The Protected

by Claire Zorn

  Katie rarely gave Nanna any trouble. When Mum came to collect us from Nanna’s she would ask quietly, ‘How was Katie?’ and Nanna would reply that she was an angel and she didn’t know what Mum was always going on about. Later, Katie would proudly empty her pockets and show me all the stuff she had nicked from Kmart.

  The bus stops at the Johnson Street intersection. I can see where someone has tied a bunch of fresh tiger lillies to the telegraph pole on the corner. I have no idea who keeps doing that.

  The supermarket is clogged with the usual after-school crowd: primary school kids brandishing Paddle Pops, mums pushing trolleys laden with groceries, teenagers using the magazine aisle as a library. I spend what feels like hours in front of the cheese section trying to remember if it’s Tasty we usually get or Colby. Then there’s the plethora of brands to choose from. Seriously, you could spend days in here just trying to decide on a block of cheese. I end up picking one at random because it seems easier and continue to inch along the dairy aisle toward the next challenge: milk.

  And then I see them, right in front of me, and it’s too late to turn around or duck past like I haven’t noticed. Tara is holding a carton of chocolate milk, she seems to be assessing the nutritional content. Charlotte sees me first and I recognise the brief moment of panic on her face before she manages to open her mouth.

  ‘Hi Hannah.’

  Tara looks up from the milk. ‘Oh. Hi Hannah.’

  ‘Hi.’

  There is an awkward pause. ‘Hey, there’s a party at Jared Marsh’s this Saturday. You know Jared? You should totally come. You on Facebook? I’ll message you the deets.’

  Beneath my jumper a line of sweat runs down my back.

  ‘No. I’m not on Facebook anymore.’

  ‘Oh. Well, I’m sure Char still has your number—’

  ‘I changed my number a while ago.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Ha.’

  I push the trolley past them, continue up the aisle.

  ‘Well, see ya then, Hannah.’

  I end up going home with a block of cheese and a pack of toilet paper.

  ‘How do you feel about them?’ asks Anne the next day.

  ‘Nothing. I don’t know.’

  ‘You didn’t feel anything? God. I’d want to scratch their eyes out.’

  That’s what I’d do, says Katie.

  ‘Yeah. I don’t know. Charlotte …’ I don’t finish.

  ‘Charlotte?’

  ‘I know she feels bad. About everything that’s happened.’

  ‘What was it about her that makes you say that?’

  ‘I just. I know her really well. Knew her. I can tell. She gets this kind of frozen look around her eyes, like she doesn’t know what to say or do. I just, we were very close for a long time.’

  ‘Like sisters?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That must be very hard on you, knowing that here is a person who would have been your refuge, your support before and now she’s not there for you. What did you feel in your body?’

  ‘Nothing … I don’t know. Sick, I guess.’

  ‘Did you feel like you did the other day? When the thing with the fruit happened?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why, do you think?’

  ‘They can’t hurt me anymore. It’s all stopped. It’s not like it was before Katie.’

  Eight

  Items found in Katie’s drawer in the bathroom:

  *Wax strips

  *Three razors

  *My Little Pony Band-Aids

  *Cosmetics including five Mac eyeshadows and a Chanel lipstick that I suspect were stolen

  *Eyelash curler

  *Hair straightener

  *Tweezers

  *Mouthwash

  *Dental floss

  Items found in Katie’s secret hollowed-out book:

  *Condoms

  Ms Thorne has given us all a permission slip to take home and have signed by our parents. It’s the usual legal formality, a bit of paper that says if I drown at the pool my parents won’t hold anyone to blame but themselves. That’s unlikely – both the drowning and the blame, I mean. The permission slip is still in the pocket of my backpack and I have avoided it the way you might avoid radioactive material. The consequences of mishandling it could be catastrophic. I haven’t been to a pool since Katie died.

