All I Ever Wanted (16 page)

I look at Lola, trying to find something to say about her, because she's the least likely to scratch my eyes out. But I find myself looking at Tahnee. She looks thin and shapeless. Her hair is dull and her eyes are cloudy. I have no idea what is going on in her life, and that scares me.

‘I'm worried about you,' I say.

‘Pissweak,' Lola interjects. ‘Try again.'

I think. I try, but all I have are questions.

‘I want things to be the way they were between us.'

‘Objection! Sustained,' Lola says, firing up.

‘I thought you wanted to be a nurse,' I complain.

‘Just get on with it,' Tahnee says, like she can't wait for her turn.

Bugger it. I stand up. ‘I hate Ryan. I think he's bad for you. I want to stick a lightning-rod up his arse and swing him around on the washing-line until the storm hits.'

Tahnee bites her bottom lip. Kate puts her hand over her mouth.

‘Amen, sister. Better,' says Lola. ‘My turn. Last night, I paid sixty bucks for the cheats to an exam.' She bows. ‘Ta-da. And that, ladies, is how it's done.'

Kate stands. ‘I took fifty dollars from my Dad's wallet to buy marijuana so I could see what it was like to write music stoned.'

‘What was it like?' I ask her, horrified at the thought of Kate smoking anything. Lola doesn't interject at my question.

‘I don't know, I didn't smoke it. I don't think it was marijuana. It smelled like lavender.'

Lola and I roll around on the grass, laughing. Eventually, Kate joins in.

‘I like you more than I like your brother,' I blurt to Kate. ‘Oh, not like that,' I amend, when I see her expression.

We crack up again. Tahnee looks bemused by the hilarity and doesn't join in.

‘Your turn,' I say, when I get a grip on myself. I snort with the effort of containing my giggles and she turns her face away. ‘Tell me. I'm ready now.'

She looks at me. A single tear rolls down the side of her nose and drips onto her lap.

‘What?' I say, feeling sick. ‘Go on, hit me. I can take it.'

‘I know you can!' she yells. ‘I know you can take it, Mim. We all know life's been dealing you shit since the day you were born. You're like one of those plastic, bouncy things. You fill the bottom up with sand and you punch it and guess what? The fucking thing keeps bouncing back up, doesn't it? Just once, I would like it if you would need
me
!' She stabs her chest with her finger. ‘I'm so sick of being the one that screws everything up!'

‘Hey, you were the one who told me your life was just perfect,' I fire back. ‘You're the one who ripped down all our photos and put up all those shots of you and him. You and those other girls. The ones who laughed their stupid heads off when I landed arse backwards.'

‘I was drunk. I didn't know what was going on.'

‘You made enough sense. You told me you were sick of me.'

‘Gee, and it looks like you had trouble getting on with your life,' she gestures at Kate and Lola. ‘Didn't take long to expand your circle of friends.'

‘You kicked me out of your house.'

‘Well, you were right, weren't you? I handed it to him on a plate, and now he doesn't want anything to do with me. Are you happy?' She's out of fight, limp and miserable.

Kate and Lola both move towards her, but I get there first.

‘No, I'm not happy.' I hug her. ‘And to be honest, my life isn't all that bad.'

Later, we all lie spent, flat on our backs. Empty, like we've invoked a demon and he's ripped through our souls and spilled our guts. And even though I'm empty, I realise I haven't really told them anything.

‘Come on,
rain
!' I yell at the sky again.

On cue, the sky cracks. Heavy drops hit the ground and splat open.

In minutes, there's mud and a strange greenish tint to the dead grass. Lola starts dancing in a weird, hippy kind of way and Kate puts her arms above her head and spins slowly. I sit with my head back and my mouth open, catching the bitter drops with my tongue.

Tahnee cries, quiet little rivers that you wouldn't see unless you knew to look. Long after Kate and Lola leave, we sit in the mud, holding hands.

‘I like Lola,' Tahnee says. ‘You were right. She's nice, for a prostitute…'

‘It's phone sex,' I butt in. ‘It doesn't count.' I feel protective of Lola because I judged her too—and I was wrong. ‘She's smart. Really smart.'

