The Accident (18 page)

It’s an offhand request that screams
test
. I just nod. Match Rose-Marie’s tone. ‘Yeah, I’ll take her to a park or something. She’s getting good with the soccer ball.’

She ties off the thread and folds the overalls. She’d never think to make me do a job like that, just does it all herself. So why is it my fault? Resentment rises up in me. Collides with all the guilt that’s already churning around. Before I know it I’m saying, ‘Is Terry planning to just ignore me forever?’

Rose-Marie seems annoyed still, impatient, but at least she’s not just walking out. Could she possibly be feeling at all guilty about the things she said? Not sure. She can be pretty damn self-righteous.

‘He’s disappointed,’ she says stiffly.

‘I made a mista—’

‘No.’ She interrupts, irritated that I’m trying to brush her words away. ‘Really. He believed in you. He’s invested just as much in you as he has in Tash, probably more, and what you did was a real slap in the face.’ Angry tears in her eyes again. Grey-green eyes and the light reflecting off her glasses. The intensity in her voice makes me feel like something is wrapping itself around me, tighter and tighter.

‘We took you in! Do you know what a big step that was for us? We’re the ones who used to have a social life! We traded that in for a screaming baby and checking on homework.’

Bull. Shit. ‘You didn’t want me, you just wanted Tash.’

‘We took both of you in. We took on the role of parents to both of you. And all this time we thought we were doing a good job.
We
thought we had some sort of a family here.’ She grabs a tissue and blows her nose. ‘Apparently we were wrong.’

A tightening feeling. Hands closing around my chest. Squeezing the air out. Don’t know if she’s trying to manipulate me but even if she is, I’d swear she’s really hurt. And I don’t know if I actually care, or if I only care about how it makes me feel. Why the hell did she have to use the f-word?

Rose-Marie slides off the stool, overalls in one hand, sewing kit in the other. ‘That’s why we’re mad.’

In the bedroom I wake up my laptop and start to type out a list. Chronological, starting with Mike and Debbie Adderley. I know my records inside out. Including siblings and school friends, it comes to forty-eight names. I scroll back to the top, and highlight the first name.

Mike Adderley. I was with them for just under six months before I got shifted to what was supposed to be a more permanent situation. All I remember about him is from a photo. Long, tanned arms and legs, and a scruffy mullet which apparently I used to like pulling on. I hit delete.

It takes me an hour to work my way through the list, deleting names one at a time. Combing my brain each time for memories, waiting to feel something. Nothing. From a list of forty-eight I end up with four. Rose-Marie, Terry, Tash, Izzy. I skip down to the last name and highlight it, searching for something in me that tells me to stop. Nothing does. Delete. No hesitation, no regret, maybe even the slightest sense of satisfaction, like peeling off dirty clothes. Scroll back up. Rose-Marie. Trying to summon up a memory of affection for her, but nothing comes, just her inane questions, her fake smile. Delete.

Terry’s harder. I like him. We get along. But turns out he’s just as judgmental as Rose-Marie, pig-headed and unforgiving. If I think ahead, imagine myself somewhere else, it’s a relief to be free from that. Delete.

One name left. And as I think of her, the image that comes into my mind is of her screaming on her bed. Reaching out. Not to me, but to Rose-Marie.

before
after
later

This time he calls me.

‘You checking up on me?’ I ask, cocking an eyebrow as I drop down into my seat at the cafe table.

‘You need somebody to keep an eye on you,’ he announces with mock seriousness. He gestures to the car keys in my hand. ‘You drove?’

I can’t help myself; I grin. ‘Yeah. I got a new car.’

He nods approval. ‘Congratulations.’

