Invincible (Invisible 2)

by Cecily Anne Paterson

  I stare at the wall.

  “Is it one of your friends? Is someone bullying you again? I can call the school and we can sort it out, you know. Tell the deputy principal? Surely Liam would look after you, wouldn’t he?”

  Under my blankets my heart starts up again. I can feel a flush rising in my cheeks so I shrug my doona up past my neck but I’m safe. Mum doesn’t know about yesterday afternoon.

  “Jazmine, is your mum home yet?” Geoff had asked from nowhere and I’d turned to see his beard and his bulk taking up the path where Liam had stood just seconds before. My head turned again, in the opposite direction, to see Liam halfway down the street. Running, even?

  I stammered a reply, voice shaky and hands wobbling. “Not sure. No. Don’t think so,” and held up my key to show him I’d only just gotten back myself.

  “She asked me to stop by. I’ve been working at the other office,” he said, explaining himself.

  “Oh,” I said, trying to control my chest. It wanted to collapse into sobs. My eyes were having trouble focusing and I needed to blink away tears.

  “Someone you know?” Geoff nodded towards Liam, getting smaller and smaller in the distance.

  My chin went up and down of its own accord. “It’s Liam.”

  His brows furrowed. “The boyfriend?” And then he looked slightly guilty, like he was trying to apologise. “Sorry. Just, your mum told me about him.”

  I let a half-smile escape. “Yep,” I said, “the boyfriend.”

  His face went serious again. “Maybe you need to rethink that.”

  I opened my eyes wide and gave him a look like, ‘who are you to say something like that?’ and he flipped his palms up towards me. “Hey, I’m sorry. Not my business.” He looked around him a few times. “Okay. So, I’ll push off. Tell your mum I called by?”

  I nodded and watched him walk back to his car, get in and drive away. He tooted the horn as he drove off and for some reason it made me smile. I put my hand up in one of those ‘see ya’ waves people do and kept it up until I saw his car disappear around the corner.

  “Thanks,” I said quietly. Just so I could hear it myself. And then I turned and let myself into the house.

  Later, I told Mum that Geoff had been here.

  “Did he say something?” she said.

  “Yeah. Just, ‘Tell your mum I called by’.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  Something crossed her face and then she shook her hair, smiled and said, “Thanks so much for talking to him.”

  I shrugged. “Whatever.”

  I said nothing about Liam. I said nothing about Geoff’s voice plucking me out of a stormy sea. I said nothing about Angela or the party and the stories about the kissing, or the worry that maybe I was the one to blame for it all. I said nothing about the fact that I felt like I was on one of those terrible, dizzy, spinning fairground rides whenever I spent time with Liam, the person who was supposed to like me more than anyone.

  Mum didn’t know any of it.

  And I wasn’t about to tell her. Every time I thought about it, my stomach turned into a crater of swirling embarrassment. I felt tiny and terrified. And full of dread. Before, I just would have turned invisible; refused to feel any of it. But that doesn’t work anymore. So I’ll do the next best thing; just not turn up.

  Bed is my only option.

  “You have to go.” Mum’s trying one last time, in a pleading voice, to get me up and out, but it’s not going to work.

  “I’m not going.”

  I curl myself towards the wall tighter and listen for the door to close as Mum leaves.

  On Friday she runs through a whole range of strategies. There’s the comforting, ‘poor Jazmine’ tactic (‘oh sweetie, I know you don’t want to, but I can give you a lift’), the straight talking, tough love (‘young lady, you’re going to have to do this and suck it up, whether you like it or not’), the panicky, I-don’t-want-people-to-think-I’m-a-bad-mother desperation (‘Please? Please get out of bed. I’m going to have to ring the school if you don’t…’).

  But I don’t get out of bed. I can’t.

  It’s just too hard.

  Mum goes to work. I can see the worry on her face as she fusses around the kitchen, packing her lunch and washing the breakfast dishes, but I can’t make it better. I can’t make my own worries better. How could I possibly deal with hers too?

