The mall’s sliding doors opened smoothly, letting out a blast of cold air. She walked inside, surrounded by the hum of voices and smell of food. Butterflies brushed through her stomach as she wound her way through the food court to the ladies’ room, where she quickly changed out of her uniform. Storing her schoolbag in a locker, she took the escalators to the tattoo and piercing shop. She’d forged a note from her mother saying she had permission to get the earring.
A few weeks ago, Jasmine had tried to get a tongue piercing, but she’d been told that she couldn’t because she was under sixteen. ‘Need a note from your mother, giving you permission,’ said the manager, who had bright purple hair and multiple piercings. But when Skye walked in, that lady wasn’t there, and the younger girl didn’t even ask for a note. She just told Skye to sit in the chair, then squeezed the trigger. Pain rushed through Skye’s body. Her eyes watered and she gasped.
So she’d done it. From now on at home and whenever her mum might see her at school, she’d have to let her hair down. But she’d wear her hair up when she met Billy again, so it would be the first thing he saw.
Chapter 9
In the shopping centre carpark, a horn blared and Tamara jumped back to the footpath. She’d stepped out without looking. She held up her hand in apology to the astonished driver who’d almost run her over.
‘So out of it,’ she muttered.
It was the end of the day and she still hadn’t worked out where to go for the night. She had her toiletries and makeup, she could get clothes from the store, and she could buy underwear and anything else she needed—but she wanted her own things.
She got into her car and started the engine, but then turned it off again. Was she ready to get her things from Craig? She leaned forward and rested her head on the steering wheel. The sun shone heavily through the window, heating the car until she had to start the engine again and turn on the air-conditioner. Then, with more force than was necessary, she shoved the gearstick into reverse and backed out, before turning blindly onto the main road. With no idea where she was headed, she switched the music on very loud and just drove. She was homeless again.
Her mind went back to the time right after her dad had kicked her out. It had been winter, one of Perth’s coldest. The rain had come down in sheets—torrential, unforgiving and heavy. At first she’d sheltered in some public toilets. Curled up in the corners, pulling her jumper around her, trying to keep out of the wind. Her fingers and nose had been freezing, and the smell had made her want to choke.
A couple of days later, after the shock had worn off—actually, more out of necessity; Tamara didn’t think the shock had ever worn off—she’d realised she needed to take charge of her life. No one was going to do it for her.
Tamara’s favourite place to steal from was a busy fruit and veggie shop on the corner of two main streets. Its owner was an old man who always put trolleys of goods out the front. She perfected the act of walking past nonchalantly while he was busy with customers, and plucking two apples at a time from the display.
Later, one of the other street kids recommended a place that was like a hostel, but kids didn’t have to pay for it. Tamara checked it out—a shelter that supplied one meal a day and a shower. There Tamara met her two closest friends on the streets: Grind (because he ground his teeth at night) and Neva (because that was her name). They were inseparable; they rode trains without paying, shared their spoils, and pretended that they weren’t dying on the inside. Three teenagers brought close by shared circumstances and a hatred for authority figures. Three teenagers who should have been at school learning maths and English, rather than how to live on the streets.
But a few months after Tamara’s arrival, Neva was caught shoplifting; it was her third offence, so she was shipped off to a juvenile detention centre. And a few weeks after that, Tamara was caught stealing brandy from a bottle shop. It was her third time too.
The shopkeeper cornered her one afternoon. ‘What’s in your bag?’ she demanded in a harsh voice.
‘Nothin’,’ said Tamara, heat flooding her cheeks. Despite her bravado, her stomach was churning. The thought of being sent to a detention centre frightened her. She’d have a bed, clothes and three meals a day, but the authorities would have taken away her freedom. Didn’t they know, even though she was a street kid, that she still had rights? She and Grind were willing to take their chances outside.
‘Bullshit,’ the lady in the bottle shop said, her arms crossed tightly in front of her. ‘I saw ya put it in your bag. Back pocket. Five hundred millilitres of St Agnes. Still want to argue?’
