The Problem With Crazy (25 page)

With seconds to spare, I grabbed my brush and slicked my hair back up again, tight, so only a few unruly tendrils could escape. Just how I liked it.

“Look … nice.” Dad was sitting on the couch in the living room. Though his words were stilted, he seemed to be somewhat with it, his eyes focused instead of flitting from side to side. Maybe this would be a good night.

“Thanks,” I said, suddenly super self-conscious, and pressed down my dress with my hands. This was going to be okay. Everything was going to be okay.

“Let’s go, then.” Mum gave a bizarrely bright smile. Dad stood up and staggered to the front door, his knee jerking every now and then.

When he reached the doorway it buckled completely and he went tumbling to the ground, a pile of bones and skin. Had he always been this underweight?

Mum rushed to his side and helped him up. He kept a brave face, eyes steady, in control. He wasn’t the guy who’d screamed when the tea spilt on him at all.

Give him a chance.

I hooked my arm through his and walked toward the car, keeping time with his slower gait. I felt him smile a big, goofy grin at me, and something inside me warmed.

Maybe I could do this after all.

We all piled into the car, a slightly odd family acting like nothing was wrong, like we had every right to be out mingling with society on a Sunday evening.

Mum turned the engine and I clicked my seatbelt into place, flattening my body against the felt seat cover.

“Dad, your seatbelt,” I reminded him from the backseat.

He ignored me, his eyes focused on some eye level item in the garage that neither Mum nor I could see.

“Dad.” I tapped his shoulder this time.

Nothing.

“Dad.” I yelled and tapped simultaneously.

“Huh?” His brow was creased, his lips twisted in a question.

“Just leave it, dear.” Mum reversed out of the garage.

“But you could get fined,” I protested.

“Worse things have happened,” she replied, and all I could think was,
Well, hell yeah, I suppose that’s true.

We pulled into the parking lot of a restaurant a five-minute ride from our house. Bob’s Seafood and Grill was a building on stilts overhanging the water, a navy blue wooden shack with white features. We walked along the plank to the restaurant doors, the scent of garlic and herbs wafting out to greet us long before the maître-d did.

“Table for three,” Mum announced when we were finally seen to.

“Is that restaurant or buffet?” The server asked.

“Restaurant,” Mum answered. Dad giggled. I swallowed.

We walked through the crowded, noisy room to our assigned table and took our seats. Mum flicked her napkin out and over her lap, and then did the same for Dad. I moved mine to the side and picked up my menu. So far, so good.

“Can I get you any drinks?” A waitress approached our table, paper and pen in hand.

“I’ll have a water, thanks,” I said, smiling up at her.

Mum looked up from the wine list. “A glass of the house chardonnay, please.”

“Schooner of New.”

Silence.

“Sure, I’ll just get those for you,” the waitress said, scribbling the order down.

“No,” Mum and I said at the same time.

“He won’t have the beer.” Mum shook her head.

“I will,” Dad argued. If you couldn’t see his twitching, his shoulders rolling, you probably wouldn’t even know he had a problem. His voice was surprisingly coherent.

Mum glared at Dad, like she was trying to project a message into his brain. He looked back, and then studied the floor, the ceiling, the table.

“He’ll have a light beer,” she finally said, breaking eye contact and dismissing the waiter.

“Is this really a good idea?” I asked Mum as soon as we were free from staff.

“What, dear?” She folded her napkin in half then placed it back on the table.

“A beer,” I spat it out, like the dirty word it was. All I could think of was Dad at graduation, and how he’d behaved.

“One won’t hurt,” she said.

“Won’t it kill his brain cells?” I looked over at Dad. He was following our conversation, a small smile lifting the corner of his lips.

“One.” Mum carefully enunciated the word, as if I were a small child.

“You can’t let him do this! He’s going to embarrass us, and—”

“Kate, will you join me in the bathroom for a moment?” Mum pushed out her chair and power-walked toward the restrooms. I got to my feet, held out a finger in Dad’s direction and mouthed the word
stay
, and then followed after her.

“What are you doing?” I slammed the bathroom door open. The fluorescent lights made me blink, as I took in the restroom, empty bar my mother, who was leaning over the sink.

“What are you doing, Kate?” Mum’s voice was calm, a complete contrast to my own.

“I’m trying to look after my dad. Don’t you—don’t you care?”

“Of course I care,” Mum sighed, and shook her head. “He’s my husband. I love him more than—more than anything.”

“But he left.” I shook my head. “And he’s different now.”

Mum was silent for a while. She blinked, and those purple bruises under her eyes, the crow’s feet in the corners, were deeper and darker than they’d ever been before.

“Kate, he’s sick.” I stepped in closer in order to hear her better. “And one small drink isn’t going to change that.”

“How can you say that?” My voice wasn’t as loud as it had been before, nor anywhere near as steady.

“Because if I deny him everything, when God has already denied him so much—what does he have left?”

I turned and left the bathroom. I walked past the table; I just couldn’t deal with this, couldn’t understand. I saw Dad take a small sip of his beer, a smile spreading over his face as his foot tapped to a soundless tune under the table.

