Sweet Damage (10 page)

The day he died she went back to the big empty house alone. She went straight to her bedroom and picked up the ceramic flower her father had made for her. She curled up in a foetal position on her bed, the flower clutched tightly in her hands, and wept.

18

W
HEN
I
WAKE THE NEXT DAY IT
'
S POURING, AND THE SKY IS GREY
and overcast. It's probably warm outside, humid and sticky, but inside it's cool. I pull on a T-shirt, a pair of jeans and a thick pair of socks to keep my feet warm, then head downstairs.

What I find there makes my heart pound.

The kitchen is a mess. Every cupboard door, every drawer, is open. Plates have been thrown on the floor, and shards of crockery are scattered everywhere. Pots and pans and lids litter the entire floor and, judging from the marks on the walls, they were thrown with force. The fridge door is open and jars of food have shattered against the walls and floor, leaving disgusting smears and dangerous slivers of glass everywhere.

This is deliberate. The work of someone in a mad frenzy. Someone very, very disturbed.

I run through the rest of the downstairs rooms, looking for evidence of a break-in, but everything is intact and in its place. The doors are locked tight. I run upstairs to Anna's room and knock loudly on her door.

‘Anna? Anna? Are you in there?'

‘Tim?'

I open her door. She sits up and pushes her hair back from her face. She looks and sounds annoyed. ‘What is it?'

‘The kitchen,' I say, and I don't mean it, but my voice comes out sounding harsh, accusing.

‘What about it?'

‘Come down and take a look.'

She follows behind me. When she sees the mess she takes a step back, puts her hand over her mouth.

‘Oh my God,' she says.

‘What happened?'

She looks at me, looks back at the mess, shakes her head. She starts to cry. ‘I don't know. I have no idea.'

For a minute I almost believe her. She looks so genuinely startled and afraid, and it's not too hard to imagine that someone else broke in and did this, someone with some kind of axe to grind, or just some random, drug-fucked freak. But there's no sign of forced entry – no broken windows, no jimmied doors.

‘I didn't do it,' she insists.

‘Then who did?' I say quietly, turning away before she can see the doubt in my eyes.

19

T
HE THING IS, SHE CAN
'
T REMEMBER
.

Her memories of last night are all a bit of a blur, but she knows she was distraught, desperate with anxiety, frustration, self-loathing.

The day had started badly. She slept in, waking around midday feeling groggy and drained. And she felt distinctly miserable, even sadder than usual, on the brink of tears. She went straight up to the attic with a mug of tea, then sat in the big old armchair that used to be her father's and let the tears spill over. She let herself cry until her head ached and her eyes stung.

In the afternoon, after Tim had gone to work, she left the attic and went to the kitchen. She searched the fridge. Milk, cheese, eggs, ham, a half-empty bottle of Coke. There was a loaf of yesterday's bread in the pantry. Tim was good at making sure there was always something in the house. But she didn't want a sandwich, she didn't want eggs. She wanted a big bowl of soup and fresh, crusty bread.

The more she imagined the soup the larger the idea of it became in her head. She not only wanted it, she needed it. It was such a reasonable thing to want, why couldn't she have it?

She found her purse, put her shoes on. She would go to the shops; simply walk outside, turn towards Manly and walk down to the supermarket. No big deal.

She went out the front door, pulling it shut behind her and walked down the path, towards the gate. If she went quickly enough, without thinking, she'd make it. She'd get there. She wouldn't vomit, or cry, or collapse in a breathless heap on the floor, wouldn't have to be a prisoner to her own fears.

She made it to the gate and started along the footpath towards Manly. She walked very quickly at first, head down, determined, concentrating only on the movement of her feet against the footpath, trying to ignore the black knot of fear that was unravelling in her mind, filling its spaces. But with each step, her breathing got more strained. Her heart started to pound, her hands to tremble and sweat.