Tamara toyed with the idea of slinging her bag to the ground and running, but somehow she was frozen to the spot. Grind had been waiting outside, but he would have run as soon as he’d seen her get caught. That was their deal: Don’t hang around, get away. If I can catch up with you later, I’ll know where to find you.
The shopkeeper was scowling at her. ‘Open. The. Bag.’
In slow motion, Tamara lowered her bag to the floor and unzipped it. She reached in and pulled out the bottle of brandy. When the shopkeeper held out her hand for it, Tamara gave it to her.
‘Come with me.’ The lady somehow grabbed Tam’s elbow in a vice-like grip and put the bottle back on the shelf in a single movement. ‘Parents?’ she snapped.
‘No.’
‘Where do you live?’
No answer.
The lady turned to Tamara, getting in her face. ‘Where do you live?’
‘Nowhere.’
‘Thought as much.’ She dragged Tamara through the shopping centre and stopped in front of a brightly lit clothing store. ‘Stella will sort you out. Stella!’
A large woman looked up from behind the counter. ‘What? What now?’ she asked in a heavy European accent.
‘Got another one for ya,’ said the shopkeeper, giving Tamara a sharp push towards Stella. ‘I don’t want to see you in my shop again.’ She shook her finger at Tamara as if she was shooing along an unwanted animal.
‘Have you breakin’ the law?’ Stella’s grasp on English wasn’t good, but Tamara understood what she was saying. ‘Eets alright. No police. No police here. I ask Mary, daughter of my cousin, to bring me girls who need my help. You will work, yes? You must work. Come.’
Tamara followed the woman, while a fight went on inside of her head. Run! said one voice. It’s all a trick. She’ll turn you in. Don’t believe what she says. No one is that kind. But a softer voice told her to stop running: It’s time to stop relying on yourself. You need an adult.
Stella had radiated no-nonsense dependability. ‘Now, where you live?’
‘Nowhere,’ said Tamara, wanting to bury her head in Stella’s ample chest to cry away the pain of the past six months.
Tut-tutting, Stella rustled through a great sheaf of paperwork on the counter and picked up the phone before speaking rapidly in a language that Tamara didn’t understand.
Her desire to run was still intense. As Tamara looked wildly around for an escape route, the smallest details jumped out at her: the glare of the fluorescent lights, the clothes hanging higgledypiggledy, coffee rings on the counter.
‘You go now,’ Stella said, after crashing the receiver back into its cradle. ‘You go here now. Guesthouse.’ She wrote an address in bold letters and handed it over. ‘You be back here tomorrow. Eight-thirty. Do not be late.’
Tamara stared at her. Did this woman really expect her to come back? She’d just given her a ticket out. She could run now. Find Grind. Go back to the life she knew and understood.
As if Stella could read her mind, she said in her halting English: ‘You will come back.’ A statement, not a question. ‘The way you live now . . .’ Her hands waved in the air. ‘Eets not good. This will be better. Much better.’
Now, behind the wheel of her car, Tamara felt a rush of gratitude. She sniffed and blinked back tears, cross with herself for getting so sentimental. But God knows where she would have ended up if it hadn’t been for
Stella.
That first night at the guesthouse, Tamara found out that her new boss had paid for a week of board and lodging. It included three meals a day, a hot shower and a soft bed in her own room. After that, Tamara would be responsible for the bill. Stella would pay her a wage to work full-time in her shop and Tamara would be expected to arrive on time, look tidy and work hard. ‘One rule,’ the guesthouse owner had told her. ‘No visitors.’ That had put an end to her plan to find Grind and smuggle him in.
Tamara kept driving, singing along to the music. She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel and smiled, remembering how Stella had used to wag her finger. ‘Now, my chicken,’ she would say in her soft voice. ‘Those blouses? They are not in the right spot. You must shift them. See here?’ Scooping up shirts, Stella would shift them to another spot. ‘Ah, yes. Much better, much better,’ she’d mutter. ‘They are nice here. You can see better, yes?’
