Crossing the Line (3 page)

‘Tracey told me about your family. I’m really sorry. Was it long ago?’

Matt glares at me. It’s a look I haven’t seen before. Bad choice of conversation.

‘Oops . . . sorry. You don’t have to answer.’

There’s still more silence before he finally speaks.

‘I don’t like talking about that stuff.’ He looks straight ahead at the road.

‘Sure, sure, that’s fine,’ I splutter. ‘I understand. I had no business mentioning it.’

‘Maybe some other time.’

‘All right, but only if you want to. Anytime you want to talk about it, I’m here.’

Matt checks the rear-vision mirror before making a right-hand turn. ‘You’ve got a deal,’ he says.

A few days later Matt comes home early and we find ourselves with a rare moment alone. We move around one another in the kitchen making hot drinks. Both of us raid the fridge and wander into the living room to put our feet up.

‘I’m totally stuffed.’ He drops his head dramatically to his chest. ‘It’s so good to relax.’

‘Tough day at college?’

‘More than that. I’ve taken on extra work at the growers’ market.’ He chomps into his sandwich. ‘Need the money. And man, is it hard going.’

His defences are down. Guess he’s too tired to care. He talks freely about his job, the guys he works with, the trip he’s going to take when, and if, he saves enough money. He wants to go to South America, see a toucan in the wild.

‘Might only be a dream,’ he says, shaking his head and grinning. ‘Probably won’t ever get there – but hey, you gotta have dreams, right?’

‘Right, Matt. Definitely.’

We talk some more about ordinary things. Then he stops and looks at me. He doesn’t say a word but I know what’s on his mind. I nod, trying to let him know that it’s okay, that I’m here for him. That he can trust me.

‘It was almost two years ago,’ he says, his fingers playing arpeggio on the couch arm. ‘I didn’t have any other rellos and I’d just turned sixteen, so the Department tried to run my life for a while. That lasted about five minutes before I got jack of it. I found ways of getting by on my own.’

I don’t come straight out and ask him what ways he’s talking about, but he sees the question in my eyes, and answers it.

‘You know, bank robbery, kidnapping – stuff like that.’

‘Idiot.’ I hit him with a cushion, but I’m grateful that he’s cut through the tension. And so glad he has a sense of humour.

‘The stupid thing is,’ Matt continues, ‘I keep feeling guilty about the accident. I should have been killed too.’

I don’t say anything because I’m sure he’s heard it all before. Sometimes listening is the best you can do.

‘People tell me it’s only natural to feel that way. It takes a long time to get over it, blah, blah. It’s all true, but it doesn’t make it any easier.’

I’d like to hug him, tell him he’s not alone, but I just don’t know him well enough.

‘It’s going to be okay,’ I say.

‘You bet it is.’ He’s got his brave face back on.

A few days later when the Department deposits my allowance into my bank account, I spend ages window-shopping, looking for something special for Matt. I find a fantastic book about inventions, and when I give it to him, his jaw drops.

‘For me?’

‘Yep.’

‘For why?’

‘For sharing,’ I say.

He nods, and I know he understands.

5

N
oel Palmer’s my shrink. It’s his job to let me talk about whatever I want, or so he explained during our first session. He’s a short, dark-haired man with olive skin and brown eyes that look inflamed around the edges. He often sneezes so I think he suffers from hay fever. Or maybe he’s allergic to something. Probably nut cases like me! Typically, he perches on the edge of his chair, fingers intertwined and face intent, listening to me as if everything I say ought to be awarded a trophy.

I’ve been coming here since my last fostering broke down. Don’t know any more about him than I did that first day I walked into his office. He could be a serial killer for all I know – a cat burglar, rapist, man with a wicked past, wanted on six continents! Most likely he has a boring life – married with two-point-one children, sex on Saturday, church on Sunday, listening to people’s confessions the rest of the week.

Call me dumb as, but I’m still not really sure what Noel wants me to say during this therapy business. If I ask him a question, like, ‘What do you want me to talk about?’ he invariably asks me another in return, ‘What would you like to talk about?’ This must be on Page One in the shrink’s book of rules. Never give a straight answer. ‘What do you think?’ is his number two classic question. Also, ‘Do you think that was appropriate?’ That word ‘appropriate’ comes up a lot.