  I spend the day sleeping, watering the garden, drawing in my journal. Oh, and ignoring my phone which keeps beeping in my drawer until I take out my hearing aid so that I can’t hear it any more. Liam, maybe? I don’t know, and I don’t want to find out. After lunch I pull out the science project sheets and do some work on the bit I’m supposed to be doing. The time disappears and I’m genuinely surprised at how quickly the times goes by until Mum gets home, her mouth straight, her steps solid and her eyes set.

  “Hey,” I say, putting my hearing aid back in.

  She takes in a quick breath and puts on a firm smile.

  “Hi Jazmine. I need you to come with me in the car, okay?”

  “Pyjamas,” I say, gesturing down at my pink monkeys and cartoon palm trees.

  “Doesn’t matter,” she says. “PJs are fine.”

  I consider it for a few seconds. School’s finished so we can’t be going there. She doesn’t know where Liam lives, so she can’t take me to him. Maybe it’s just the shops and I can sit in the car park while she goes in. I squint my eyes, weighing it up. I think I might be safe.

  “Okay,” I say. “Now?”

  “Mmm-hmm,” she says. “Just pop in the car and I’ll be there in a minute.”

  I head outside. It’s sunny with a wide, perfect sky; the sort of day that would have made me happy a few weeks ago. Now, though, it just mocks. Laughs at me. I get in the front seat of the car and screw up my face at the blueness above, daring it to leave and send in clouds instead.

  Mum takes a few minutes and when she finally locks the front door and comes around to her side I notice she’s got a bag with her. She slips it into the back and then buckles herself in.

  “Let’s go,” she says, throwing a bottle of water at me.

  I take a sip. “Where to?”

  “You’ll see.”

  We drive past the turnoff to the main street, past the supermarket and right out past the edge of town where the hardware barn is. I look over at her with a question on my face but she’s not looking at me. She’s focusing, hard, on the road.

  “So, out of town?” I say.

  She nods.

  “Longish drive?” I ask.

  She nods again.

  “Have I been there before?”

  She looks over at me with an exasperated face. “Figure it out, Jazmine.”

  I sit and think. There’s really only one option. But it seems nuts.

  “Grandma’s?”

  Mum nods.

  “You’re taking me to Grandma’s on a Friday night in my pyjamas?”

  She sighs. “Desperate measures,” and shakes her head. She waits for a second and then starts talking again. Pouring it out onto my lap. “I mean, really. What did you think I was going to do? Let you stay home from school for the rest of your life? I hardly know how to handle this new ‘I’ll do what I want’ thing from you. If you won’t tell me what’s going on, maybe you’ll tell your Grandma. Maybe she can help you sort it out.”

  I feel squashed into my seat; pushed back by an invisible force. We drive and drive and two and a half hours later I’ve drunk all the water and we’re winding up the hill towards Grandma’s place, heading for her twinkling lights.

  “This is really embarrassing,” I say. “How can I even get out of the car?”

  Mum grimaces. “We’ve all been embarrassed. Get used to it.”

  When we pull into Grandma’s driveway and I feel the grumble of gravel under the wheels I shut my eyes and sink into the seat covers but then the door opens and there’s Grandma’s face in mine, smiling like sh
e’s pleased to see me.

  I can get out of the car.

  Mum has a quick conversation with Grandma and then an even quicker one with me.

  “Okay, I’m coming back for you Sunday. Your stuff’s in the bag.”

  “Oh.”

  She pecks me on the cheek, hops back in her seat and drives off into the black. We watch her headlights twist and turn as she winds back down the mountain road.

  “This is nice,” says Grandma, when the lights finally become pinpricks in a straight line of other tiny ant cars. She puts her good arm around me. “It’s great to see you.”

  “Yeah. In my pyjamas.” My head drops, embarrassed.

  Grandma takes a good look. “I think they’re cute,” she says. “Monkeys. Better than boring old stripes.”

  I laugh. “I threw out my striped pair a few months ago.”

  “Well you picked good ones,” she says and we go inside. The lamps make it look cozy and warm. “Sit down and I’ll get you some dinner.”

  “Are you better?” I ask. “How’s the arm?”

  “Improving all the time,” she says. “I can even cook now. One-handed, but still…”

  She brings me an omelette with mushrooms and cheese that squeaks in my teeth.

