by Rick Wood
In fact, the only milk I can find is powdered milk in the cupboard. I try it, but it tastes disgusting, so I disregard the coffee, return my mug to the sink, and head back to my classroom just as the bell for the end of the day goes and doors open and students burst into the corridor, hurrying faster than they do at any other point of the day. Nothing wakes them up quite like the end of school.
Numerous children barge into me as they run past, but I ignore it. It’s the end of the day. Let’s just finish my work and go home.
When I return to my classroom, I don’t even notice Destiny at first. She is crouched down, on her knees, her face in her hands, and I can’t tell what she’s doing.
“Destiny?” I say.
Her head shakes. She is still covering her face.
She is hunched over the bin.
What is she doing?
“Destiny, I really think you—”
“What’s this?”
She lifts the coffee-stained box of chocolates from the bin.
“Oh, Destiny, I—”
“Do you know how much I spent on this? Not to mention the bus fayre to get into town and buy them for you?”
“Look, I—”
“Why would you do this?”
I go to speak, but don’t. I look around the room, searching for the words.
“I think you need to go,” I finally say.
She looks dumbfounded, shocked, bemused at the impudence of my reaction.
“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me why you did this!”
“I spilt coffee on them, Destiny, it was an accident.”
“An accident?”
“Yes, an accident, I’m sorry.”
I stay by the open door, glancing down the corridor, but there is no one there to help me.
She edges toward me, and it occurs to me that I am blocking her exit, so I walk in, moving behind the tables to keep the furniture between me and her.
She walks to the door and I think she’s leaving — that is, until she shuts it.
“Destiny, please open the door,” I say.
She stays in front of it. Slowly rotates toward me. Long strands of hair fall over her face, and she looks strange, disturbed, unhinged, and I want to do anything I can to get out of this situation.
“Hey, why don’t we go to the staff room and get some towels. Maybe we could dry it off.”
She shakes her head.
“Either way, just open the door, Destiny. Please. Just open it.”
She licks her lips.
“Open the door!”
“I’m not that easy to get rid of, Will.”
“It’s Mr Coady, Destiny.”
“That’s what your other students call you.”
“Exactly.”
“I’m not like other students, am I?”
What do I do?
How do I get myself out of this situation?
I am scared. Not of her, but of what could happen if I don’t deal with this properly.
“It’s late,” I say. “After school. How about you go home, and I go home, and we can talk about this later, right?”
Her fingers grip the box of chocolates, harder and harder, twisting it and capsizing it and destroying it.
She throws it in the bin.
“I know you’ll realise the truth,” she says.
“What? What truth?”
“I know you’ll figure it out.”
“Destiny, I—”
She leaves before I can finish my sentence, opening the door, backing into the corridor, then walking away.
I breathe a sigh of relief, then pack up my stuff and leave before she comes back.
17
Harper
When I arrive home, I expect to find what I normally find. A silent home and bottles in the sink.
What I don’t expect to find is a suitcase and Mum putting on a coat.
“Mum?” I say. “What’s going on?”
She smiles at me in that condescending way adults do when they think I’m too young to understand — but I understand all too much. I would be annoyed, but this is the first time I’ve looked at her in the light for a while, and she doesn’t look like the woman in the photo frames on the fireplace anymore. Her skin is wrapped tightly around her bones and her face is thin.
She looks ill, and not the kind you can make better.
“Oh darling,” she says, looking at me as if she cares, and tilts her head to the side. Her voice is croaky. Her eyelids lull. Her breath wheezes.
“I don’t understand,” I say.
Right at that point, the front door opens, and I hate that today is the day Dad chooses to come home early from work. He could have found a note, instead he finds his wife on her way out.
Mostly, I hate how he doesn’t even look surprised.
“What’s going on?” he asks.
“I’m going to stay with my friend.”
“What, Jane?”
“No, Will. A male friend.”
I see how much its crushes Dad to hear this, I can see it on his face, the despair — but still no shock.
I wait for him to argue. For him to fight, tell her she’s not going, say he’ll take care of her like he always does, insist that they talk things through and work it out or even offer to pay for rehab again.
But he says nothing.
It is now the bastard chooses to say nothing.
“Dad…” I say, in an almost whisper, and I don’t know why it’s bothering me so much. It’s not like they are a great couple together, and it’s hardly like I’ll miss out on any days we spend as a family — those days are long gone.