Tamara would nod and agree, although she could never see the difference. The shop was overstocked and nothing hung in order.
Tamara found that she liked clothes—she’d never had the chance to handle so many new things before, so this was exciting. The fabrics were soft and luxurious against her hands. When no one was looking, she would bury her face in them, breathing in the new smell. She’d take all the shirts and place them on racks in the right sizes, then colour code them. Slowly, the shop became neat and tidy.
Tamara learned about customers: some were nice, others were horrible, but it was always good to remember regulars, no matter what they were like. She also became proficient at reading body language.
The only downside of Tamara’s job was the till. Stella had tried to teach her how to reconcile the takings at the end of each day, but Tamara couldn’t make her brain understand.
‘Don’t worry. Eet will come,’ Stella would say. ‘Eet will come.’ She’d been right, but it had taken a long time.
When Stella retired a few years later, she recommended that Tamara become the manager of Angelic Threads. And she’d been there ever since.
Blinking, Tamara realised she’d come to a stop in front of Craig’s house. Whiskey barked and ran to the fence, putting his paw up and hanging his head over. Pain pierced her heart with such intense force that she put her hand to her chest.
Then Craig was at the front door, and there was no going back.
She walked through the yard and followed him inside. He shut the door, then turned to her. ‘I’m tryin’ to get this right,’ he said, his voice hoarse. ‘So, because you’re scared to love anyone, you chuck out the people who love you. You’d nearly got over this, but then your mum showed up and reminded you. That right?’
Hearing him say it made her feel as though she was the size of a pea.
You’ve got to stop running, the Tam pleaded. Like you did all those years ago with Stella. She stopped you running then, and you need to stop running now.
Tamara nodded at Craig. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And also, well . . . my mother told me that my father died.’
‘Oh, Tam. I’m so sorry.’
She froze. Couldn’t breathe for a moment. ‘It’s alright. Actually, I’ve decided to go to the funeral.’
‘That’s brave of you,’ he said, reaching out as though he wanted to take her in his arms. But then he stopped, his hands falling to his sides. ‘Is there anything I can do to get you to change your mind about us?’
Biting her bottom lip, Tamara tried to find the right words. ‘I don’t know,’ she said softly.
Craig exhaled heavily. ‘Do you love me?’
‘I don’t know! How can I know? Love’s not something I’ve ever had. All I’m sure of is that if I begin to rely on you, you’ll leave. Everyone always does.’ The words had come out in a rush. She’d finally said it. Finally told him.
Feeling as if a weight had been lifted from her whole body, she raised her head and stared directly into his eyes. He didn’t seem angry, just sad.
Whiskey flopped at her feet before rolling over with his legs in the air, offering his stomach for a scratch. She bent down to pat him.
‘Okay,’ Craig said. ‘Let’s try another question. Do you reckon we can sort through this?’ He paused. ‘Maybe a better question is: do you want to?’ There was a heavy silence. ‘Coz I do. I want to be there for you.’
Tam stayed mute. She couldn’t form one damned word.
‘Anyway, Whiskey misses you. He misses his walks with you.’
‘I miss him too,’ she said wistfully, stroking his velvet ears.
Craig grabbed a letter from the hall table and waved it at her. ‘Your licence turned up today. Not sure if you want to change your address on it or just pay it.’
As Tamara reached for the letter, her stomach started to churn. Could she trust him? Go back to him? Was it that simple?
Of course not. He seemed to understand where she was coming from, but that didn’t mean he’d be able to live with her. Not the way she was.
‘Leave the address as here,’ she answered softly, ‘but we shouldn’t live together at the moment. Like I said, I need space. I’ve got to try and fix myself. So I’ll pick up my things and stay in a motel. Can you be patient with me?’
Relief made Craig’s shoulders slump. He nodded, staring her straight in the eye again. ‘I can do that. For as long as you need.’
