I tried, but it didn’t work. You can’t mess around with story. You can’t mess around with life. I’ve learned so much recently. And one of the things I’ve learned is this: there is a difference between an unreliable narrator and a narrator who turns her back on the truth. You can like the first, but the second is contemptible. I can’t expect you to like me. No. I can’t expect that. But I can’t bear your contempt.
So. I need to tell you what really happened, and to do that, we must revisit the restaurant. Even—especially—if the visit is painful for the narrator.
ReWND™
Once we’d ordered, Jason showed me how to use the camera on the phone and I snapped away happily. I took pix of the three of them, the Fridge in the middle with her arms around Jason and Nessa. I took pix of my presents. I even got Jason to take one with his phone of my phone. I balanced it up against the Buddha so it appeared that the divine one was ordering a pizza. Boy, this wine was strong.
Halfway through the appetizers, a waiter tapped me on the shoulder.
“I’m sorry to interrupt your meal, madam, but there is a gentleman asking to speak to you. In the takeaway area.” He pointed towards a glass door next to the bar. My expression must have been puzzled, because he added hastily, “He apologizes, but assures it won’t take a moment.”
I raised my eyebrows, but no one offered any advice, though I noticed the Fridge kept her head over her plate. I followed the waiter into a small area with a counter and a few chairs against the wall. There was a large takeout menu above the counter, next to a television mounted on a bracket. A newscaster was talking earnestly, but I didn’t pay attention. The waiter gestured towards a man standing by the outer door and then ducked back into the restaurant.
My father.
I noticed, on the periphery of my vision, a woman sitting on a chair, flicking through a magazine while she waited for her food. I kept my eyes fixed on my father. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe I resented the intrusion into an intimate occasion. Whatever. His face irritated me. I folded my arms and glanced pointedly at my watch.
“Hello, Calma,” he said.
“This is a private function,” I replied. “If you’ve got something to say, be quick. I need to get back to my guests.”
He shifted nervously on his feet and placed the tips of his fingers together.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Your mum told me you’d be here. And I wouldn’t have come but…” He waved his hands vaguely. “I’ve run out of time. We’re leaving tonight. Back to Sydney, on the midnight flight.”
I said nothing. We?
“We never got the chance to talk,” he continued. “Maybe your mum’ll tell you what I wanted to say. If nothing else, I want you to know I’m sorry for the pain I’ve caused.”
I snorted. Words are so cheap.
He made a movement towards me, the stirring of an embrace choked before it found life. For a brief moment, he stood there, arms stretched tentatively, before he dropped them to his sides.
“Goodbye, Calma.”
The woman stood and threw the magazine on a littered coffee table. She moved to my dad’s side and put an arm around his waist. It was so unexpected I felt paralyzed, even as I recognized her. The woman from Crazi-Cheep. The woman I had overcharged. The woman with the laugh. Kindness was still printed on her face, but overlaid with a patina of sadness. She looked into my dad’s face, smiled and brushed something from his cheek. My stomach lurched at the pure affection in the gesture. She turned her eyes to me.
“It’s been lovely meeting you, Calma. Thanks again for the laughs. I had hoped we…well, maybe under different circumstances…” She smiled, and it was warm, genuine. I didn’t hear the door open behind me. I didn’t know the Fridge was there until she moved past and into my line of vision. She hugged my father and then the woman. They kissed cheeks.
“Goodbye, Bob. Sally. Great to see you. Have a good flight and stay in touch.”
“Thanks, Jean. Look after yourself. And Calma, of course. We’ll call.”
“Do that.”
I couldn’t move. It was as if my muscles had locked while my brain grappled with things I couldn’t understand. They moved towards the door and I did nothing to stop them. The woman had her hand on the doorknob when my father turned. He was smiling slightly.
“Just thought I’d tell you. Love the hairdo. Very chic. Very New Age.”
My reply was out before I knew it. I noted, distantly, that my voice was low and brittle.
“Shave for a Cure. The Leukemia Foundation.”
“Yeah, I know.” His smile widened. “And I appreciate it.”
And then they were gone, swallowed by darkness. Everything was still, apart from the drone of the TV. The Fridge put an arm around my shoulder. I stared at the door.
“Who was she?” I said.
“Sally Harrison. Your dad’s wife. Your step-mum.”
“She’s the barmaid?” I didn’t get it. The Fridge sighed and sat me down in a worn chair. She took the seat next to me.
“Calma,” she said. Her voice was quiet, soothing. “There was no barmaid.”
“But you told me…”
“No. I never said she was a barmaid. She was the service manager in a hotel here. I told you that. Many times. But you wouldn’t listen. You had an image in your head and nothing would budge it. Not even the truth.”
I shook my head. This was seriously weird.
“He didn’t contact me. He never tried to tell me…”
The Fridge took my hands in hers.
“Calma, he sent you letters. You ripped them up. He phoned. You refused to take the calls. Eventually he gave up. But he tried. He tried for years. The sad truth is, you didn’t.”
I stood up, and paced. What the Fridge was saying didn’t gel with my memories. I was confused. I stopped under the TV and faced her. Something strange rose from the turmoil of my thoughts.