I tell him about Alan dragging me to the auctions, about buying the Mazda, about getting in the driver’s seat again. When I got to the shops it turned out that my usual camera store didn’t have any processing chemicals in stock, but somehow that didn’t even really matter. I got myself a strawberry shake from Macca’s and wandered through the shopping centre for an hour or so, looking at the puppies in the pet shop window and snorting to myself at the latest fashions in the endless clothing stores. Feeling like my old self again. When I got home Alan was mowing the front strip. Waiting for me, I’ll bet. He’d offered to come along for the ride and I nearly gave in and let him, but then I stopped myself, knowing I’d probably chicken out twenty metres down the road and make him drive instead.

‘How’s it going?’ says Daniel.

‘Pretty good, I think.’ It only took me a few minutes to remember how it all worked, first in Alan’s car and then in the new Mazda. Muscle memory. Into gear, handbrake off, gentle acceleration…In a way, deceptively easy, harmless. Before it all happened I never really thought about how much damage could be done with something so ordinary.

Alan said the driver of the other car tried to come visit me, but Mum screamed and shouted that idea down pretty quickly. I don’t blame her at all. I do sometimes wonder, though: what do you say to someone after something like that? When you were just minding your own business and ended up killing someone? The guilt must be horrible.

‘I can’t hate them, you know.’

Daniel looks at me, quizzical.

‘The driver of the other car. It was an accident. It’s not like they were drunk or speeding or anything…It was just dark, and the lights were out, and they forgot to put on their headlights…’

I realise I feel, irrationally, that I’m the one who should be saying sorry. Sorry that now they have to live with the guilt of what they did.

I can feel the heaviness starting to creep back into my chest, threatening to take over again, drag me back down. I shake my head to clear it away. No. Time to change the subject.

‘Any action on the romance front?’

He cracks a smile. ‘Didn’t your parents teach you how to mind your own business?’

‘No. My Mum’s Italian. Do I need to explain how that works?’

Another smile. He starts to speak but then stops himself. There’s a look on his face that I recognise from years and years ago, when Mum started dating Alan.

‘There is!’ I crow. Maybe it’s because I can’t get a boy to even look in my direction, or maybe it’s just because he seems like such a decent guy. I want good things for him. I want him to feel like I do—that there’s hope.

He’s amused, maybe a bit embarrassed by the fuss I’m making.

‘Who is it?’ I demand, dying of curiosity. ‘She’d better not be some blonde airhead.’

He feigns hurt. ‘You think I would be so shallow?’

‘No.’ I can’t even pretend to believe it. ‘She’s probably working on a cure for cancer or something, right? Or working with orphans in Africa…’ I trail off, suddenly struck by a thought. ‘It’s not her, is it? The girl you broke up with after my accident? Lauren?’

He looks away, and that’s my answer.

‘Is it serious?’ I’m not judging him, just curious.

‘It’s not anything, just yet. I haven’t even seen her in person since…you know. But we’ve been emailing, just chatting about things. She’s continuing her degree in New Zealand, and she’s looking at doing some volunteer work during her next break.’

‘Working with orphans in Africa.’ It’s a statement, not a question, because his look has already given the answer away. ‘You reckon it’ll work out this time?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘I hope it does.’ I mean it, I really do. And from the way he nods, I know that’s what he’s thinking too.

The box of photography supplies arrives on Monday; I had to have it shipped from Melbourne. I slice it open and dig through the packing peanuts to unearth the fixer and film developer bottles and the extra roll of bulk film I ordered.

Just like driving, it all comes back to me: hands working blind in my black bag to get the film into the processing tank; chemicals mixed and measured; processing tank agitated. It’s calming, knowing exactly what I’m doing, confident of how it should turn out.

Done. I stand back to survey my strip of negatives as they hang in the window, fluttering in the slight breeze. I grab another peg and clip it on the bottom to weigh the film down so it doesn’t curl up as it dries.

‘How do they look?’

Alan’s always been a big fan of everything I do, especially my photos. Every time I showed him my processed negatives for the first time or produced a final print he’d study it and smile and tell me I had a knack. I’ve never taken that for granted. Mum’s so wrapped up in her own world I’d pretty much have to shove something in her face before she noticed it.

