“Thanks, Ben. I’ll talk to you then.”
He ended the call, shoved his phone back in his pocket and took a moment to breathe deeply for five seconds in, five seconds out. Only when the rage waned from a jagged searing beneath his skin to a slow current, did he speak to his wife.
There was no convincing Maddison to stay put until three-thirty. Her protectiveness for their two children was like a mother lion on steroids.
Maddison, still dressed in her sweaty, sour-scented gym gear, arrived at the school barely twenty minutes later. With Ben in tow, she pushed through the administration building’s front doors and beelined to the desk where Vanessa, a young receptionist in her early twenties, waited. Vanessa’s cheery smile fell away as she noted Maddison’s rigid stance, scowling face and the crazed tide of rage that ebbed behind her wide eyes.
“Bring my daughter, Ruby Brooks, here immediately,” Maddison demanded. The other ladies in the small office lifted their heads from their keyboards and glanced in her direction. “We’ll be taking her home now. I want to speak to Sabrina this second or the police will be involved.”
Vanessa bit back her sharp reply, understanding that violence may be the realistic outcome of a forked-tongued response. “Sabrina is in a meeting at the moment, but I can book you in for an appointment—”
“I don’t think you understand. I won’t be taking no for an answer.” Maddison’s mind was filled with angry questions: where had the teachers been when these little bitches squared up against Ruby and squirted water all over her lap and where were they when they paraded her into the classroom and announced to the other snarky little shits that Ruby had urinated herself? She wanted answers, explanations.
Vanessa reached for her phone. “I can arrange for Ruby to be brought to the office if you think that’s best.”
“It is best. And I would like to speak with Sabrina now.” Maddison’s voice was rising. Ben placed a hand over her hand like a charmer approaching a rattlesnake, but he didn’t say anything; he wasn’t that stupid.
His wife calmed for the two seconds she was distracted, but she soon flicked his hand off, cast a murderous expression his way, then focused again on the receptionist.
Ben stepped closer to the desk. “Best you get Ruby for us. As for Sabrina…” Before he could finish, Maddison had spun away and was storming up the hall to the principal’s office. “Damn it,” he groaned under his breath and followed.
“You can’t go barging in there,” Vanessa called out after them.
Maddison had a vague awareness that she was overreacting, that her mind was spitting up old pain, anger and resentment, tainting this new but only remotely connected situation, and yet she couldn’t stop.
She slammed the office door handle down, shoved the door open, startling the principal and a young couple with their daughter who were sitting opposite the principal’s desk. All turned to face Maddison with various expressions of shock and curiosity.
“Maddison?” Sabrina barked. “I’m in the middle of a meeting. I’ll be with you in a few moments.”
Maddison shook her head. “Not good enough.” She slapped her chest with her palm. “My daughter has been emotionally tormented and ridiculed because of you and your staffs’ incompetence. I deserve answers now.”
A big-bodied nine-year-old girl sitting between her mother and father, eyes already wet with tears, looked at Maddison and said in a meek voice, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset Ruby. I was just playing—”
This drew all of Maddison’s attention and her head flicked around so she was facing the child. “You’re the bully?”
The little girl shook her head. “I didn’t mean to be a bully. We were just having fun.”
“Fun?” Maddison roared. “Humiliating another student is fun for you?”
The girl’s face grew bright red, her bottom lip trembled, and she burst into tears.
The father’s nose wrinkled. “You’re going overboard, don’t you think?”
“If this little fat bitch of yours—”
“That’s not appropriate under any circumstance—” the mother interrupted.
“—even thinks about looking at Ruby, I will come in here and gut her like the overfed piglet she is. You got it?” Maddison’s head was shaking. Her throat was raw from screaming so loud.
Two hands gripped her arms. Not aggressively but assertively.
“Maddison, look at me please,” Ben said.
Maddison blinked, snapped out of her rage, and turned to face her husband.
“Let’s go. You’ve said enough,” he whispered in a low, soothing voice.