I just know that I don’t want her to go.
Mum takes her suitcase and walks to the door. She pauses, looks at her husband, and he moves out of her way.
He moves out her way.
He moves. Out. Of. Her. Way.
He doesn’t stop her, doesn’t put his hand out to obstruct her or anything — he just lets her go.
And, within seconds, she is out of the door and into the darkness and gone from our lives.
Dad closes the door behind him. He doesn’t look at me.
“What is wrong with you?” I say.
He still doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t even look up. He looks at his feet, like he’s ashamed.
You’re a grown man for fuck’s sake, talk to your daughter.
“Why didn’t you fight for her?” I ask.
He doesn’t respond.
“Look at me!” I shout, and I feel my voice break under the strain of a scream I wasn’t expecting.
He finally lifts his head to look at me, but he can’t focus on my eyes. After a fleeting glance, he walks into the kitchen, muttering something like “I’ll make us some fish and chips.”
“Dad, stop it!”
He pauses in the doorway.
“I am your daughter — why won’t you talk to me?”
I can see it’s painful. I can see he’s doing everything he can to avoid thinking about what’s happened, to try not to cry in front of me.
I can’t help it.
I’m mad. I’m enraged. I’m furious.
I don’t know why; I wanted this. I wanted them apart so they could be the parents they could possibly be without the other one in the way — but, seeing Dad now, wandering aimlessly into the kitchen like he’s lost a pet, I know that it won’t improve anything.
What is Dad’s purpose now without Mum to take care of?
“Dad, please, just go get her. Tell her to come back. Tell her — I don’t know, just… Tell her something.”
“I don’t know what to tell her.” His voice is quiet, like it’s hidden away in the shadows. He hasn’t even switched the kitchen light on.
“You are pathetic. Do you know that?”
He doesn’t reply.
He doesn’t need to.
I charge upstairs, shut my door, and refuse to answer it to anyone. I swear, if anyone comes in, I will scream at them, but secretly, I
hope that Dad will knock on that door, and that he will hug me and tell me everything will be okay.
He doesn’t.
18
Will
I can’t say I wasn’t expecting it, but that doesn’t make it any less shocking.
The worst part? That I don’t even have the energy to be jealous. She’s going to another man’s house. She’s leaving me for him, whoever he is. Probably another drunk, someone who will encourage her habit rather than try to help her — and I can’t even muster the energy to hate her.
Harper wants to see more from me. More vigour. More umph.
I know she does.
But I have nothing left. I’m drained. I’m soulless. I gave everything to this marriage, everything to my career, everything to being a father, and I am left with nothing but broken pieces of a home, and a wife and daughter who hate me.
I consider going upstairs. Knocking on Harper’s door. Speaking to her.
But what would I say?
Sorry I’m so gutless, I’ll do better?
She’s right to be angry, and I don’t know how I’m supposed to quell it.
I wonder how this will affect her when she’s older, and I hate myself even more. I’m supposed to be her role model. Me and Natalie are meant to be the example of what a happy marriage looks like.
All we’ve done is isolate her from us.
I find one of Natalie’s half-finished bottles of wine on the shelf. I fill a glass and drink it.
Without realising it, I remove my phone from my pocket, unlock it, and hover my thumb over Natalie’s number.
Should I just give her a bit of time? Talk about things once she’s calmed down?
Another glass of wine removes my inhibitions, and I call her, listening to the rings until they take me to voicemail.
What do I do with my evening now?
Watch a television show that doesn’t matter? Go to sleep early? Mark books and plan lessons?
Is that all there is to my life?
Or I could just sit and sulk in the darkness, keep ringing her, and wait until my legs choose to carry me to bed.
19
Harper
The first thing I do is text Danny. I’ve never had that before, having someone to go to — I’ve dealt with every problem I’ve ever had on my own.
Not anymore.
My mum left.
He replies within a minute.
Are you serious?
Yep. I came home and she had a suitcase.
Is your dad okay?
He came home just after me and saw it.
Didn’t even do anything.
Didn’t even put up a fight.
Oh my god, I’m so sorry.
I just can’t believe he didn’t even bother.
What kind of a man doesn’t care about his wife leaving?
He didn’t even cry.
Maybe he was trying to be strong.
For you, I mean.
My dad doesn’t care enough to be strong.
There’s nothing ‘strong’ about him.
He’s weak.
Maybe it was for the best.
Maybe.
