just_a_girl (13 page)

I laugh because he’s started to slur. He goes into the kitchen and opens another bottle of red. He pours it really slowly so I won’t notice how drunk he is.

—Marijuana, cocaine, speed, ecstasy, I think they’re all okay every now and then. I’m not really into hallucinogens. Like a few guys I worked with used to take magic mushrooms or LSD on their days off, but I wasn’t really interested. I’ve got enough weird shit going on in my brain. And heroin, you know, or ice, I wouldn’t go near them. But I think it’s okay to try everything once.

I help him put the cork back in the bottle as he starts grating the lemon rind. I sniff the meat.

—I think it’s ready, dad. Yeah, I’ve heard the best drug is ecstasy. It just makes you feel like the whole world is amazing and beautiful and everything feels better. I can’t really see anything wrong with it. At school they’re always telling us not to take it because kids have died. But they usually just haven’t drunk enough water. Kids are more likely to die drinking too much and falling off a balcony.

Dad laughs and runs into the lounge room. He goes to lock the door leading out to the balcony. I follow him in and flop on the couch.

—I just watched this doco that said that marijuana actually causes you to go psychotic. Scientists have proved it. And some people have a gene that makes them more likely to get schizophrenia. Especially if they smoke it in high school. Some kids in my class just smoke it all the time. Before school, at lunchtime, all night. They’re really boring. They just sit there and do nothing. And act as if you don’t get it. They reckon it’s not addictive. But they can’t seem to give it up.

—Mmmm, I don’t know. I think dope is pretty safe. I’ve had so many friends who’ve smoked over the years. In the 80s we had it every weekend. And no-one seemed to have any problems. It was just a chance to relax, have a good laugh. Except this one time but ... I’ve told you this story before, haven’t I, about when you were a baby...

—No, what was it?

—Well you might not want to hear it...

He starts to get up off the couch. He looks like it was a mistake to mention it. I grab his arm. He can’t back down now. He sits next to me nursing the wine.

—Hey, come on, you have to tell me now!

—Well, you were tiny and we’d just moved to Springwood, the house you’re in now. I used to smoke a bit of hash. Not much, just every now and then before I went to bed, to wind down after work. I can’t remember but I don’t think your mother had any. Probably not if she was breastfeeding. But anyway, this one night, I got a joint from a friend. And I think now that it probably wasn’t just hash. It must have been laced with something else, LSD or something, because I’d never had a reaction like this before. Or since. But I had about half a joint, not much at all, and I started getting really paranoid. I couldn’t stop thinking about you asleep in the next room. I decided that you were in danger and we needed to hide you. But then I started to think that if I smothered you everything would be better. I went into your room and watched you sleep in the cot. I grabbed a blanket and I really wanted to put it over your face. But I lay down on the floor in the corner of your room instead. I stayed there curled up in a foetal position and covered my head with the blanket so
I couldn’t see you. I don’t know where your mother was. I can’t remember her being there.

Dad gets up to start serving dinner. He doesn’t want to talk any more. He just dumps it and leaves. I think about our house. My room where I sleep. What the walls have seen. I wonder where mum was that night. Why she wasn’t in the room with me. Did she see him huddled there in the corner? I throw the image away. A ragdoll on the floor.

Dad brings in our christmas meal. But I’ve reached that point where it’s too late. I’m so hungry I’m not hungry any more. I put in the DVD of
Summer Heights High.
Dad’s given me the
special edition
as a present. I still can’t get over how good that guy is acting as a girl. We sit on the couch balancing plates in our laps. We laugh at Ja’mie and Jonah.

But it’s holidays and suddenly I don’t want to be reminded of school. I start getting my bed ready.

Dad tries to tuck me in as if apologising. He was right. I want him to take it back. He leans over and rubs my cheek with his stubble. He always used to do that to me as a kid. I still like the rough tickle. The way it almost hurts. But not quite.

I push him away instead.

I go to sleep replaying a vision that I don’t want to remember. I want it out of my head.

I don’t want this to be the one story I hear from my dad.

The one about when I was a baby.

Chelsea seems to have taken over the stage and this week she was talking about the importance of the Body when it comes to the Spirit, how they do a balancing act, so getting a nice strong body is something extra I can do to get me closer to Jesus, and this thought has been helping me get through the past couple of days, I’ve been trying to be brave, but I’ve been thinking about Auntie Jeannie, you know, I felt that spot in my breast and it seemed tiny but hurt a bit and my mind automatically jumped to her, that soft way of speaking she had and her belly laughs and how once she started I’d join in and couldn’t stop, and I still miss her every day but especially at Christmas, and I remember when Violet told me over the phone and how I had to stand with one foot stuck hard against the doorway to prop myself up against the idea of it, the way Violet framed it, it sounded like a death sentence and in the end it was, Jeannie’s face so crinkled and yellow and brutal in its shape, and her throat so thin she could barely whisper or even breathe, and she was only 50 years old.

