The Protected (2 page)

I felt Katie's eyes on me.

‘That I not bullshit myself?'

‘Do you think that's a risk?'

I couldn't answer her.

THREE

Names my dad and Katie used to call me:

* Han

* Spanner

* Spannie

* Spanline

* Spandalous

* Spandau Ballet

* Handle

* Hands Free (mainly Katie)

My father stands beside me in the kitchen, peering into the open pantry cupboard. It is eight fifteen and my mother is still in bed.

‘There enough bread for a sandwich? I know we're low. Nanna will be here on the weekend. She'll do a shop.'

‘It's fine.'

‘But there's no cheese is there? Vegemite? Oh you hate that. Er, peanut butter? Only crunchy, though …'

‘Vegemite is fine.'

‘You hate Vegemite.'

‘No, it's fine.'

‘Really? Crappy-mite?'

I take the jar from him and spread it thinly onto a buttered slice of bread.

‘Oh,' he says. ‘That was Katie, wasn't it?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Sorry.' He clears his throat. ‘You got enough other stuff to take? Muesli bars?'

‘Yeah. It's fine.'

‘All right.' He limps over to the table and sits down. On the radio the announcer reminds listeners that there is a total fire ban in place for the Blue Mountains. My dad turns a page of the newspaper.

After breakfast, when Dad is in the bathroom shaving, I go into Katie's room. I slide open the top drawer of her dresser. On the left side are all her sets of bras and undies, matched up in pairs. There are three lacy, expensive-looking sets. It's clearly not my area, but they look like the kind you'd wear to make an impression. She didn't bother hiding them somewhere my mum wouldn't find them. In the middle are all her socks, neatly ordered in colour groups and then on the right are her sets of swimmers: racerbacks for training, then bikinis for the beach. I take a pair of her school socks and put them on, then I slide the drawer shut and leave her room.

We have set seating in homeroom. I bet you guessed Mr Black would be a fan of that. Charlotte sits on the same row as me, four seats down. I mostly try to avoid eye contact and she does the same. In the seat in front of me is this guy called Josh Chamberlain. He's one of the new students from the local state school, Reacher Street High. Every year St Joseph's gets an influx of senior students whose parents think they are better off doing years eleven and twelve here rather than Reacher Street. This year there are fifteen new kids joining year eleven. They have slotted in seamlessly. It seems most people around here already know each other. (How would I know? I spend most of my time living like an elderly person: reading, watching Miss Marple, mourning the dead.) But the most celebrated is Josh Chamberlain. It seems he is already friends with everyone, and I mean everyone – he laughs and talks with the people usually labelled too weird, shy or bad at team sports to be considered worthy of interaction.

Maybe it's because of his excessive social life that Josh is always late, arriving five minutes after the bell without fail. Mr Black seems to quite enjoy this. He almost smiles with relish every time Josh saunters in and he gets to dole out some extravagant form of punishment for various offences. The first is usually hair related. Josh has dark collar-length hair, not strictly banned for guys at school but if it falls past the chin it's supposed to be tied back with an elastic. Josh's never is, no matter how many times he gets told. Mr Black's favourite form of retribution is to produce a nice, long, shiny ribbon and then tell Josh to wear it until he remembers to provide his own elastic.

This morning, after Josh has tied up his hair in a bow and taken his seat, Mr Black recommences his sudoku puzzle. This is the signal that we are to continue reading. I never have a problem remembering to bring a book; I learnt the value of carrying one with me a long time ago. Books are especially useful if you have no one to talk to, they give the illusion that you choose not to talk to anyone, as opposed to the fact you simply have no friends. This clearly isn't a problem Josh Chamberlain is familiar with. Instead of reading he sits there, staring into space. It's a matter of seconds before Mr Black notices.

‘Chamberlain,' he says so loud everyone but Josh flinches. ‘Where's your book?'

‘Don't have one.'

‘Don't have one?' he asks. ‘Don't have one what?'

‘Don't have a book.'