She turned back to the people arranged in the cramped office. Stunned faces. The father was red with rage, his leg bouncing, hands clawing the armrests to hold himself back. Tears were filling the mother’s eyes as her daughter cried against her chest. The principal’s mouth was flapping open and shut, rage in her gaze.
Maddison smoothed the hair from her face, held her shoulders back, chin high. “I’ve said my piece.”
“You most certainly have,” Sabrina said. “Get out. Now!”
Ben threaded his fingers with Maddison’s, tugged her out of the room, and led her down the hall to the administration area. She flicked his hand away as soon as the door closed behind them.
Ruby was seated on a chair in the corner of the small waiting room, eyes wide, frowning. The poor girl had no idea what all the fuss was about. Her friends had played a funny prank on her that morning and now it was like they had all murdered someone with the way the teachers were reacting.
Ruby and her friends had been filling up their water bottles when Miranda had accidentally sprayed her with water and Ruby noticed that it looked like she had peed herself. They had all laughed so hard until they had tears in their eyes. Ruby hadn’t laughed like that for a long time and it felt so good.
They had shuffled to the classroom and showed the other students. The kids laughed, not at her, but with her, and for a few moments, she was the most popular girl in grade four.
But now, the adults were crazed and acting like it was a crime.
Maddison ran to Ruby, crouched before her, and caressed the hair from her daughter’s face. She kissed her forehead. “I’m so sorry this happened to you.”
Ruby’s brow crinkled. She shook her head. “I’m fine.”
Ben lightly squeezed his daughter’s shoulder and kissed the top of her head. “You sure?”
Ruby nodded. “Fine. Can I go back to class now? Mrs Bracken is reading a Roald Dahl book and I want to hear what happens to the giant.”
“I don’t think that’s best, honey,” Maddison said. “We’ll take you home now. Give you a chance to relax.”
Ruby frowned.
“Maybe we can stop on the way home and buy the book for you?” Ben suggested.
Ruby jumped to her feet, grinning. “Yes, please. It’s such a great book.”
“You can tell us all about it on the drive home,” Maddison said, rising to her full height again. She took her precious daughter’s hand—such a tiny little girl. All skin and bones and big joints. No height to speak of.
A tight foreboding filled Maddison’s stomach for how she had behaved there today. But no way did she regret it. She would not adhere to social conventions when it came to her children. In her mind, that jealous little bitch inside deserved to cry for what she had done.
Chapter 3
Tina Brooks’ daughter died three years ago. The anniversary fell on a Friday. The smallest of concessions in an otherwise black day. She would be able to keep herself busy at work, then she had the entire weekend to bunker down and cry.
To that second, the intensity of Tina’s grief was equal to the chest-splitting, hollowing out that had come upon her when her daughter’s much-too-small timber coffin sank beneath the earth and her little girl, only days away from her fourth birthday, was inside.
Irretrievable beneath tons of dirt was the one person who had taught her how to love with he
r whole heart—an intensity of love beyond all others. Tina often dreamed of clawing away that dirt, opening the timber box and cradling bones to her chest. Bones were better than nothing.
That day, she went about her rounds in a fog of grief, delivering package after package to the front doorsteps of Gladstone residents. Mostly middle-class suburban houses. In the newer estates, built during the more recent boom, were the cookie-cutter, slapped-up-as-quickly-and-as-cheaply-as-possible houses. The older estates held the commission homes cum fixer-uppers.
The more central suburbs were where the grand old Queenslanders stood, a mixture of peeling paint and asbestos. A few quality houses here and there. The big, flashy homes sat on top of the town’s hills, most glimpsing the alumina refinery’s sprawling tangle of orange-dusted steel.
Late February was hot and humid, but, for Tina, that was secondary—a patch of sweat under her arms, down the centre of her back, between her breasts and legs. It wasn’t death. Not even close.