And most of the time I get by being alone but this morning was hard, I mean, I have the Lord in my life and I felt his presence strongly today but I really wished for the sock shuffles of Layla on the carpet, someone to chat to over breakfast, and I’m so tired after that long haul to Randwick and I wanted someone there to sit with me in the waiting room and to hold my hand for once as I read
Woman’s Day,
you know, Violet didn’t know how to wait and she couldn’t bear to see any signs of weakness, she was always too drunk to notice her own, and she wouldn’t ever go to the hospital not even the day Auntie Jeannie died, and Dr Child’s always in such a rush and she talks as if she’s being paid by the second, because she is, and I feel guilty for sitting there and taking up her precious time while she struggles with the database on her computer that never seems to work so I want to take over and type the diagnosis in for her, and when she explains things her words scatter and fire at me like misdirected arrows and I don’t feel like there’s any space for mine at all, and when she first told me all I could think of was this joke email I got sent once that said,
How to prepare for a mammogram,
which suggested repeatedly slamming your breasts in the door of the fridge or lying down and letting your husband run your breasts over with the front wheels of his car.

The lady who did the tests was really as gentle as she could be but it did feel strange, like having a large brick pressing down or squeezing sideways to make them pancake flat, and I couldn’t really feel the lump again to be honest as my breasts are full of squidgy bits very soft and flat after Layla, and I never quite know what’s right and what isn’t, and then I had an ultrasound too because Dr Child said she couldn’t be sure if it was anything to worry about but because of Auntie Jeannie being quite young we should check, and the ultrasound of my breast looked like
waves on a wintry beach, and I felt quite calm looking at them as they swirled, and the woman rolling the cold instrument pointed and clicked to record the right spot like a weathergirl highlighting satellite images on the map with her pen, and said,
It’s mostly false alarms, doctors are so scared of not picking things up, they look at the slightest inconsistency. I think they put a lot of people through unnecessary worry.

And I agreed with her that maybe ignorance was bliss because once you hear the word, weigh up the idea of cancer, your brain fiddles with it like a hard sudoku puzzle, and the more I see doctors the more I think that only Jesus really knows where our true path lies, I mean, the Lord put us all here for a purpose and gave us a privileged position on Earth and all I want to know is, am I going to make it?

Dad and I get up early and have a strawberry smoothie. Dad is obsessed with counting carbs. He reckons strawberries are the best carb-wise. More bang for your buck. Then we head down in his Honda. It only takes a few hours to get to Byron. After organic coffee stops along the way. When I get there I realise that I’m going to a festival with my dad. It’s not a good look. I try to walk just a few feet in front. The rain has stopped. But there’s mud everywhere. Someone nearby whinges,
Byron has sold out of gumboots.
I’m in my red converse. They
were
red. Now they are shitty-brown and full of water. Dad has cowboy boots on. He nearly has a stack and grabs me from behind for support. We both land just near a puddle.

Apparently there’s a wine tent.
Dad follows the directions on the map. That should do the trick. I can lose him there. We wander into a Moroccan cave. He gets a plastic glass and buys a bottle. I really want to see Julia and Angus Stone.
I think I might just stay here for a while, do you mind?
I ditch
him and approach the music tent. It’s not too crowded yet. I head up the front to get a position. Two more acts before Death Cab for Cutie. I sit down while I wait for them to come on. Julia has a dress on to die for. She wears Dorothy from Oz shoes. I love the way she sings and then grabs her trumpet. Her brother hides behind a big beard. But I think he’s pretty cute somewhere in there.

A guy stumbles over my feet. Accidentally on purpose and we both smile. He’s had a haircut. He’s got short brown fuzz now. It makes him look older. But it’s his smile that gets me. He just uses half his face. It’s lazy and effortless. It makes you want to join him in whatever he’s got planned.
Do you mind if I sit too?
I shuffle over and he gives me a hug. Not only has Marco made it and found me. He’s organised. He touches my hand and leans in to kiss me. The shock of his tongue brings with it a small round surprise. I roll it in my mouth and swallow.
I’ve never done this before.
He says,
Don’t worry, I’ll look after you.

