What sort of questions?’ I say. The only one I want to ask is When are you coming home?

  ‘Anything you like, Ally.’

  Right. ‘Are you going to ask any?’ I say.

  That kinda spooks him. He straightens his neck and tries not to look at me. ‘Yes. Yes, I will be asking some ... of my own questions.’ You can see him fairly racking his brain at that, poor guy. ‘Let’s go in, shall we?’

  Jerry doesn’t say anything this time. I can see that both the guys are going to clam up in there, and it’s going to be left up to Mum and me to sort things out.

  Mum hugs us both for a long time, grabbing Jerry into her and looking at me, trying to gauge my mood, I reckon. Dad kisses her—on the cheek (I think he’s embarrassed because it’s in front of the doctor)—and then we sit in the small circle of seats, trying not to fidget like kids at school.

  ‘Mum,’ Jerry whispers across the circle, like the rest of us won’t hear him, ‘I’ve been having Coco Pops for breakfast while you’ve been away!’

  ‘Jerry!’ Dad says, appalled he’s been found out.

  Mum laughs and shakes her head a little. It’s such a relief to see that smile.

  The doctor’s pretty young, younger than Mum and Dad, for sure. For some reason, I was expecting a man, and definitely someone older. She seems really nice, and smiles and welcomes us all, before getting down to business.

  ‘The reason we’re having this session is so that you can all discuss what’s happening to your mum in an open and frank way. I think we all agree that it’s in everyone’s best interests to know exactly what’s going on, so that we can best manage the situation.’

  There’s a window just to the side of the doctor’s desk, and I can see the thinnest sliver of moon through it.

  ‘I want to start by saying,’ Doctor Howe says, ‘that it’s a real sign of support that you are all here—and that goes a long way towards Annie’s recovery. It also shows that this is a loving and accepting family. So, would anyone like to start?’

  Oh, lord. Who’s going to start? It’s too awkward, somehow. I feel kind of ... exposed. That we are all exposed.

  ‘Martin?’

  Dad coughs. He speaks! ‘Uh, I guess one of the things we’ve been wondering about’—he looks at the doctor out of the corner of his eye and then concentrates on his hands again—‘is just what is happening to make Annie unwell.’

  I flick a look at Mum.

  ‘I can answer that, if you like, Annie?’

  Mum nods.

  ‘Annie is suffering from something called post-traumatic stress disorder. This has arisen from her car accident and has been made worse by the fact that she didn’t receive any counselling for it at the time. I suppose you might say that the condition has spiralled, and so now we have a few related problems to deal with, in addition to the foundation issue.’

  Isn’t it bizarre that the moon affects when and how much the ocean moves around? Dad showed me how you can tell the height of the tide each day by where the seaweed’s washed up on the beach in the morning (like a seaweed bathring), and how it goes a bit higher each day, and then recedes a bit each day, all because of the moon, that slice of a thing I can see through the window right now, and all within a month. Then it starts over again.

  Dad clears his throat in my direction and I snap back.

  ‘One of the most debilitating things your mum is experiencing is panic attacks,’ the doctor says. ‘These are really scary anxiety attacks that make it hard to do normal day-to-day things. Right now we’re working on how to handle these attacks when they happen.’

  ‘Will they ever go away?’ I say.

  She turns to me and nods kindly. ‘Yes, Alison, they will, but it will take some time and your mum will need some help to get there.’

  ‘Is that what she’s seeing you for?’

  ‘Yes, exactly.’

  Dad says, ‘How is all this related to the accident? I mean, that happened more than a year ago.’

  ‘That’s the whole problem with PTSD,’ she says. ‘It used to be called “shell shock” because it occurs after someone experiences a situation that causes extreme stress and feelings of horror or helplessness, like the kind of events that happen in war. When your mum was involved in the hit-and-run accident last year, she went into shock immediately—which is quite normal for someone in that situation—but it also meant that she froze in action, if you like. In retrospect, she feels that she could have done more at the time to help the victim, and she keeps reliving the accident to see how she might have done things differently. All of these feelings have built up, causing the panicky feelings and her sense that something similar might be just around the corner and that she may not be able to do anything about it.’

  The doc swivels on her chair, as if it’s helping her to think. ‘This fear of helplessness morphs into feelings of worthlessness and low self-esteem, low confidence and so on and so forth until we have the spiralling effect that Annie is experi
encing.’

  There’s a heavy silence while we try to take in all of that.

  Suddenly, Jerry blurts out, like he’s been waiting ages to say it: ‘But you weren’t even in the accident, Mum! I mean, it wasn’t your car that was hit, or anything.’

  Mum slumps a bit in her chair. ‘I know, love, but I saw it. And seeing it was ... well, it was horrible.’