Grief Girl (20 page)

“Oh,” Julie says, biting her lip.

I start the car and am in first gear. Now I just have to slowly take my foot off the clutch, accelerate, and let go of the hand brake.

Crunch.
Stall. Roll.

“Try again. You can do it.” Julie's trying to act positive.

“Here comes a car behind us.”

“Tough, they'll just have to go around us.”

So I try again, and again, and again. And all we do is roll and stall, roll and stall.

“Shit, I can't get us off this hill. What if I can't get you home in an hour?”

I'm starting to panic and Julie starts laughing.

“Are you laughing at me or our situation?” I'm trying to join in.

“Both. And don't worry about Mum. I'll just blame you.” She chuckles.

“Ha! Very funny.”

I know it is kind of funny in a pathetic way, but I can't seem to de-panic.

There's an older man watering his garden about two houses up from where we are stuck. I hop out as Julie waves at the stupid honking cars behind us to go around.

I explain what's happened. “I hate to ask, but would you mind starting it and getting it to the top of the hill for me? It's silly, I know.”

“No, of course not. It would be my pleasure,” he says, putting his hose down.

We walk to the car and Julie climbs in the back and I sit in the passenger seat as the man patiently explains what he's doing as he does it.

“Thank you so much! I don't know what we would have done without you,” I tell him as he gets out. “I'd love to drive you back home, but—”

“No,” he laughs,” you just keep going now. Good luck, and stay away from those hills for a while.”

“Thank you!” we both yell as we drive away, avoiding anything that even vaguely looks like a slight rise in the road.

         

“Hi, Grandma, you ready?”

Today is the first day of my obligatory “try and have fun with Grandma” assignment.

“You're late! What took you so long?” she snaps, standing in front of her brand-new wire-screen door wearing a peach floral dress that looks like it suffered a bomb blast in the war. Maybe I could take her clothes shopping. Don't women bond when they do that?

“Grandma, why are you standing out here?”

“You said you'd be here at ten o'clock!”

“It's only five minutes past.”

“Go inside and kiss Grandpa and let's go, then.”

I go inside; he grunts and gives me a dirty look from his chair next to the radio, which is blaring the greyhound races. I ignore his look, kiss him on his greasy cheek, puke (just kidding), and leave. He's always like that but usually worse. Grandma likes to blame the war for his behavior, but he didn't even leave the country. He just worked in an office while all the nice men went off to die.

“So what do you think of the car?” I ask Grandma as she gets in.

“It's a bit small, isn't it?”

“Yeah, but what would I need a big car for? Plus it's all I could afford,” I say, looking up at the brand-new guttering on their house.

“Hmmm,” she huffs.

We get to the supermarket and start shopping. Grandma buys twenty of everything that's on sale, complaining the whole way about the cost of living today and how people like me have no idea what it's like to be poor. I'm trying to see her as odd and quirky and fun, but the words
miserable old bitch
keep popping into my head.

We get to the checkout and she insults the girl at the cash register, who probably earns next to nothing. She tells the girl that she doesn't know how lucky she is to not be Grandma, with her phantom leukemia and other ailments, along with her poverty. I'm ready to throw Grandma in the shopping cart and push her off the top floor of the parking garage, but I try to stay calm.

“Are you hungry, Grandma? We could go to lunch. My treat.”

“No, it's a waste of money.”

“No, it's not. I'm taking you and that's that.”

We've been in the restaurant for five minutes and already she's complained about the decor (too bright), the waitresses (too young), the food (you have to walk to it), the bathrooms (just because), but not the price. I made sure of that. Even though I'm paying, I knew she'd freak if we went anywhere expensive, so we're at an upmarket, value-for-money, all-you-can-eat place. I thought she'd be impressed with my thrifty ingenuity.

“They could at least bring the food to you.”

“No, Grandma. The whole point is that you eat exactly what you like and as much as you can for one price. You can just keep going back.”

“Not my idea of a restaurant.”

“I thought you'd like it. Why don't you tell me what you want and I'll get it for you.”

“Forget it, I'll get it myself,” she says, pretending to have trouble getting out of her seat.