“He didn’t come back for a reconciliation,” I said.
The Fridge laughed.
“He’s happily married, Calma. I’m happy that he’s happy. And, no, he never wanted that sort of reconciliation. Bob and I were reconciled long ago. All he wanted was to talk to you.”
“I was wrong.” It was a disturbing conclusion. I had difficulty even uttering the words. The Fridge smiled.
“You were wrong.”
There were too many things churning in my mind. I sat down again, head in hands, and dimly heard Jason come in. He talked to the Fridge, asked if I was okay, and the Fridge told him to give us a couple more minutes. The door closed. The wine didn’t help. I was trying to pin things down, get them arranged neatly in my mind, but the alcohol swirled them away. At least I’d helped the Fridge and Nessa. That was a comfort and I clung to it like a lifeline. We didn’t have to worry about Mike Collins. Inspector Mike Collins.
Wait a moment. I hadn’t thought that. The words continued and they were out there somewhere. In the room.
“Inspector Mike Collins was unavailable for comment, but it is understood he led the investigation, codename Royal Flush, which resulted in the arrest earlier today of four senior employees at the city casino. Charges of fraud are expected to be laid and sources at the casino indicate the alleged scam involved hundreds of thousands of dollars. And now in sports…”
The television presenter gave a smile and the screen changed. I turned, slowly, robotically, towards the Fridge. She gazed at the floor and scratched her nose.
“Ah, yes,” she said. “You were wrong about that, too.”
We didn’t finish the meal. We didn’t even get through our main course. To be honest, I don’t remember much. The Fridge and I went back in, but I didn’t have an appetite. Jason asked me if I was all right and I shouted at him. Told him to mind his own business. Something horrible, anyway. He left. Pushed his chair back and stormed out. I didn’t stop him. Nessa was biting her nails. She looked terrified. No one objected when the Fridge suggested we go. She paid the bill and we left. I sat in the ba
ck of the car. The Fridge dropped Vanessa off at home and we watched as her mum let her in. I said nothing the entire trip. Too much mental chaos.
It’s strange. Sometimes, a little thing can stick in your mind, demanding attention, even if you are overwhelmed with other, more important, thoughts. It was like a mental splinter. Whenever my mind brushed it, it pricked. We were pulling into our driveway.
“What did Dad mean by appreciating it? My shave-for-leukemia?”
The Fridge turned off the engine and sighed. I watched the back of her head. The engine ticked as it cooled.
“We need to talk,” she said.
“What did he mean?”
“He’s dying, Calma. That’s what he came to tell you.”
From: Miss Moss
To: Calma Harrison
Subject: Improvisation
* * *
Calma,
Do you remember the saxophone? I sometimes bring it to class to make a point about writing. Too many people think they know words, simply because they use them in everyday situations. They never learn what language can and cannot do. My analogy is that it is impossible to create unique, meaningful music from a saxophone, unless you know the rules of music first and have practiced extensively. Only then can you improvise, find your own voice, maybe by breaking those rules.
You have put time into your scales, Calma. Now compose your own music, in your own way.
Play for me.
Miss Moss
The blank page
* * *
The blank page lies before me, still:
White space that I can fill
With worlds and lives within them.
I aim to share this God-like stratagem,
To unfold all from nothingness to being
And, in black ink, reflect what I am seeing.
Yet words are fires against my dark self-doubt,
I write to flush the shifting shadows out.
And if I stop to think, it seems
Tomorrows are a set of different pages
On which to write. The future teems
With what might be. Though story’s torrent rages,
Sweeps characters from was to will be,
I know I have the mind and heart
To plot my course and follow where it leads me.
I start where all the worthwhile journeys start:
White space that I can fill—
The blank page lies before me still.
Chapter 26
Fallout
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
We sat in the kitchen. A box with a birthday cake in it was on the table between us. The restaurant had kept it in the kitchen, waiting for the signal from the Fridge to bring it in, ablaze with seventeen candles. The signal never came.
“I couldn’t, Calma.”
“Why not?”
“Your father wanted to tell you himself. He said he had messed up the last time and it was his responsibility to repair some of the damage. I couldn’t take that away from him.”
I was drinking water to wash away the alcohol and the confusion. It wasn’t working. There were so many questions and I didn’t know where to start. So I just let them pop out by themselves.
“What about Vanessa? Those cuts and scratches. Her dad did them. Her mum more or less told me.”
Mum topped up her wine glass. She’d opened a bottle as soon as we got in. There wasn’t much left.
“I talked to Vanessa’s mother,” she said, running a finger around the rim of the glass. “She came to see me at the end of my shift. That’s partly why I was late for the restaurant. She was almost hysterical. Poured out all this stuff about you coming round, making outrageous accusations.”
“But she didn’t argue much. And her body language told me all I needed to know.” I was working up some indignation. I wasn’t completely wrong. I couldn’t be.
The Fridge looked so tired. She tipped her glass and contemplated the liquid swishing around.