  “What is this stuff?” I ask. “It’s weird.”

  “Haloumi,” she says, with a wide grin. “Do you love it?”

  I grin back. “Love it.”

  Later, she puts me to bed, back in my old room.

  “I’d offer to read you a story but you’re probably too old for that,” she says, sitting on the edge of the mattress.

  “Maybe a bit,” I say. I look around the room and then at Grandma. The room is warm and the bed is comfortable but I feel tight inside. “Did Mum tell you why she brought me?”

  “A little,” she says. She touches my face and smoothes my hair. “Why don’t you just get some sleep for now. We can talk about what needs to be talked about in the morning.”

  My stomach relaxes. I nod. “Okay.” But then a new fear pushes its way up into my throat. “Sometimes I have trouble sleeping though.”

  Grandma raises her eyebrows. “Really? Why’s that?”

  I open my mouth but no words come. I’ve never told anyone about the men with machine guns, the spirits with leather faces, the rocket attacks, the ceaseless runnings through the night. I’ve never told anyone about the things that want to kill me, that look for me and find me no matter how good I think my hiding place is, that keep searching and keep chasing even when I’m begging them to stop, to please, please, just go away.

  I swallow.

  “Dreams.”

  Grandma tips her head to one side. “A lot?”

  I nod.

  “Most nights?”

  I nod again.

  She frowns slightly.

  “They feel real,” she says. “They feel so real. But you know what? They’re not. And in a dream you can choose the ending.”

  Chapter 25

  I have dreams. Of course I do. They, the whoever-they-are, the terrible-horribles of the night, chase me while I run and run, puffing and aching, heart thumping out of my chest and legs crying out for mercy. They threaten me with knives and fists and slingshots. They yell terrible insults.

  I know I have to get away. I just don’t know how.

  And then, for the first time ever, something changes.

  Hiding, breathing fast, behind a rock in the forest, I know, really know, that I am in a dream.

  I’m asleep. The thought is as refreshing as the first sip of a cold drink on a sweltering day.

  And then something else.

  I can choose the ending.

  I lean quietly around the rock and peer out. They’re still coming for me. Can I think them away? Magically will them to steer off in the other direction? I clench my dream hands and think my dream thoughts but the baddies are still coming. Try harder, I say to myself. Choose again. My fingernails rip into my skin, I’m clenching everything so much, my teeth are grinding themselves down. But it doesn’t work. There’s a yell and a shriek and evil wolves are on me, nipping and tearing at my hair. I’m melting with fear and pounding with terror and then I wake up. Alone in my bed.

  Safe. But very, very scared.

  Choose the ending? I don’t think so.

  I can’t shut my eyes again so I lie still and look out the window at the garden. The creeping dawn light is stretching its fingers across the grass, turning black to grey and grey to a pale version of whatever the colours would be in the sunlight. Grandma has had a tree taken out since last week. She was talking about it before; how the roots were disturbing the foundations of the house and stealing water from the other plants. I felt sorry for it, begged her not to get rid of it, but it’s gone now. And the hole is raw and gaping.

  “It’s the other plants you should feel sorry for,” she said. “They’re the ones that can’t live their lives. Some trees think they can take over everything else. And in my garden, they go.”

  The light gets brighter and I can see movement outside. Grandma’s up early, despite her sprained ankle, hobbling around on a big foot support thing that looks like a massive black boot. She’s carrying a plant in a small pot in her good hand and is heading towards the hole.

  I’ve been in my PJs for two days so I figure a third won’t hurt and I pad down the hall and out the back door. Grandma’s on her knees, digging and sorting the soil around the hole where the tree was.

  “Are you going to plant something else there?” I ask.

  She turns to see me, surprise on her face. “Good morning. It’s early. Are you sure you want to get up?”

  I kneel beside her. “Want some help?”

  She beams. “It’s another plum blossom tree. I had the camphor laurel taken out. Time to replant.”

  “It’s pretty,” I say, and start to dig with my hands. The cool dirt feels rich under my fingertips. We work together, digging, planting, watering and mulching, me looking out for Grandma’s wrist and ankle, and she protesting, but always with a smile, that I’m doing too much.