Death consumed her life. Every day since the funeral, when she awoke, Death was there too. When she flipped through photographs of her daughter, Death was right there with her. He invaded her home, memories, sleep, joy. He was there when she laughed. He was there at the end of every moment, cloying, loud, larger than ever when she went more than an hour without thinking about it. Death was like night. But even night had stars.
Her daughter, once full of life, no longer existed without Death. Interchangeable. If someone had said to Tina before she fell pregnant that at some point very soon, she wouldn’t be able to think about her child without Death smashing through her chest and exploding her heart between His bony fist, leaving behind a cavern of hurt so deep, so present, it would make her unable to draw a full breath, she may have rejected motherhood.
Maybe. That’s the devious cunning Death possesses—you can’t know how He feels until He’s there. And once He’s there, He never leaves. In some cases, He retreats to the corner of the room, stays quiet, doesn’t interfere much, but at other times, He sits his big, solid bones down on the centre of your chest and induces claustrophobic suffering.
Tina finished her day of work when the sun was still bright, though lower in the sky. No shadows yet. They would encroach after she dropped her van off at the delivery exchange centre, jumped into her car and drove the twenty-five minutes to Boyne Island along the winding coastal road, bordered by hills of rock, spinifex, banks of mangroves and the blue-green Pacific Ocean.
Much to Tina’s relief, at that time in the late afternoon, the lawn cemetery was empty. She parked her car, cut the engine, and closed her eyes for a few moments. Inside her was a storm. Lashes of sharp rain needled against the underside of her skin. Cyclonic forces raged in her chest. Blunt and heavy. If she focused too hard on that hot darkness that dwelled inside her like a living thing, aching to take her over, she would become its prey. That violent beast had had its way with her too many times those past three years. It was brutal, merciless, and after each encounter, she was left scarred.
Not today, she thought as she climbed out of the vehicle. She was going to stay in charge. She was going to dictate her grief, no matter how forcefully it wrenched against the brittle chain barely holding it back.
Back out on the main road, which carried motorists between Gladstone and Boyne Island, the rhythmic whoosh didn’t let up as cars passed in a long, end-of-the-workday stream. Every single person was oblivious of the cemetery, let alone Tina.
Tina’s gaze moved to her daughter’s headstone like it was a magnet and she the opposite polarity. Each step toward that erect, blonde rectangle of sandstone magnified the roar of emotion. Her breaths grew heavier but thinner, as though there wasn’t enough air.
At the foot of the grave, she sank to her knees on the soft green grass, exactly a coffin’s distance from the headstone. Never would she forget the diminutive size of that timber box. Jarring. Uncanny. Wasn’t right. Nothing about that day or any day since had been right.
Purple posies in a glass milk-bottle vase had been left beside the grave as well as a brown teddy bear with a tartan ribbon circling its neck and a bunch of natives adorned with a colourful tie. Someone had already been there.
Tina’s neck tensed, making her head shake. A thin line of irritation traversed her limbs for the intrusion. But, of course, her ex-husband would have visited there today. She knew Chris well. He would have taken the week off work, driven to the cemetery early. His new wife would have joined him and probably rubbed his back as he cried.
Tina rearranged the flowers and teddy, setting them off to the side, pulled the white, stuffed unicorn from her handbag and placed it front and centre at the head of the grave. She rummaged around for the small, pink tealight, positioned it beside the unicorn and lit the wick with a lighter. A pointed, orange flame wavered in the humid afternoon breeze.
She stared at the blades of grass, the flame and the engraved letters of the headstone. Kadie Brooks. A tear rolled from her chin and landed on her leg. With that one tear, the chain broke, the cruel fangs of grief bit down hard until all she could do to protect herself was to roll on her side beside her daughter and wish she were inside that tiny coffin too. Death almost suffocated her.
When the cemetery was cast in complete darkness and the birds had stopped their cawing and chorusing, Tina uncurled, dusted the shards of grass from her clothes and drove the forty-five minutes to home.