One day he asked if I thought it was appropriate to hassle my maths teacher. I looked at Noel as if he was an escapee from a funny farm. But then I said politely, ‘No, it probably wasn’t appropriate.’ It had been a joke, really, just some harmless fun Greta and I had with some others during a Friday afternoon last period. I only mentioned it to pass the time and now I was being quizzed on it, as if there’s some dark meaning behind every little thing I do. And so I sat there keeping mum, thinking what was the use.

Noel and I sit and look at one another a lot, like we’re playing this game of who’s going to be the first to break the ice. Usually he wins. Gotcha, Sophie! But I don’t mind. I kind of like getting stuff off my chest. Some stuff, not all of it. There’s nobody I trust that much.

Today I take a careful look around his office. On the wall facing me are some colourful prints with patterns on them – very pretty. On the desk near his leather seat stands a box of tissues – expensive ones, impregnated with aloe vera (for patients who like to cry, I suppose), and a travelling clock with its back to me. Sometimes there’s a packet of throat lozenges. Honey and lemon. Above Noel’s desk near the door hangs a calendar with a black and white photo of a small boy and girl kissing. I love that picture! His desk is strewn with lots of books and papers.

‘What are you thinking of, Sophie?’ Noel asks halfway into our session when neither of us has said a word.

‘I like the kaleidoscope patterns in your pictures.’

‘And why is that?’

The man’s a quiz master of the highest calibre.

‘I don’t know. I just like them.’

‘And what else do you like?’

‘As in things in this office?’

He shrugs, which I take to mean is what do I like anywhere; in his office, or in the world.

I say the first thing that comes into my head. ‘I like ice-cream.’

‘What flavour?’

‘Liquorice.’

He smiles, glances at the clock when he thinks I’m not watching.

‘Do you like ice-cream?’ I ask.

This is like tennis. Lobbing the questions back and forth.

‘What do you think?’

‘I suppose so. I haven’t met anyone yet who didn’t like it.’

And so it goes on. Don’t know why I bother. Or what he gets out of it all.

Sometimes, when I feel like it, I talk about school. Or living with Matt and Amy. Or other people I hang with, like Greta. When I do this, Noel leans forward. As if what I’m saying is fascinating.

‘Amy can be pretty out there,’ I tell him.

Noel nods. Smiles. ‘Yes?’

‘I’ve seen her shoplift.’

I know this is not what the Department pays my shrink a huge packet for – to listen to me gossip about my second-favourite flatmate. But it’s easier than talking about myself.

‘You want to tell me more?’

I stop short of mentioning her smoking pot and driving without a licence. Funny how the mind works. I think of Amy being in trouble and that lights up a memory of when I was at the Pattersons, my old fosters. Always in hot water there. Without much effort at all I can still see old man Patterson coming at me, about to give me a tongue-lashing.

Noel’s voice is somewhere in the background but I’m in another space. Images now zap about my brain – of headless beings, of my younger face, contorted, tearful, lost, of being pulled away screaming from loving arms. Of wolves ripping into me. Then I’m falling into a deep chasm, arms and legs flaying the black and sticky air, and I’m just falling, endlessly falling.

‘What are you thinking of, Sophie?’

His voice jolts me back to reality.

‘Oh nothing, nothing really.’

Instead of letting Noel anywhere near my deepest feelings, I start rambling on, spitting out whatever wanders into my mind . . . ‘And then this dick of a teacher tells her she’s on detention. But Greta tells him to shove it and she’s off out of there, yelling that he can stick his bloody geography up his . . .’

I am suddenly aware of Noel’s hands, small and plump, resting in his lap like delicate white birds.

‘You’ve got little hands,’ I say. ‘For a man.’

Suddenly the shrink changes, becomes real. A flush shoots up his neck and onto his face. He looks like one of those characters in a kids’ puppet show, with beady glass eyes and shiny cheeks the colour of ripe tamarillos.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude or anything. It’s just . . .’