She felt her stomach churn, her bowels twist. Her heart was beating so fast and so hard, she was sure it was visible through her chest. She looked around her in panic, terrified that she'd be noticed. If someone offered her help right now, or asked if she was okay, she'd be unable to answer. Being seen would only make things worse. She would die of humiliation.

She turned her face to the sky, squeezing her eyes shut to hold back the tears. She could see a weak patch of sunshine through the clouds, through her eyelids; she could see the red of her own blood. It was such a benign afternoon, and there was so obviously nothing to be afraid of out here . . . She tried to breathe: in and out, in and out, in and out. It was no good. Her mind and body were reacting to a simple walk as if she were fleeing a hungry lion. She was pathetic, weak, hopeless. She turned around and headed back to the house, almost running the last ten metres to the front door.

Once she got inside she went to the kitchen, found the box of pills she kept in the cabinet above the fridge. She took four valium with a sip of Coke from the bottle in the fridge. The label said to take one, two at most, but she needed this to work, she craved the cotton-wool cloudiness of a valium mind. Sweet oblivion. She closed the fridge door and pressed her back against it, let herself sink to the floor. She wept noisily into her hands.

When she became too uncomfortable and sore, she got up. The valium had dulled the sharpest edges, but she wanted more. She found some vodka high up in the pantry cupboard and swigged from the bottle. The liquor burned her throat and made her gasp. She took another large drink, and then another.

She paced the hall, back and forth, back and forth, then went into the living room and turned on the television, but she couldn't sit still, couldn't concentrate. In the kitchen, she buttered a piece of bread, placing some ham and a slice of cheese on top. After three hasty bites she threw the rest in the bin. Her stomach was knotted, closed up tight, and food was intolerable. She drank some more vodka and went back to wandering the house. As the hours ticked by she started feeling worse, more miserable, angrier, until she was overcome with an unbearable sense of powerlessness, a conviction of her own irrelevance. She could die and who would really care? Nobody needed her, nobody loved her.

Nobody.

She can't remember much more. She remembers being in the bathroom at some stage. Staring at herself in the mirror, weeping and drunk on valium and vodka.

‘I didn't do it,' she tells him.

But even as the words are coming from her mouth she can see Tim doesn't believe her. He turns away, mutters something vague and incomprehensible. His cheeks grow red.

He blushes because he thinks she's lying. He's embarrassed for her. That's the kind of person Tim is.

20

I
T DOESN
'
T TAKE AS LONG TO CLEAN UP THE MESS AS
I
THOUGHT IT
would. We sweep all the broken plates and glass into a thick bin bag, wipe down the surfaces. Anna brings an armful of towels. We use them to dry the benchtops, the cabinet doors, getting down on our hands and knees to dry the floor.

When we've finished, the kitchen is immaculate and we're both sweating and puffed with exertion.

‘We could have some breakfast,' I say, collapsing onto a chair, looking at Anna properly for the first time since we started cleaning. ‘But we don't actually have any food. Or any plates to put it on, for that matter.'

‘We could have coffee,' she says. ‘I saw some unbroken mugs still in the cupboard.'

I make coffee, sit opposite Anna. I'm surprised to see that she's crying.

She tries to hide it. She blinks, looks away, picks up her mug and puts it to her lips.

‘Are you okay?'

‘I'm just sad,' she says eventually. ‘Very, very sad.'

*

When we've finished cleaning the kitchen I go up to my room. I'm tired from the events of the past few days, the late nights and disturbed sleep, and I collapse across my bed, close my eyes. I think about Anna smashing up the kitchen. I try to envision the scene in my mind: Anna with a crazed look on her face, eyes wild, throwing things in an insane frenzy. She seems so timid and restrained, so lacking in vital force, that it's hard to imagine her summoning up the required passion for such an act. And that in itself is alarming. Has she got two completely different sides? Some kind of split personality? Am I living with some kind of psychopath?

Should I be worried?

For the first time, I wonder if I should pack my things and go. Maybe I should have taken more notice when Fiona told me it was okay if I wanted to move out. I should have at least used it as an opportunity to ask a few questions. I should have asked why she felt the need to warn me like that.

