The Missing Pieces of Us

by Fleur McDonald

  Billy was the perfect gentleman. He held the back-seat door open for her as she climbed in and looked up at him, all muscled and ripped in his school shirt. His shaggy brown hair made him seem even sexier. His top buttons were undone, his tie pulled open at the neck. She wanted to reach up and grab it, then pull him in, on top of her. Feel him on top of her . . .

  But she didn’t. She was too nervous.

  He climbed in behind her and started to kiss her, his tongue poking lazily in and out of her mouth. Somehow, in a matter of seconds, he managed to get her school blouse unbuttoned and her bra off. His mouth sought her nipple, and she groaned like the women in the porn videos. She could feel him against her leg: he was hard.

  A voice whispered in the back of her mind: This is scary. She shivered, even though she was so hot. So hot. The plastic seat was sticking to her bare back. Billy’s breath was warm and loud in her ear as he tried to get her skirt up.

  Then his mobile phone vibrated through the pocket of his shorts against her thigh. The fog of desire lifted. ‘Shit,’ he muttered and, for some reason, Skye laughed—maybe from relief. Billy’s face was red, his eyes unfocused. ‘Ignore it.’

  She struggled to pull herself from under him. ‘It might be important.’

  ‘Not as important as you.’ He leaned forward to grab her nipple between his fingers again. A thrill ran through her, but the phone continued to ring. She pulled away. Annoyed, Billy sat up. He glanced at the phone, then took her home.

  On her bed now, Skye was filled with regret. She’d wanted to have sex with Billy more than anything in the world. As she trailed her fingers over her breasts and lingered on her nipples, where Billy’s mouth had been, she let out a frustrated sigh.

  She stuck in her earbuds and turned the volume up loud enough that she could disappear into the words and the pulsating beat. If she put it on her docking station, her mum would appear in two seconds flat, yelling at her to turn it down.

  Skye didn’t want to see her mother. Didn’t want to see the disappointment on her face whenever she looked at her daughter.

  Chapter 7

  After she left work, Tamara had picked up a six-pack from the bottle shop and then driven around aimlessly, unable to focus on anything but memories and the voices in her head. She wasn’t even sure how she’d ended up back here on Whitfield Street; she hadn’t been by here in years.

  Leaning against her car, she stared at the house where she’d spent such an important part of her life. Was it as frightening in real life as her memory had made it? Would it seem different now that her dad had gone?

  The lights were out in the house—it was after ten. In the soft glow from the moon, the front garden looked the same as she remembered it. An ugly mission-brown brick fence bordered the footpath, with a white iron gate hanging in the middle. Tamara bet that it still squeaked, and her fingers tingled to push it open and find out. Geraniums, lavender and other hardy plants grew in garden beds around the edge of the fence. Looking at the brown buffalo grass lawn, she remembered how scratchy and itchy it had made her when she was a child.

  Now what was making her itch was the swarm of mozzies that were keeping her company on this hot summer night.

  Her phone vibrated against her thigh, but she didn’t bother looking. It would be Craig, wondering where she was. She was late—so, so late.

  Even though the sun had long slipped below the horizon, the pavement had held its warmth, making Tamara sweat. It reminded her of a summer’s day when she’d been about six. She had longed to dive into the local pool, but Evan thought going there was a waste of money. So, finding shade under the black-spotted hibiscus bush, Tamara had sat with the hose trickling onto the soil. She remembered how beautiful the smell of the moisture on the dry grass had been, and how her legs had stretched onto the wet part of the lawn. That evening she’d been covered in a red rash, so her mum had smeared cream on her angry skin. ‘You were a bit silly,’ she’d told Tamara. ‘Who sits on the grass? That’s what chairs are for.’

  Tonight, Tamara took another sip from the bottle of beer she’d brought with her, the refreshing liquid slipping easily down her throat. She stretched towards the front gate and her fingertips touched the cold metal. When she gave it a little shove, it swung open, letting out a long, low creak. Just as she’d imagined.