We get our food, sit back down (she groans as she does), and eat while I try to make conversation, eventually giving up.

I pay, we leave. I drive her home and put the groceries away, then turn to walk out the door.

“What, you're leaving? I thought you said you'd help me today,” Grandma says, looking shocked.

“I have to be home by four o'clock,” I tell her. Or I'll go crazy! “I'll be back soon.”

I've got to find a way to pay back that two hundred dollars.

October 1985

“T
racy, I can't breathe,” I tell her. I'm sitting on the verandah. I was getting ready to go to Julie's when an asthma attack hit me.

“Have you used your Ventolin?”

“Yes,” I wheeze.

“Well, just breathe into a paper bag or something.”

“This…is bad…. I…really can't…breathe.”

“Well, if you'd stop panicking, you'd be all right. Just calm down, for God's sake.”

She sounds just like Dad. He never believed me either. “It's all in your head,” he used to say.

At least Mum was a believer. She explained that the tubes in my lungs look like broccoli, and when I can't breathe, the broccoli becomes overcooked. Full of too much water, she'd say.

“Calm down!” Tracy yells.

How does someone calm down when they can't get any air into their lungs?

“Traaaaceyyyyyy,” I wheeze. “This…is…one…of…the…worst…attacks…I've…ever…had…I'm…not…lying. I…think I…need…to go…to…the doctor.”

“No, you don't. You've brought this on yourself. This isn't asthma, this is you being stupid. Just sit there and breathe,” she says, slamming the wire-screen door behind her.

I puff on my Ventolin, breathe into a brown paper bag, and do the old arm-flapping exercises Dad used to make me do—“Arms out, breathe in, arms down, breathe out”—but nothing's working. Tracy gets impatient with me. This attack is just something she's not in the mood for today. She thinks that if I wanted to, I'd stop it. That like everything else I do, I'm doing this to her to make her life more miserable. It's really got nothing to do with me. I hope I die.

But my death would be another inconvenience. Funeral arrangements and all that. Funerals aren't cheap, and Ronald probably wouldn't give her any money for one. Not a necessary, justifiable expense, he'd say.

Well, I'm getting worse and I don't know what to do. Tracy comes out every now and again and glares at me to tell me to breathe, but that only makes it worse.

“This is all in your head.”

“It…isn't. Tracy…please…take…me…to…a hospital.”

It's pathetic. I sound like Darth Vader after his balls have been cut off by Ronald's financial advisors.

I can't get any air past my throat, and I'm starting to feel dizzy and sick. My chest is aching from all the effort I'm putting into trying to push air down there. I'm a fish out of water. I'm terrified that if I move, the extra effort will kill me. What's the big deal about taking me to hospital? Does she really think I'm doing this on purpose? Why does she hate me so much? It's not my fault our life is like this.

It's a beautiful hot, sunny day. I'm going to die. This is it.

Here comes Chris in the VW. He's just dropped Trent off at one of his little friends' houses for the afternoon.

“Chris. I'm…having a bad…asthma…attack. I need…a doctor.”

“Where's Tracy?”

“She's…inside…. She…doesn't…believe…me…. Please…tell her.”

Chris goes inside and comes back out soon after with another brown paper bag.

“That won't work,” I wheeze. “I've tried it. Please. I know…this is the…last…thing…Tracy needs…right now but…it's…serious. I…really…can't…breathe…. I swear…I'm…begging…. Please take me…to…a…doctor.”

Chris goes back inside. He's had enough of me too, and I don't blame him. I'm a burden, an inconvenience, a weight around their necks, a ball and chain. Their lives are so much harder than mine, and I make them harder just by being there. I know that, but I can't go anywhere yet. At least not until I finish school. But then…I can't leave Trent!

Another five minutes go by, and Chris comes out. By now I must be looking teary, pale, and authentic, because Chris's face changes and he goes inside and comes back out with the car keys.

I can hardly walk to the car. Hopefully that is helping authenticate my claim. Maybe Tracy is seeing this out the window and finally believes me.

Oh no! Tracy's locking the front door. She's coming too.

