The Problem With Crazy (14 page)

“He’s been bad today.” Mum stared straight at the house in front of us.

I let the words sink in. I studied them in my mind; ‘
he
’, referring to my father. ‘
Been
’ as in past tense, perhaps not relevant now. ‘
Bad
’ as in not good, negative. ‘
Today
’ as in … Well, I was really too stuck on ‘
bad
’ to care.

“How bad?” My voice shook, even though I tried to control it.

“Well, if ten is the highest,” Mum started, slowly, “I’d say a six? Seven?”

I thought about what it could mean. Ten would have to be almost all-out gone, an intense display of forgetting faces, uncontrollable movement, and extremely slurred speech.

What did that make a seven?

“He’s just—he’s not saying sentences properly,” Mum explained, as if reading my thoughts. “And he fell over in the shower this morning. I took him to hospital, but—”

“What? Is he okay?”

“Kate, let me finish. He just cut himself on the razor, that’s all. He didn’t even need stitches. He’s back home now.”

I processed the information, let it run through my brain on repeat. So this was not a good day.

“Will there be good days and bad days?”

“From what I understand, yes.” Mum nodded. “But we won’t know what day is which, until it happens.”

We continued to sit there in silence, both of us staring at the house without a word. I didn’t want to go in. I didn’t want to see firsthand evidence of my dad acting like a different person again.

“He is in there, right?”

“Yes.”

More silence.

There was no comfort in our solidarity, no consolation knowing that my own mother didn’t want to see her husband just as much as I didn’t want to see my father.

Five silent, drawn out minutes ticked by—again, as timed on my phone—and I decided to get out of the car. I felt stretched between relief that it was five minutes of avoided discomfort, and sadness that when my father did eventually die, I’d never get those five minutes back.

I walked around the back and grabbed my luggage, swinging it over my shoulder and walked to the door. Mum followed close behind, house keys at the ready.

She fussed with the keys and it took her three goes to get them in the lock correctly. The need for keys was odd, since Dad was home already. I guess maybe he wasn’t allowed out? Perhaps she’d been told by the doctor to lock up when she left, as if he no longer was capable of keeping the house secure while in his own company?

Metal jingled, and I looked down. Mum had dropped the keys on the front doorstep. She could never hide it when she was nervous. Her body gave her away.

Finally, the door swung open, and Mum stood to the left, allowing me to enter first.

I walked inside, dropping my overnight bag next to the couch, and rushed into the kitchen. I wanted to get it over and done with, to rip open my Dad-shaped wound like I was taking a Band-Aid off, and see him at sixes or sevens.

The kitchen was empty, a glass of half-finished orange juice on the counter. Mum was a shadow behind me.

“Outside,” she whispered, pointing to the half-open screen door. We raced outside, like he was a toddler who’d escaped the fold. He was a full-grown man, for crying out loud. Surely he’d be fine.

I scanned the yard, eyes running over the top of garden beds, the rose patch and the swing set.

“He’s not here,” I breathed. I felt my heart start to race as the blood shot at my pulse. What if he’d fallen down again, like he had this morning? What if, right at this very moment, he was lying in a shattered pile of glass, bleeding his life away and unable to stop the flow?

What if … what if he’d hurt himself on some of his old tools?

I turned and raced toward the garage, my legs pounding over the cracked pavement. The cement was hard beneath my feet, my soles smarting on impact through my thin-soled flip-flops.

Mum followed, hot on my heels, as if she’d had the thought just as I did. I reached the garage door and flung it wide-open, eyes rapidly scanning the dirty old room for signs of life.

My eyes took a few seconds to adjust to the dark. I made out the shadows of toolboxes, bicycles, old surfboards, the ice chest …

“Girls.”

He was crouched down in the corner, sitting in a pile of dust. A grin stretched from cheek to cheek. Aside from the empty cans scattered around him, he looked normal. There was no blood, no limbs bent at an unnatural angle.

But his leg was kicking, tiny jerks into space, just like the genetics counsellor had warned me about.

Kick—pause—kick—pause—kick.

Over and over and over.

The air clawed at my throat, stopping me from breathing. My chest closed in, constricted.

This wasn’t my father.

I pushed past Mum and bolted out into the yard again until I was in the opposite corner. I was desperate for air, taking big, needy gulps of it. I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t
do
this. I jerked my foot out and kicked a paling on our brown wooden fence, as hard as I could.

My toes curled up in pain and I hopped around, biting my lip and cursing. Even through my shoe, it
hurt
. It hurt so damn much.

But at least this was a pain that was real.

At least it wasn’t the pain churning inside of me, eating me alive slowly in its wishy-washy fashion. This pain was a release: short, sharp and loaded with hate. And it was sweet.

I limped back inside and grabbed my bag, hauling it upstairs to my room where I started to unpack.

I wondered if I’d be able to keep living like this thing didn’t really exist for much longer.

T
HE NEXT
morning I woke up and saw Mum had left a yellow Post-it note on my bedroom door. And one on top of my laptop. One on my phone, too. Apparently, she was really keen on me checking the note she’d left on the fridge.

You know, for my first day of babysitting my father.