  The dog next door started to bark, and Tamara jumped, her eyes flicking towards the front window. Angela was probably sleeping right behind it, in the master bedroom. The window stayed black. Tamara backed away, her heart beating fast.

  ‘The body always remembers,’ Doctor Kerr had told her during one session. ‘You might forget, block it out, but your body will always remember.’

  Right now, both her mind and her body were remembering just fine.

  A vivid scene flashed before her eyes as though she was watching a movie. Her dad was pushing her on the bike she’d been given for Christmas. She was about six, wearing the pink skirt and white shirt, presents from her grandparents. Those brand-new clothes had been her favourites, because most of her clothes and toys were hand-me-downs from people Angela worked with or from op-shops; Evan said it was such a waste paying hard-earned money for new clothes and toys, which was why her bike was a bit rusty.

  Tamara recalled how an unexpected shove on her bike from Evan had sent her careering onto the quiet street. She teetered on the edge before toppling over, the hot bitumen scraping the side of her knee and tearing her skirt. Tears streamed down her cheeks. ‘Look what you’ve done to your new clothes,’ her dad hissed. ‘You can’t wear them now!’ He gave her a stinging slap on her shoulder. ‘Angela, come and fix up your daughter!’ he yelled. In comparison, her mum’s hands were soft and caring as they hustled her inside, then cleaned and bandaged her wound before removing her clothes and taking them away forever.

  ‘Tamara!’ She heard Angela’s shrill voice in her head as another memory started to surface.

  On the front lawn, right here, in front of where she stood now. She’d been sixteen and had just arrived home from school, thinking of a boy with blond curly hair and brown eyes, and how he made her feel when he touched her down there.

  ‘Your father wants to see you,’ Angela had snapped.

  ‘What for?’ she asked, her defiance strong and loud.

  ‘He’ll tell you,’ Angela replied, trying to hurry Tamara inside.

  A smile crossed Tamara’s face now as she remembered dawdling as slowly as she could to annoy them both.

  Her dad had been sitting at the head of the kitchen table, her school reports laid out in front of him. ‘I’ve had a phone call from the school,’ he said, his face solemn. ‘Want to tell me where you were today?’

  Looking at him, Tamara weighed up her options. It was never a good sign when he started off quietly.

  ‘Tamara?’ Evan prompted.

  ‘I didn’t feel well,’ she lied, looking at her feet. Subdued and demure worked best with her dad. She wanted to look him in the eye and tell him that she’d been at a boy’s house and she didn’t care about school.

  ‘So, where did you go?’

  ‘To the footy oval. I lay under the trees out there.’

  ‘I see.’ He linked his fingers together and placed them in front of him. ‘You didn’t go to the school nurse?’

  ‘Nah. She always just gives you Panadol and tells you to go back to class.’

  ‘I see,’ he repeated.

  ‘Can I go now? I’ve got homework.’ She dared to look up, then wished she hadn’t. He’d gone red with anger.

  ‘Homework? Good, good.’ He ran a hand over his balding head. Suddenly, he banged his hand down on the table, rattling the salt- and-pepper shakers. ‘Homework, you say? Not sure I believe you. Unless you picked up your homework from Macca’s at lunchtime?’

  Remembering this scene as she stood outside her old home, Tamara instinctively raised her hands to ward off the blow that she’d expected. But it never came. Instead, her dad gripped her arm tightly and pulled her to
the front door.

  ‘Evan, no!’ Angela lunged at him, trying to tug Tamara’s arm from his grip.

  He ignored her. ‘It’s time you looked after yourself,’ he sneered. ‘We’ve done it for long enough. Go on. Get out.’ He shoved Tamara outside.

  Shivering and sobbing, she heard a thud from inside the house, then a thin wail. The only other noise was the rushing traffic on the freeway a few streets away.

  Where would she go? Could she ever come back?

  She’d answered that question herself: she hadn’t wanted to.

  Now, twenty-seven years later, she was standing outside the same house, asking herself the same question.

  Waking slowly from a deep sleep in the back seat of her car, Tamara couldn’t work out where she was or what that noise was. Dimly she realised that it was her phone—and then everything that had happened the day before came flooding back.

