The Accident (6 page)

‘I’ve had a lot of time to Wikipedia in the last year.’

‘Yeah, I guess you have.’ He half smiles. ‘So what do you think the point of it all is? What do you want to do with your life?’

I think back to the conversation I had with Robbie. Not long before it happened. Maybe only a week or two. The pair of us flopped on couches in the lounge room, cooling off in the air conditioning after playing basketball outside. He asked me that same question. I gave him the same answer:

‘I want to change the world.’

‘Change it how?’

‘Yeah. That’s the bit I’m still figuring out.’

He insists on dropping me home, even though it’s literally only two blocks away. Mum and Alan are fighting about something, and I get caught in the crossfire.

‘Where have you been?’

‘I just went out for a walk.’

‘By yourself?’

I keep it neutral. No need to exacerbate the situation. ‘I met a friend at the cafe.’

‘You walked all that way? Did Doctor Young say you’re allowed to walk that sort of distance?’

‘It’s not that far.’ Nothing compared to my walk home from school, or the distances Iago and I regularly trek. ‘I’m careful. I stop and rest when I need to.’

‘
Dio!
’ She gestures in annoyance, throwing a glance heavenwards as if to ask God what she did to deserve such a stubborn daughter. Sharp eyes back on me, admonishing. ‘You can set your recovery back months if you overdo it. The doctors have all told you that. Do you really want to have more surgeries?’

‘It’s fine, Mum. I’m fine.’

I escape, noticing as I do that Alan slipped away while her attention was on me.

Gnocchi for dinner. It fills me up too fast and I push it around on my plate, thinking of the conversation at the cafe, about how it felt to see him. There’s nothing at all romantic about it, but it’s left me with a sense of how I felt that day, and I can’t decide if it’s a good or bad feeling.

Up in my room, I sit on my floor with my back against the wall and stare at my photos. A doll stuck up in a tree. A sea of multicoloured umbrellas surging down a rainy Sydney street in peak hour. A single leaf dangling by a thread of spiderweb, spinning. Robbie used to laugh at me because I was always holding people up, stopping to get photos of some random thing that caught my eye. If we were running late to get somewhere, my camera and I were usually to blame.

Iago follows me in, snuffling at a pile of dirty clothes. I probably got chocolate on something. I usually do. I click my tongue, calling him to me, and he waddles over, grinning that drippy, droopy grin. We sit for a long while, me staring at the photos and scratching behind his ears.

‘I don’t know what to do.’

It’s a meaningless sentence, but it’s all that comes out. It’s like I’ve stumbled and fallen in a race and I just don’t know how to get back up again, and inside me there’s some sort of battle going on.

Iago just looks up at me, and I wonder what he thinks of me, whether he has an opinion at all.

It’s still early when Alan pokes his head in. He looks surprised to find me in bed, but not really. I like my bed, it’s my safe place.

‘You all right?’

‘I don’t know.’ It’s not hard to be honest with Alan. There are times when I’m probably too honest with him. Sometimes he gets stuck in the middle between me and Mum, and I think I should keep my big mouth shut for his sake. But he’s also the only one I have to talk to now.

‘I left school at recess yesterday.’

‘Why?’

‘Just seemed like too much to handle. I didn’t do anything…just came home. Took Iago for a walk. Don’t tell Mum, okay?’

He smiles that same sad smile I seem to get from everyone, as if they think we’re not allowed to be happy. ‘About skipping school or walking Iago?’

‘Both.’

He nods. ‘Okay.’

I think back to earlier when he and Mum were fighting. It seems to be getting more frequent.

‘What’s Mum mad at you about?’

‘I wish I knew.’

‘You should take her out for dinner or something.’

‘She’s busy.’

She’s been busy since Robbie. It doesn’t take a psychoanalyst to see the connection. She just keeps taking on new clients and then all she can talk about is how busy she is.

‘Let’s go on a holiday or something, then.’

‘She won’t take a night off. You really think you’ll get her on an aeroplane?’

‘True.’ I consider him for a moment. I’ve never had problems asking people the tough questions, or wanting to talk about the important stuff, but sometimes there’s no point. Sometimes there’s no answer, and all you’re doing is stirring up grief. This might be one of those areas.

‘Does she ever talk to you?’

He shrugs.

‘Maybe you should talk to her.’

‘It’s not as easy as that. We don’t all have…’

‘My big mouth?’

He smiles. ‘You get away with asking those sorts of question. I can do it at work. Here is different. And lately…it’s a bit hard.’

‘You should just take her away. Call her work and get them to cancel all her appointments and take her somewhere. Italy, France…Tasmania—who cares? Just get her away from all her excuses.’

‘She’d kill me.’

‘Yeah, but once she’s done with that she might actually unwind enough to have a conversation.’

‘Maybe.’ He looks around, sees my canvases stacked against the wall.

‘You haven’t done much painting lately.’

I laugh. I don’t want him to think it’s a big deal. ‘No time in my hectic social calendar.’

before
after
later

I remember the day that my father left us. He would probably argue that it was Mum that he left, not us, but the end result was the same.

Lauren and I did swimming lessons at an indoor pool only a few streets away. Mum had dropped us off as usual—back then nobody had even heard the term ‘helicopter parent’—and Lauren’s lesson usually finished ten minutes before mine, meaning she had to wait for me. My sister has never been a patient person, least of all with me.

She was standing at the end of the pool as I hoisted myself out, with my towel over her shoulder and my clothes bundled in her arms. ‘Hurry up, stupid.’ She threw the towel at me and it hit the ground, landing in a puddle that had formed at my feet.