Normally her OCD made me laugh, but today it made me feel queasy. How was I going to do this alone? I grabbed my phone and shot off a quick text to Stacey.

Are you free today?

The responding vibration came back less than a minute later.

Sorry, on a date.

Then another:

Wish me luck!

I scrunched up my face, trying not to be too jealous. She was allowed to date. She’d just spent a week with me in another state; I could hardly expect her to hang out with me every second of the day.

After the world’s quickest shower, I took the stairs two at a time till I reached the kitchen. As promised, Mum’s note was stuck to the refrigerator in plain view. I walked over and snatched it out from the magnet’s grasp, crumpling the corner in my hand.

To do list:

1. Clean house
   

2. Get groceries
   

3. Spend quality time with your father
   

Seeing the words hurt.
Quality time with your father.

Stab, stab, stab.

I screwed the paper up into a tiny ball and let it loop through the air on its journey to the bin. I couldn’t deal with lists, and forced bonding right now.

I made myself some tea and sat on one of the backless stools lined up at our kitchen bench, staring at my mug. Its soft-brown hue was pretty, I decided. Little bubbles of milk gathered at the sides of the cup, and I focused on them, watching them explode into the deep sea of tea, one by one. Concentrating on that felt easier than concentrating on everything that was happening inside this house. Concentrating on that felt real.

I don’t know how long I was in my reverie, but when I finally took a sip of tea it had turned lukewarm, and the sun was no longer streaming through the window but rather dwindling in the corner. I let one side of my mouth rise in mild amusement. It wasn’t like I had anything to do today, anyway. I didn’t have tour. I didn’t have any commitments for the year ahead, thanks to my lack of college applications due to full-time rock star girlfriend commitments. All I had to do was within this house.

The stark white walls started to feel very close, the air thick and stifling. My heart speed up and I wondered what was wrong with me. Why was it so hard to breathe lately?

My breath was coming in short, sharp gasps again, and I could feel a pounding at my wrist that must have been my pulse. I wasn’t normally so aware of my body and its movements. This wasn’t me. This wasn’t … wasn’t natural.

I needed to get out. Now.

I jumped from my bench seat and burst out into the yard, clutching my stomach. Out there, the air was cool. I doubled over and sucked it all in, big, shuddering breaths that filled my chest from the top of my lungs to their very pits.

Slowly, I felt my heart drop its frantic pace. Slowly, I stopped being so aware of my pulse, and became more aware of the thin rays of light still streaming into the yard and gently bathing my arms and legs in warmth.

Breathe.

It was going to be okay.

“Hello.” Dad’s voice sent my heart rate back to regular speed again. He was leaning in the kitchen doorway, resting on the wall for support. He sounded normal.

“Hi.” I barked the word out.

He stood there, watching me as I studied the grass and the filtered shadows running through it. This was okay. Maybe this would be a one day, or a minus three day. We could be normal.

“You go on tour?” A stilted sentence. That was all it took. “K … kiss that girl …” He sung the words a little. He’d been to almost as many of Dave’s gigs as I had before he disappeared. It was almost ironic he was the reason I wasn’t with Dave & the Glories now. Nor would I be, ever.

“Nope.” I kicked a small stone that lay next to the path and watched it crush a tender blade of grass where it landed.

I hoped it hurt.

“L … let’s get coffee?”

I pursed my lips and studied him, his even frame, folded arms. He looked normal in his checked shirt and blue jeans, nothing like the man who’d shown up drunk at graduation.

If I were honest with myself, no, no I didn’t. I wanted to stay at home, watch some bad movies and throw a pity-party.

One day, he’s going to die.

“Okay, let’s go.”

I locked up the house, grabbed my bag, and we hopped into my little yellow car. Dad didn’t say much as I drove through town, searching for a coffee shop I hadn’t been to before, one where I would run the smallest chance of seeing someone from school. I deliberately drove toward the business district, away from the usual places kids my age hung out.

When we passed the building Dad used to work in, I felt his body stiffen in the seat beside me. He averted his gaze to the road in front. Seconds later, his arm started twitch, just like his leg had the day before.

I didn’t say anything.

I didn’t know what to say.

Our silence wasn’t so much awkward as it was forced. I still didn’t really know how to act around him, and I guess he either was embarrassed, or could sense my reserved hostility. I didn’t know. All I knew was that it was hard.

“So, how was living in care?” I eventually said, chancing him a quick look as we stopped at some traffic lights.

“Good.” Dad shrugged. His arm was still on its flicking mission, but he didn’t seem bothered by it.

“Were the nurses nice?”
What do you ask someone who has spent the better part of the past year in a home?

“Not as n … nice-as-your-mother.” Dad gave a toothy smile. I pressed my lips together in a thin line. He’d seemed fine before. Why was he acting funny now? Had I done something to bring it on? Was it asking about the home, or seeing his workplace? And if he missed Mum so bad, why’d he run away in the first place?

I parked in a nearby lot and we got out, walking toward the shops like two strangers who just happened to be going to the same place. Dad stayed a few steps behind me. I wasn’t sure if it was because I was charging ahead, or if he was deliberately keeping a slower pace.