  Ignoring the phone, she rubbed her face and looked at her watch. 6.30 am. She struggled to sit up, groaning as her back protested. Reaching up to wipe some of the condensation from the rear window, she saw that the sky was a deep, clear blue. It looked as though it was going to be hot again.

  He must be out of his mind with worry, said the Tam.

  Why do you think he’d care? asked the Tamperer. You’re unlovable, remember?

  Don’t listen to her, the Tam said. He loves you.

  ‘Stop! Just stop!’

  Tamara started to make a plan. First she needed to feel human. Her toothbrush and toothpaste were in the middle console—in case of emergency, she always kept toiletry and makeup bags in her car, along with a change of underwear and work clothes. Second, she needed to find a shelter where she could have a shower. There used to be one a couple of suburbs over; she’d used it a long time ago. It was a place where no one would ask any questions and she’d be able to get ready for work before she called Craig. Hopefully it would still be operating.

  Sipping from her half-full water bottle, she took two Panadol to dull her headache, then used the rest to wash her face and brush her teeth.

  Putting her car into gear, she made her way to a fast food drive-through and ordered two large coffees and a hash brown. Grease would be good. Tamara didn’t need to eat at the shelter—she had a good job and savings. She just couldn’t go home to Craig yet.

  She pulled up outside the shelter, relieved that it was still open, but stayed in the car to eat her hash brown and drink one coffee. She took the other one inside with her, then asked the woman at the front desk if she could have a shower.

  ‘Of course. Need a meal?’ the woman replied with a broad, kind smile.

  ‘No, thanks. Just a wash.’

  ‘No worries. Down the hall. Towels are on the trolley as you go past.’

  Tamara finished her coffee and then headed towards the showers, clutching at her toiletry bag and work clothes, her eyes glued to the floor. From upstairs she could hear the murmurs of women who’d slept there overnight. Pain pierced her heart as she heard the wail of a newborn baby. ‘It’s alright, my lovely little one,’ a gentle voice said. ‘We’re safe here.’

  Tamara snatched a towel from the trolley and yanked open the bathroom door. She set out her toiletries neatly, then in seconds flat she stood underneath the steaming water, enjoying the sensation of it drumming on her head. Breathing deeply again, she practised the mindfulness exercises Doctor Kerr had taught her and, before long, she felt much calmer. As she soaped herself, she visualised washing away her negative thoughts, so she was clean and new.

  After leaving a fifty-dollar donation at the front counter, Tamara hurried to her car. Even though Angelic Threads didn’t open until nine, she always arrived early. Today, she couldn’t wait to get there: work would keep her mind busy. She was bound to be flat-out because the sale was still on and she had new clothes to unpack.

  In the car, she pulled out her phone. Twenty-four missed calls and voice messages—all from Craig. Twenty text messages. He must be going out of his mind. In his position, she would have been too.

  Her fingers hovered above the keyboard, trying to work out what to type.

  ‘Hey, sorry, I . . .’

  No, that wouldn’t work.

  She tried again. ‘Sorry about last night. Something came up.’

  Something came up? Fuck. That was an understatement if ever there was one.

  ‘Dear Craig,’ she finally typed. ‘Sorry I didn’t come home. Something major happened. I’m not sure I can do this anymore. Please don’t contact me. I’ll contact you.’ She pressed ‘send’, put the phone on silent and slid it into her bag.

  There was still one major thing to take care of—she had to decide if she was going to her dad’s funeral.

  Something her mum had said when she’d left the shop kept coming to the front of Tamara’s mind: ‘Someone needs to save him.’ The words had made Tamara stop and reflect. Standing in front of her old house, she’d realised that Angela had been the one protecting her from Evan, although it had rarely felt like that at the time.

  That last memory of Angela trying to stop Evan had pushed Tamara to this realisation. She’d thought of her mum’s softly spoken words when Evan wasn’t home; the gentle hands fixing up the usual scrapes and bruises. And the very faded memory of a hand on her forehead at night, when she was half-asleep.

