All I Ever Wanted (19 page)

I reach my hand around to the bench and pick up the metal file I left there. Step into the half-light. Breaths of cool air, petrol, old grease…and something else.

The door closes behind me and it's dark, so dark the old panic lurches in my chest and my hands fly up in defence—of what? My eyes adjust and I see warm light and flickering shapes on the walls like dancing fireflies. A crooked path of tea light candles and scattered red, white and blue confetti. What the
hell
?

I follow the path of candles to the entrance of the pit. Each step down into the oily blackness is marked with a gift; seven of them, wrapped in red and white paper. I look around but I'm alone. I sense it.

My hands are shaking.

I pick up the first gift and feel it. Small, flat and oblong. The next is long and cylindrical. The others, incrementally larger, all lead towards the Holy Grail: at the far end of the pit, warmed by the glow of a tall red candle, is the package. Still in its original wrapping, torn at one end and spattered with mud. When I pick it up it's still damp and curling at the edges.

I skip the other gifts and sit down on the grease-caked floor. My fingers are shaking, my vision blurred. I keep waiting for someone to scream ‘Surprise!' but it's just me and the package. I unwrap it slowly.

Inside the soggy box I find two official-looking manuals with uncreased spines. A spiral-bound sheaf of papers. Lots of paper-clipped pages with dotted lines for a signature. An application for a passport. A
passport
!

I go back to the other gifts to stretch the moment further, but realisation is dawning and the feeling is exquisite.

The smallest gift is a folded Visa Debit card application form. The next is a map of the world. A new Lonely Planet guide. Two sets of striped thermal underwear. A French–English pocket translation book. A fur-lined jacket. A spanking-new suitcase.

I sit in the pile of shredded paper like a child on Christmas morning.

I pull the package onto my lap and start at the beginning. On top there's a letter addressed to me: congratulations, your exchange student application has been successful, you will be required to attend an interview at this office prior to your induction course, blah blah, we hope you will find this experience educational and rewarding and trust you will enjoy your twelve months…in PARIS, FRANCE!...blah, blah. The Morneau family, your hosts, are…

I can't read any more. I whoop like an Indian and outside there's a chorus of smothered laughter.

France.

I'm going to Paris, France.

Mum comes in, crying.

‘Did you do this?' I ask. I'm weightless with joy. I could fly.

‘Me. Feeney, mostly. And others. I forged your signature on the exchange application but you'll have to sign for the passport.' She wipes her tears on her sleeve. ‘There's lots to do. You start the induction course next week.'

‘What about school?'

‘No more school. Not here, anyway.'

Clack
, goes another rule.

TWENTY-FOUR

I love the smell of airports. I love watching people saying goodbye. I love the eight dollar coffees and yesterday's cream buns. I love the souvenir shops and the toothbrush machine and the militant rows of boxy seats. This is where great journeys begin and end; an airport over-flows with anticipation and love and despair.

It's been two months since I jumped off that tower and the pieces are still falling into place. The boys have been keeping a low profile since they got out and Dill even has a job as a courier. A legitimate courier. Matt's learned to change a nappy (with a dollop of Vicks smeared under his nose) and Mum's back to her tyrannical self.

We arrived at the airport three hours early. Mum hasn't let go of my hand in over an hour. Tahnee has a toothbrush and a sewing kit that someone left in a machine. Matt holds baby Will like he's a sock full of cow dung, but they're still getting to know each other. Kate is hovering around the edges of our noisy group, unsure of herself as always. I smile at her and beckon her closer.

Dillon is staring at Tahnee with a look I've seen before. I slap his stomach and he doubles over, laughing.

‘No way. Keep your hands off her. That's just too weird,' I tell him.

Tahnee blushes and crosses her legs primly.

Mrs Tkautz holds Mum's other hand.

‘It's nearly time for you to board,' Mum says. She's biting her lower lip and fussing over my hand luggage.

‘I know,' I choke out.

Tahnee and I try to eat sugared jam balls without licking our lips, for old times' sake. Tahnee wins. She uses her toothbrush to clean her teeth straight after.

A month ago Benny and I went back to the lake to rescue my bike for the last time. For its funeral. The lake had filled up to halfway and the bike lay like a yellow submarine, embedded in mud. When we finally got it out, a few treasures came with it: a deflated rubber ring, a baseball cap, and notably one green Billabong thong that had hooked on to the handlebar.

The next day the police dredged the lake and found bones. In the end, Ashley Cooke's disappearance turned out to be just another innocent tragedy, when people in Tudor Crescent are so used to expecting the worst of human nature. She would never come home, but at least the urban legends surrounding her disappearance were put to rest.