‘C’mon, dork.’ She grabbed my arm.

Her thongs flip-flopped across the hard floor, splashing up the puddles so that by the time we reached the exit my legs were dripping again. We stood in the carpark and I shivered in the cold breeze that swept through. No Mum.

When Lauren let go of my arm, it was splotched red, but I didn’t say anything. I drew my soggy towel around my shoulders and tried to ignore the anxious butterflies in my stomach.

Lauren didn’t seem concerned or particularly impatient—at least, no more than usual. She practised her tightrope walking along the edge of the gutter, shredded the leaves on the banana tree behind us and watched as the wind whisked the fragments away.

My mind whirled. Stories of little lost children; Mum lying dead, murdered in our house, eaten by some unimaginable creature or crushed to bits in a car accident. A flurry of panic rising in my chest like breath.

We waited as the sky grew darker. Lauren stopped playing and stood still, tensed. The carpark emptied slowly and the buzz of kid chatter died down.

Pressed by all the nightmare possibilities, my mind weighed and rejected appeals to Lauren. Weighed and rejected. I swallowed them back one at a time, they would sound stupid and babyish.

We waited. Then, at last, a glimpse of white. The sound of a labouring V8, and our white station wagon rumbled down the unguttered driveway. Mum pulled up and leaned over to swing the passenger door open. ‘I know I’m late. Get in before the storm breaks.’

I lurched, grabbed the doorhandle, yanking it open. Morgan was in her childseat in the back, chubby face stained with tears. I climbed in beside her, belting myself in the middle, waiting for Lauren to climb up beside me, but she stood outside, arms folded.

‘In the car, Lauren.’ Mum sounded impatient, angrier than usual at the disobedience. I felt my heart sink again when I realised my sister was not going to make this easy.

‘Lauren Elizabeth McAlpine…’ More than just the normal amount of tired. Her voice was wobbly, like she was trying not to cry.

Lauren stood fast and refused even to look in our mother’s direction. Mum turned off the engine, jumped out of the car and strode around to Lauren’s side. Her right hand hovered as if she wanted to slap my sister.

‘You’ve got three seconds.’

The tone wasn’t one to be messed with, and Lauren flinched. But she wouldn’t give in. Mum slammed the door, furious. Stormed back around, climbed in, restarted the engine. Yanking the handbrake so hard I was afraid she’d break something. She accelerated, the car lurched and we skidded in the gravel before the tyres regained their grip and Mum pulled a sharp U-turn in the near-empty carpark. Facing towards the road, she stopped.

My heart was pounding like before, but worse. My mother hadn’t been eaten by a monster, she seemed to have become one. I couldn’t see Lauren properly past Morgan’s car seat, and if I leaned past her to look, my squirming would only provoke my mother further. I was sure my mother was going to drive off, leaving my sister alone in the dark.

I thought my heart was about to burst from apprehension when I heard the doorhandle. The door swung open; Lauren climbed in. Silent, her face dark as the sky outside, not looking at any of us as she drew her seatbelt on and the door closed. A trickle of blood meandered down the outside of her right leg. A piece of gravel, kicked up by the car wheels. She saw me staring and pinched my arm: say nothing. I looked at the fierce anger in those frightening eyes. I shut my mouth.

We drove home in silence to an empty house. Neither Lauren nor I questioned our father’s sudden absence or the now-empty spaces in wardrobes and shoe racks and closets. We just knew, somehow, and we knew better than to say a word.

‘What do you mean,
out
?’

I stare at my sister, hands on my hips as I try to catch my breath. Mum doesn’t just go out. Mum hasn’t left the house in over a month. And it’s a Saturday morning.

She shrugs. ‘She didn’t say. I assume she’s meeting her editor or something. She’s an adult; she can do what she wants.’

This irritating answer typifies Lauren’s opinion that people should take responsibility for themselves and mind their own business. She moves around the kitchen pulling out rolled oats, milk and a saucepan. ‘Have you had breakfast?’

‘I went for a run.’

‘You’re stupid to skip breakfast.’

‘I’m not skipping breakfast.’ I always feel like I’m on the defensive with Lauren. Something about her manner just makes me feel small, immature, naive.
All boys are idiots
, I can still hear her seven-year-old voice informing me,
especially you.

‘I’m just not hungry.’ I’m waiting for her to get angry at me, to tell me how selfish or stupid I am, but she doesn’t.

‘I’ll make you some porridge.’ Her voice is level, immune to provocation. She pulls out the juicer, a chopping board and knife and a couple of oranges. ‘Make yourself useful.’

This isn’t the Lauren I know. The Lauren I know would take this opportunity to cut me down. Scathing criticism, sarcasm; some cruel, biting comment. Where’s the angry, impatient confidence? She’s still on her guard, not giving an inch, but the fire is gone.

I start to cut the oranges. I’m wary. I always am with her. I know when we were kids there were plenty of moments of comradeship. Building forts inside on rainy days. Summers with the slip-n-slide, pouring on dishwashing detergent until the backyard was a snowfield of white bubbles. I don’t know when we became strangers to each other. Maybe it was easier when we were kids to forget the things that hurt, to let each day start afresh. Maybe it was when we got old enough to realise I was the odd one out. I wonder all the time if my sisters are disappointed that I didn’t turn out like all the other guys, big and muscled and dumb. Would Lauren still treat me with contempt if I had grown taller than her? Or is it just her personality to find fault no matter what?