The Life and Times of Gracie Faltrain (9 page)

sacrifice
noun
: the giving up of
something one values for the sake
of something more important;

self-sacrifice
noun
: the act of a
desperate person

‘Mrs Faltrain, taking out a second mortgage is risky,' my bank manager says, and adjusts his orange tie. I look at his hands, short and stubby. Hairless. This is what it has come down to, my life held in the hands of a bad-tie wearing, short, stubby, hairless man.

‘Is my application approved?' Say yes, please say yes.

‘I am approving it, but I want to advise you to think very carefully. You could lose everything.'

I think about Gracie. About getting up every morning with nothing to fight for.

‘I lose everything if I don't,' I say, and walk out.

I tell Gracie about the money and her face is a new sun. She throws her arms out, wings that seem whole again. She doesn't understand that we could lose the house and I'm glad. I want at least one of us to believe that we are saved.

 

Waves of relief wash over me as I sleep tonight. Mum is smiling. The Faltrains are back on track.

precipice
noun
: a situation of great
peril

Alyce puts the video in the machine and we sit on her couch. The rest of the class is at Susan's party but I'm happy. Alyce takes a drink and it goes down the wrong way. She's burping bubbles everywhere and spitting Coke all over me. It's hilarious. I'm laughing and whacking her on the back and it's great. There's no place I'd rather be than here, about to watch
The Terminator
. It's just the sort of film that Jane would have picked.

All of a sudden I feel homesick. I shouldn't be here. It's not right to watch this film and laugh and eat popcorn without her.

‘What's wrong?' Alyce asks, watching the rain clouds move into my eyes.

‘I guess I miss Jane.'

‘She'll be back.'

It's something that I've known all along, but somehow I like the sound of the words when they're said aloud. I hope that Jane is happy without me too. I hope she's got someone to sit
on her bus with like I do now. Alyce has saved me a seat all week without asking. I'll catch the bus on Monday and she will be there again. It will be nice to be able to predict something.

I wish I could talk to Alyce about Martin. I feel so bad about what I said. I want to ask her how I can fix things. I know what she'll say already, though. I know what I have to do.

 

‘There's a million puzzles in the world, Alyce,' Mum always said to me whenever I talked to her about school, ‘and every piece has a spot.' By the time I turned twelve I'd stopped talking to her about it. I'd worked out that there were more than a million puzzles in the world and I didn't like those odds.

School always made me feel strange. I was sure that if you turned everyone upside down and emptied them out, the things that would fall out of me would be different from everyone else. Maybe nothing would fall out at all.

Hanging out with Gracie doesn't change that exactly, but she has this way of making me feel like it doesn't matter. I can say what I want to her. I can relax.

‘Dare you to put that
whole
packet of lollies in your mouth, Alyce. Come on, I
dare
you,' she says. So I do.

I think if I had a kid I'd tell them to just make their own puzzle, make it whatever shape they want.

 

Who do you sit next to on the bus, Jane? I text on my way home. I figure it's about time I asked.

 

What
bus? You're crazy, Faltrain, that's why I miss you.

 

I waited for her after the match today. I figured she'd show up at the ground like she always does. She didn't.

I don't like the ground when it's quiet. There's too much room to think. All this space reminds me of Mum and how on Sunday afternoons she'd sit on the couch reading. Her eyes were on the words but then you'd get up a bit closer and see that she was sort of looking through the print. It was like she was seeing something on the other side. Something no one else could.

I'd touch her arm and she'd blink a bit and then look at me like we were meeting for the first time. I keep dreaming about that look. It's what made me wake up all those years ago, feeling like I wanted to be sick.

 

Gracie has gone to Alyce's for the afternoon. I come home from a movie and he is there when I walk in.

‘What are you doing here?' I ask as he laughs at my surprise.

‘Waiting for you and Gracie of course,' he says, like nothing has changed.

We eat dinner, say things like, ‘Pass the salt' and ‘This meat is delicious'. The light is fading outside and we sit in shadow until Gracie comes home and switches on the light.

 

I flick on the light and just for a minute they don't look like Mum or Dad at all. They look like two people I've never met before. The scariest thing is that they look like they've never met each other. For a minute I feel like I'm in one of those dreams where I'm hanging on to the edge of a steep cliff. One finger at a time is curling away from the edge. It's so real I can actually feel the fear circling through my chest and then down to my toes. And in this dream, I can't fly.

They smile and the strangeness passes. Dad hugs me so tightly that it's hard to breathe. Mum turns on the telly and the room fills with other people's sounds. There is a strange feeling, like if we don't open the windows we'll all suffocate. I'm too scared to sleep tonight, because the edge of that cliff doesn't seem all that far away.

 

I don't know if I can go back to him. Those threads that hold Gracie and me were woven tightly around Bill too but he broke them. How do I know they can be spun again? How do I know they'll be one, spun the same length, the same colour, running from our hearts to his? And what happens to Gracie if we try, and realise that there's nothing connecting us at all?

separate
verb
: to part or divide into
individuals

I'm halfway to Martin's house today before I realise where I'm headed. Every part of me knows what I have to do; my brain is just the last part to admit it. I want to say sorry. I want to wish him luck.

