The Problem With Crazy (16 page)

A
WEEK
after my Gold Coast mini-break, Mum committed to working six days a week. She scheduled shift work, allowing her to be home some mornings and afternoons, but it still meant I had to be there when she wasn’t.

“I know looking after him isn’t exactly fun, but you’re going to have to do it,” Mum told me as she swept her hair up into a neat bun. She studied herself in the white light of the bathroom mirror, checking that her appearance was picture perfect, her hair centred.

“Okay.” I didn’t want to argue. I could tell from the click of her tongue she wasn’t in a good mood.

“Unfortunately, as well as the addiction side effects, suicide is a real possibility for people in his situation. The doctor thinks we’re past the time when this is an immediate threat, but still, I don’t want him left alone.”

I shut my eyes, the voice of the counsellor ringing in my ears. I could see why a young person might want to die, but why him? He was already on a limited life sentence, and his quality of life had deteriorated. What would be the point in committing suicide now?

“I know you said you have a job trial, but it will have to be flexible hours, as someone needs to be with your father at all times,” Mum continued. I nodded, staring at the white mosaic of tiles on the floor.
At all times.

“And about your next appointment with the genetics counsellor, has she given you the contacts to book in for your testing yet?”

“I’m not sure if I’m—ready.” I frowned. Mum stopped her primping, her hands dropping to her sides. She stared at me in the mirror.

“You don’t have to do it, darling. I just thought you’d want to. You flipped the coin; I thought you wanted to know.”

I shook my head, confused. The problem was, I didn’t know if I wanted to know or not. One moment I thought,
Yes, I’ll get this over and done with
, the next I’d crumble into a quivering heap of fear. If I knew and it was positive, what would be the point? What would be the point in anything?

But if I didn’t know and it was positive, why waste years of my life on college or work, on keeping friendships, forming relationships? Even if I found someone who could put up with Dad, they’d end up seeing me not as a lover but a burden.

A big, old burden.

Much like my dad.

“Yeah,” I paused. “I think I do want to get tested.”

“Well, good! Now, go downstairs and make some breakfast for your father. I’ll be down to say goodbye in a minute.” Mum placed a hand on my back and gently prodded me out of the bathroom.

I walked downstairs in a daze, heading for the kitchen. Dad was seated at the table, dressed in a plaid shirt, reading the newspaper. Or, looking at it, at least. His eyes didn’t seem to be moving much.

“Morning.” He grinned.

“Morning.” My voice was flat, a can of lemonade opened too long, and I forced my lips to remain downturned. It was hard not to smile around him, when he looked so pleased. I wondered if, in a weird way, he was happier now? He didn’t look as uptight as he’d used to when I was younger and he was working late, and he and Mum were fighting all the time. Did he know what he had lost? When he was acting in this different manner, did he know he was doing it?

They say ignorance is bliss, but maybe ignorance would suck. Would I realise I was losing control? Would I be able to make simple decisions, like what to eat for breakfast? I didn’t even know what Dad would want to eat. The man sitting at our kitchen table was a stranger.

“Toast?” I asked. It seemed the easier of the two imminent problems to deal with.

“Yes.” His eyes were wide, and his smile even bigger. His enthusiasm was a little unsettling. It was, after all, only toast, but he was acting like I’d offered him Christmas. I popped two slices into the toaster and flipped it on. I boiled the kettle and got out two cups with tea bags.

When the slices were ready, I buttered them, and added the water to the tea. I placed Dad’s breakfast down in front of him, and went back to the counter for mine.

I don’t know how it happened, or exactly what he did, but while my back was turned I heard a scream. The sort of heart-piercing, ear-splitting scream that only someone experiencing real pain can make.

I spun around and saw Dad, his face crumpled like a piece of paper, red as a lobster, mouth open wide as he expelled a volume from his lungs I didn’t think possible.

His teacup was sideways, its milky-brown contents pouring over the edge of the table and onto his stomach and groin, a waterfall of boiling hot lava.

I raced to his side, and pulled him to his feet. It was like getting a young child to move—he was too involved in his pain to respond with urgency to the physical commands I was giving him. When he wouldn’t move fast enough I ran back into the kitchen and grabbed a tea towel. I threw it under the ice-cold water of the full blast tap and bolted back to Dad, pressing it up against his stomach where the dark coloured stain had spread. I moved at lightning speed, but everything felt like it was happening in slow motion. I couldn’t come to his aid fast enough.

Mum rushed down the stairs, half a face of make-up on. The non-painted section drained of colour when she saw the scene in front of her. Another time, another place and I would have laughed.

“Kate, what happened?” She snatched the towel from my hands and pressed it harder against Dad, her face etched in concern. Dad’s wails continued, a background noise of high-pitched pain.

“Nothing. I didn’t do anything, I made him some tea and—”

“This is why I told you to look after him. He can’t be trusted to manage on his own,” she snapped. She rubbed his back and started nudging him to the stairs. I grabbed his other arm, the one with the tea towel, and helped her. He lifted his feet after a while, still wailing.

We reached the bathroom, and I turned the shower on full blast, cold water splashing out.

“Should we take off his clothes?” I asked Mum. Despite the situation, a flash of horror ran down my spine. I did not want to see my father naked.

