The Accident (7 page)

We set things down on the kitchen table to eat. Lauren looks around. ‘Did we get the paper?’

What she’s really asking is where it is. We’ve had the paper delivered for as long as I can remember. Dad was pedantic about reading it every morning before work, and after the divorce for some reason Mum never stopped the subscription. For a couple of years it wasn’t used for much more than papier-mache and occasionally newspaper hockey in the house, until eleven-year-old Lauren started taking an interest in the headlines, and from that point on we never heard the end of it. Our own problems were relegated to irrelevancies as we were force-fed stats of the state of the world.

‘Do you know how lucky we are?’ That was what she always said. Then a list of horrible deprivations. ‘Preventable blindness, malnutrition, illiteracy…’

Now I say quietly, still expecting her to explode at any moment, ‘Out the front.’

She fetches it and pushes her breakfast aside to unroll it on the table. Smooths it out and scans the headlines, then pushes the whole thing away from her, and says quietly, ‘Nothing ever really changes…’

She
seems changed, though. Defeated somehow. I don’t know what to say. I want to ask her what happened to her while she was gone, what’s done this to her, but I don’t dare.

Lauren’s always been the fearless one in the family, not just fighting the battles that came our way but sometimes going out of hers to pick them. And Morgan was always brave too, the little three-year-old we’d drag around the neighbourhood when we were knocking on doors selling raffle tickets. Lauren and I would hang back and let Morgan charm them with her big grin, her easy love. Me, I’m the one who should be the bravest and isn’t. The one who stays quiet because I can’t summon the courage to ask, who accepts injustice because I’m too scared to stand up for myself. I’m still that kid with the sopping wet towel, keeping my mouth shut and letting others rule me.

before
after
later

The zoo is packed and Tash is arking up, refusing to sit in the stroller anymore. Terry and I take turns carrying her on our shoulders. Rose-Marie is like a whirlwind with her digital camera, not just endless photos but video, too. Photos are bad, but I really hate video. That feeling of being captured. Hard to say no to Rose-Marie, though. She’s more excited about this outing than Tash.

I’m not hungover but it’s a hot day for March. The sun’s giving me a throbbing headache. We stick to the shady side of the path but even then the light sneaks through the gaps in the foliage, a strobing on my retinas. I leave the others looking at the zebras and go throw up in the toilets, hoping it will make the pulsing pain go away.

Home at two for Tash’s afternoon nap, and Rose-Marie and Terry are packing. They’re heading to the Hunter Valley to spend tonight and Sunday at a winery. Terry’s been watching the weather up there for weeks to pick the perfect weekend. I think he’s planning on surprising her with a hot air balloon ride. Rich people have money to waste on shit like that.

It takes forty minutes to convince them we’ll be fine without them. I actually give Terry a push out the door.

‘Go now or I really will finish off the coffee.’

I’m not stupid enough to do anything at the house; I do exactly what I told Terry I’d do, which is put Tash to bed on time and sit down to do my
Othello
essay. Go for the rum and Coke, though, not coffee, reading and rereading pages of Shakespeare that won’t sink in. There’s a panicky edge to the feeling of not-understanding that just makes it worse.

I push the Coke away, reach for the bottle and take a couple of good pulls. The burn spreads through me, relaxes me a little. Forget the text then, I’ll just get straight into the essay. Haven’t got the focus for a structured job like usual. Maybe something will just flow.

It’s just past eleven when I make it to a thousand words, helped out by regular hits from the bottle. Tired eyes, words starting to blur. A coffee would keep me going but it gets me wired too, and on top of the rum I’ll end up not knowing which way is up.

Save document. Crawl onto bed. Just a nap.

‘Hello?’ Baby breath on my face and a tugging on my ears. Tash. Open my eyes to find her right up in my face, big eyes on me. She pushes a book into my face, one of those touch and feel books, different textures and bits of fabric on each page. Rose-Marie bought it for her at the zoo.

‘Not now.’ I brush the book aside and pull myself upright. My head lurches in protest. The laptop’s gone to sleep. I want to go back to sleep.

Think straight, Eliat. What would Rose-Marie say? ‘It’s past your bedtime.’

‘Whatchu doing?’

‘I’m working on an assignment for school. I have to get it done, so you have to go back to bed now. Okay?’

‘Have to read.’

‘No, we already read that one, when I put you to bed. Do you want me to tell Rose-Marie you wouldn’t go to sleep?’

She frowns, and I shift her off me before she can complain anymore. ‘C’mon, I’ll beat you back to your bedroom.’

Takes me half an hour to get her back to sleep. I have to sit patting her stomach, trying to get her to lie still. Fighting to keep myself awake.

Back to my bedroom, too brightly lit after sitting in the dark with only a twinkling blue nightlight. Reach to switch the ceiling light off so I can work in the dark. Pause.

The Coke can’s on its side. There’s a dark brown puddle on the floor in front of my desk. I didn’t…Ah, shit. Tash.

I can’t tell whether she actually managed to drink any of it before she knocked it over. She’s sound asleep on her back, breathing normally, and I let out a breath I didn’t even know I was holding. What was I expecting, to find her dancing drunkenly on her bed? Maybe. I sit there for a long minute, waiting, waiting. Nothing changes.

I clean up and crawl into bed. Stare at the glowing red digits on my alarm clock, mind buzzing tiredly. The scare with Tash has got my adrenaline pumping. No chance of sleep now.

This is when the demons come out, when everything comes back. The things I’ve done. Somehow worse, the things I’ve heard and seen. Stories I heard about other kids in foster care. Kids who’d wet the bed every night or freak out if you tried to make them sleep in the dark. Screwed-up kids.