I didn’t know. I just didn’t know any of the answers.

A
FTER
I disappeared from dinner, Mum booked me another appointment with the counsellor. Technically, I only had a psychiatrist appointment to go before I could be tested, and so the counsellor shit wasn’t needed.

I drove down the highway to the counselling centre and parked my car in the lot, walking the five minutes through the grounds till I came to the big, brick building looming in front of me.

I checked my watch: five minutes early. Of course I was. I was always on time for things. Why couldn’t I be late, just for once?

My feet started walking, almost without my permission, and I rounded the corner of the building, finding the small courtyard where I’d run into Lachlan that first day. I walked over to the huge, old willow tree and ran a hand lightly over its gnarled trunk, the veins of the tree bulging out all over the place. It was thick, perhaps four times the roundness of my body, and tall, with branches that draped a canopy over the entire courtyard area.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

Time was running out. I knew I’d have to go in now or miss my appointment.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

Nothing.

I pressed my back against the tree and slid down its spine till my legs folded up and I hit the dirt floor, curling in on myself. I kept replaying the scene from dinner last night, Dad and the beer, Mum and her weird small mercies outlook.

If I had the disease, what would I do? Would I end up like Dad, throwing saltshakers, and being grateful that I was allowed one glass of supervised beer? Was that all there was?

I knew suicide was a common cause of death for sufferers. Would I be able to go through with it?

Would I pull the trigger and spare my family from another mess?

I took a stick from the ground nearby and started to trace patterns on the skin of my arm. White marks scraped flesh as I scratched the word. The tip of the stick wasn’t hurting me enough, providing only a mild irritation.

C-r-a-z-y.

I knew he wasn’t crazy; not in the literal sense of the word. He was sick, and nothing made me madder than when people used that term incorrectly.

But somehow, right now, thinking of what I’d gained with Lachlan, and what I feared from the future, it seemed appropriate.

I dug the stick deeper, branding myself. How would I be able to cope in the future? If I had the disease, I’d be a ticking time bomb. If I didn’t, I’d be looking after my dad, always trying to hide things, trying to recover. Could I be like Lachlan and Johnny? Was I strong enough?

The stick snapped in two, brittle. I rested my head back against the tree, taking small comfort in the dull ache at the base of my skull where I’d made impact with wood.
Mum. Dad. Me. Lachlan. Dave.

My breath came shorter and sharper, my heart beating faster and faster as my chest tightened in on itself. This time, the panic attack was random, but it was no less fierce than it had been before. It was all consuming.

What was wrong with me?

How could I get out?

I didn’t really think I’d be capable of committing suicide, not now, not ever. But what if, what if I hopped in my car and drove and, when I was driving on the highway, I just drove off a bridge? Going more than one hundred kilometres per hour, maybe I’d turn the wheel hard left, and power through the guardrail, sending my little yellow car spiralling in an almighty drop to the rocky banks of the river below?

I wasn’t going to do it, of course. But would it be easier? Would it make all of this go away?

I stood up, dusted my shorts off, and walked to my car. Maybe I’d just drive and see if I still felt like that when I got there.

Would I see my whole life flash before my eyes or just certain parts of it? If I focused on memories of Dad I’d developed as a kid, was that the way I’d immortalise him in my brain? Was I strong enough?

Could I really do it?

My steps had a certain resolve to them, as though I’d discovered a purpose. Lightness gently draped around my shoulders where heaviness had cloaked me before.

I reached my car and took out my keys. They dove straight into the lock, clicked over and opened the car. It was like the universe confirmed my intentions, the signs falling into place. If this were such a bad idea, would it feel so right?

Would everything be so easy?

“Kate.”

I froze, hand still on my keys.

Did this guy look at my diary and schedule his appointments for the same time as mine? How on earth was he here every time I entered the building?

“Hi.” My tone was flat as I wrenched my keys from the car.

“What are you up to?”

“Oh, you know, considering driving off a bridge.” The truth was surprisingly easy to say.

“Well. That’s interesting.” Lachlan chewed his lip, like I’d just presented him with one of the world’s greatest conundrums. “Why?”

“Why not?” I blurted out, letting my emotions bubble to the surface. “If anyone understands how shit and unfair life is, surely it’s you?”

“Sure is.” Lachlan walked around to the passenger side of the car, opened the door and hopped in.

“What the hell are you doing?” I opened my door and stared at him. “Get out of my car.”

“What for?” Lachlan tilted his head to the side.

“Because—” I felt like stamping my feet up and down. It was my car. “—because I damn well said so!”

And because I need to be alone.

“Why do you say so? Have I done something to offend you?”

I raised my eyebrows, incredulous. What was wrong with this guy?

“Truth is, I’ve always been curious about driving off a bridge.”

I tilted my head back, and studied the clouds scudding across the twilight sky. For real? Was this guy ever anything other than bizarre and philosophical? Why had I kissed him, again?

“You know, I’m not serious.”
I’m not.

Am I?

Lachlan looked at me, those dark eyes of his never straying from my face. His wristwatch counted down the time.
Tick, tick, tick.