I study them. ‘All right.’ The top lot of photos are all leaves and squiggly bark gum trees. Aesthetically speaking, they’re nicely composed, capturing interesting shapes and textures. Critically speaking, they’re boring. Lifeless. The rest of the roll, on the other hand…The sun was coming in from the window on my left, and it throws sharp shadows. My expression from behind the camera is serious, focused. It’s going to be intense.

He leans in closer to look at them properly. ‘For school?’

‘Yeah.’

He studies the lower half of the roll. Me and my scar. I realise I’m holding my breath as I watch him, not because I’m afraid he’ll get mad like Mum might, but that he might not understand. But he’s got a good poker face. It doesn’t give much away.

He draws back. ‘How’s your car going?’

He’s not really asking about the car, but he’s good at being tactful. I take a moment to think. I haven’t really let myself analyse it too much.

‘It’s all right, actually. It just feels…I don’t know. Weird, but normal.’ Like the last nine months hasn’t happened. Except for the fact that I’ve been taking the long way round so that I haven’t had to go through any major intersections.

He squeezes my shoulder. ‘I’m proud of you.’

He’s always been careful about physical touch, especially since I hit adolescence. He’ll always give me pats on the back or squeeze my arm or something. I know it doesn’t mean he doesn’t love me. I just think he’s had so much child protection stuff drilled into him over the years, and had to investigate enough of that sort of thing, especially between children and their stepfathers, that he’s learned to play it safe, not start anything that could be misinterpreted.

But stuff that. I know he’s a decent guy, and he’s my dad. I hug him, and I realise as I do that it’s been a long time, maybe since Robbie died, or even before that.

‘Thanks for making me do it.’ It. Not just the film, but the car thing. And everything, really.

‘Me? I didn’t make you do anything. You’re the one who accosted me and demanded to borrow my car.’

I can hear the smile in his voice, and it makes me smile. ‘Shut up.’

When my negatives are dry I carefully cut them up and put them into a sleeve, ready to enlarge at school. In my mind I can already see the finished product, the grid of images on a white gallery wall. The snapshots taken from the videos, the photos of me and my scar… quotes, maybe, on 6x4 cards. Maybe even some of the torn-up photos, if I haven’t chucked the bag of them out yet. I’d have to mount the whole thing somehow, for presentation at school. MDF sheets, painted white. Got to double-check the size limits…

I can almost see the cogs and wheels in my mind, or at least the creative part of it, starting to churn and cough. Like a machine that’s been lying dormant, gathering dust.

I know what to do. It’s crazy the sheer relief I feel at that realisation, like I’ve finally picked myself up and I’m back in motion. I know what to do.

before
after
later

Wednesday is opening night. I’m still awake when Morgan gets dropped home afterwards. I find her in the kitchen, face still caked with theatre makeup, making herself a tinned-spaghetti sandwich.

‘How’d it go?’

‘All right.’

‘Did people like it?’

A shrug. ‘They clapped. But what else are they going to do?’

I can’t quite figure out if she’s acting nonchalant or truly doesn’t care. I can’t quite believe that after all these weeks of rehearsals she doesn’t have more to say. Maybe she thinks I don’t really want to hear, that I’m just asking out of obligation.

‘How’d your backdrops go?’

Another shrug, and she takes a bite of the sandwich. Spaghetti sauce drips down her chin and she wipes it away with the back of her hand. Around a mouthful of food: ‘Okay.’

Anthony, at school in the morning, is far more vocal. I get a detailed rundown on who was good, who was bad, who stepped on other people’s cues. ‘Lucy Smithers accidentally walked off-stage halfway through a scene. Morgan had to drag her back on stage and adlib the whole thing till Lucy figured out what the hell was going on. She was pretty good at it, actually. Pulled it off with some thees and thous.’

Good at making stuff up on the spot? I’m not ultra-surprised. Morgan’s been known to wriggle out of some tight spots with fast talking. She doesn’t exactly hang with the best crowd at school.