Paper Alice

by Charlotte Calder

  He sounded so unflustered and understanding that I immediately felt a bit better. Nothing, his tone implied, could be as bad as my seething little brain made it out to be.

  And of course it wasn’t – not if you looked at it rationally. But I was way beyond rational. And beyond explaining it all to my poor parents. So I just sat between them on the sofa and let myself be hugged and patted on the back. I sniffed and blew my nose and dried my tears and told them not to worry, I was OK. It was just . . . a combination of everything.

  ‘It’s not,’ ventured Mum hesitantly, ‘anything to do with . . . what’s been going on here lately, is it?’ There was a pause as I felt their eyes meet over the top of my head again. ‘With . . . Dad,’ she finished, ‘looking for a job and everything–’

  ‘No-o!’ I quickly turned and looked at him. He was staring back at me, his eyes suddenly looking so stricken and sad that I felt like crying, all over again. ‘No, Dad!’ I shook his arm. ‘For god’s sake – it’s nothing to do with that!’

  But deep down I knew that it was, a bit. Everything seemed to be changing, shifting.

  ‘I’m OK,’ I repeated, shrugging and shaking my head. ‘Please don’t worry, it’s not that bad – really . . .’

  And it wasn’t, as it turned out. When I finally rang Milly she told me that Chet hadn’t got any messages, from Spiro or anyone else, at least not while she was there. Their group had had to wait quite a while before giving their version of events to a detective, and by the time they’d done that they were so over everything they all just peeled off and went their separate ways home. And she didn’t mention making any moves on Chet, or vice versa. Though she was quite intrigued by him, I could tell.

  Best of all, there had been no mention of the words, ‘Alice’, ‘Wilda’, or ‘sister’.

  Paranoia, as Milly cheerfully reminded me, is a dreadful thing.

  My next meeting with Dunc, a couple of days later, turned out to be a fairly fateful one.

  We grabbed sandwiches and took them over to the north lawn again, opposite the library. I was keeping my head down again at uni, casting furtive glances around in case I spied Andy or his friends. I deliberately hadn’t even gone to my philosophy lecture the day before, just in case.

  For now, however, the coast looked clear; Dunc and I were just two of about a hundred people dotted about the grass. Nonetheless I did sit cross-legged, hunched forward over my knees.

  Dunc lay on his side facing me, head propped in his hand. Devouring his sambos and tossing back a coke with the careless speed boys do.

  ‘So,’ he said, scrunching the wrapping and subsiding onto his back, ‘what’s on the agenda for the rest of the week?’

  It was more of a conversation filler than anything; we hadn’t had a lot to talk about. I shrugged and swallowed another mouthful.

  ‘Dunno . . . I’m working for Bunters on Friday night.’

  Dunc turned his head slightly, his brow creasing.

  ‘Again? It’s Sarah Wallace’s party, remember?’

  I shrugged again, frowning also.

  ‘Well, I’m sorry, but there were no other functions on offer this week.’

  As I’ve mentioned, the good thing about working for Bunters is that the shifts are flexible and you can say no if it doesn’t suit you. The bad thing is that during quieter periods such as winter most of the jobs are on the weekends.

  ‘Some of us have to work, y’know,’ I added, glaring at him. ‘We can’t all live on dividends from trust funds!’

  ‘Oh, come on, Al!’ He flung an arm back over his head, propped one knee on the other and stared up at the sky again. ‘As if you can cry poor! And don’t tell me you don’t get handouts from your parents–’

  ‘Yeah – but I have to pay for most stuff myself! For going out, and the majority of my clothes and things.’ I could hear my voice rising; was surprised at the strength and suddenness of my anger. I put down my sandwich. ‘Particularly,’ I added, ‘now Dad’s lost his job!’

  Dunc, infuriatingly, raised an eyebrow. We both knew that this was an overstatement of my family’s financial predicament, and this only made me crosser.

  Now he was tossing up his balled sandwich wrapper with a stabbing motion and catching it again. Stab, catch, stab, catch.

  ‘And stop that!’ I cried. When he showed no sign of obliging, I reached across and batted it away.

  ‘Hey–’ he cried, lifting his head.

