The Accident (19 page)

‘She didn’t seem very happy with how it went…’

‘That’s because your sister is a born director. You should have seen her during rehearsals. She knows every line inside out, every cue and movement inside out. Better than Lordley, even.’

Anthony is sometimes too frank, but he never shirks from giving credit where credit is due. I feel a slight swell of pride inside for Morgan, but it’s tempered by a guilty awareness. I didn’t really think she had it in her.

She doesn’t get in till nearly eleven. I don’t know whether she was at rehearsals or just hanging out with friends. If Lauren was home, she’d be asking, but I haven’t seen her since this morning. I made some lasagne and sat down to eat it by myself in my room with a book, because anywhere else in the house feels too empty.

Morgan stands in my doorway, poking suspiciously at a reheated plateful with a fork. ‘Did you use cubed cheese in this?’

‘No, it just all stuck together when I cooked it.’

‘You put too much in, that’s why.’

Morgan’s the chef, not me. I wouldn’t normally bother making something so complicated, except I needed something to distract me. Even then, I couldn’t stop wondering about Morgan and worrying about the play, and then worrying about Kayla, and what she said and whether I blew it somehow because she hasn’t spoken to me since, hasn’t even looked my way. And about Dad, who has a new life but for some reason wants to be a part of ours again…

‘Are you coming home tomorrow afternoon?’

‘No, I want to fix the forest backdrop. It’s too bright at the top, the sky needs to be darker.’

I hesitate, then go for it. ‘I don’t know if Lauren or Mum is coming.’

‘I already told you, I don’t want them there. They’ll just ruin it.’

‘Anthony says you’re really good. I think Mum’ll want to see it.’

‘I could break a leg and Mum wouldn’t notice. She’s not interested in what I do.’ It’s an offhand statement, not deliberately self-pitying, but you can hear the trace of bitterness in it nonetheless. Same way Lauren would talk. Would I?

She disappears into her bedroom. I get ready for bed and pull the covers over me but don’t turn off the light yet. I feel uneasy about Lauren. Her words, and the image of her standing there in the bathroom, wringing that handtowel, keep coming back to me. I flip through the half-dozen books on my bedside table, not able to read more than a page at a time of any of them.

I hear footsteps on the stairs at quarter to one. Not somebody going up, but Mum coming down, probably to grab some food. She likes to write into the small hours of the morning. I guess it’s when the house is quiet. Not that we ever really make much noise. Maybe it’s the feeling of isolation she feeds off.

I lay my book down gently and reach to push the covers off me, then I stop, and just listen. The fridge opening and closing. The clink of a plate gently touching the granite benchtop, then the softer sound of the plastic container with the leftover lasagne. She won’t bother reheating it. I have one memory of Mum, from when I was only four or five, and she was drinking wine and eating chocolate cake at my cousin’s wedding, and laughing and enjoying herself and the food. Lauren and Morgan must have been running around somewhere else, because I was sitting on her lap, and she offered me some of the cake, dark chocolate with French chocolate cream fill, and then gave me a sip of the sweet dessert wine. That’s my one memory of her enjoying food. Now she lives on leftovers, those awful microwaveable dinners and instant coffee, and I don’t think she even cares.

I tug the covers back up over me, wriggle back down on my pillows and reach for the light. A flick of the switch and the room is plunged into darkness. I lie there silently, listening to her footfalls as she ascends the staircase, and a sort of helpless sorrow overtakes me, a sense of quiet despair.

Not for myself, but for Mum, for Lauren. Part of me wants to cry, but the tears that seem to be rising up reach my chest and stay there, clogging it, making it feel tight, and I lie there awake and dry-eyed.

Friday afternoon when I get home from school, there’s still no sign of Lauren. I know Mum’s home but I can’t hear anything from upstairs. At five-thirty, I venture halfway up the stairs before stopping and turning back. At six I get to the landing but can’t find the courage to knock. At half past, I do, and when she doesn’t answer I nudge the door open to find the room dark. She’s stretched out on top of the covers in her dressing gown, sound asleep.