At the same time, I asked Benny why he was humming through my attempted hanging. He smiled his gappy smile. Told me Gargoyle had trouble choosing between love and loathing, that one wasn't stronger than the other, and that's why he got stuck choosing between Tarrant and me. That's why he couldn't move. Benny looked at me really hard when he said that. Said he was just helping Gargoyle make his mind up, told me the dog's jaws had closed so tight around Mick Tarrant's kneecap that he'd take one step forward, half a step back for the rest of his life. He reckoned it'd take Mick a whole lot longer to get anywhere. It's the first time I ever heard Benny take the long way around a short thought.

I sent Kate's CD to my deejay friend. Now she's the poster-girl for every muso-nerd with precision pleats who can't tell dope from lavender, and her Friday night gigs attract quite a crowd.

‘Does it hurt?' Kate asks me. She lifts my shirt to peek at the tiny hummingbird tattoo on my lower back.
Clack
.

‘Not really. It just feels strange.'

‘Like you have to re-invent yourself around it,' she grins.

‘Nah, I think I'll try just being myself for a while.'

Lola and Gargoyle are the great love story of my last summer in Tudor Crescent. After Donna Tarrant did a runner with her children in the middle of the night and Mick took off a few days later, Gargoyle was left behind. Lola found him on her porch and there he stayed. She makes him porridge for breakfast and he sleeps by her bed at night; a month of Lola-love and you can hardly see the hollow in his side. He tolerates most company but at the sound of her voice his tail begins a slow, ecstatic wag that doesn't quit. Gargoyle chose love.

The first boarding call for my flight is announced over the speakers.

‘Okay. That's me. I'd better go.' I sling my bag over my shoulder and stand.

‘You don't have to board until the last call,' Mum says, her voice wavering. ‘Oh, I'm being stupid. You've been waiting to leave your whole life.'

‘Mum, I'll be back. Promise.'

Our eyes are streaming. She pinches my chin and eyeballs me. ‘If you love something, set it free. If it comes back, it is yours. If it doesn't…'

‘Hunt it down and kill it,' I finish. I know, I know, I'm a chip off the old block, and I'm okay with that. There are worse things to be.

Matt shakes my hand then punches my shoulder. ‘Take care, kid,' he says. When he thinks no one is looking I see him checking out baby Will's ears. The little monkey grabs his finger and puts it into his mouth.

Dillon shakes my hand, then crushes me in a bear hug. ‘Stay out of trouble.'

‘That's easy, considering the precedent,' I smile.

Tahnee hugs me for ages. In her arms I feel the weight of our history. She's different now, like what happened between her and Ryan has left her scarred. Her eyes have aged but most times when we laugh together it seems as if we're still nine years old.

Mrs Tkautz says, ‘God bless, child.' I kiss her crepey old cheek and for a second she stiffens. Then she relaxes and kisses me back.

‘It's not forever,' I whisper into Mum's neck.

‘Go,' she blubbers and pushes me through the door.

I have an aisle seat, but the businessman in the window seat takes one look at my new bag and my feverish glow and offers to swap. I flick through my French translation book while the other passengers board.

It seems I've discovered my talent; I soak up foreign languages like others have a knack for numbers, or music, or physics. It fascinates me that there are so many ways to tell a person you love them.

I feel the aircraft engine revving for take-off and look for something to mark my page. In the bottom of my shorts pocket my fingers find a square of paper. It's warm, like skin—the quote I tore from Lola's calendar, washed and faded but still legible. I unfold it and read it again, even though the words are etched in my memory.

‘Who, being loved, is poor?' Oscar Wilde

I can see them with their faces pressed up against the glass, waving. Wishing me well and knowing that I'll be away for a year and come back different.

My people.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am indebted to the team at Text Publishing for taking a chance on me, particularly Penny Hueston, whose wisdom and unerring pencil made this a better book.

Thanks to my agent Sheila Drummond, for finding my book a home, and to Emily Gale, the perfect first reader.

To the Professional Writing staff and tutors at TAFE's Adelaide College of the Arts—Sue Fleming, Jude Aquilina and Jonathon Stone—thank you all.

Sincere thanks to Dyan Blacklock, whose feedback and encouragement gave me the kick in the pants I needed to finish this book.

To my wonderful parents, Brian and Julie, thank you for always giving me a place to land and for letting me be whatever I want to be when I grow up.

To my Stepmonster, Michelle, thank you for your support and ‘The Magic Pen'. Despite what you think, you always say the right thing.

To my forever friends—Liz, with you, I can say anything or nothing, and that means everything; Fi, I can always count on you to give the best reaction to good news (and bad)—don't ever change.

To my children, Mia and Roan—every day you inspire me. I thought motherhood meant the end of the dream, but it was only the beginning.

And to Russ, who let me steal time away from us to write this book, my love and thanks. I couldn't have done it without you.