  It arced over the grass and landed in front of the girl nearest to us, who was hunched over her laptop. She looked up, stared at the wrapper, then glanced across at us with huge disapproval.

  ‘Sorry . . .’ I murmured, scuttling over to retrieve it.

  Normally this would have given us a chuckle, but nothing really seemed amusing today. I sat down again and picked up my sandwich. But I was no longer hungry; my stomach felt knotted and tight.

  More silence. Dunc had rolled onto his side again and was staring down at the grass, plucking hard at it with one hand.

  ‘We don’t seem to be very happy, do we?’ he said suddenly.

  A clamp gripped me, somewhere in the vicinity of my solar plexus.

  ‘What?’ I ventured finally. ‘Today?’

  He shrugged again, still not looking up.

  ‘Not just today . . . lately.’ He sighed. ‘It’s like . . . you’ve changed. We just don’t seem to . . . get on like we used to.’

  I stared at him, the clamp gripping harder and tighter.

  ‘Me?’ I said, putting a hand on my chest. ‘I haven’t changed . . .’ I suddenly got a vivid flash of Andy and the others, sitting round at the Ball. ‘Have I?’

  ‘I dunno . . .’ He was looking mulish. ‘Whether it’s you, or me, or both of us–’

  Here it comes, I thought, here it comes. Even so, it was still a shock when the words came out.

  ‘Maybe we should give it a rest for a while.’

  The clamp morphed into a boa constrictor, squeezing me so hard I couldn’t breathe.

  ‘What?’ I croaked stupidly, finally. ‘Break up?’

  Yet another shrug. Was that all he could do? But when he did look up I was shocked at the faraway look in his eyes. He’d obviously already made up his mind.

  And, I realised with another jolt, not all here and now, on the lawn. He’d been thinking about it before.

  How dumb was I – not to twig that if I was irritated with him, he’d be getting similar vibes about me. Chemistry, after all, is a two-way thing.

  Suddenly it was as though I was standing on the edge of a precipice, in cloud so thick I could barely make out my own feet. Dunc had been like a kind of safety rail; now I couldn’t even see where I’d fall.

  ‘Give it a rest for a while, see how we go.’ His eyes looked cloudy, greyish. ‘After all, neither of us has hardly even been out with anyone else . . .’

  So that’s it, I thought. He wants to try other girls.

  And you wouldn’t believe who happened to stroll past, right at that very moment. Hair and hips bouncing, lip gloss shining – it was almost as though they’d timed it, at a prearranged signal.

  ‘He-ey,’ called Little Miss Commerce and her pal, giving perky waves over the top of their books.

  Dunc raised a hand and grinned at them.

  Bang went the dagger into my heart, cold and true.

  ‘Well!’ I was trying to sound lightly acidic, but my voice came out sounding more like sump oil, thick with jealousy and rising tears. ‘There’s your chance – off you go!’

  Dunc sighed.

  ‘Al–’

  I stared at him in silence, but his eyes wouldn’t meet mine.

  Then, about thirty-six hours after that, Dad had a heart attack.

  I’d hardly slept the night before, and even though I was exhausted, I’d still taken what seemed like ages to fall asleep. But I’d barely closed my eyes, it seemed, when I felt my shoulder being shaken; a voice was cutting into my dream.

  ‘Al. Al – wake up!’


  I registered Mum’s fear, even before I’d opened my eyes.

  ‘Wha–’ I lifted my head off the pillow and stared at her face, haloed by the overhead light.

  ‘Dad’s not well, darling. There’s an ambulance coming – to take him to hospital.’

  ‘What?’

  I’d already thrown back the doona; my foot was hitting the floor.

  ‘I think it might be his heart.’ Her voice sounded horribly raw – stripped of its normal restraint. ‘Get dressed, quickly.’

  I threw something over my tee and sleep shorts and ran into their room. Dad was lying on his back in bed, Mum sitting at his side, leaning over him. His eyes were closed and his face, even in the soft warmth of the bedside lamp, was a horrible shade of grey. For one awful moment I thought he’d gone, but then he opened his eyes and focused on me, standing there.

  ‘Al–’ He tried to stretch out a hand; Mum gently stopped him.

  ‘Don’t try and move, baby. Al’ll come to you.’

