The Accident (15 page)

She holds up the rest of the sixpack. ‘Want one?’

To venture out causes anxiety, but not to venture is to lose one’s self…

‘Okay.’ Amazing that my voice still somehow sounds normal, because my heart is banging away madly in my chest. I’ve never even really thought of her as a girl before. I suppose she must have worn tight pants or short skirts around, but I never really paid much attention.

She raises an eyebrow—I’ve surprised her, I think—but holds out the stubby and gestures to the step beside her.

The beer is a twist top and I feel a flutter of panic in my chest at the thought that I might spectacularly crash and burn right here and now and not even be able to get the lid off. But I do, and I take a sip. I’ve had beer once or twice before—Aunt Jen’s boyfriends usually try the male bonding thing if we meet them—but it’s not like a habit. It takes a lot of concentration to pretend I know what I’m doing.

‘When did Lauren get back?’

‘About two weeks ago.’

She takes a drink, puts the beer down and fishes a pack of cigarettes out of her backpack. I give her a look.

‘So I’m guessing I don’t need to offer you one…’

‘You’re an idiot.’ For some reason, despite the fact that I know she could flatten me with one punch, and despite the fact that my heart is still thumping away crazily, I don’t even hesitate before telling her that.

‘Yeah, I know.’ She smiles, plays with the pack of cigarettes. Nice, straight teeth. She and I had braces at about the same time. Her hair is pretty, too. Crazy red, and all the kids at school used to make fun of her, but it’s long and wavy and—
Why am I thinking these things about Kayla?

I watch her slide the packet, untouched, back into the bag. ‘I’m still trying to get Mum to quit.’ I say it mildly, not wanting to derail the odd civility of our conversation.

‘Yeah, good luck. She’s down here bumming a smoke off me every other night.’

It’s a strange thought. Two or three days could easily go by without me even seeing Mum but she’s down here talking to Kayla, of all people. Is it because Kayla doesn’t expect anything of her? Doesn’t she realise we’ve pretty much given up any expectations ourselves?

We sit in silence for a while. I take small sips of beer, not sure whether I like the taste or not. What I like is that I probably look more of a man, and then I realise that if Lauren sees me she’ll know that, and despise me for it utterly. Then I hate, really hate, that everything I think and do is dictated by my sister’s opinion.

‘How long have you done kickboxing?’

‘I started after Daniel Cameron hit me in year seven. Remember that?’

I remember she called him pretentious, and he didn’t know what it meant. He got in trouble for punching her, of course, but it doesn’t surprise me that Kayla went out and found her own way of making sure nothing like that ever happened again. She’s not the sort of person who waits around for somebody else to fix the situation for her.

We both look up at the sound of a car coming from the end of the street, that same muffler as before and music blaring. It pulls up outside our house, a lowered Subaru. From the voices, there’s at least four or five people crowded inside. The door opens and Morgan extricates herself.

‘Hey, Morgs.’ It’s Kayla calling her, not me. She sees us. Looks surprised to see me there. Turning back to the car, she says something through the open window and the car takes off, then she turns and approaches us. She’s in skinny jeans and a low-necked top that gives her more cleavage than a brother ever wants to know about. Around the house I rarely see her in anything other than school uniform or her favourite yellow hoodie, which both make her look like an oversized kid. But she’s looking very grown up all of a sudden. When did she get more grown up than me?

Kayla holds out the bundle of beers. ‘Want one?’

‘Sure.’

‘She’s fifteen!’ Did I squeak?

‘One won’t kill her. Besides, I’ll be a responsible drinking partner, won’t I, Morgs?’

She grins. ‘You usually are.’

I watch as Kayla twists the top off and passes it to her, and I wonder how many she’s already had and if I should play the parent and stop her, or not be a wuss and let her live a little. Everybody else seems to worry less and be happier for it.

So we sit there, the three of us squished together on the step. Morgan starts telling a funny story about the party she was at, and she makes us laugh, and I feel Kayla jostling and moving beside me, the warmth of her, and it makes me wish the moment won’t ever end.

