by Claire Zorn
‘Okay.’
‘I’m joking.’
‘Okay.’
‘Well, I suppose you know why you’re here.’ She spoke patiently, like she knew I had heard it all before. I looked at the patterned carpet. It was disgusting, the type they design so you won’t notice if anyone vomits on it, so ugly you could understand why that might be a risk.
‘You’ve been through something awful, actually “awful” doesn’t really cover it, does it? Bloody hell.’ She glanced at her notes, raised her eyebrows. ‘And your dad is going to court in six weeks. You’re going to be assessed by a psychiatrist and, depending on what they say, may be questioned in court. Am I right?’
I nodded.
‘Because you were a witness?’
I could feel it then, it started as a pain in my chest and then I couldn’t find my breath. I closed my eyes because that’s the only way I can feel like I’m hidden in a small space without actually being hidden in a small space.
‘Hannah? Are you okay? You’ve gone a bit pale. You need to open your eyes. Come on. Good. Look out the window and tell me what you see out there. Go on, tell me.’
‘Trees.’
‘What colour are they?’
‘Green.’
‘Green all over? Come on, what do you see? I need details.’
I tried to focus on the window and not the feeling in my chest. I told her what I saw, the green leaves swaying on branches high up in the blue sky.
‘Does that happen to you a lot? That panic response just there?’
I nodded.
‘You can flick your brain out of it, but it takes practice. We’ll work on it. Let’s leave that alone and have a chat about your social life. Electric, I presume?’
Katie pipes up. Do you think it’s ethical for a school counsellor to use so much sarcasm?
‘It’s fairly quiet,’ I answer Anne.
‘Aha. Can you name the last person you were good friends with?’
I shift my attention back to the carpet.
‘Oh, come on,’ Anne says. ‘You’re the most fascinating person I get to talk to, Hannah. It’s usually all just playground spats and teacher crushes. You’re the only one keeping me awake here. Name the last person you were good friends with. That’s all I want, a name. I’ll leave you alone after that.’
I look up.
‘Charlotte.’
***
I met Charlotte at preschool. She had white-blonde hair cut in a thick blunt fringe across her forehead. I remember that I wanted to be her friend because I liked her hair and the dress she was wearing. Things must have been pretty simple back then because I picked Charlotte to sit next to and that was that – we were best friends. I guess she must have thought my outfit was okay too.
Charlotte’s mum’s name was Karen and she worked at the newsagent. She had bright red hair, like the colour of ink from a red biro. She also had a Chinese symbol tattooed in the middle of her back, you could see it above the band of her jeans when she sat down. I don’t know what it meant, she wouldn’t tell me. I used to call her Mrs Burke because that was Charlotte’s surname. But one day she told me to call her Karen and that Mrs Burke was her mother’s name. Charlotte comes across as quiet, but she isn’t shy. She is just very deliberate about everything she says. She would come out with these killer one-liners that left a lot of people a bit shocked. She was useful arsenal to have nearby when Katie was around.
Charlotte and I ended up at the same primary school and in the same class, and we clung on to each other in that creepy obsessive way you do when you’re little. (My mum said we were thick as thieves and I remember I was really hurt by that because I thought she meant thick as in dumb.) Karen started working Thursday nights and Charlotte would come to my house every Thursday. It was a given that we would go to the same high school. I don’t think either of our parents would have split us up for fear of inflicting some horrible trauma.
***
‘Would you count Charlotte as a friend currently?’
‘No.’
‘Do you have any friends at the moment?’
‘No.’
‘How long has it been like this?’
‘I don’t know, a few years.’
‘Right. Your dad said you went to see a psychologist for a bit. After the accident.’
‘Yes.’
‘What was that like?’
‘Okay.’
‘Did it help?’