He’s back in control. Leans forward again. ‘Does it worry you that you might have offended me?’

‘No. Why would it?’

He waits expectantly as if he knows I’ve got more to say. Maybe I have, but not this time. Now my mind clangs shut, as does my mouth, my big fat mouth.

6

M
att’s rattling around in the kitchen when I arrive home.

‘Hi!’

‘Hi, yourself. Want a cuppa?’

‘Yeah, thanks.’

By now Matt knows how I like my coffee: white, strong, two sugars. I watch him potter about, getting out the mugs and pouring milk. He flicks a long honey-coloured strand of hair from his eyes.

‘Hmm,’ he says, studying my face. ‘You don’t look too good, anything wrong?’

‘No, not really. I’ve just come from seeing Freudie Babe.’

Matt places the mug in front of me and grins.

I like him a lot; I’m even starting to think of him as my best friend. Maybe one day I should tell him . . . He doesn’t talk all that much, especially when Amy’s with us, but he’s thoughtful, perceptive. I think we know each other pretty well now.

He blows on his coffee to cool it. ‘They always want to dig inside your brain, those doctors . . .’

‘Absolutely.’

‘You know, when Mum and Dad and Jenny were killed . . .’ He gulps. Those words are still hard to say. ‘Well, they took me to a shrink.’

I pet Persia as I wait for him to continue. Matt often pauses between sentences as if he needs to have some control over his thoughts. Or perhaps it is his feelings.

‘I suppose I wasn’t ready. Refused to say anything about the accident, about the funeral, how I felt. Didn’t say a single word.’

‘Good for you.’

‘Five sessions we sat there. The place had a really nice ceiling . . . and the patterns on the carpet were good too.’

‘So what did he say?’

‘Nothing much. Although it was a she, actually. Doctor Joy, can you believe?’

‘What a hoot!’

Matt’s face lights up. ‘Yeah. It was funny. Doctor Joy . . . man, was she hot! I tell you, it was very hard to concentrate on what she was saying. Let’s just say there were some big distractions . . .’

We both laugh. Then he sits in silence, thinking back to those days, maybe to his family. I watch his fingers – slender and elegant – stroke the side of his mug as he stares into space. We each took different roads to get here, but we’re still in the same place, owning the same kind of scars, feeling the same kind of hurt.

‘Feel like a hug?’ I say it softly. It surprises me as much as him.

‘A hug? Yeah, that sounds pretty good.’

There’s such a wistful look on his face that my heart clenches. I wrap myself around him. He holds me loosely, his arms looped around my back. There’s nothing passionate going on here – neither of us game enough to plunge into deeper water but there’s a closeness that I’ve rarely known. Matt doesn’t say anything, just keeps holding me. I wonder if I should reach my face up to his and kiss him. All I have to do is move a fraction of an inch . . . but I can’t.

‘We should clean the kitchen,’ I hear myself say over his shoulder. ‘It’s disgusting, all this junk.’

‘Um, yes.’ He breaks away from me. ‘Okay. I’ll help you.’

We carry on as if nothing has happened, but we know it has. My heart is going
glump, glump, glump
and I have to sit down.

Later, when he leaves for soccer training, I go back into my room, and put on my CD of
Three Men and a Gun.
I give myself a serve for being chicken.
You idiot! So weak!
But there will be another time for me and Matt – I have to believe that. I lie awake for ages before sleep claims me.

The front doorbell rings and I spring out of bed. It’s Jan. She comes around once a week to see how we’re coping and early on, when I moved in, she spent a lot of time with me, talking and chilling – really listening, especially one day when I was feeling particularly low. Other welfare people I’ve known were snobby or nosy or plain apathetic, but Jan breezes in exuding energy, always cheerful and seeming to be genuinely interested in us. Not like Marie who couldn’t care less. And Jan always brings something with her, not just her bright, friendly self, but a gift – sometimes a bunch of flowers, a home-cooked cake, some incense. She’s special.

Today Jan has news that makes her face light up. She’s taking long-service leave to travel overseas.

When she announces this, my hands begin to shake.