His dad opens the door. He looks tired and crumpled, like he needs mending.

‘He's not here, love. He's at practice. Do you want to come in and wait?'

‘No thanks, Mr Knight. I'll meet him at the ground.'

‘Right, love.'

He doesn't shut the door, just watches me walk down the path. I turn at the gate and wave at him, smile as he leans on the door handle and waves back.

I don't let myself think about it until I'm down the street a bit and I can't see his face anymore. I feel sort of like I've been washed over with this sadness that came out of the house in waves. His face was nice, like Martin's. I should have gone
in and kept him company for a bit. I feel bad because from the moment he opened the door I was dying to get away.

Martin isn't at the ground when I get there. The streets around me are still. Quiet. If I don't move I can hear the sounds of gates closing. I can smell chops in the air. I close my eyes and try to smell what everyone is having for dinner. Sausages. Chicken. Toast. I watch people coming home. I see a man swing his daughter high as she meets him at the gate. I imagine what his coat smells like to her, aftershave and night and home. I imagine the cool air on his jacket meeting the warmth of her cheeks. I see a glimpse of a woman at the door. It has been a long time since I've seen Mum and Dad waiting for each other like that. I want a night in front of the telly with everyone there. I want to sit between Mum and Dad on the couch and feel safe. I try to think back to the last time we ate a meal together as a family. I can't. I try to picture them holding hands, kissing each other's cheeks. I think about Mr Knight.

I run all the way home and open the door to a quiet house.

She's sitting on the couch when I walk in. He is on the chair opposite her. The yell of ‘Dad!' flattens against the edges of my throat and dies.

‘What's going on?' Please don't tell me, don't tell me. Lie to me. Lie to me.

‘Gracie, honey, come and sit down.' Mum pats the space next to her. I stay standing. Somehow I think that if I stay upright I'll be ready to catch the words that are about to hit the air. I'll be able to push them back into their mouths.

‘Gracie, I – we – your dad and I, we're going to have a break. From each other.' My mother is crying now; tears are running down her cheeks and into her mouth.

‘Gracie.' Dad's voice is soft. ‘Gracie, are you listening?'

‘No. I'm not.' I grab the soccer ball and run.

I run until my chest is exploding. I run back to the soccer field. It's dark. Lights from the houses hit the goals, square moons in the background. I throw the ball down and start to play. It doesn't matter whether it reaches the goal. All that matters is that my legs are sailing along the field again. The only sound is my feet on the grass, connecting with the ball. Blood pounding. I run until the sound is so loud that I can't hear my thoughts. There is just my heart beating and the wind and grass and the goal. And I know that this is where I am Gracie. The only place. I will not have it taken from me like Dad, like Jane. I am going back. I'm going to New South Wales.

Dad finds me. I'm like one of those wind-up toys. He has to jump in my path to stop me running. He grabs the ball and we lie on the grass, look up at the sky.

Everyone has left me. Him, Jane, Mum.

‘Gracie, honey, I know you're angry. You should be angry at me, but not your mum.'

‘I'm angry at everyone.' The sound is a growl. I'm not even sure he has heard. I can't get the words out. I want everyone to feel how unfair they are being. I want everyone to come back to me.

‘Gracie, talk to me.'

There is the sound of quiet. You can hear insects flicking wings and leaves scratching at concrete. And then there's a sound below quiet. You can hear breathing and swallowing. It's this kind of quiet when you've said something that's so close to you that it has been in your blood and your skin, but not your head. I tell Dad what I've been feeling for months but not saying or thinking.

‘You're never there. This is your fault. You've wrecked us.'

‘We'll just be different, not wrecked.'

‘I don't want different. I want you and Mum and me back.'

‘Gracie, believe me. I've never stopped loving you or your mother.'

He reaches out to touch my hand.

‘Don't you touch me,' I say, and make sure that each word is separate and clear. ‘I can't believe you lied to me.' I want my words to cut.

We walk home. I want so desperately to hold his hand. I don't.

Dad kisses my cheek goodnight. I don't look at him. I've lost things I can't get back. There is a silence in the house tonight that's never been there before.

We're all too scared to move. You know, sometimes when you're home alone and you think you can hear a noise outside? You don't move, you just wait and listen for breaking glass? We all try to sleep, waiting for the windows to smash. It feels to me like everything is already broken.

 

What do you say to your child when she tells you that you've wrecked everything? That she's right? I did pick my life up, hands big and clumsy, and let it slip through. Even before it hit the ground, I knew. I wouldn't be able to fix it.

Gracie and Helen were my one bit of good luck. I just couldn't see it. The sky went black and there were only small flashes of light to show me the way. They weren't enough. I couldn't hear their voices over the thunder.

My storm is quiet now. Water drips from trees, branches have been ripped off and hang, awkward, like broken limbs. In Gracie's eyes I see fear. Her storm has just begun.

