Mothers and Daughters (38 page)

Tears came to her eyes and Fiona brushed them away with the back of her hand. She really was tired, she realised—not from the trip, but from her own damn life. From the long hours and Todd’s constant sniping, from the ever-present worry about whether they’d have enough to pay the mortgage that month, from the effort of keeping her constantly simmering anger from coming to the boil. And for what? She was probably going to die anyway. She was definitely going to die, she
corrected herself, but possibly earlier than she’d expected. The thought gave her a perverse flash of pleasure. Good! Let’s see how they all coped then. They’d soon realise she hadn’t been so useless after all.

But just say she didn’t die? Just say the lump was benign, or easily treated . . . She’d get out of hospital, go back to the practice, and nothing would change. Fiona sat up straight in her chair. It
had
to change. She saw that now. It drove her mad to watch Bronte being a victim—being picked on by Janey, afraid of her own shadow, always hiding behind that curtain of hair—but was she any better? She didn’t creep around like Bronte, but then again she rarely stood up to Todd either, just put up with all his shit and then took out the way he made her feel on everyone else. On Bronte. Fiona swallowed. She wasn’t much of a poster girl for the confident, hard-headed woman she was always harping at her daughter to become. And what about Dom? Her mind raced. What was her marriage teaching him—that it was OK to bag your wife, to deride as inferior every female you knew, to do no more than eat, grunt and fart at the dinner table, then piss off without clearing your plate or thanking the person who’d cooked your meal? God, no wonder Bronte scuttled out of the room as soon as Dom came in. He was turning out just like his father.

‘Hey,’ said Bronte, emerging from the shadows.

‘You’re back!’ cried Fiona, surprised at the relief she felt.

‘Oh, Tess and I have been back for ages,’ Bronte said. ‘We’ve just been lying over there on the lawn.’

The words stung. Back for ages, but she hadn’t bothered
to come and find her mother, to say hello or tell Fiona what was going on.

‘Did you even know I was here?’ Fiona asked, sounding whiny even to her own ears.

‘Yeah. I just assumed you wanted to be left alone.’

Bronte’s hair was lit from behind by the moonlight, her cheekbones thrown into sharp relief. She was beautiful, Fiona thought. She was growing up. There wasn’t much time left. She had to make an effort, for Bronte’s sake; she had to break the cycle, be there for her. She didn’t want them ending up essentially estranged, as she had with her own mother. And she needed Bronte, she thought with a sharp stab of panic. Todd was the one who was useless; Dom was heading that way. Who else did she have except her friends and Bronte?

‘Mum, are you listening to me?’ Bronte said. ‘I was telling you that Janey, Caro and Amira are at the hospital, and Morag went off to find Macy. Tess has gone to bed, but I just had an idea. Can you do me a favour?’

Janey stared at the ceiling as her mother’s footsteps receded down the hospital corridor outside. There was a stain in one corner, as if a vase of flowers had been knocked over and the water had drained out. That was ridiculous though, she chided herself. The drugs they’d given for the pain must be fogging her mind. You didn’t put flowers on the ceiling. It was probably from the airconditioning, or a tropical storm. She
made herself concentrate on the dark smudge. If she stared at it long enough, maybe she’d wake up at home, in her own bed with all her limbs still intact, and all of this would have been a dream.

No chance. A trolley clattered past her room and she jumped at the noise, then winced as pain shot through her leg. She wondered dully what was wrong with it. She’d clearly broken something—the radiographer had muttered ‘Ouch’ as he inspected her X-rays—but how badly? Janey let her head fall to the side, gazing now at the wall. It didn’t matter. Her ankle would mend. She wasn’t so sure about the rest of her.

He’d fucked her. He’d fucked her and she’d let him, but oh, how she wished she could take it all back now. She winced again, remembering Roo’s hands on her body, his tongue in her mouth, his . . . thing between her legs. Ugh. Janey fought the urge to vomit. She felt so dirty. She needed a shower. There was sand in her hair, mud under her nails and Roo’s semen on her thighs. She hadn’t even had a chance to pull her undies back on, so intent had she been on getting away, and they were balled up somewhere in her bag. She’d throw them in the bin the first chance she got. She’d throw out her handbag too, and all the other clothes she was wearing . . . anything that might remind her of last night. Her skin crawled. She’d thought having sex would change her somehow, transform her, but she was just the same, only grubbier.