‘And Kate. I mean, she's kind of annoying, she's so…'

‘Nice, yeah, I know.' I squeeze her hand.

‘So, what do you need to tell me?'

We go inside and I tell her everything. I cry. We lie on my bed for a while, eat more doughnuts and drink Mum's beer. We sit outside again and talk until our throats are sore and nothing seems as bad as it did. We sit cross-legged, facing each other. A cooling breeze reminds us that summer will be over soon, and things almost go back to the way they were.

I offer to have Ryan taken care of.

Tahnee slaps my leg. ‘You know, you're just like your mum, you think everything is black and white. I don't need you to fix it, Mim. I just need you to listen.'

Oh my God. She's right.

NINETEEN

The rain has stopped and Tahnee has gone home. It's still hot, but summer has lost its brittle edge.

Mrs Tkautz is losing the battle of the birdseed. Her over-watering has given the weeds a beautiful beginning; they twist and tangle around her prized flowers, choking them slowly, each fresh sprout an unearthly green. As she clears one space, more pop up. Her face is leathery and dirt-streaked.

I watch her from the porch as I sip an orange slushie that I made with one of Mum's stashed appliances.

I'm just no good at revenge. When things hit the sweet spot, I cave. This should be perfect. Me in the shade, kicking back. The witch, on her knees, sweating buckets and pulling weeds in forty-degree heat.

Shit.

I grab a hat and tip the slushie into a woody shrub that seems to thrive on the dregs of drinks. Mrs Tkautz says nothing when I squat next to her and start pulling. She hands me her garden fork and continues the attack with her dirt-stained fingers.

I like the finite task of weeding. I know if I start today, I can finish today. I can hold myself accountable and repent without anybody ever knowing that the goodness of my heart had nothing to do with it.

Six barrow loads later my back is stooped and aching, my penance complete. Mrs Tkautz brings me an iced water. I sniff carefully before drinking and look around at our progress.

‘Thank you for your help, Jemima. We'll stop now. I need to set up for the garage sale tomorrow.'

She's easier to understand up close. Her crow's eye blinks but the other stays half-shut in a permanent squint.

‘Are you enjoying your holidays?'

‘Yes, thank you.' I figure it's more important to be polite than honest.

‘We had some good rain. It's made our job easier. I think there's more coming.'

‘Good rain,' I mumble.

‘Have you been staying out of trouble? Your mum worries about you, you know.'

That surprises me. She has nothing to worry about. I'm a good girl. I don't wag school or sleep around or do drugs. If I say I'm going to be home at ten, I'm more likely to be home at nine. The past week has been the biggest detour I've ever taken.

‘She's doesn't need to worry about me.' I say.

The witch shakes her head. She could be smiling but it's hard to tell with her crooked mouth.

‘I told her, when you were about four, I said, “This one's going to give you more trouble than the boys. This one's got the wanderlust.” You used to take yourself off on little walks and the whole street would be out looking for you. You'd be over by the tracks, just staring down the line. Far away.'

‘Like Benny,' I say.

‘No, not like Benny. He follows the tracks home. I think you wanted to get lost. You know, some people spend half their lives trying to get out and the rest of it trying to find their way back.'

‘There's nothing here for me,' I say bitterly.

‘What about your home, your family?'

‘They don't understand me.'

She rolls her eye. ‘Ah, the lament of the young. Your mum understands more than you think. That's why she's so terrified of losing you. She always knew you'd be the one to fly. The boys are transparent. Dumb as bat shit, but predictable at least.'

I gag on a mouthful of water and start a coughing fit. Did she say ‘bat shit'?

‘Fly? I can't even drive,' I say when I catch my breath. ‘There's no escape from this place. This is the last stop. You either get off or you just keep riding the loop.'

‘Have you ever considered that some people here are exactly where they want to be? What if we're not all stuck?'

‘I'm not just stuck, I'm drowning,' I say.