‘I can see that, Chamberlain. The answer I'm looking for is, “I don't have one, sir.” Right?'

‘Yes.'

‘YES WHAT?'

Josh isn't fazed. ‘Yes, sir!' He gives a salute, the class laughs.

Mr Black sighs like the effort is too much for that time of the morning.

‘If you have no book, Chamberlain, you'll have to do something else. And you know what that is?'

‘No, sir.'

‘Pray. If you're not reading you're praying. I don't care what you pray for, perhaps you could pray that next time you remember your book. I want you focusing on God, Chamberlain. If you so much as flutter an eyelid I'll have you suspended.'

Josh assumes prayer position, head bowed, palms together under his chin. He must notice the class's approval because he stays that way until the bell signals the end of homeroom.

As I am leaving class I feel a tap on my shoulder. It makes me flinch. I turn around and there is Josh, holding my book,
Jane Eyre
.

‘You dropped this,' he says. It is the first time in nearly a year that another student has looked me in the eye.

‘Oh, um, thanks.' I take the book from him.

‘Isn't that the one where the chick gets it on with her boss?'

‘Um, sort of.'

‘Nice.' He smirks. Or maybe it is a smile. He has a dimple in his left cheek.

FOUR

Things my mother used to say:

* For goodness sake

* Katherine, I don't think that's necessary

* If you must

Things Katie used to say:

* For fuck's sake

* Whatevs

* Yes, Mum (sigh)

* Er, Dad

* Er, Hannah

I read a statistic that said eighty per cent of marriages that experience the death of a child end in divorce. Who are these people that research this stuff? Like, who exactly is benefiting from that information? We are terribly sorry to hear about the death of your sibling. Did you know your parents are now more likely to get divorced?! Yeah, thanks. Helpful. I take comfort in the fact that my parents don't argue. Sure, they are hardly ever in the same room long enough to argue, but I like to think that's because my dad is a workaholic and my mum spends most of her time asleep.

My dad is an architect who wanted to design museums and galleries, but now works for a housing estate company. You know the type – ‘We don't build houses, we build dreams!' It seems that lately, building other people's dreams takes a whole heap of time. I don't know, maybe I'm wrong. Maybe he used to work this much before Katie died. Maybe I just didn't notice because the house wasn't silent the way it is now. In a bizarre sort of way I almost prefer being at school. At least there I'm distracted. The hours when it's just Mum and me at home stretch out like this ocean I have to put my head down and swim across.

Now, my mother stands in the kitchen, at the sink with a peeler and potatoes slipping in her hands. It seems she has decided she will cook dinner tonight. Her back is to me, but I can see the reflection of her face in the window, head bowed and tilted slightly to the left as she slides the blunt blade of the peeler. I want to talk to her. Really I do. Words flicker around at the back of my throat. I want to tell her about school, about Mr Black and assignments and even Anne. I want to tell her something about Katie. Something about those last few moments, what happened. Because I know that's all she wants to hear.

Nothing comes out of me. Not a sound. The quiet is huge between us. Even though I know it's the quiet that makes her cry, I still can't say anything. It's usually during dinner that she starts to lose it, tears running silently down her face. Dad doesn't say anything, because really what would you say? It will be okay? It won't be okay. It's never going to be okay again. When she cries like that I don't know what to do. So usually I just sit there and pretend I'm so deep in thought I haven't noticed the fact that my mother is slowly losing her mind right there by the refrigerator.

Now I watch her eyes in the reflection of the window. The saucepan is bubbling and shaking on the stove and I know that if she doesn't get the potatoes in soon all the water will boil away. She doesn't hand me a potato to peel. Doesn't ask if I got the washing in or if I have any homework. It's as if I'm not there either.

When Dad comes home we have dinner: chops, beans and potato served up on retro floral plates my mother ‘sourced' from a vintage market years ago. Orange pansies peeking cheerfully between the beans and potato. (How inconsiderate.)

‘You cooked!' Dad says. ‘You didn't have to do that. I could have made something.'