“Let’s just get him in there,” she yelled over Dad’s wails. We pushed him in the shower, fully dressed, and watched as the water poured over his head, plastering his brown hair against his face, changing the colour of his shirt from check black-and-white to a see-through grey. All the while, his screaming never stopped. It just went on, and on, and on.

If you’ve never heard a grown man scream before, it can be very disconcerting. Especially when the man in question is your father.

Mum and I just stood there, like idiots, watching in horror.

“Should I call emergency?” I asked.

“No, I think he’ll be fine.”

I nodded. She never took her eyes off him, though, so she probably didn’t see me.

Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, his screaming stopped. He went from full-wail fire engine to quiet as a mouse in the space of a millisecond.

A tiny whimper escaped his mouth and he raised his arms across his chest and grasped his shoulders, shaking with cold. The soaking-wet tea towel was still clutched tight in his hand.

Mum darted beside him and turned off the taps, and I grabbed a big, fluffy, white towel from the railing. We wrapped him in it, Mum and me, swaddling him, tucking it in so his arms were trapped on either side of him.

He had tears running down his cheek and his face was a pale shade of pink. The water from his eyes added to the wetness still dripping down from his matted hair.

We went back downstairs and sat him on a new chair, Mum holding his hand, me fetching water, milk, cookies, toast. It was no use. Even when the crying stopped, his body still shook with sadness and a sense of desperation. No edible comfort would ease his trauma.

I glanced at the clock. Mum should have left already. I walked over and gently took his hand in mine, forcing hers out of his baby-like grip. It was hard being angry with this man for leaving and potentially cursing me with illness when he looked so forlorn and helpless.

Mum rushed around the kitchen, quickly washed her hands and smoothed back her hair. She pointed to the fridge, mentioned something about a list, gave Dad a quick kiss on the cheek and grabbed her make-up bag on the way out.

She was kissing him again? They were back together, even though mentally, his status had changed?

The kiss seemed to have worked, however. Dad stopped his sobbing and instead just stared steadfastly at the newspaper and meagre collection of food offerings I’d placed in front of him. He was frozen, his mouth set, his expression resolute. He looked tragic and broken, a still-life portrait of the man he had become.

It wasn’t hard to imagine someone like Dad committing suicide if a normal day could start like this.

I
PULLED
the ends of my ponytail and watched the strands of my brown hair tighten around my head in the rear-view mirror. I looked down at my gold-buttoned black shirt and tight black jeans teamed with Doc Martens.
Deep breaths, Kate
. It was only a trial, after all. Why I’d decided to arrive forty minutes early was a mystery, even to me.

When there was ten minutes till the start of my shift, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I got out of my car and slammed the door, walking ’round to the front of the café.

“You’re early,” the boy said as I walked over to the counter.

“Not that early.” I shrugged and checked my watch. I had got the right time, hadn’t I? What if I was hours early or, oh God, a whole day? Had I screwed up?

“She’s more on time than you, little brother,” a second voice sounded. A tall guy with longish brown hair, a goatee and crystal blue eyes walked over to me, hand outstretched.

“Kate,” I said.

“Johnny,” he replied, pumping my arm up and down with vigour. “And you obviously already know my brother.”

“Uh …” I trailed off. When I’d texted about the job, I’d hoped he would sign with a “from ‘insert-name-here’” reply, but no such luck. For some reason, he hadn’t signed off. Now I was standing here in front of him, and he wasn’t even wearing a nametag.

“You
do
know my brother, don’t you?”

I said
no
, just as the boy replied
yes
. It was all I could do not to stomp my feet. Why was this guy so infuriating?

“She means, she doesn’t know my name, but she knows me,” the boy told Johnny, an edge of a smile creeping up his face.

“Oh, man. Not this bullshit again.” Johnny ran his hands through his hair, pulling loose threads out of his ponytail. “You’ll have to excuse him. He
loves
to get all mystic and shit.”

“You need to accept that life isn’t about labels.” The boy poured some milk from a metal jug into a glass sitting on the counter in front of him.

“Dude, are you gonna be like this all day?” Johnny raised his eyebrows.

“What is a day but a measure of time, set to control the universe, and—”

“I’m gonna grab Kate some forms.” Johnny shook his head and disappeared into a door out the back.

“I’m just stirring him up.” The boy looked over at me. “I promise, I’m not really like that.”

“You seem kinda like that to me.” I frowned. I couldn’t quite figure him out. Normal guy with open-minded attitude or lecturing freak? Either way, I knew there was no way I was going to ask for his name. Not when he’d withheld it so carefully.

Johnny jogged over to us and placed a stack of papers to the left-hand side of the cash register. “All right. I have your forms here. Just fill out the emergency contact one for now; we’ll get you to fill the rest out at the end of the trial.”

Emergency contact? Would that be … Mum?

“I mean, if you do a good job and we decide to get you back.” Johnny was still speaking, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “No wonder you look so confused.”

“Thanks.” I took the paper and pen he offered, and quickly scribbled down Stacey’s number. If I had an emergency situation while here, Mum wouldn’t be able to come; she’d have Dad.

“So, what do you want me to do?”

“Right. No small talk, I like that.” Johnny nodded, and punched his brother on the arm. “I like her.”