I try to leave the house at least ten times tonight. I tell myself that I should check all the locks, that I'd better have a cup of tea. Then I need to go to the toilet. On my way out I stop at Gracie's door, open it quietly and watch her sleeping.

Helen and Gracie are everything I ever wanted. Too late. Stupid, stupid man. I take the photo album from the hall cupboard and leave.

journey
noun
: a distance travelled

I go through Gracie's going-away checklist, trying to sound like nothing is wrong.

‘Toiletries?'

‘Check,' she says.

‘Pyjamas?'

‘Check.'

‘Soccer boots and gear?'

‘Check.'

‘Spare clothes and money?'

‘Check.'

‘You know that we love you, Gracie? Gracie?'

 

If I'd said ‘Check' to Mum then, it'd be like I'd said it was okay that she and Dad were getting a divorce, and it's not. They're ruining my life. I've got a fist in my stomach; whenever I open my mouth it punches out at anyone who gets in my way.

I put my bag in the hold underneath the bus. Coach ticks off my name and hands me a soccer top. ‘They're our new colours. You're still midfield, Faltrain.'

And that's it. No one else says a word except for Martin. He sits next to me. ‘Good to see you, Faltrain. We've got some plays to go over.' His forgiveness is as easy as that. I'm on my way. The bus pulls out and turns down a street I've never been on before, even though I've lived in this suburb all my life.

 

‘Bill?'

‘Helen? I'm glad you called. We need to talk.'

‘Forget talking. I'll pick you up in half an hour. Pack some clothes.'

‘Clothes? Where are we going?'

‘New South Wales.'

 

I asked Dad to come to New South Wales but he just sat there, quiet and staring past me. I wanted him to notice me, just once.

‘Dad?' I said, getting in the way of the TV.

‘Yeah, mate?'

‘I want you to come to New South Wales. Watch me play.'

‘I can't afford it, Marty.'

‘I asked Coach. He reckons you and Karen can come on the bus with us.'

‘I don't think so, Marty.'

‘Why not?'

‘I'm tired, mate.'

‘You're tired? You'd only have to sit on the bus. That's it.'

‘I just don't feel like going, Marty. You can tell me about it when you get back.'

‘I don't want to
tell
you about it. I want you to
see
me. You sit on the couch all night waiting for her to come back. She isn't coming back. You're tired? Well, I'm tired too. I'm tired of looking after Karen. I'm tired of making us lunch and dinner. I'm tired of cleaning the house. Most of all I'm tired of you and this place.'

He didn't say anything and it made me angrier. ‘What do you see,' I yelled, ‘when you think about next year, about all the years that are coming?'

‘I don't think anything. I don't let myself. I think about today and tomorrow and that's it.'

I was scared then. If he didn't think about those things then they weren't real for Karen and me either. ‘Don't you think about us, grown up? Don't you care?'

‘Of course I care. Of course I love you. It's just not that easy.'

‘You've got to try, Dad.'

‘I try every day, Marty. Every bit of trying I do is for you two.'

That's when we heard a sound in the doorway. We turned and saw Karen, looking at us with these dead eyes. Neither of us knew what to say when she asked us if we were tired of her too. I still feel sick, because part of me knows I am.

 

It's getting dark outside, that winter dark when it's only late afternoon but it feels like night. Everyone else is sleeping to pass the time. I'm wide-awake.

‘Martin?'

‘Mmm?'

‘Martin, are you asleep?'

‘Well I'm not now, Faltrain. What's up?'

‘Have you ever done something that you were really ashamed of? I mean something so bad you felt sick just thinking about it?'

‘Everyone has. Why, what'd you do?'

‘I didn't say goodbye to Mum.'

‘That's not so bad.'

‘Did you say goodbye to your mum before she left?' I'd never asked Martin about this before. I didn't want to hear his answer.

‘She left before I had a chance.'

‘Oh.'

‘That's what I like about you, Faltrain. You always know just what to say.'

 

Good on you, Faltrain. Wake me up and remind me of Mum and then go back to sleep. Look at her, sleeping like the dead. I wish I'd had a chance to say goodbye. I want to say more than that. I'd want to know why she left in such a hurry. Was it the socks under the couch that no one cleaned up? Was it cooking the dinner every night? I'd understand that.

I reckon it was because she just didn't love us enough to stay. It wouldn't have done us any good, hearing that though. I want to look her in the face and say, ‘Because of you it feels like Dad's left us too. He wouldn't even get off the couch to come see his son play in the most important game of his life. Your daughter's twelve and she still wets the bed. And your son? He's not going back.' He's going to catch a bus somewhere after the Championships. He wants to follow in your footsteps.

 

I like watching Helen drive. It reminds me of summer holidays we took with Gracie. We'd take off up the coast to a little part of the ocean that was blue and crisp and clean. We'd bury our sandwiches in the sand to keep them cool and then swim until we were hungry. Gracie was always hungry. How could I have forgotten all this?

‘Do you remember our afternoons at the beach?' I ask her at the petrol station just outside of Melbourne. For a minute I see her smile.

 

Of course I remember.