  Was she still craving the mother she never felt she had?

  Of course she was.

  But Angela isn’t a real mother, the Tamperer whispered.

  Tamara entered the shop through the back door. It was only 8 am, but the phone was ringing. ‘I bet it’s head office in Melbourne, forgetting we’re three hours behind, again,’ she muttered to herself, before ripping the phone from its cradle.

  ‘Good morning, Angelic Threads, Tam speaking,’ she snapped. Although the person on the other end couldn’t see her frown, they’d get the impression from her tone that this wasn’t the best time to be calling.

  ‘It’s only me,’ Craig said, his voice hoarse.

  Clenching her fists, Tamara closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths. ‘Why are you calling here?’ The anger left her and she sagged against the wall.

  ‘I wanted to know how you were, where you slept last night, what you’re wearing today, and when you want to come home. I care about you so much, and I miss you.’ Craig sounded as though he’d rehearsed this.

  ‘I’ve told you—’ Tamara began.

  ‘No, you haven’t. You haven’t told me anything other than you can’t do this anymore. What the hell has happened for things to go so wrong so suddenly? You were happy yesterday morning when I dropped you at the park. Then you just never came home, without a word. I didn’t get a say in it. I love you.’ His voice broke a little.

  Words were cheap, as she’d discovered during her forty-three years, and people rarely kept their promises, but she couldn’t help allowing herself the ghost of a smile.

  She and Craig had met at the Australia Day fireworks through a distant mutual friend. The heavy-set concreter, with his long ponytail, beard and tatts, had caught her eye, but back then she didn’t admit to it. No, she preferred to keep her distance and date guys who weren’t going to stay for long. No emotional attachment that way.

  Craig had slowly won her over by turning up when she least expected him to, offering lunch dates; he seemed to know she was gun shy and lunch was much less threatening than dinner. Over the next year, they’d clicked.

  She still hadn’t really wanted to move in with him, preferring to keep her independence. He’d been so convincing that she’d finally agreed. One month ago, they’d started living together. It had come as a pleasant surprise that despite Craig’s rough appearance, he was almost as neat and tidy as she was in the house.

  Of course she’d still had doubts sometimes. But she’d always managed to pull herself together and use all the techniques that Doctor Kerr had taught her. She’d locked those horrible emotions away in a box where they belonged.

  Now, they�
�d all spilled out. Everything had gone wrong.

  He’s being persistent. That counts for something, the Tam told her sternly. Usually they up and go without another word. It’s good he’s still trying.

  The Tamperer spoke loudly over the top. Don’t be stupid. He’ll be just like everyone else. You can’t trust him to be there. And why should he put up with you? If he doesn’t leave this time, he will eventually. Just like your father, just like . . .

  Tamara stopped and thought about Matt, the one bloke she’d lived with before Craig. He’d hit her more than enough times for her to leave, but she hadn’t. She’d stayed because, in the end, it was easier to stay than to start out again. And she’d craved those times when Matt had told her that he loved her, needed her; that his life wouldn’t be complete without her. The honeymoon periods would last for a few weeks—then the abuse would start again. But she’d lived for those honeymoons.

  Without warning, Matt had thrown her out and replaced her with another woman. Then and there, Tamara had promised herself that she’d never, ever love another man. Never, ever rely on another man. And, most importantly, never, ever let another man into her life.

  She’d broken all of her promises when she’d moved in with Craig. God knows what I was thinking.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She spoke more quietly than she’d intended. What she’d wanted to do was yell at him. Let all of her stuffed-up emotions spill out for him to see. Then he might be able to understand why she was doing this. ‘I’m sorry,’ she repeated, ‘but you don’t get a say. It’s my life. I’ll run it the way I see fit.’

  ‘I don’t even know what’s started this.’

  ‘My mother came to see me in the shop yesterday.’

  ‘Your mother? I don’t understand. You told me you haven’t spoken in years.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  After a brief silence, Craig cleared his throat. ‘Tam, baby, please. Please come home.’ His voice cracked on the last word.