I'm sitting in the backseat. Chris is driving, and I'm wheezing even louder now, I can't help it. Tracy looks at me over her shoulder. “Shut up, Erin. You're only making it worse.”

         

I'm in the children's ward at St. George Hospital. The hospital Dad was in. The hospital he died in. They don't have any room available in the older ward, and I don't mind. Actually, I like it. They're nicer to kids, and even though I'm now sixteen, they're nice to me, too. They treat me like every other child, despite the fact that I'm in an adult-size bed they've wheeled in. I wish I could shrink and be like every other little kid here.

I'm feeling really alone, but I sort of like it. I don't talk to the other kids, I keep to myself. I'm loving that I don't have to talk to anyone. I love that I don't have to do anything.

Sometimes I enjoy being self-pitying. I love lying here in my bed and imagining I'm the girl who has no one in the world. Some days I see a parent come in to visit his or her child and I think, “Poor little ol' me.” Feeling sorry for myself is strangely comforting.

Every morning and afternoon a nurse comes in, turns me on my sides, and bashes my back and sides to clear up my lungs. She says they're full of accumulated junk. I love when she does that. I like being taken care of. It's like when I was little and Mum would make me Vegemite toast when I was sick.

Tracy continues to act like I'm such a fucking inconvenience for being sick. Her life is so much harder than mine, and how fucking dare I make it even harder! I don't expect sympathy, but she could be nicer.

“I couldn't help it, Tracy.”

“It's okay,” she says, letting me know it's not with her scowl.

I wish she wouldn't come. She ruins everything. I don't know why she even bothers.

Maybe she thinks she has to after not believing I was sick.

Tracy never brings anything, none of those sick person goodies you can get at the hospital gift shop. She walks in with a dirty look on her face and never stays very long. On her way out after each visit she laughs and chats to the nurses in the corridor, acting like the concerned, caring older sister. Boy, that makes me mad.

On my fourth day there she brings Trent to see me. In my pink and blue bed with the children's pictures on the wall, I feel as little as he is.

He sits on the bed with me and asks when I'm coming home.

“As soon as the doctor lets me. I miss you so much, Trent.”

“I love you, Erin,” he says, and I try not to cry.

I hope Trent doesn't think I'm going to die and not come home. He doesn't seem too worried. Maybe he likes my not being at home. Maybe Tracy's calmer with me not there. Maybe it's a happy family without me.

I'm discharged after seven days. I wish I could stay here forever. To live in this world of meals on sectioned trays, air masks for when I can't breathe on my own, pink happy lambs jumping in a field on the wall, nice gentle nurses in crisp white uniforms who rub my tired, sore chest and bash the shit out of me.

A life like that would suit me just fine.

         

I'm back home.

Being in the hospital has got me thinking about Dad. We were told he died from a clot through the heart. I've never believed it. I think he killed himself and they don't want to upset me by telling me. Mum died on October 23 and Dad died on November 24. That's fishy to me. I reckon he lasted a month and then just couldn't take it anymore.

He was getting better; the doctors and nurses said so. Maybe he just didn't want to get better. Maybe he never wanted to come home and face it all: life without Mum, the guilt of thinking it was all his fault.

I need proof of how he died. I need to see his death certificate.

Because I'm up in the morning before everyone else with my studies, I can search for the death certificate then. I'm sure it's with the funeral books and stuff that's in the back cupboard. I find it right away. I hate this maroon vinyl book full of copies of the services and cards from flowers people sent to the funeral. It's so cheap and tacky. It could at least have been leather.

I unfold Dad's death certificate, leaving Mum's alone. I don't need or want to see that.

Yep, it says a clot through the heart. Can they lie about these things to the poor grieving children?

I still don't believe it. If it was a clot through the heart, I'm sure he willed it to go there.

He would have stupidly thought that the three of us would be better off without him to look after, without having to push our father around in a wheelchair. He probably thought we'd blame him for the accident. So the very next day, the one month anniversary of the accident, his body just said
Enough.

If only he had known that the accident was partly my fault too, for thinking it in the first place…maybe things would be different.