Tash is snoring. I don’t care. I scoop her up and shift her over. There’s just room enough for us both and she stirs, but resettles without waking.

Sunday. I have to rewrite most of my essay. Tash gets a Disney marathon and her musical Hi-5 playmat while I sit at the kitchen counter with earplugs. No other way I can tolerate three continuous hours of the playmat, let alone get any actual work done.

Still a hard grind, though. Every time I manage to get my thoughts on track Tash has another question, or she wants food or attention. When everything but the conclusion’s done I call it a day. Spend the next twenty minutes tidying up the trail of Duplo and zoo animals Tash’s left right through the house.

When Terry and Rose-Marie get home I hand her over and say I’m going out.

‘Where?’

No stress. They love their little weekends away, always come back calmer. It’s a prime time to push the boundary just that little bit.

‘Movies with April. I think her boyfriend might be coming too, and some other people…Seven o’clock session, I’ll be home by ten.’

Sunday night is Sober Night, some vague group attempt at responsible behaviour. Doesn’t stop Jade and Mel from singing along to the radio all the way; it just means they’ve got no excuse for sounding so shit. Of course, it’s less than fifteen hours since their Saturday night wrapped up, so it’s possible they’re still technically intoxicated. After the singing come the dares. Streaking in public places is always popular.

‘Remember the time Izzy did it on the freeway?’

‘You should do it on the bridge.’

‘Which bridge?’

‘
The
bridge.’

‘What about the tourists?’

‘So do it at three in the morning.’

Stop at Macca’s for thirty-cent cones. Not in the mood. I sit and scan the newspaper while they giggle, a bit bored. It all just gets old after a while.

‘Don’t you guys ever get sick of this?’

‘Of what?’

‘Doing the same thing all the time…soft-serve cones on Sundays, pot and kebabs on Saturdays…’

They stare at me. The idea has never occurred to them. I can picture them still sitting here this time next year, in four or five years’ time, still loving it. The thought of even six more months in this place makes me feel claustrophobic.

I’ve been with Terry and Rose-Marie for just over two years. Only ever stayed in one place longer than that. The McIntyres, from when I was eight till just after I turned eleven. Still remember that restlessness, as if my patience with them, their family, their life, had run out.

I get April to drop me off at the petrol station and I take the shortcut through the lane. Stop and sit in the gutter outside the terrace house. There’s something so perfect about it, the paint job and the cutesy old-fashioned iron railings. I know exactly what I’m coming home to: Rose-Marie in the bathroom getting ready for bed. Her ridiculously casually expensive beauty regime. I’ve met her parents, been to the house she grew up in. She’s never had to worry about money in her life. Never had to worry about where she might be sleeping the next night. Must be easy to be nice, to be generous to people, when it’s the only way you’ve ever been treated.

Terry is watching the late-night news with his feet up on the coffee table because Rose-Marie isn’t there to tell him off. Knowing these things should make me feel safe. They just make me impatient.

I used to think I’d move to the city and finally be free. Thought the whole idea of a city was that nobody knew you, nobody cared what you were doing; you could just get lost in the crowd. Turns out to be just as much pressure to toe the line. Only difference is there’s more noise and fewer stars.

before
after
later

In art, Wednesdays are theory lessons. This school is even worse than my old one for looking at artworks as if we’re in primary school. What’s the name? Who was the artist? When was it made? Conceptual framework, frames, blah blah. Either you get art or you don’t. Either it makes you catch your breath or it doesn’t. I don’t think people can be taught to understand it. Not like this, anyway. So I tune out, scribbling down the notes in my unreadable handwriting without even caring what I’m writing.

I used to want my art to be a splash. Throwing myself on the world’s mercy. Challenging them to see me, love me or hate me. I wanted to paint as if my life depended on it. I wanted people to look at it and say, ‘Wow, that’s one really screwed-up girl’ or ‘Damn, that’s deep’, not just write down the title and my name and dates. I used to think I was the only one who felt anything. Now I’m not feeling it either.

The bell goes and Sarah Bancroft trips on my bag on her way out. A minor stumble, no faceplant or anything embarrassing. But she straightens up, fixes her hair, and throws me a cold, dirty look. ‘Your bag is in the way.’

I’ve seen other students in the grade take crap from her royal highness. I’m not interested in it. If she wants to hate my guts, so be it. And part of me is hanging out for a good fight. ‘Maybe you should look where you’re going.’

The ice queen just stares at me, loathing me, and walks out. What is it with people who think they’re gorgeous and hate anybody who isn’t?

I run into Morgan outside, waiting in the bus bay. We’ve shared the darkroom a couple of times now, but this is the first time I’ve seen her properly out in the light. And the first time she’s seen me.

It’s always interesting to watch people’s reactions to my leg. Some people notice, then get embarrassed and pretend that they haven’t. Others are totally tactless. Morgan’s eyes are lit up with curiosity. ‘Whoa, cool scar. Where’s it from?’

‘I was in an accident.’

‘Like a car accident?’

‘Yeah.’

‘That’s huge.’ She lifts her arm up to show me a long-faded streak across her elbow. ‘Lauren—my sister—threw a paperweight at me when I was four. Ten stitches. I don’t really remember it, though. She’s a bit psycho sometimes.’

Seeing Morgan properly in the light, I can see why I feel so comfortable with her. We could pass as sisters, though I’m at least half a foot taller than her. She has messy hair, scuffed school shoes, and she’s painted her fingernails black; they match mine.