  Dad started us both swimming when we were toddlers. He said us McCanns were built for it, with our long limbs and big feet. Katie was thirteen months older than me, she started swimming lessons first. She taught me how to do handstands in the water and curve my body in somersaults belly up. She told me stories of kids that had been sucked through the pool filter and limbs devoured by Creepy Crawlies. By the time I was old enough to start lessons she’d already taught me freestyle and I got put up a level.

  I followed her into the squad as soon as I was old enough. Swimming made sense to me. The rhythm of freestyle was as natural as walking. I felt at home with water rushing past my ears and an ache climbing in my legs from the kicking. It’s a strange, quiet, isolated space to be in – cocooned in the water. Solitary. Meditative. Just you and the water and a clock. There’s something kind of anonymous about it, no one but the coach is watching you. Not like a team sport when the subs are on the sideline watching, heckling everything you do, pointing out every mistake you make.

  I like the discipline of swimming, the control you have to have. You can’t be too desperate for the next breath, if you hurry it everything stuffs up, goes out of kilter; your stroke gets shorter, sloppier. It’s all about patience, controlling that feeling that if you don’t inhale immediately you will die.

  I don’t think that’s what it was like for Katie. I think for her it was a game that she was very, very good at. Coach said she had an economical stroke, the smallest amount of effort for the best result. Her name got chalked up on the squad records board. She did regionals, then states, then nationals. I did regionals and states, once nationals. Mum and Dad were pretty good about it. They tried to give us equal encouragement and they made a fuss about my red ribbons and silver medals. I didn’t really care that she was better at it than me. That wasn’t why I kept it up. There was no one else from my grade at school in the squad. I was left alone other than when Katie would joke with me. There in the pool with both our heads under the water was the closest I ever got to her.

  I don’t want to be anywhere near a swimming pool, especially not with school.

  *

  I sit opposite Anne, my rent-a-friend, in the period before lunch.

  ‘How are you today?’ she asks.

  I reach into my pocket and retrieve the permission slip from Ms Thorne. I unfold it and hand it to Anne.

  ‘I can’t go to swimming training. Can you make my appointments with you for PE class for the next month?’

  ‘Why? I thought you liked swimming?’

  ‘I can’t …’

  ‘Okaaay. Remember the very first time I saw you, Hannah? I asked you one thing. Remember?’

  She waits, but I don’t say anything.

  ‘I asked that you not bullshit me.’

  I suck my lip in between my teeth. Swallow.

  ‘Hannah?’

  ‘I can swim. I’m a good swimmer. I used to do squad … with Katie.’

  ‘Aha. So you don’t want to swim because it reminds you of Katie?’

  I nod.

  ‘And you don’t want to remember?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Because to you, remembering is dangerous.’

  I don’t say anything.

  ‘Look, I can do that for you. I’ll organise it. But I need to talk to you about something. How do you feel about the court date coming up?’ She checks her notes, even though I’m sure she doesn’t need to. ‘It’s in about a month. How do you feel about
maybe being questioned?’

  ‘I don’t really feel anything about it. I mean, I still don’t remember what happened …’

  ‘Yes, that’s why they’re going to order a psychiatric assessment, so they know you’re telling the truth.’

  ‘Do you think I’m lying?’

  ‘No, Hannah. But they need to know, for the sentencing. They’re not going to be as … gentle as me. Sometimes we block out things that are traumatic—’

  ‘I hit my head. I don’t remember.’ I know my voice is going all high-pitched crazy-person style, but I can’t help it. Anne holds up her palms.

  ‘I want you to know that you are safe in here, Hannah.’

  I stare out the window at the treetops, leaves utterly still, not a breath of breeze.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ I whisper.

  ‘Then maybe you should help me understand.’

  The days drift by, nothing marking one from the other until Saturday arrives and breaks the rhythm of school. I sit on the top step of the back deck. Nine o’clock and the concrete beneath my bare feet is already warm. My father stands watering the garden, sun-safe to the point of obsessive beneath his UV-proof long-sleeve shirt and Cancer Council-approved wide-brim hat. I have skin like his, ivory white. Katie’s was a few shades darker. Sun makes me burn, it made Katie glow.