  ‘Dad . . .’ I rushed over; Mum shifted to make room. ‘Dad,’ I repeated hoarsely, stroking his face. It felt frighteningly clammy; damp with sweat. I squeezed his hand, then bent my head and kissed it. ‘Please, Dad,’ I murmured, ‘hang on! The ambulance is coming . . .’

  He tried to give a little laugh, but it came out more like a groan.

  ‘I’ll be OK, sweetheart,’ he rasped. ‘It’s tough ole Dad, remember?’

  My heart lurched jaggedly at this attempt to comfort me. Then we heard the first faint strains of a wailing siren, and Mum rushed downstairs to let the ambos in.

  There were two of them, a big Maori guy and a girl who didn’t look much older than me; they were so kind and businesslike that tears started pouring down my cheeks. And when I looked at Mum, she was crying too.

  They introduced themselves to Dad and questioned and examined him as cheerfully and efficiently as though he had a sprained ankle, not a failing heart. Then they put a line in his arm, lifted him onto the folding trolley and got it expertly down the stairs, all in a few minutes.

  As they were sliding the stretcher into the back of the ambulance, the male paramedic, whose name was Bill, turned to us, his dark face illuminated in the flashing lights.

  ‘You gunna follow us?’ When Mum nodded, he added, ‘See you there.’

  The doors banged shut and then the ambulance was off, siren wailing. The sleep-smeared faces of our neighbours Mr and Mrs Oppenheimer caught wide-eyed in the headlights as it swung out onto the road.

  By the time Mum and I parked and rushed into Emergency, Dad was already on a bed, an oxygen mask over his face, being examined and tested and hooked up to more lines and drips and beeping monitors.

  I glanced at Mum and got another shock. The composed, well-groomed professional had gone. Under the greenish glare of the hospital lights was a bare-faced, haggard, middle-aged woman, with lines around her mouth and the beginnings of sag at her chin. Eyes wild, hair unbrushed, arms folded around Dad’s oldest, unravelling jumper that she’d grabbed, in all the panic. I supposed I must have looked a bit like a younger version of her.

  Things did feel safer now that Dad was in here, though if you’ve ever been in the casualty department of a big city hospital at three in the morning you’ll know that ‘safe’ is hardly the word you’d use. With all the medical comings and goings, the curtain at the foot of Dad’s bed was left open, and it was difficult to ignore the stuff going on nearby. At one stage there was the sound of yelling and running footsteps, and a couple of staff virtually crash-tackled this guy, just down the way. I don’t know whether he was psychotic, or having withdrawals, or just plain drunk, but he was swearing and moaning and thrashing about. It finally took three of them to hold him down.

  ‘I think they’re putting restraints on him,’ murmured Mum.

  We’d turned away and were pressed in towards Dad, shielding him from all the commotion, but it was horrible – really scary.

  And a little while later there were the sounds of more drama and a young guy who’d obviously been in a bad car accident was wheeled past, at top speed. I got a glimpse, through the posse of medical staff surrounding him, of gelled blond hair sticking up through blood-soaked bandages, and heard him make a terrible sound. It was something between a sob, a moan and a scream, and sounded as though he were being tortured. The doctor examining Dad went to help; the woman doctor in charge was calling out short, urgent commands.

  But what came next was almost worse. I don’t know whether she’d been in the accident or not – I couldn’t see any physical injuries – but a girl about my age came stumbling past after him, chalk-faced, crying and whimpering like a beaten puppy. She was intercepted and soothed by a nurse, but not before I’d gone quite cold all over.

  By this stage Mum and I were clutching one another’s hands so hard that her nails were digging into my palms. We let go and put our arms around one another. Tears were starting to run down my cheeks again; I sniffed loudly.

  Dad opened his eyes above the mask.

  ‘That’s a lovely sight,’ he murmured sleepily. ‘My two girls, having a hug.’

  I couldn’t remember the last time Mum and I had really cuddled; it must have been ages ago. It made me cry all the harder. I felt her smile; she kissed the side of my head and went and perched on the side of the bed.

  ‘How’re you feeling?’ she asked Dad, stroking his brow. ‘Still in pain?’

  Dad shook his head slightly. ‘Just . . . floating a bit,’ he said peacefully. He laughed. ‘Thank god for morphine, eh?’