“I’m sure her silence spoke volumes. Trouble is, you weren’t listening. She was stunned, Calma. Look at it from her point of view. She opens the door and there’s her daughter’s best friend, who casually informs her that she—the wife—has been physically and emotionally abused by her ex-husband. Worse, that he is now abusing her daughter. She knows it’s nonsense, but she doesn’t know how to react. She just wants you out of the house. Of course she kept quiet. It was the quickest way to get rid of you.”
“No,” I said. “That can’t be right. What about the cuts and scratches? I saw them, Mum. They didn’t happen by themselves and they didn’t happen by accident. Someone did that to her.”
The Fridge finished what was in her glass and went to pour another. She examined the contents of the bottle and thought better of it.
“Yes,” she said. “You’re right. Someone did. That was another reason I was late. I talked to Mike. He wasn’t keen to discuss it, but I pushed him. There’s a long history, Calma. It’s been happening for years. Vanessa does it herself. She’s a self-harmer.”
We talked for hours. I brought up the episode in the police station, when Nessa’s dad had undressed me with his eyes. Slimeball.
“No,” said the Fridge.
He was staring at me. He recognized my name. There aren’t many Calma Harrisons, after all. He was curious. In fact, he volunteered to interview me, even though robbery wasn’t his area. He was in the fraud section. I was distraught. I was mistaken. Could I have been mistaken? I thought back. I hadn’t looked directly at him, just felt his eyes on me. It was possible.
The more we talked, the more things came into focus. The self-harming had started just after Vanessa’s parents split. She cut herself on the arms and wrists. She’d take time off from school and then return covered with bandages. Accident-prone. That’s how it was explained. She saw counselors. Her mum became increasingly nervous, worried about her daughter. She was on the verge of a breakdown. This must have made Vanessa feel guilty. She probably felt responsible for her mother’s state, and trips to her father’s house were increasingly a way out of a disturbing environment. But she must also have felt guilty about that, seeing it as a betrayal of her mother. No one knew the self-harming had started again. Not until I brought it up. Vanessa kept it hidden. It was classic behavior.
I arranged all the pieces in my head and saw they fitted. I cried. I cried for my father, for the pain I had caused Vanessa’s mum, for the damage I had done to the Fridge. Most of all I cried for Vanessa. She deserved so much help and support. I’d given her nothing. What had she said, that day at school? “It’s not all about you, Calma.” But that was the way I had thought and behaved, even if it wasn’t conscious. And yes, at the back of my mind there was a small reserve of tears for myself. Calma bloody big-shot Harrison.
Mum rocked me as I cried myself into exhaustion. She didn’t say much, just let me vent some of the self-loathing. Towards the end, before I slumped into bed, she said one thing.
“Calma, it’s okay to be wrong. It’s okay. But it’s what happens next that’s important. You have a friend in pain. In trouble. How are you going to help her? Not by thinking you’re worthless. By being strong. She needs you. Are you going to let her down?”
I slept a deep, dreamless sleep.
The morning brought a text message on my new phone. It was from Jason, dumping me. My first text message. I couldn’t blame him. I deserved nothing less. I sat at the kitchen table and considered my options. And the more I thought, the better I felt. It was so strange. The day ahead was a blank page and I could write on it whatever I wanted. I just needed to be a more reliable narrator. I planned out the immediate future, like notes for a novel.
I would make the Fridge breakfast in bed. Later, I’d go to the bank and withdraw the forty-eight dollars sitting in my savings account. It wasn’t much, but the Leukemia Foundation wouldn’t turn it down. Then I’d go to Crazi-Cheep, to see if Candy could rost
er me on for more shifts. A trip to Sydney wasn’t going to be cheap and I would have to budget for it. If I had time, I’d go over to Sanderson and pick up some enrollment forms.
I was also going to find Jason. It was time I enlightened him. First—you don’t dump someone by text message. Second—you don’t dump Calma Harrison. Even when she deserves it.
But between breakfast and the bank, I was going round to Nessa’s house. I wasn’t going to say anything about her injuries. I might be dumb in many ways, but I’m not that dumb. We would talk. I’d make her laugh. More than anything else, I’d listen. I’d build up her trust again slowly. I would be there for her and we’d get through this together. It was time for me to be a proper friend.
As I turned the Fridge’s toast into carbon, it struck me that I might have made a mess of everything, but I was going to come out of this better, stronger and wiser.
I don’t know. What do you think?
ReCRD™
Acknowledgments
Top of all my lists: Nita, wife, friend, reader, critic, and greatest supporter. My children Lauren and Brendan read and liked the manuscript. Thanks to them for keeping me on track, particularly when I strayed from the strange, disturbing, and exciting world of teenage life. My daughters Kris and Kari lent support from an enforced distance. Their belief was, and is, very important to me. All my family, friends, colleagues, and students: I have been overwhelmed by your generosity, interest, and encouragement. Thanks also to Jodie Webster and Erica Wagner, of Allen & Unwin, Australia, for their enthusiasm and expertise and to Nancy Siscoe, of Knopf, USA, for her unwavering support and sensitive editing.
Am I Right or Am I Right? Page 17