‘When you're a child,' she says, her expression soft, ‘what you see and hear and comprehend can be sorted into little boxes. Then, as you live and learn, all those boxes open up and become rooms. The more you experience, the bigger those rooms get. If you're lucky enough, there are some people you will love, and who will love you, long enough to see their boxes grow into vast spaces. You'll understand things that had no meaning. You'll find dark corners that only light up for the briefest moments. But when you keep getting lost, you just end up with a pile of boxes.'

I don't say anything. Why is she telling me this? We've barely exchanged five hundred words in my lifetime and most of them have been insults.

‘Your mum was the same, you know.'

‘What?' I ask.
What would she know about Mum?

‘She'd have one bad relationship after another and each time she'd pack up and move on. Start over. She thought she could outrun her mistakes. Then I took her in and she learned to value the important stuff—like you kids—the good things that come after bad choices.'

Prickly sweat forms at the base of my neck. I think I know what's coming. ‘You took her in? When?'

She thinks, one finger pressed to her lips. ‘The boys were only little, you were on the way. You should know this story, Jemima.'

Yeah, I've heard this story before, but never the punch line. Not out loud. Now, I remember the mixed-up mail, the times I sorted through our letters to find one of hers. I'd sneak them into her letterbox then make a run for it in case she caught me and took the opportunity to remind me that I was without God.

J. Tkautz
. Jemima fucking Tkautz.

She looks amused. ‘Ah. I think one of those dark corners just lit up. Wait, before you go, I have something for you,' she says. She goes into the house.

Benny wanders over to the dividing fence, in his jocks, his index finger stuck down the neck of a beer.

‘Geez, put some clothes on, Benny.'

He grins and points at our place. ‘That bloke's back.'

A car has pulled up out the front. Silver, with government licence plates. The same woman in the suit gets out and, without looking around her, marches up to our front door. She knocks once, stalks away, then puts an official-looking envelope into the letterbox. She glares at us and drives off.

‘Mum said someone was dropping off some legal papers,' I say to myself.

Benny nods. ‘I seen her before.'

‘Who do you think she is?' I ask.

‘Welfare. That bloke takes 'em kids away.'

I feel sick. ‘How do you know?'

Benny touches the side of his nose with his bony finger. ‘Benny knows.'

I'm a minor, living in a dealer's house, and my brothers are under suspicion of dealing. Mysticism has nothing to do with it. I need to talk to Mum.

‘Tell Mrs Tkautz I have to go.'

‘I'm here. What's going on?' She struggles with a box—a box of books.

I take the box from her and by the weight of it, I can tell they're all there.

‘I can have them?'

‘Of course. I think your mum gave me the wrong box.'

‘What makes you think that?'

‘Because these books have been loved. You don't just give away books like these.' She picks a book up and opens it in the middle. ‘See? Fingernail marks. Under every line.' She holds a page up to the light and it's worn thin as rice-paper and scored with horizontal lines.

I want to kiss her. ‘Thank you,' I say.

‘God bless, child,' she says and pinches my chin with her witchy fingers.

Up close, watching her lips stumble over the
b
sound, I know that this is what she's been saying to me the whole time.

I look over at Benny, my eyes under water. Benny puts down his bottle. He smiles his piano smile and flips his hands. Over and over.

TWENTY

Sunday morning. I wake late.

My mind is reeling with numbers. Two. The number of days until I turn seventeen. Three. The number of strikes I'm on. If Mum asks me for the package one more time, I'm out. Four. The number of messages on my phone, like I've suddenly blipped back on the radar. Five. The numbers of hours before I'm not supposed to meet Welles at the lake.

I should stay.

The queasiness in my stomach has spread to every cell in my body.

‘You all right?' Mum asks when I slump at the kitchen table.

‘Yeah.'

‘You don't look all right.'

‘Well, I am.'

‘Look,' she points to the window. ‘They're back.'

The wood pigeons have rebuilt their nest with dry grass and pieces of orange twine. She sits, fat and fluffed-up and content. He lands next to her and tenderly feeds her a writhing worm.

‘What are they doing? They've already had babies. Why does she just want to sit there like a bloody incubator all the time?'

Mum smiles. ‘Because that's what she
does
.'