There is, of course, the possibility that I could lie to Anne. I could just make stuff up, keep her busy for the forty minutes of our allotted time with a wild-goose chase of invented emotional red herrings. Why do that? you might ask. Can’t I see that I have a wide range of problems to do with my sister, who also happens to be dead, a fact that only compounds the said problems? Well, yeah. I know I need psychological help, everyone knows I do. But I feel that if I start talking it’s like opening a trapdoor in my mind, and all the black lurking stuff will crawl out and take over my whole brain, my whole self. And I’ll never be able to shut it away again. But of course it is a tricky thing to fool a person with a degree in psychology. I shake my head.
‘Your dad said you wouldn’t talk to the pychologist much … why was that?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t like him.’
Anne didn’t tell me that talking was the path to healing. She didn’t tell me that all of this was part of a special journey that would make me a strong person. She just tilted her head to the side and looked as if she was waiting for me to say something else. Eventually I did because it seemed rude not to.
‘Everyone wants to know about the accident. But I can’t tell them anything. I don’t see how constant questions about it is going to help that.’ I swallowed. ‘Sorry.’
‘Who’s everyone? The police?’
‘Everyone. Mum, the police, my grandparents, the counsellors, even my dad because he doesn’t remember anything.’
‘You can talk to me about whatever, Hannah,’ Anne said. ‘It doesn’t have to be anything to do with your sister if you don’t want it to be.’
I looked at the carpet. It’s fair to say I spend more time studying floor coverings than most people. Anne took a plastic thing like a pen out of her pocket and sucked on it.
‘See? Told you. I’m supposed to be done with ciggies in six months’ time. Not likely … I’m not going to bullshit you, Hannah. Can I ask the same of you?’
I felt Katie’s eyes on me.
‘That I not bullshit myself?’
‘Do you think that’s a risk?’
I couldn’t answer her.
THREE
Names my dad and Katie used to call me:
*Han
*Spanner
*Spannie
*Spanline
*Spandalous
*Spandau Ballet
*Handle
*Hands Free (mainly Katie)
My father stands beside me in the kitchen, peering into the open pantry cupboard. It is eight fifteen and my mother is still in bed.
‘There enough bread for a sandwich? I know we’re low. Nanna will be here on the weekend. She’ll do a shop.’
‘It’s fine.’
‘But there’s no cheese is there? Vegemite? Oh you hate that. Er, peanut butter? Only crunchy, though …’
‘Vegemite is fine.’
‘You hate Vegemite.’
‘No, it’s fine.’
‘Really? Crappy-mite?’
I take the jar from him and spread it thinly onto a buttered slice of bread.
‘Oh,’ he says. ‘That was Katie, wasn’t it?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Sorry.’ He clears his throat. ‘You got enough other stuff to take? Muesli bars?’
‘Yeah. It’s fine.’
‘A
ll right.’ He limps over to the table and sits down. On the radio the announcer reminds listeners that there is a total fire ban in place for the Blue Mountains. My dad turns a page of the newspaper.
After breakfast, when Dad is in the bathroom shaving, I go into Katie’s room. I slide open the top drawer of her dresser. On the left side are all her sets of bras and undies, matched up in pairs. There are three lacy, expensive-looking sets. It’s clearly not my area, but they look like the kind you’d wear to make an impression. She didn’t bother hiding them somewhere my mum wouldn’t find them. In the middle are all her socks, neatly ordered in colour groups and then on the right are her sets of swimmers: racerbacks for training, then bikinis for the beach. I take a pair of her school socks and put them on, then I slide the drawer shut and leave her room.
We have set seating in homeroom. I bet you guessed Mr Black would be a fan of that. Charlotte sits on the same row as me, four seats down. I mostly try to avoid eye contact and she does the same. In the seat in front of me is this guy called Josh Chamberlain. He’s one of the new students from the local state school, Reacher Street High. Every year St Joseph’s gets an influx of senior students whose parents think they are better off doing years eleven and twelve here rather than Reacher Street. This year there are fifteen new kids joining year eleven. They have slotted in seamlessly. It seems most people around here already know each other. (How would I know? I spend most of my time living like an elderly person: reading, watching Miss Marple, mourning the dead.) But the most celebrated is Josh Chamberlain. It seems he is already friends with everyone, and I mean everyone – he laughs and talks with the people usually labelled too weird, shy or bad at team sports to be considered worthy of interaction.