And Marco’s voice is swirling and sunshine glows from his face and death cab for cutie rocking pet sounds main beach to byron the grates girls 80s swirling converse sloshed mud eyeballs the wet grass feels like satin brian wilson’s piano tv on the radio purple sneakers tent pumping jam packed organic doughnuts wouldn’t it be nice love this girls in designer gumboots paisley zebra patterns sonic youth on stage now boys run leap into mud clap your hands say yeah not piano just church pew Brian’s reading auto cue yeah yeah yeahs best outfit gravel woodchips boots ouch! hawaaaa-iiiii oh god those shirts augie march one crowded hour
dotty dress black tights over olsens sunglasses tipi forest ice sculptures a girl with enormous boobs even my dad doesn’t miss em new secret show who’s playing? you am i tim’s woozy marco’s feeding me ice cream mud in your pants t-shirts i’ll fuck for blow her chest reads beach boys’ sons dad says good vibrations so good wolfmother marco goes off pole dancing classes yee-hah! smashed girl chucks beer in my face kisses me afterwards not bitter this is so awesome i scream i’m up on marco’s shoulders help me rhonda dad marco dancing autocue too slow go! go! go! laughing in rain with hoodie plastic bottle wine straddle white barricade where’s toilet pee in bushes jeans soggy dad scissor sisters t-shirt one size fits all too small marco’s gone i can’t find him wake up late next morning I don’t feel like dancin’

Dad and I are still recovering. Post-festival depression. The airport stinks like death. Sweet, polished, hard. The planes are coffins in the sky. Being here at Coolangatta means goodbyes. Pretending it all doesn’t matter. The fake smile of the airhostess. As she rewards you with $2 headphones to listen to crap music. And dad stands at the gate. Waving, waving, waving, wavvvvvviiiiinnnnnnggggg. Bye for a year. Waiting for a sign. A turnback or a smile. But I just look ahead and walk up the back door plane stairs. Fuckadoodle if I’ll give him that satisfaction. He could live closer. We just had a last coffee. Him macchiato, me mocha. He tells me that macchiato means
mark.
In Venice you can get a milk macchiato with a mark of espresso. Or an espresso macchiato with a mark of milk.

My dad is obsessed with three things. Food, beverages and younger men. He likes his men with no marks at all. Ripped and athletic. There’ve been a few. They’re always acting excited about
being my friend.
Or they pretend to be up with the latest bands or movies or fashion. Or whatever. I always take a step back. Because they’re not around long enough to get to know.

I smile remembering dad on the dancefloor. In the hothouse tent at Mud Fest. A floppy-haired old guy. In a Scissor Sisters t-shirt stretched tight. He was just
so wrong.
But he is trying to do things right.

Which is more than I can say for the flight attendants on this budget airline. I know that flights are cheap but these guys do nothing. The girls with their bad fluffy hair and lolly lipsticks. Cracking onto any vaguely cute guy. The gay stewards poncing. Pointing to the exits and displaying their biceps but little else. Laughing a lot at nothing. And when you finally get to have something from the trolley. It’s five bucks for a few potato chips. And they won’t give me a JD and Coke.

I wish the oxygen masks would fall down from the ceiling so I could strangle the stewards. I used to love airline food when I first visited dad on holidays. Those little sandwiches full of egg and tuna and cheese. And strange pastes that you didn’t have to chew. Inside little diagonal triangles with different spreads on each side. Mushed together so you couldn’t pull them apart. And had to shove the whole lot down your gob at once.

Latchkey kids.
Granny said that’s what they used to call kids who came home from school to an empty house. But what do you call the school hols brigade. Flying once a
year to see their dads. Getting to board first and being offered magic pens. Colouring in books to distract from the family-wrench. Trying not to cry as you look out the window. Because you’ve got to return to the woman. Who’ll be waiting anxiously in Sydney in her airport outfit. She’s probably there already. The long drive home to the mountains. The questions she doesn’t ask and I don’t answer.

Maybe one day I won’t get on the plane. I’ll disappear, duck out of sight of dad. Or I’ll rewind the plane down the tarmac. Reverse through the punters. Clutching their last-minute-texts-on-mobiles. I’ll stand and revel in the limpness of that concertinaed shute. Looking shrivelled, sad and used as the jet sucks itself away. Mum will spend her years wondering how I managed to go missing. From a plane in the air between Coolangatta and Sydney.

As the seatbelt sign goes off with a ding I think about how I would cope. If the plane started to toss like a shot boar. Tracking down towards the ocean. Like those suckers on 9/11. Call your loved ones. Final goodbyes. I can see it now. Davo and Sarah would have their voicemail on. Dad and mum wouldn’t hear their mobiles. No time to leave a message.

So say this plane decided to take the plunge and spit its customers out.

Would I know how to inflate the lifejacket now under my seat?

And if it was dark outside, how would I know if we were over ocean and I’d need it?

And would the whistle and light work?

And what if I was upside-down and couldn’t tell which way was up?

And when we hit the water would the sharks get you first if you had your period?

And would it be so cold that Leonardo DiCaprio would lie next to me with blue lips as I kissed him on his rubber lilo?

And do planes actually have life rafts or do they just have blow-up shutes that send you flying down? Bouncing off into the ocean. Into the abyss.