‘Janey . . . hey . . . are you awake?’

She turned her head to the other side to find Bronte hesitating in the doorway.

‘Hey,’ she replied weakly. ‘Yeah. I guess.’

‘Are you OK?’ asked Bronte. ‘Where’s your mum?’

‘She went off with Amira to talk to the doctor and fill in some forms. I think I need an operation.’

Bronte came into the room and seated herself gingerly on the edge of Janey’s bed.

‘Oh, that’s awful. You poor thing. Does it hurt much? And you’ve got state champs coming up!’

Janey blinked. So she had. Funny how the thought hadn’t even crossed her mind in the hours since the accident. Funny, too, how she couldn’t care less. It was just swimming. It was just going up and down a pool and seeing who could do it the fastest. It didn’t mean anything.

‘I brought something for you.’ Bronte reached into her pocket. ‘I didn’t know how long you were going to be in here, and I thought you could probably use something to take your mind off it all . . .’ She held out an iPhone.

Janey stared at it, puzzled.

‘It’s my mum’s,’ said Bronte. ‘She said you can borrow it. They have wi-fi here—I asked a nurse—so you can listen to music or watch some videos or even check your email. It’ll be better than just lying around doing nothing.’

Tears came to Janey’s eyes. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘That’s so nice.’

‘Well, I knew you didn’t have your own with you.’ Bronte smiled shyly, ducking her head, then turned to examine Janey’s ankle. ‘Yow. It hurts just to look at that. How did you do it?’

Janey’s shoulders heaved and she started to sob. Bronte’s kindness had undone her.

‘I went to the beach with a boy . . . the one I was with in the pool on the first night . . . and . . . and stuff happened and I was running away and I fell over a rock—’

‘Oh God, Janey,’ Bronte interrupted. ‘Did he rape you? You have to tell someone.’

Janey shook her head, tears flying onto the sheets. Snot was pouring from her nose, but she was past caring what she looked like. ‘It wasn’t rape. I let him, but it hurt—and he said he was going to pull out but he didn’t and now I’m terrified that I’m pregnant.’ Her voice cracked. She couldn’t stop crying. She wanted to go home. She wanted to die.

Bronte moved up the bed and wrapped her arms around Janey. ‘The bastard. What an awful thing to do.’ She rocked Janey gently back and forth as if she were a child. ‘I could kill him . . . But I’m sure you’re not pregnant. It hardly ever happens the first time. You’d be so unlucky.’ She stopped and drew back without letting go of her, peering into Janey’s eyes. ‘Will you tell your mum?’

Janey shook her head again. She’d rather die. She’d already let her mother down enough by disobeying her instructions and breaking her ankle. All those hours of training wasted, all the money her parents had spent on squad fees and meet entries, all those five a.m. starts when her mother, who liked her sleep, had uncomplainingly got up and driven her to the pool. That was bad enough, but Caro would be even more devastated if she knew what else Janey had thrown away.

‘I think she’d be OK, Janey, she really would. She’s pretty good, your mum.’ Bronte was silent for a moment, waiting for Janey to respond. When she didn’t she gently pulled Janey back
to her. ‘Ok then, but you need to see a doctor when we get back to Melbourne. I’ll come with you, if you like. I can organise it. Macy will know someone. And the morning-after pill—you’ve got a few days for that, and you don’t need a prescription. I’m guessing you’ll have to stay in bed for a while, but I could go to a chemist and ask for it, I suppose. They won’t need to know it’s not for me.’

Despite her fears, despite everything, Janey found her mouth twitching. She’d never even seen Bronte talking to a boy, yet here she was prepared to brazenly dupe a pharmacist for some emergency contraception.