I stand there and watch her for a long second, not surprised. Disappointed, but only by myself, that I actually thought for once she might come through. Feeling like I’ve let Morgan down somehow, by failing in this.

I know Kayla is home because her car is in their driveway. I can hear the whine of power tools coming from their garage and head that way cautiously. The roller door is open a little at the bottom, and I glance under, seeing familiar black Converse across the floor.

Feeling a little like I’m trespassing, I grab the bottom of the door and slide it higher. It squeaks a little in the channels, but retracts fully without resistance. I find Kayla staring at me, decked out in protective goggles and dust mask, what looks like a power sander in hand. She’s surrounded by pieces of wood on sawhorses and propped up against walls.

‘Hi,’ she says, raising a quizzical eyebrow. I feel a bit stupid just showing up, and for a long second I wonder if I’ve just imagined whatever it is that’s happened between us. At school she hasn’t been treating me any different to how she used to, which is effectively as if I don’t exist.

Is she embarrassed? Is she pretending she doesn’t know me at school because she’s worried about what her friends will think?

These are the questions that have been swirling around in my head, but as I meet her gaze I find I don’t even really care what the answer to them is, because right now I’m thinking about Morgan thinking nobody even cared enough to come.

‘Will you come to Morgan’s play with me?’

The eyebrow is raised higher. She pulls the goggles and mask off with one hand, but doesn’t put the tool down, as if she needs to stay armed. ‘Are you asking me on a date?’

Am I? I hadn’t really thought through the semantics of it. I feel strangely detached from the situation, as if I could do the impossible. ‘I’m asking you to come see Morgan’s play. I have spare tickets.’

She shifts the weight of the sander from one hand to the other, as if mulling it over. ‘Only if you ask me properly.’

I’m not good at playing games. I don’t understand why girls do it. I’m pretty sure this is some big joke to her, that she’ll go into school tomorrow laughing about it. But even that fear is dulled, somehow. I have to do this one thing right for Morgan. ‘What do you want me to say?’ I ask, resigned.

‘Ask me on a date.’

‘Why?’ The question, stupid as it is, escapes my mouth before I can stop it.

‘Because that’s what boys do.’

I’ve gone so far that it’s really too late to back out, I realise. So I might as well just get it over with. I draw in a deep breath. ‘Will you come to Morgan’s play with me…as a date?’

She tilts her head to the side as if considering taunting me. The sander changes hands again. Then she nods, placing it on a shelf to the side. When she turns back to face me, I’m half expecting a smile, but instead her expression is serious. Not sullen or watchful like she often puts on, but serious, as if she’s allowing me to see the real her. And she just says, ‘Okay.’

before
after
later

All right, Terry: here we go. I start proving myself. Pick up Tash every afternoon, entertain her, do my homework and study for the upcoming half-yearlies, do the washing or dishes without having to be asked. Go for my P’s test and pass. At night I sit in bed with my laptop and research the things I need: financial support from the government, childcare subsidies, the rental market, second-hand cars. Every day seems to suck more out of me, making me emptier. Like the country, I’m in drought, getting drier by the day and hoping for rain that might never come.

Terry’s low-pressure system’s still playing hard to get, loitering on the east coast of the TV weather map, dangling promises of a breakthrough. The tight feeling in my chest doesn’t go away either. I avoid Terry and Rose-Marie, almost more worried that they will forgive me than that they won’t. Although it doesn’t seem likely in the near future, if our frosty exchanges are anything to go by. They’re suspicious of Good Eliat. Sceptical.

‘I can do it.’ Tash’s words coming from my mouth. Rose-Marie’s reminded me Tash is due for a vaccination and offered to take her to the doctor. Rose-Marie just nods, acknowledges it. Next morning I’m woken at five-thirty by Tash climbing on top of me. Rose-Marie and Terry have shut their bedroom door, blocking her from waking them.

It’s like a tiny war. Every day there’s another job, another responsibility that Rose-Marie pushes onto me. I can fight back by doing it better than her without letting her see me struggle.