‘I’m going to India with my friend Nancy.’ She does a little hop as she says India. ‘I’ve wanted to go there ever since we studied the country at school. We’re backpacking for some of the way.’ She pulls out a map and points out the route she and her friend will be taking. I imagine her in baggy shorts and strong hiking boots with a bulging pack on her back – a million miles from care. And me.

‘Would you like a cuppa?’ I offer, aching for her to stay longer. ‘I’d love to hear more about your trip.’

My hands continue to tremble. As I pour the milk, it splatters onto the sink. ‘Damn! Sorry!’ I drop the cup. It splinters across the floor and hot tea splashes everywhere.

Diving to pick up the broken shards, I wipe a tear from my cheek. Jan sees it.

‘Are you all right, Soph?’

‘Yeah, sure.’ I manage to smile. ‘Just clumsy.’

When the mess is cleared and a new cup is poured, we sit on the back porch and eat the zucchini and raisin cake I made yesterday. Jan is full of the trip and her plans, her long friendship with Nancy, another trip in the future, possibly to Europe. She has no idea how it hurts me.

‘Well, my love,’ she says some time later, ‘I could easily spend hours sitting here with you, but –’ She stands and stretches. ‘I really have to get back to work.’

I smile, but obviously not all that convincingly, because Jan peers at me with concern. ‘You’ll be fine with my replacement, won’t you, Soph?’

‘Of course.’ I wave a finger at her, keeping up the jolly act. ‘But don’t you be gone for too long, will you? I might miss you.’

My voice betrays me as I say that. It cracks. Just a little, but enough for Jan to notice.

‘Silly thing. I’m coming back, you know.’

‘You better.’

At the front door she hugs me and I feel like they are Arlene’s arms around me; Arlene who promised she would always be there for me.

When Jan has gone, I wander around the house, rearranging ornaments, adjusting pictures on walls, and tidying up. I feel adrift. I need to touch familiar objects. I wish I had someone to talk to, to keep me together, but Amy’s away for the day and Matt’s late home. My stomach’s twisted and knotted. I’m happy for Jan and her well-deserved vacation, but I hate the thought of her being gone and maybe never coming back. Sure, she said she would, but what else could she say? I’ll miss her so much.

I’m in the bathroom. Thoughts and feelings of again being abandoned are spinning in my head. Round and round. Out of control. Why do people always leave me? Why did my mother leave? Arlene? Dutch? Everyone I have ever cared for. Gone.

In the mirror I watch as I drop my sarong to the floor and survey my milk-white breasts with their pale, strawberry-pink nipples. This body in front of me belongs to someone else. All I have is a mind, mobbed with volcanic, insane thoughts that need to be tamed. There is only one way to do this. The razor.

The blade rests its silver-sharp edge on my flesh, on the soft inside of my forearm near old, faint scars. Inside my head the jumble intensifies. Images surface. Dutch stroking my head for the last time. My hand clasped in his. Arlene smothering my neck with kisses, soft yet indelible. Then she is leaving too. Waving goodbye from a taxi window.

And now the blade is pressing, slicing into the skin. Leaving a thin crimson trail. Pearls of blood. And I am watching, detached. My mind is moving into a place of peace. Peace without pain.

The hand flicks in all directions, creating roads that intersect. Roads long and definite that lead to nowhere. Roads like my life. Without beginning. Without destination.

There. It’s done.

I stare in the mirror at the trails, mesmerised as they swell into claret-red, beaded strings. A stranger stares back at me. Her arms are cut and she’s bleeding.

We keep watching one another, savouring these brief moments of freedom. She and I are connected by the cuts.

Finally I step out of the dream state. The world is real again and there’s a stinging sensation. It’s a pain more bearable than having to deal with the chaos in my mind. Even if only for a short time, my anxiety is gone. I’m in control.

Dabbing the blood, I watch it soak into the tissue, spreading. Then I dress in clean clothes and wind a handkerchief around my arm to hide my secret.

In my room I sit with eyes closed and focus on the pain, listen to the breeze outside slapping a bush against the window. When my mind is settled, the crazy thoughts banished, I go into the kitchen for a mug of warm milk and a slice of cake, before heading off to clean the house.