The motel room was clean and so were the sheets, but that was the best Tamara could say about it. Green curtains hung limply from the window, hiding the view of the city lights, and the bed sagged in the middle. A few Lipton tea bags, sachets of International Roast coffee and sugar packets sat on a shelf above the empty fridge, but there wasn’t a minibar. Good thing she’d brought her own supplies.
She took the top off one beer and stashed the other five in the fridge. The cold liquid was welcome, but bed would be too, as soon as she unpacked some clothes. Methodically, she hung them in the wardrobe in order of colour, then lined her shoes up on the floor. Having things neat and tidy made her feel as if she was in control. Her emotions still had the ability to take her over, but at least she could control everything else.
After another sip of beer she stripped the sheets, replacing them with her own. If she was going to be here for a while, she wanted to be comfortable. Kicking her shoes off, she fluffed the pillows, grabbed the Thai takeaway she’d bought for dinner and used the remote to turn on the TV. Some mind-numbing soap was in order. She didn’t want to think for a few hours: laughing while enjoying food and beer was on the agenda. Then blessed sleep that would help keep today’s problems at bay.
Later, standing alone in the dark, Tamara looked through the curtains over Perth. There were thousands of pinprick lights twinkling at her. People in their houses, talking, fighting, loving. People who knew how to love. Or hate.
And Craig. Her Craig who loved her.
Chapter 10
Lauren hadn’t been expecting a call from her dermatologist for a couple of days. So as soon as her phone rang at nine the next morning, Lauren knew she had skin cancer. Of course, Michelle couldn’t tell her the details over the phone, but they made an appointment for 2 pm. Then Michelle told Lauren that she might want to bring Dean along—and that was when she knew it was serious and arranged to take a day of sick leave.
‘Lauren, Dean, thanks for coming in at such short notice,’ said Michelle. ‘As I said on the phone, I have some important news. I put a rush on your results, Lauren, which is why they’ve come through earlier than usual. The lesion that I removed yesterday is malignant. I’m sorry to say that it’s melanoma. What I’d like to do now is discuss what this result might mean and what we have to do next.’
Lauren’s dermatologist kept speaking, but she couldn’t hear the words over the whirring in her head. She was compiling mental lists. Was her private health insurance up to date? Had she paid the last lot of bills? And what about Dirk? She needed to make sure he’d be looked after. In her whole career, she’d never let a child down, and now wasn’t the time to start. Di
mly, she realised that she probably had her priorities wrong—that she should be focusing on her own kids. But she just couldn’t think about them yet.
‘Stop, Lauren,’ Fran would have told her. ‘Take a breath.’
Many years ago, the father of her good friend Jan had died unexpectedly. She remembered Jan saying that after she’d received the news, all she could think about was doing the shopping and making sure there was enough food in the house for everyone. Lauren wondered if she was going through her own version of that now.
Part of her knew there was no need to react with the dread she was feeling. After all, Michelle hadn’t said it was terminal or anything even like that. It might be at an early stage—it might not have spread.
After all, she’d been so diligent about coming in for regular appointments. Her fairness had caused her to run from the sun, much earlier than anyone else had. To slather sunscreen on and don a rashie at the beach. But when she’d been a little girl, sunscreen hadn’t been a big deal. No one knew the damage that the sun could cause—well, they did, but the TV campaigns hadn’t been running yet. ‘Slip! Slop! Slap!’ was the first one she remembered—she must have been about twelve when Sid the Seagull first insisted that everyone slip on a shirt, slop on the sunscreen and slap on a hat. Why she was hearing that annoying jingle now, she had no idea. Shaking her head slightly, she tried to concentrate on what Michelle had to say.
‘. . . need to operate. The pathology showed that there are still cancerous cells around the edge of the area I removed, so I haven’t got it all. We need a buffer of about one centimetre from where the cancer cells were found.’
How would Stu and Skye take the news? God, how would Lauren even find the right words to tell them? Was there advice for this type of thing? There had to be books, blogs and information sheets—she must remember to ask Michelle for some.
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