Monday. Groan as the full weight of a two-year-old body yanks me from my sleep. ‘Go back to bed.’ Still dark. Don’t understand that kid’s body clock. She’s demanding breakfast, when it’s too early even for the early news. Struggle to keep myself from falling asleep again. Flip between infomercials, aerobics and some religious program while Tash chews on dry Froot Loops. Makes me stop on the aerobics channel. Dances around the living room, trying to do the moves. Drops Froot Loops all over the carpet and manages to crush one or two under her bare feet. ‘Tash!’

Vacuum up the mess before she can spread it any more. Put away the Froot Loops. ‘You shouldn’t eat that crap anyway.’

‘More.’ I was up till two studying for my English and biology half-yearlies. The sun is only now starting to come up, and it feels like I’ve had no sleep at all.

‘No, you made a mess. You can have some juice, but you have to be careful.’

Leave her playing with her cars while I have my shower. Return to find her with one of Rose-Marie’s DVDs in one hand and her bottle of juice in the other. ‘What the hell are you doing?’

Sex and the City
is covered in sticky fingerprints. The DVD drive is jammed open with a Wiggles disc.

‘You don’t touch that! You know that. Mum does it for you, or Rose-Marie or Terry.’

I pry The Wiggles free. The disc tray hesitates, then whirs and retracts. The DVD has a scratch on it from her manhandling. ‘Shit.’

‘Shit,’ Tash echoes me.

‘Stop it!’

By the time we’re on the bus she’s gone quiet. Head lolls on my shoulder, thumb in her mouth as if the sugar has worn off. Drop her off just past seven, first child of the day. Gate shuts behind me and all I want is to sink to the ground and burst into exhausted tears.

Instead, I walk. It’s four or five k’s to school. Every time my mind starts to get into gear I push my legs that little bit faster, mutter
Othello
quotes as fast as I can, talk myself through themes.

The Gloria Jean’s five minutes from school is the favoured place for the latte crowd, but not this early. I’m the only student in the place. Everybody else is dressed in suits, looking busy and confident. The way I feel on a Saturday night—knowing what’s going to happen, ready to take on the world. Not how I feel right now.

Sit at a table in the corner and hold the mug between my hands and try not to feel like this is the day that my world will cave in once and for all. Watch the familiar weather icons on the flat-screen TV in the corner and feel like Terry’s low-pressure system is coming for me, judge, jury and executioner.

English exam is at nine. I end up sitting across the aisle from April. She gives me a nervous grin and I half smile back, wondering what she would really think of me if she knew what she’s got up to in all the stories I’ve told Terry and Rose-Marie.

Usually in exams I don’t have problems with focus: I fall into the rhythm of scratching pens and write until I’m out of time. But right now I’m wishing for a drink, something to settle my mind, which wants to go in every direction other than the one I need it to.

Start the
Othello
essay. Hit a dead end and switch to the creative writing. Plough through that for maybe half a page before realising I’m writing complete crap. Screw the paper up and go back to
Othello
. By the end of three hours I’ve managed about five full pages altogether, if I’m lucky. If it makes sense, I might just pass. If it doesn’t, I’m done for.

Izzy catches up with me as we escape from the hall. ‘That was torture.’

‘I need a drink.’

‘Thought you’d crossed over to the sober side?’

‘I just need one drink.’

‘It’s the needing bit that makes it a problem.’

‘Shut up.’

Don’t even bother trying to cram for bio. A one-hour break and my brain is rejecting any attempt to think. I stretch out on the grass next to the oval and let Izzy talk rubbish.

Then we’re back in the claustrophobic silence of the hall. Mrs Williams presiding. I tune out while she goes over the exam layout, which is pure rebellion, really. It’s only when the clock starts that I actually tune back in, pull the exam towards me and flip it open.

The multiple-choice questions are easy. I’m almost done with them when the door at the side of the hall groans open. Every student looks up: Mrs Clegg from the office with a cordless phone in her hand. Even before anybody looks in my direction I know it’s for me.