  When it’s done and we’re done and the hose is turned off, the tools put away and our fingernails scrubbed to get most of the dirt out, we have breakfast out on the deck. Eggs, orange juice, toast and jam. I’m hungry again after three days of taking only enough bites of anything to keep Mum off my back.

  “I tried to choose the ending of my dream,” I say, mouth full of toast. “It didn’t work.”

  Grandma sips her tea. “Sometimes, depending on the dream, it’s enough just to choose.” She looks out across the escarpment. “Sometimes, though, you have to fight.”

  I think about it, but a shudder goes through me.

  “I couldn’t,” I say. “I wouldn’t know how to even start. And what if they won?” The toast goes to cardboard in my mouth.

  “If you don’t try, they’ve won anyway,” Grandma says. She throws a scrap of crust out onto the lawn. A small red and brown bird swoops down to pick it up. “The more you run and hide, the more they’ll chase you.”

  I look up accusingly. “How did you know?”

  “What?”

  “My dreams. The running and hiding bit.”

  Grandma laughs. “Really? Oh, my darling Jazmine. You’re certainly not the first to have those dreams. And you won’t be the last.”

  I’m silent for a minute.

  “I didn’t know,” I say. “I didn’t know that other people have the same thing.”

  Grandma butters a piece of bread and puts her knife down.

  “Everybody has the same everything,” she says. “If you can find one problem or one fear or one dread or, even, one happiness that no one else has ever had, it’s only because you haven’t talked to enough people.”

  As I sit, looking at the view, it seems to get bigger. Wider. Wilder. It’s like I can see further out of my eyes.

  “Grandma, I need to ask you.”

  She looks up, mouth full of bread. I laugh because
she looks so funny and she giggles too.

  “Sorry.” She wipes her chin where a tiny bit of jam has found its way down.

  “That poster thing in my room. What does it mean, ‘that is not what ships are built for?’”

  Her eyes get bright. “I love that, don’t you? I saw it once when I was on holidays in Queensland. I bought it straight away and posted it home.”

  I nod. “It’s nice. I like the boat. It reminds me of Adrian’s one. But I’m just not sure if I get it.”

  She thinks for a moment. “I guess it’s like, you know, there are so many ways people try to be safe, to protect themselves in life.”

  “Like staying home a lot?”

  “That’s one. There are more. Maybe, always doing the same thing. Drinking too much. Never wanting to learn. Not being able to say sorry. Sometimes we build these harbours for ourselves so we’ll be protected. So we won’t ever have to feel bad. Or face bad people.”

  “But isn’t that normal?” I ask. “I don’t want to feel bad.”

  Grandma tips her head to the side. “No one does. But it’s part of life. And if you don’t ever feel bad, you can never feel glorious either.” She picks up her fork and twirls it around, like she’s conducting an orchestra. “A small life is staying in the harbour you build for yourself. You’re protected, but you don’t get the amazing things life has to offer. A big life, out on the ocean, in the fast winds and on the big waves is riskier and scarier, but it’s so much better. I mean, who doesn’t like tropical islands and beaches and bays? You don’t see those if you stay in your harbour.”

  She takes a breath. “And, like it says, it’s what we’re built for. ”

  “Facing bad people is what I’m built for?” I say.

  “Well, that, and also finding great people,” Grandma laughs. “Life’s not all terrible heartbreak, you know. There’s a lot of that, but it’s not all there is.”

  “Sometimes it seems like it.” I think, but I don’t say it.

  We work in the garden for the rest of the morning and after lunch Grandma announces that she needs to get some groceries.

  “Adrian will pick us up at two,” she says. “Do you have anything you want to get from the shops?”

  The mall is still busy at half past two, even though everything shuts at four. Saturdays at the shops are obviously pretty popular here, judging from the groups of teenagers hanging out. The shops are the usual collection of small town stores; a few chains, a few independents and a couple of discount outlets. I browse while Grandma and Adrian get the groceries; dawdle through a jewellery store, a surf shop and then a bookshop. I’m in the cooking section looking at recipe books when a group of five girls, all about my age, head for the fiction shelves at the back.