  When I saw her for the last time her forehead and left temple were smothered in thick make-up like plaster, to cover the injuries. I had never seen a dead person before. Her stillness was horrible and unnatural and I wanted to grab her shoulders and shake her. ‘Enough, Katie! You have our attention!’

  They said she was at peace. ‘They’ being the people who nod compassionately when you hand them the cheque to pay for the satin-quilted white casket. Like it makes any difference what you bury her under the ground in.

  My dad used to whistle when he was gardening. He is quiet now, face set in concentration. Every now and then he glances in my direction, as if he is checking I’m still here. His movements are stiff, he won’t last much longer outside, then he’ll go in and have some painkillers; listen to the radio, read the paper.

  I hear the sound of the doorbell from inside the house. My mother answers the door just as I get there. I didn’t even know she was awake. On the doorstep is Mrs Van, our neighbour. She is holding a baking tin and wearing her Big Banana T-shirt.

  ‘Boterkoek,’ she announces. It is a Dutch specialty, a dense crumbly cake that basically tastes like a giant piece of shortbread. She brings one regularly: a cake and a reminder about God. Most people avoid talking about the serious stuff and stick to small talk, like they are afraid that if they mention the accident or Katie we’ll start crying uncontrollably and they won’t know what to do. People, I have discovered, will do anything to avoid awkward situations. This involves using phrases like, ‘It must be almost a year since you lost your sister’. As if she jumped the fence and ran away like a restless pet. Mrs Van is the opposite. My mother sighs. Mrs Van thrusts the tin towards her.

  ‘Mrs Van, we don’t need cake. Okay? Thank you.’ Mum starts to close the door. Mrs Van wedges her foot in the way.

  ‘It is a small kindness. Kindness comes from God. God told me to bring you boterkoek and I have done this. You must not reject God when he offers you a kindness.’

  ‘God can f … fob off.’

  ‘You don’t want God to fob off. Your daughter is dead. You need God.’

  ‘Thank you, but I don’t need to be told what I … need. I need to be left alone.’

  Mrs Van looks at me over my mother’s shoulder. ‘Han-nah! Look! I have made boterkoek. Take it!’

  I smile and accept the cake tin from her while Mum glares at me. ‘Thanks, Mrs Van.’

  Mum closes the door. She doesn’t say anything to me.

  I boil the kettle and make myself and Dad a cup of tea. I carry the tea out to the deck, cut some boterkoek and bring that too: breakfast. We used to have a cooked family breakfast on Saturday mornings. Katie decided she was vegan and made Mum buy those vegan sausages that look like plasticine. She sat there with her fake sausages, so self-righteous. Until she tried one. Dad asked her how it was, not even Katie could lie her way out of that one.

  My father goes to the tap and turns off the hose. There is a grimace of pain in his face, even though he tries to hide it. He stiffly climbs the steps up to the deck. He has three metal pins in each leg and will never run again. I have never heard him complain about it. Neither he nor Mum ever mention it. It feels so strange, to watch your own father powerless like that. The person who used to lift us above his head, chowing down on painkillers, unable to stand for more than an hour.

  ‘Tea?’ I ask.

  ‘Cheers, Han.’ He takes the mug in his hand and lowers himself into the chair. ‘Your mum want anything?’ he asks, even though he knows the answer. I shake my head. We sip our mugs of tea and look over the gully thrumming in the heat.

  ‘Can I ask about the school counsellor?’ He waits. ‘I’m going to take your lack of response as an enthusiastic yes. Is it going okay?’

  ‘It’s going okay.’

  ‘She any good?’

  ‘She’s better than any of the others.’

  Later that night I hear them talking. Her voice is not something I know. Neither is his. I should not be here in the hallway. They think I am in bed.

  ‘Are you lying?’