  Just then a registrar re-appeared around the curtain.

  ‘He’ll be fine, I’m sure.’ He smiled at us all. ‘Sometimes a scare like this is just what’s needed – to point out a problem before it gets right out of hand.’

  I’ll say.

  The doctor was dead – though that’s probably not the best word in this context – right. Turned out, after a day or so in hospital and more tests, that Dad had had some kind of cardiac electrical malfunction, which didn’t require surgery. He was put on a number of different kinds of pills to (hopefully) stop it happening again. Though of course that didn’t stop us worrying about him. The thought of losing Dad . . . I don’t even want to think about it.

  When Mum and I finally arrived home that night, or rather, morning, there were faint streaks of grey in the sky and from somewhere further up the street a lone magpie was warbling. There didn’t seem any point in going back to bed. Even though we were exhausted, we were much too hyped for sleep.

  So we sat at the kitchen table with a pot of tea and watched the sun come up in a great grimy-looking orange ball over the roof of the Creepy Crawly house. Going over it all – Dad’s attack, what the doctors had said, the accident victims, and the crazy person, who’d finally been carted off to god knows where.

  But all the while another thought was worrying me, sitting there in my brain like a sliver of glass.

  ‘Mum,’ I said finally, ‘you don’t think it was me who caused his heart attack, do you? All my troubles and stuff – lately?’

  I’d come home early and spent the rest of the afternoon after that fateful lunch curled up on my bed, numb shock alternating with ferocious hits of pain. And then at dinner Mum and Dad had taken one look at my red and puffy eyes and it’d all come pouring out, with more tears, yet again.

  Mum put her mug down on the table.

  ‘Of course not, darling. It’s probably been exacerbated by the prolonged stress of being out of work.’ She sighed. ‘There’s obviously a problem with his heart that all the extra pressure brought out . . .’

  I suddenly felt as though I was melting into a puddle of exhaustion. ‘All my carry-on probably being the last straw!’

  ‘Al . . .’ Mum frowned, touching my hand. ‘It was going to happen, sooner or later. If it wasn’t one thing, it’d be another. No one can avoid stress.’

  I laughed bitterly. ‘I’ll say!’

  She squeezed my hand, looking at me.
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  ‘Have you spoken to him – Dunc – since?’

  Slowly I shook my head. The drama with Dad had driven thoughts of Dunc out of my head, and now the panic was over, they were back, swarming into my mind like little black flies.

  We were silent; I put my head in my hands, rubbing my eyes. The fridge made a shuddering noise.

  Mum sighed again.

  ‘I know this will sound trite,’ she said finally, ‘but it’ll all be the same in six months’ time. Even a couple of months . . . honestly!’

  I stared down at my hands. That didn’t help now.

  ‘Your first proper boyfriend, Al! Would you really want it to go on forever?’

  I shrugged, half-shaking my head. Would I, or wouldn’t I? I couldn’t seem to think. Only feel – the windy, empty void that Dunc had occupied for so long.

  ‘He’s like . . . part of me.’ Even though he had been annoying me lately, it was another matter now he’d gone.

  I put my hands over my face and took a deep, controlling breath. How selfish was I – Dad could have died, and all I could think about was my own troubles.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Al!’ she cried, ‘don’t be silly! It’s something we all . . . just about everyone goes through, at some stage.’

  I looked at her, suddenly curious.

  ‘Why, did you?’

  ‘Oh . . .’ She gave a short laugh. ‘Of course I did!’

  I kept staring at her. ‘Well?’

  It was like getting the chance of a peek at the contents of a trunk that had always been kept locked. Mum hardly ever talked about her younger days, pre-Dad.

  ‘We-ell . . .’ She put her head in her hand, tracing the grain of the table with the other. Then laughed.

  ‘There was a boy called Tony Lovett in Year 5, who I was crazy about when I was in Year 4. He said I could be his girlfriend, then dumped me about three days later – told me he was going out with the girl who sat next to me!’

  ‘Mu-um!’ I was half-laughing, half-annoyed; it was hardly what I wanted to hear. ‘I mean – real boyfriends. Did you have any . . . major heartaches, before you met Dad?’

  She stared down at the table; gave a half-shrug.