She brushes him off, setting the plates down on the table. ‘It's fine.' And no one comments that it clearly isn't fine and hasn't been for a while.

The potato is starchy and soft on the outside, but hard in the middle. Dad chops his up and covers it in dollops of butter and lots of salt. Mum looks at hers and moves it around as if she's playing chess with it.

‘I'm sorry,' she says.

‘It's fine!' Dad nudges me. ‘Isn't it, Han?'

I nod and carve at the shrivelled, dry flesh of the chops. Lamb. Does its mother still look for it, I wonder. She's probably a sausage or something herself.

About a month after the accident, Dad was standing next to Mum as they rinsed the plates and slotted them into the drawers of the dishwasher. Mum's hands shook so badly that she couldn't get one of the plates in. She swore and threw it onto the floor. The plate shattered on the tiles, the sound so loud and sudden that it made me jump. ‘There's supposed to be four,' she said. Her voice had sounded so strange, high-pitched like she couldn't get enough air. Tears slid down her face. Dad put his arms out, to hug her, but she hit him away. ‘Don't you touch me!'

***

Mum smelled of lilac and jasmine, a new perfume Dad had given her for their anniversary. She put her clutch purse on the kitchen bench and took out a compact, flipped it open and examined her lipstick in the mirror.

‘We'll probably be late home,' she said, snapping the compact shut. ‘The concert won't finish till eleven, then there's the drive home.'

Her eyes flicked to me. She smoothed her black dress over her hips.

‘Does this look okay? Do I look like an old woman trying too hard?'

‘You're not an old woman. Where are you having dinner?'

She grinned. ‘The Opera House!'

‘Nice.'

She trotted over to the oven and ducked down, checking her hair in the reflection. Dad came down the hall, a dark suit, aftershave. He gave a low whistle.

‘Good God, who is that gorgeous woman?'

Mum ignored him, but she blushed a little. Pretty impressive after twenty years. She held out her palm for his cufflinks. He dropped them into her hand and presented her with his wrists.

‘Katie in her room?' Mum asked.

‘With a live band from the sound of it,' Dad said.

‘She's supposed to be working on a history assignment.'

‘If she hasn't bled to death from the ears. Check that, will you, Spanner?'

Mum asked brightly if Charlotte wanted to come over. ‘You could get pizza!' she said. I told her Charlotte was busy. My Saturday night would be the same as it was every week: dinner then a mind-numbing detective show on the ABC. My lifestyle really was as predictable as an eighty-year-old's. I wondered what Charlotte was doing. Probably at a party somewhere, a bonfire at a lookout, that was the usual thing, wasn't it? Liam Hemsworth was probably there. In fact, she was probably losing her virginity to Liam Hemsworth right at that moment.

They said goodbye to Katie and left. I opened the freezer to take out a frozen pizza, thought again and went down the hall to Katie's room.

‘Katie, you want pizza?' I shouted through the door. No reply. I shouted again, knocked, opened the door a little. She was in front of her mirror in a tiny strapless cotton dress, both arms behind her back struggling with the zip like a contortionist.

‘You frightened me!'

‘Sorry, do you want pizza?'

‘No! I thought they would never leave! I'm so friggin' late!'

‘You want help with that?'

She dropped her arms, exasperated, and turned away from me again. I slid the zip up her spine. Her shoulder blades jutted from her skin like they might grow into wings.

‘Where are my friggin' shoes? God. I haven't even done my hair yet.' She got on her knees and started rummaging under the bed. One arm re-emerged, pointed at me.

‘You! You have to go and listen for the door,' she stuck her head up, masses of curls falling over her face. ‘You have to stall him till I'm ready.'

‘Who? Where are you going?'

‘Jensen!' she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. ‘He's going to be here any minute. Aghhh! I'm so not ready.' She froze, stared at me. ‘Shit, they are gone, aren't they? Tell me they're gone.'

‘They're gone.'