Despite my fatigue it's impossible to sleep so I get up, sit at my desk. I click onto the internet, intending to google agoraphobia to find out whether Anna's strange behaviour is some kind of expected symptom, but find myself logging onto Facebook first. I torture myself for a minute by looking through Lilla's photos and am startled when a message from her appears in the little chat box at the bottom of the screen.

Hey Tim! Watcha doin' on Facebook? Thought you hated it!

I feel as embarrassed as I would if she'd walked in and busted me masturbating. The only dignified response I can think of is to muddy the water with the truth.

Staring at photos of you, of course. What else would I be doing?

Ha, ha. I knew it. Well, EACH TO HIS OWN, as my nan would say. (You big freak.) Hey, anyway, I was thinking. Got some free time tomorrow morning? Catch the ferry into the city with me on my way to work?

Ferry? What happened to your car?

It's in the car hospital for a few days. Nothing terminal. So, what do you think? You'll have to be up early. We could have coffee in town and talk about your birthday party.

What birthday party? I'm not having a party!

Let's talk about it tomorrow. We'll need to catch the 7.30 ferry, so you need to be at Manly Wharf at 7.15. Don't be late! xoxoxox

I remember my promise to keep in contact with Fiona and Marcus and open my email account. I send a note explaining what has happened over the past few days – Anna crying and confused at night, the trashed kitchen. I try to keep it brief, my tone as calm and matter-of-fact as I can. I already feel like a jerk writing to Anna's friends behind her back, I don't want to make things worse by sounding melodramatic.

Fiona responds within minutes.

Thanks for letting us know, Tim. Do you think we should call a doctor up to the house?

I'm not sure. I don't feel in a position to answer that question. You should probably decide. You know a lot more about this than I do. To be honest I'm starting to feel a bit uncomfortable with this whole situation – me emailing you behind Anna's back and everything. But I'll certainly let you know if things get any worse.

Okay. Thanks, Tim. And we understand your hesitation but please don't worry about contacting us. Remember, we only have Anna's best interests at heart!

21

W
HEN HER FATHER DIED
, F
IONA AND
M
ARCUS STEPPED IN TO HELP
. F
IONA
organised the funeral and wake – she made all the phone calls, drove Anna to appointments, arranged flowers and food. Marcus sorted out the will and finances, made sure Anna had immediate access to her inheritance and to the title on the property
.

After the funeral they started coming to the house several times a week. Sometimes Marcus would call in on his way home from work. He'd have a beer or a coffee at the kitchen table, tell Anna about his day, ask about hers, make sure she was okay. Fiona would come for morning or afternoon tea and they'd sit in the kitchen and talk. On weekends they'd walk down to Manly and go to a movie together.

Her old friends came to visit too, but suddenly their preoccupations didn't match Anna's. She didn't want to go to nightclubs and dance, didn't want to watch second-rate bands and get drunk on vodka. She started making excuses, making up reasons why she couldn't go out or why they couldn't come over.

At weekends Fiona and Marcus came to the house together. The two of them would cook for her and they'd spend hours playing board games or watching movies. They'd stay so late they'd often end up sleeping over, taking a room each. Anna would go to bed on those nights feeling safe and content. She'd lie back and listen to the noises Fiona and Marcus made as they got ready for bed, the rush of water from a tap, the creak of floorboards, the flush of a toilet, and feel comforted and less alone. It was nice having them around. And it was especially good to wake up to the sound of other people in the house, the smell of toast and coffee coming from the kitchen.

In a way it made perfect sense, their developing friendship. Despite surface differences, they actually had a lot in common. Like Anna, Marcus and Fiona were basically alone in the world. They had no extended family, no relatives.

Anna treasured their relationship, she felt protected and cared for and understood, but she was curious about them, and wanted to know more.

One Saturday night when they were playing Scrabble, she tried to get them to talk.