Maybe it’s because of his excessive social life that Josh is always late, arriving five minutes after the bell without fail. Mr Black seems to quite enjoy this. He almost smiles with relish every time Josh saunters in and he gets to dole out some extravagant form of punishment for various offences. The first is usually hair related. Josh has dark collar-length hair, not strictly banned for guys at school but if it falls past the chin it’s supposed to be tied back with an elastic. Josh’s never is, no matter how many times he gets told. Mr Black’s favourite form of retribution is to produce a nice, long, shiny ribbon and then tell Josh to wear it until he remembers to provide his own elastic.
This morning, after Josh has tied up his hair in a bow and taken his seat, Mr Black recommences his sudoku puzzle. This is the signal that we are to continue reading. I never have a problem remembering to bring a book; I learnt the value of carrying one with me a long time ago. Books are especially useful if you have no one to talk to, they give the illusion that you choose not to talk to anyone, as opposed to the fact you simply have no friends. This clearly isn’t a problem Josh Chamberlain is familiar with. Instead of reading he sits there, staring into space. It’s a matter of seconds before Mr Black notices.
‘Chamberlain,’ he says so loud everyone but Josh flinches. ‘Where’s your book?’
‘Don’t have one.’
‘Don’t have one?’ he asks. ‘Don’t have one what?’
‘Don’t have a book.’
‘I can see that, Chamberlain. The answer I’m looking for is, “I don’t have one, sir.” Right?’
‘Yes.’
‘YES WHAT?’
Josh isn’t fazed. ‘Yes, sir!’ He gives a salute, the class laughs.
Mr Black sighs like the effort is too much for that time of the morning.
‘If you have no book, Chamberlain, you’ll have to do something else. And you know what that is?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Pray. If you’re not reading you’re praying. I don’t care what you pray for, perhaps you could pray that next time you remember your book. I want you focusing on God, Chamberlain. If you so much as flutter an eyelid I’ll have you suspended.’
Josh assumes prayer position, head bowed, palms together under his chin. He must notice the class’s approval because he stays that way until the bell signals the end of homeroom.
As I am leaving class I feel a tap on my shoulder. It makes me flinch. I turn around and there is Josh, holding my book, Jane Eyre.
‘You dropped this,’ he says. It is the first time in nearly a year that another student has looked me in the eye.
‘Oh, um, thanks.’ I take the book from him.
‘Isn’t that the one where the chick gets it on with her boss?’
‘Um, sort of.’
‘Nice.’ He smirks. Or maybe it is a smile. He has a dimple in his left cheek.
FOUR
Things my mother used to say:
*For goodness sake
*Katherine, I don’t think that’s necessary
*If you must
Things Katie used to say:
*For fuck’s sake
*Whatevs
*Yes, Mum (sigh)
*Er, Dad
*Er, Hannah
I read a statistic that said eighty per cent of marriages that experience the death of a child end in divorce. Who are these people that research this stuff? Like, who exactly is benefiting from that information? We are terribly sorry to hear about the death of your sibling. Did you know your parents are now more likely to get divorced?! Yeah, thanks. Helpful. I take comfort in the fact that my parents don’t argue. Sure, they are hardly ever in the same room long enough to argue, but I like to think that’s because my dad is a workaholic and my mum spends most of her time asleep.