‘Was that the front door?' She jabbed in the direction of the hallway. ‘Go answer it! What are you doing? Friggin' go!'

It was horrible. He smiled when I opened the door. He was about six foot, with choppy shoulder-length hair. Not in a bogan way, more in a ‘when I'm not reading Hemingway I sometimes do a bit of modelling' sort of way.

‘Hey! You must be Hannah? I'm Jensen.' He held out his hand. He was wearing a plaid shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. I took his hand and shook it. His fingernails were very neat. He had useful-looking shoulders, like he could throw a damsel over them if it was required. I just kind of stood there thinking about that until he asked if ‘Kate was around'.

‘Oh. Yeah. She's just … She's just running a bit late. Which is funny because I'm usually the one that's running late, but Mum and Dad took ages to go and, I mean, she won't be long, or anything. She just can't find her shoes, I think …' I was torn between wanting Katie to show up so I would stop talking, and hoping that she had somehow bumped her head and had knocked herself unconscious and therefore would never come out of her room. Leaving me to make more witty conversation with Jensen. I wondered if he was a painter. Decided he probably was. Or a musician. Maybe both.

‘What are you up to tonight?' Jensen asked. Still smiling. He had very white teeth. Very straight.

‘Me? Oh. Um. Yeah, I'm going to some party … somewhere.'

‘Do you need a ride?'

‘What? No! No, um, Charlotte's picking me up. My friend, Charlotte.'

‘No worries. We're heading up to The Gearin. There's a gig on. A mate's band.'

I nodded like I knew what The Gearin was.

‘Don't know if they're any good,' he laughed. ‘Have to pretend they are either way.'

‘Yeah, ha! Awkward.'

‘Okay, you can stop talking now, Hannah.' Katie. Smelling of lilac and jasmine. Her hair pulled up in a loose knot. Earrings I had never seen before.

‘Well, hello,' Jensen said.

‘Hello.'

Katie looked at me with an expression that said ‘your job here is done, why are you still standing there?'

‘Okay. Well, see you, guys,' I managed. ‘Nice to meet you, Jensen.' I sounded like our mother, or more accurately, grandmother.

‘You too, Hannah.'

Katie took his hand, led him off down the path. I closed the door. Remembered an hour later that I hadn't eaten anything and the pizza was still in the freezer.

***

I dream that Katie and I are in the car, our old car that got smashed up in the accident. I am driving and Katie is in the passenger seat. We move through a barren paddock with lions roaming around in it. The car looks like it did after the accident, crushed on the passenger side. I am afraid to stop driving, in case the lions get in. Katie is talking to me about a quiz show she is going on, she wants me to ask her practice questions, but I can't concentrate because I'm too worried about the lions. I glance over my shoulder and see another Katie, dead in the back seat. Her face all made up the way it was at the funeral parlour.

When I wake up my arms and legs are slippery with sweat. Sleep tries to creep back over me and I know that if I fall back again the dream will continue. I pinch the skin of my inner forearm. Harder, harder. I twist the lip of flesh until my eyes are wide.
It's very early morning, an occasional bird call sounds. Outside my window the morning light is warm and milky. I get out of bed, go out into the kitchen and fill a glass with tepid tap water. There is a coughing sound in the lounge room, which is when I first discover that my dad has been sleeping on the couch. He must sense me enter the room because he opens his eyes, stretches, frowns at me.

‘Jeez, you're up early, Han,' he says, rubbing his face.

‘Why are you sleeping out here?'

‘What? Oh, ah, couldn't sleep. Didn't want to keep your mum awake tossing and turning all night.'

‘I was just going to watch some TV. But if you want, I'll just go back to bed.'

Dad shakes his head. ‘No, no, you're right. Go ahead. I'm gonna take a shower.' He gets up slowly, using his arm to brace himself against the back of the lounge. It's the moment any normal person would offer help, take his arm while he steadies himself. I don't. I can't. I pretend I don't even notice the obvious pain he is in. I think both of us prefer it that way.