Later I go upstairs to Mum’s room. She’s huddled at her computer with a handful of used tissues spread out all around the keyboard, scrolling up through the open document.

‘Mum?’

‘What?’

‘I’ve got you a ticket for Morgan’s play.’

‘When is it?’

‘Next Friday night.’

She grimaces. ‘I’m battling a cold and I still have ten thousand words to do before the end of the month. I may not have the time to spare.’

It’s an excuse, and it doesn’t surprise me. I’m surprised to find how much it annoys me, though.

I try to keep my voice steady. ‘I think it would really mean a lot to her if you could come.’

‘I’ll try, but I can’t make any promises. I have to meet my deadline.’ Her words come impatiently, as if I’m interrupting her flow. I doubt that’s the case. When she types, it’s usually slowly, one finger at a time as she struggles to find the words. Like Tolstoy’s exhausted Russian soldiers plodding on through the snow, just one frozen foot in front of the other because if they stop it’s all over.

before
after
later

First time in my life I’m actually glad to go back to school. If Rose-Marie was looking to punish me, she succeeded spectacularly. Two weeks of precious holidays trashed. Two weeks of near-hell stuck in the house with Her Royal Highness the Self-Righteous Bitch, only getting a break from her when she took Tash out to her endless toddler activities. Not many things can make you feel as pathetic as being jealous of a two-year old’s social life.

School is dull as ever but at least I can finally catch up with my friends. I’m allowed out on Thursday night for my driving lesson, which I get through without stalling and without hitting the gutter in my reverse park. Finally got all my hours up and George reckons I’m ready to book my P’s test. Some good news to take home. Terry’s still avoiding me.

Rose-Marie and Terry are playing Scrabble when I get home and she doesn’t even look up from the board. But Terry mutters something about coffee and leaves the room. Still pissed at me, apparently.

‘Did you get a chance to look through those brochures I put in your room?’ Rose-Marie. They’ve been there for a week, which I’ll bet is what she considers the polite amount of time to let me mull over a decision like that. She knows I haven’t even touched them.

‘The schools?’ Stupid heart pounding in my chest. ‘Yeah, had a quick look. I don’t mind. Somewhere local. Public is fine.’

‘You didn’t want to consider one of the independent schools? Livingstone is just down the road and it has an excellent reputation. Smaller class sizes, better resources…’

Livingstone School was the top brochure. I’d never even heard of it, but the picture on the front said it all. Spoilt-looking kids in miniature blazers and boater hats. Please.

Shrug. ‘The public schools round here seem okay. It’s only kindy to start, anyway.’

Rose-Marie’s expression tells me this is the wrong thing to say. Bet Livingstone is where all the kids from her mothers’ group are enrolled. She always comes home from the group with something new she’s gone out and bought for Tash—the latest expensive toy or organic baby food or high-tech stroller. I don’t really care either way—it’s her money she’s spending, and if she gets a kick out of it and Tash happens to benefit, so be it. But she’s treating this school business as if it’s the choice that will define the rest of Tash’s life. Not sure if that scares me or just annoys me.

‘I thought maybe we could take a look,’ Rose-Marie presses. ‘Just a quick visit, see the facilities and meet some of the staff.’

It’s just a school, I want to say. I don’t, because I can tell she’s taking this seriously. She’ll think I just don’t care. Actually, I
don’t
care, but I don’t want her getting the shits with me, either.

‘Yeah, okay.’

She nods. Maybe the fact she’s won some small battle gives her the confidence to go on. ‘We’ve been thinking, as well…What are your plans for next year?’

Next year? Be lucky if I had a plan beyond next weekend.

Shrug. ‘Uni, I guess.’ It’s months before I have to make a decision.

‘We were wondering if you might be interested in doing a gap year somewhere.’