‘That sex-ed program at your school really is good, isn’t it?’ she snuffled.

‘It is.’ Bronte passed her the box of tissues next to the bed. ‘I’m serious though. It will all be alright. I promise.’

Caro reappeared as Janey was blowing her nose.

‘Janey, the doctor says—’ she began, then broke off when she spotted Bronte. ‘Oh, Bronte, I didn’t know you were here. That was good of you to check on Janey.’ She bent to smooth back the hair from Janey’s face, then frowned. ‘You’ve been crying!’ ‘She was a bit upset about her ankle,’ Bronte said. ‘They’ll be able to fix it though, won’t they?’

Caro nodded. ‘They’re going to operate tonight,’ she said, studying Janey’s face. ‘That way they’ve said you can still fly home tomorrow, as long as everything goes well. It’s not ideal, and you’ll need lots of painkillers, but there’s not another direct flight to Melbourne for another week—and I’d rather have you back there anyway, so I can get you checked by a specialist.’

‘I’ll go then,’ said Bronte, standing up. ‘Good luck, Janey.’ She squeezed her hand. ‘It will all be OK, remember? I’ll see you in the morning.’

‘Yeah,’ Janey mumbled, then added, ‘And thanks, Bronte. Thanks for everything.’

Caro watched as Bronte left the room.

‘That was good of her,’ she repeated. ‘If I’d had to guess who’d be the first to come visit you . . .’

‘I know,’ said Janey.

‘A nurse is going to give you a pre-op soon,’ Caro said. She looked tired, Janey thought, the lines around her eyes longer and deeper. ‘The doctor said he’d sedate you enough so you can sleep afterwards, through the rest of the night, which is good. When you wake up it will be time to go home.’

‘Will you stay?’ Janey asked, suddenly nervous. ‘Here, I mean, in the hospital, not at The Mangrove.’ She sniffed. ‘I’m sorry about tonight. I know I mucked up. But I really want you to stay, Mum.’

‘Of course I will,’ her mother said, stroking her cheek. ‘I’ll be right here. I’m not going anywhere.’

‘Here,’ said Amira, handing her a polystyrene cup. ‘White, with two sugars. That’s how you take it, isn’t it?’

Caro nodded. It wasn’t—she’d cut back to one sugar—but there was no point telling Amira that now. ‘Thank you for staying,’ she said. ‘You didn’t have to. You must be exhausted after all the driving today.’

Amira sat down next to her, hands around her own cup. ‘There’s no way I’d leave you here alone. You wouldn’t have left me if our situations were reversed, would you? And Fiona and Morag both wanted to come too, but I told them to stay with the girls.’ She lifted her coffee to her mouth and blew on it, sending ripples across the cloudy surface. ‘Anyway, I can catch up on my sleep tomorrow, once you’re all gone. There won’t be anything else to do.’

‘It’s been quite the week, hasn’t it?’ Caro shifted on the hard plastic chair, trying to get comfortable. When Janey had been wheeled into surgery Caro had asked to be directed to the waiting area, only to be told she was already in it: a dimly lit corridor opposite the nurses’ station sporting four chairs, two dog-eared
Woman’s Day
s and a vending machine humming to itself. Still, she could hardly complain. At least Janey hadn’t broken her ankle in Kalangalla, where the doctor only visited weekly and there were certainly no operating facilities. It could have been worse, she told herself, and yet right now it was hard to feel that way.

‘How long does the doctor think she’ll be in plaster?’ Amira asked.

‘He said they won’t know for sure until they’ve had a proper look at it, but at least a month to six weeks. She’ll have to miss states, that means, and the district cross-country trials, which she always does well in.’ Caro sighed. ‘And I suppose she’ll need crutches and rehab and I’ll have to drive her to and from school . . .’ She stopped, ashamed. ‘Sorry. I’m not sounding like much of a mother, am I? I do feel sorry for Janey, of course I do, but I just keep thinking that this was all so avoidable. If
they’d only stayed together, like we asked—why the hell did she have to go off by herself? It’s infuriating.’