Gladstone was a regional town. Industrial, mostly. The powerstation’s three tall smokestacks intruded upon the mountainside skyline. The port was shared by long coal conveyor belts, wharves and big cargo ships. All were lit up like tiny cities at that time of night.
Beyond that was the harbour where islands dotted the horizon and dolphins often arched in the whitewash as recreational boats cruised about. Big white fuel storage tanks invaded the shoreline. To the north of there were huge LNG gas plants. Tina lived just beyond that in the tiny town of Yarwun.
After parking in the carport at the side of the house, near the water tank and shed, she climbed out of her car. Her legs weighed more. Her shoulder muscles ached. Her eyes were red, puffy and tired from the torrential tears.
“Damn today,” she growled as she kicked off her work shoes, arranged them neatly on the front porch, perfectly in line with each other, then unlocked the door and went inside.
She flicked on lights as she walked through the foyer and into the living room. When her finger slowly lowered from the light switch, goosebumps blossomed across her forearms. The thin hairs prickled. A slither down the back of her neck.
She froze, held her breath, looked around.
All seemed normal. Everything in its place.
She shook her hands and told herself it was all in her head. She was merely tired and emotional and really should eat something, even when food was the last thing she could stomach.
When in the kitchen, she flicked on the light and eyed the room. The sink was clean. Nothing was on the benches that didn’t have a purpose. Again, the slinking nail down the back of her neck. An eerie sense someone was there, or, at least, had been there.
“Hello,” she called out. Her voice was weak, hoarse in the silence. Hearing the edge of fear in those two syllables, heightened her fear more.
She went to the back door, just off the kitchen, tested the lock, then rushed up the hall to every room and cupboard, turning on lights, checking each vacant corner and surface. Her throat was tight. Muscles tense. With a flurry, she yanked at the windows, testing their locks. Not one lock budged.
All was as she had left it that morning.
She sank onto the end of her bed, pushed her face into her hands. She was over-emotional, waiting for a monster to jump out from the darkness like it had that day three years ago.
Grief clenched her throat, made her eyes burn and gloss. But she didn’t cry. She had nothing left. Today had been the longest, hardest day for her. All she wanted was to slip into the unconsciousness of deep sleep and stay there until sh
e didn’t hurt so much.
Chapter 4
Isabelle Brooks wandered into the kitchen and shoved her favourite mug under the coffee machine. As the aromatic, brown goops of espresso trickled into her cup, her lips curled into a half-smile.
Isabelle Brooks. Had a nice ring to it. She had been wearing that surname for eight weeks now and couldn’t be more willing to show it off. All her business cards had been changed at the hairdressing salon she owned. Her bank cards. Her driver’s licence. Any official document, she happily circled or wrote Mrs rather than the Miss she had contended with for too many years.
The espresso finished dripping, and Isabelle set about frothing milk. Again, that slow creeping smile. Her clients at the salon constantly teased her about it. Their hearts were warm and full to see their hairdresser wistfully happy and in love after fifteen years of singledom.
They had watched over the years as Isabelle’s dating life never got off the ground. After falling pregnant, giving birth to her daughter two months after her sweet sixteenth, her path took a different course to those her age.
She never completed her final year of high school but gained maturity and had responsibilities a school could never have taught her. Her life rushed ahead a decade past her friends, so that always meant she was out of sync with them. It created an obvious divide—the girl who got pregnant in high school versus everyone else.
Her daughter’s father was never in the picture. He sent a little child support for Julliette here and there, but nothing past her seventh birthday. Isabelle didn’t chase him for it—she preferred the ease that came with not having him in their lives.
She dated on and off for six or seven years after Juliette was born, but men who were barely adults themselves were not willing to take a backseat to a child. Not willing to father another man’s daughter. That’s when she decided to go solo. Just her and Juliette.
In those following years, she finished a hairdressing apprenticeship, earned a business diploma from the local TAFE, then eventually opened her own salon.
All That Was Left Unsaid Page 2