My vague impression of gap years is that you travel overseas to work your butt off in a summer camp with whiny American kids. Or freeze it off working a ski-lift in Canada. Picture myself in the woods, standing next to a log cabin wearing sneakers and some hideous t-shirt, with Tash, in a matching ensemble, clinging to my leg.

‘What would I do with Tash?’

‘She’d stay here, of course.’

Whoa. Stop the train. ‘What?’

Rose-Marie glances around, as if looking for backup, but Terry’s not here. She looks back to me.

‘Well, you couldn’t take her with you…’

Meet her gaze. ‘Well, I wouldn’t go anywhere without her…’

A tug-of-war between us, heavy silence. Can almost see the options turning over in Rose-Marie’s mind, arguments to make. She draws a breath.

‘Some day you’re going to want a life of your own. You’ll want to go to uni, travel, get your own place, be independent…’

‘You think I care about my social life more than I care about Tash?’

‘You haven’t given us any evidence to the contrary!’

What a low fucking blow. Part of me knows, has always known, I’m just the means to an end. Should have realised Rose-Marie would be planning life without me. Waiting for me to stuff up so she’d have a reason to get rid of me.

Stare back. ‘If I go, she goes.’

I’m mad. She’s mad. Her words come low, fast and dangerous. ‘To what, Eliat? Where are you going to take her? You can’t even look after yourself, what makes you think you can be her parent?’

‘I am her parent.’

‘Not the way you act.’

‘So, what, just because you can afford to buy her stuff and send her to some stupid private school, you’re a better parent?’

‘No, being the one who stays home and changes the nappies instead of going out and getting high makes me the better parent.’

Both standing now. In each other’s faces and trying to catch our breath. Tears in her eyes. I’m so full of hate for her I want to spit in her face.

I bite down on my lower lip hard, till I can taste the blood.

‘She stays with me,’ I manage. Before she can answer I turn and leave the room. Slam my bedroom door shut.

I don’t have a bag big enough to pack everything I own. End up with rejected clothes strewn all around the room and a bag I can’t zip up. Ridiculous how much crap I have, anyway. Tash’s room, flipping on the light. She’s asleep in her favourite position, face-down with her bottom sticking up in the air, legs tucked under her. She sits upright, groggy, looks around. Obviously something about me that scares her because the thumb goes into her mouth. Looks just like a baby again, in singlet and nappy, hair out in all directions. She scored the same dark hair as me, but her skin is lighter. Three quarters white, only one quarter Asian, at a guess. Her eyes are blue. Thanks, Jonah.

There’s one of those kid-sized suitcases in the top of her wardrobe, from the time Terry and Rose-Marie took us to the Gold Coast. Right up at the top, out of my reach. I have to drag one of her toyboxes across to stand on. Manage to spill an open box of nappies all over the floor. They tumble down, hitting me on the shoulders, chest, legs as they fall.

‘Shit!’

‘Shit!’ Tash echoes me, a small sleepy voice.

‘Tash…’ My warning voice. Hypocrite.

I lug the suitcase down and then pull open her drawers. Rose-Marie keeps everything tidy and organised. Singlets, shorts, skirts, jeans, play tops, pretty tops, long-sleeved tops, jumpers, pyjamas…Grab the top handful from each pile and shove them into the tiny suitcase, then head over to her shoe shelf. Nowhere near enough room in the suitcase for the tonnes of stuff Rose-Marie has bought for her.

Starting to whine. Not knowing what’s going on, but the sight of me tearing her bedroom apart is obviously disturbing her.

‘We’re going on a holiday, you and me,’ I tell her. ‘What toys do you want to take?’

Won’t answer me, just whines. I don’t know where to start. Spoilt kid. Dolls, Duplo, toy cars, dress-ups, building blocks…

I’m trying to shove her two favourite toy cars into the bulging suitcase when she starts to bawl. Not just cry, but scream, as if she’s just fallen over or somebody’s hit her. Rose-Marie must have been just outside the door. She’s there within seconds. Stands in the doorway and surveys the mess. And Tash, with red face and snotty runny nose and tears everywhere, reaches out to her.