Still sucks though.
I mean, mother of your daughter walks out for another man and you don’t even care?
Shit.
Another man?
Yep.
Do you know who he is?
Don’t know. Don’t care.
This is really shit, I’m sorry to hear it.
Is there anything I can do?
Would you like me to send you a picture?
Of me, I mean.
I consider this question, lying upside down on my bed, staring at the ceiling as guitars blare out my speakers.
I wish there was something he could do.
Some way to make me feel better.
Yes please!
Send me a picture.
One of you smiling.
One that will make me happy.
He doesn’t reply, and I worry I was too demanding, but after a minute one comes through.
I can’t quite believe what I’m seeing.
He’s so handsome.
Ruffled hair, chiselled chin, clear skin.
Your turn.
God, no. He’s too good for me. He’s too out of my league, I don’t want him to see what I look like.
I panic.
But he’s not like that. I’m sure of it. I trust him. He trusts me. I know who he is.
I turn the camera round and take a selfie. The first few look stupid, but I finally find one that looks the least stupid, and I send it.
Wow.
You’re gorgeous.
No I’m not.
You really are.
I was worried you were going to secretly be a fifty-year-old man or something.
I chuckle.
Then another picture comes through.
In this one, he’s topless. Slim. Athletic.
Wow, you really are hot.
Your turn.
What do you mean?
I sent a picture of me without my top on…
It takes a moment for me to understand what he’s saying, and then…
Oh, God, I don’t know if I want to do that. I feel nervous.
But good nervous, I guess. Excited.
No one’s ever seen me without a top on — no one outside the girl’s changing rooms after PE, that is, and even then I tend to face the wall.
But he sent me one…
I guess I probably should.
No pressure.
Just want to see : P
I take off my top. Look at my belly. If I breathe in, I can make it flat. If I take the photo from a high angle my breasts might even block it out.
I’m wearing a purple bra. I’ve never really thought about what bra I’m wearing before. I’ve never had to.
I take the picture and send it before I can convince myself not to.
:P :P :P :P ;) ;) ;) ;)
Wow.
I am lucky to be talking to someone so stunning.
Please, I am not stunning.
You really don’t know, do you?
Don’t know what?
Just how beautiful you are.
I’m not beautiful.
I wish your dad could see what I see.
If he realised what an amazing girl you are, perhaps he’d treat you like an adult.
A sting of sadness hits me.
I’d been smiling so much, he’d been making me feel so good, and now…
He seems to realise this, as after a few minutes silence he sends another message.
Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.
I didn’t mean to bring your dad up again.
I mean, I meant what I said, I just hope I haven’t upset you.
You haven’t upset me.
Are you sure?
Yeah.
I don’t know.
It sucks that my dad doesn’t even care enough to talk to me.
It does. That’s not what a real dad is like.
I guess.
He deserves to be hurt.
That’s a bit harsh.
Don’t you think he does?
He causes you so much pain, doesn’t he deserve any?
I suppose.
When you put it like that.
I just hate guys like him.
I’m sorry if that’s too forthright.
It’s okay.
I’m just really glad I have you to talk to.
And I am.
And now I have two pictures of him.
Two pictures that I gaze at all night before falling asleep with my phone in my hand.
20
Will
I don’t get much sleep. And I don’t even remember eating breakfast.
I’m sure I ate it, but I don’t remember it. I feel like I was a puppet, or being controlled by a parasite. I walked through my house, drove to work, listened to the radio, and tried calling Natalie a few times, and remember none of
it.
It isn’t until now, when I am sat at the desk of my decrepit classroom, looking at sparse posters with torn corners and cracked cream walls and tables with gum stuck under them that I think — what the hell am I doing?
Am I getting a divorce?
Am I living on my own?
Am I going to be a single parent?
Natalie didn’t seem bothered about fighting for custody of Harper, but who knows if that will change. Plus, Harper’s old enough to decide where she stays. Why would she choose me?
I bow my head. Run my hands through my hair.
I try calling Natalie again. I have ten minutes. But, after trying three times and receiving no answer, I stop, distracted by thoughts of Harper. We are about to heap so much childhood trauma on her and there’s nothing I can do about it. Watching her mum walk out and her dad breakdown and her parents separate is going to affect her in so many ways. She will probably discuss this experience in therapy someday, she will end relationships because of intimacy issues caused by us, and she will resent me until the day she dies…