My dad is an architect who wanted to design museums and galleries, but now works for a housing estate company. You know the type – ‘We don’t build houses, we build dreams!’ It seems that lately, building other people’s dreams takes a whole heap of time. I don’t know, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe he used to work this much before Katie died. Maybe I just didn’t notice because the house wasn’t silent the way it is now. In a bizarre sort of way I almost prefer being at school. At least there I’m distracted. The hours when it’s just Mum and me at home stretch out like this ocean I have to put my head down and swim across.
Now, my mother stands in the kitchen, at the sink with a peeler and potatoes slipping in her hands. It seems she has decided she will cook dinner tonight. Her back is to me, but I can see the reflection of her face in the window, head bowed and tilted slightly to the left as she slides the blunt blade of the peeler. I want to talk to her. Really I do. Words flicker around at the back of my throat. I want to tell her about school, about Mr Black and assignments and even Anne. I want to tell her something about Katie. Something about those last few moments, what happened. Because I know that’s all she wants to hear.
Nothing comes out of me. Not a sound. The quiet is huge between us. Even though I know it’s the quiet that makes her cry, I still can’t say anything. It’s usually during dinner that she starts to lose it, tears running silently down her face. Dad doesn’t say anything, because really what would you say? It will be okay? It won’t be okay. It’s never going to be okay again. When she cries like that I don’t know what to do. So usually I just sit there and pretend I’m so deep in thought I haven’t noticed the fact that my mother is slowly losing her mind right there by the refrigerator.
Now I watch her eyes in the reflection of the window. The saucepan is bubbling and shaking on the stove and I know that if she doesn’t get the potatoes in soon all the water will boil away. She doesn’t hand me a potato to peel. Doesn’t ask if I got the washing in or if I have any homework. It’s as if I’m not there either.
When Dad comes home we have dinner: chops, beans and potato served up on retro floral plates my mother ‘sourced’ from a vintage market years ago. Orange pansies peeking cheerfully between the beans and potato. (How inconsiderate.)
‘You cooked!’ Dad says. ‘You didn’t have to do that. I could have made something.’
She brushes h
im off, setting the plates down on the table. ‘It’s fine.’ And no one comments that it clearly isn’t fine and hasn’t been for a while.
The potato is starchy and soft on the outside, but hard in the middle. Dad chops his up and covers it in dollops of butter and lots of salt. Mum looks at hers and moves it around as if she’s playing chess with it.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says.
‘It’s fine!’ Dad nudges me. ‘Isn’t it, Han?’
I nod and carve at the shrivelled, dry flesh of the chops. Lamb. Does its mother still look for it, I wonder. She’s probably a sausage or something herself.
About a month after the accident, Dad was standing next to Mum as they rinsed the plates and slotted them into the drawers of the dishwasher. Mum’s hands shook so badly that she couldn’t get one of the plates in. She swore and threw it onto the floor. The plate shattered on the tiles, the sound so loud and sudden that it made me jump. ‘There’s supposed to be four,’ she said. Her voice had sounded so strange, high-pitched like she couldn’t get enough air. Tears slid down her face. Dad put his arms out, to hug her, but she hit him away. ‘Don’t you touch me!’
***
Mum smelled of lilac and jasmine, a new perfume Dad had given her for their anniversary. She put her clutch purse on the kitchen bench and took out a compact, flipped it open and examined her lipstick in the mirror.
‘We’ll probably be late home,’ she said, snapping the compact shut. ‘The concert won’t finish till eleven, then there’s the drive home.’
Her eyes flicked to me. She smoothed her black dress over her hips.
‘Does this look okay? Do I look like an old woman trying too hard?’
‘You’re not an old woman. Where are you having dinner?’
She grinned. ‘The Opera House!’
‘Nice.’
She trotted over to the oven and ducked down, checking her hair in the reflection. Dad came down the hall, a dark suit, aftershave. He gave a low whistle.
‘Good God, who is that gorgeous woman?’
Mum ignored him, but she blushed a little. Pretty impressive after twenty years. She held out her palm for his cufflinks. He dropped them into her hand and presented her with his wrists.