  ‘Jeez, Paula. Why don’t you just say what’s on your mind?’

  ‘If you are lying and you remember what happened and you make her dredge it all up––’

  ‘Why would I do that? If I remembered? Jesus. It wouldn’t change anything. The cops are going to go with what she says. Why would I put her through all this if I knew? I’d just tell them. But I’m not going to put my hand up and say “Yes it was all my fault”, if it wasn’t. I will go to prison, Paula. And the bastard who was driving the truck, who hit us, he gets off scot-free. Is that what you want?’

  ‘I just want to know what happened.’

  ‘So do I. Don’t you think I want to know if I killed my own daughter? Do you know what it’s like to live with that every day? I want to know. You think I would lie to save my arse?’

  Nothing.

  ‘Shit, Paula! Do you even know me? What? Say it!’

  ‘How could you let that happen? She was our baby. You are her father.’

  ‘I’ll leave. I’ll go. I should have gone months ago.’

  ‘Where? Where will you go?’

  ‘My brother’s, a motel, it doesn’t matter.’

  Silence.

  ‘Do you want me to?’

  ‘It’s just. Hannah.’

  ‘Well, what do you want me to do? I will do it. Whatever you want. If you don’t want me here, well, I’ll go, Paula. Heck, if you want me to top myself, I’ll do it. It would be a relief.’

  ‘Don’t you even say that. Don’t you even say that. A relief? Why should you get relief from this? Why? Why should you?’

  ‘Do you want me to stay here so you can yell at me?’

  And she cries and cries. And then the next day we all carry on as before.

  Nine

  Katie’s favourite foods:

  (Pre-veganism)

  *Nanna’s lasagne

  *Cheesecake

  *Peanut M&Ms

  *Satay anything

  *Banana smoothies

  (Post-veganism)

  *Unsalted cashews

  *Organic corn chips

  *Satay tofu with vegetables

  At the very edge of Sydney’s western suburbs, before the highway climbs into the mountains there is a large suburb called Penrith. More of a mini city than a suburb. If there’s a rivalry between the upper and lower mountains, it has nothing on the mountains/Penrith feud. We think they’re in-bred bogans and they think we’re
in-bred snobs. Either way, there’s no getting around the fact that Penrith has a Westfield and the mountains doesn’t. Or the fact that ‘in-bred’ is a pretty common insult around here. On Thursday nights it’s pretty much just an underage club with swarms of teenagers hanging around checking each other out. My idea of hell is a PE class held in Penrith Westfield on a Thursday night.

  So you can imagine my delight when the soles of my school shoes finally give way and I have to go to Westfield to buy a new pair. It used to be the kind of shopping trip Mum would relish. She would drag us from store to store talking about arch-support and heel width. That was before Katie got a job at General Pants and took control of her own school-shoe purchasing.

  ***

  ‘I’m pretty sure you’re not allowed to wear a two-inch heel to school, Katie.’

  ‘Oh yeah, and where are you going in those Clarks, Hannah? The nunnery?’

  ‘At least I don’t look like a prostitute. And they’re not called nunneries, they’re called convents.’

  ‘You’d know, you’re still gonna be a virgin when you’re thirty.’

  ‘You’ll probably be dead before you’re thirty.’

  ***

  Now – as with most things – Mum isn’t really interested in school shoes. I’m not really excited about the prospect of a father–daughter shopping trip, either. Not that Dad would last long walking around. I tell him I’ll get the train and he gives me eighty bucks.

  So here I am. Penrith Westfield on a Thursday night, Beyoncé ricocheting off the walls, the smell of Impulse body spray and McDonalds fries, mums with strollers weaving through hordes of girls in short skirts and guys who pretend they need to shave. And me in my school uniform with eighty bucks in my pocket.

  I stand in a shoe shop in front of the school-shoe display, not the kind of store Katie would have gone to. A woman in a polo shirt bounces over to me, her name tag telling the world her name is Trish and there is no foot she can’t fit.