Years ago, this mate of mine had a dog for round-ups that got poisoned when she ate fox bait. When we dragged her out from under their old house, her body was stiff and stretched, her mouth a death-grin, her exposed belly white and vulnerable.
That’s how I’ve felt since I arrived in hospital, like someone stretched my skin taut. These last two days have been shit. Police interviews, and talking with Rachel on the phone, dealing with her dad…
The business at the quarry. That’s what the sarge called it. Thing is, I wouldna been anywhere near the quarry, my former place of employment, if I’d known it was gonna turn into a total fuck-up. But Mike’s sister, Rachel, needed a hand. By unfortunate coincidence, I’ve had a thing for Rachel for years. It was during the quarry business that I realised Rachel’s in no way interested. So I’ve been chewing over that concept while the pain chewed through me.
Meanwhile, my own dad’s been hovering around like a blow-fly over roadkill. Today my leg was throbbing with a false heartbeat and I’d had enough. I gave myself permission to be a bastard for a while, let myself drift.
Then Amie Blunt arrived to change the sheets. She asked me about the pain – no idea how she knew – and came back with Bette, she of the scritchy polyester pants and the brassy voice. The name tag on her bosom read Barbara Dunne. She pumped a shot into my IV line and the pain was magically, amazingly gone. The relief made me want to weep and cheer at the same time.
Now it’s night. Don’t know when we got through afternoon, but it’s pretty dark in here. I’m lying flat, feeling floaty, just listening. The hospital has a muffled quiet by evening. You can hear faint beeps from other rooms, the hum of the air-conditioning. It’s like being underwater.
So I hear it when someone raises their voice down the hall. A ruckus in Admissions, maybe. I can’t make out words. I lie here, trying to work out what’s going on from the wailing. The noise masks the beat of fast-moving footsteps, which is why I’m caught by surprise when Amie Blunt ducks into my room.
She closes the door, turns, and leans her spine against it. Could be she’s just something I’m dreaming up because of the drugs I’m on. But I can see details that tell me she’s real. Her hair, dark and shiny, is slipping out of her plait; she rakes it back. Her hands are shaking, and she’s breathing hard.
‘Amie?’ My voice comes out rough.
She jumps, the whites of her eyes flashing. ‘Oh, sorry. Sorry, I thought you were asleep. I wouldn’t have come in if I’d known you were –’
‘You okay?’ Her voice is tight and her movements are small, jerky. Doesn’t take a genius to figure things out, which is good cos I’m no genius at the moment. ‘You’re upset.’
‘No, I’m…’ She stops. Takes a breath, releases it. ‘Yes.’
‘Okay,’ I say.
She swipes her palms down her work pants, closes her eyes. ‘I just need a minute.’
‘Not a problem.’ I’m hardly gonna say no after what she did for me this arvo. I wriggle myself up. ‘What’s happening?’
‘You shouldn’t be moving.’ She says it on automatic as she looks over. ‘Just a… A bad case.’
‘Oh.’
‘Craig Davies was admitted,’ she blurts out.
‘What?’ I blink.
‘You know him?’ She looks away to the other side of the room. ‘He was…messy. Off his face on ice. Barb had him transferred to Mildura for treatment.’
Ice. Fuck.
A mate – well, he’s my dealer, but he’s still a mate – slipped me some in a bong during a bonfire night about a year ago, and it nearly took the top of my skull off. Holidaying in your head is one thing, but ice turns you into a fucking lunatic. Blind paranoia and rage, and a hefty dose of crazed energy that leaves you champing at the insides of your mouth…
It’s the closest I’ve ever been to feeling like I’d slipped into my father’s skin. It scared the shit out of me. I’ve never wanted to be near the stuff since.
‘I know Craig.’ I sound dazed. Or maybe it’s just surprise: Craig’s the last person I would’ve pinned as an ice user.
Amie’s eyes are shadowed. ‘He attacked his sister.’
‘What?’ Now I’m sitting up, as up as I can manage.
‘I can’t…’ Amie shakes her head. Her cheeks are still blanched. ‘I can’t talk about it. I shouldn’t have said anything.’
‘His sister, Clare?’
Amie nods, very small.
My voice comes out strangled. ‘She’s eleven.’
‘I know. I saw them…’ She looks down, pressing her lips together, as if she’s trying to stop herself from crying.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Yeah. I just need to catch my breath.’ She makes a brief humourless laugh. ‘I’m not really used to this nursing thing yet. I have to get a bit tougher.’
‘Siddown.’ I nod my chin at the chair near my bed.
She shakes her head. ‘Thanks, but it’s okay. I’ll be okay.’ She looks around suddenly, like she’s just realised where she is. ‘Damn, I should go.’
‘Relax, mate. Give yourself a minute. I’m sure there’s plenty of people out there who can hold the fort.’
Amie sighs, sinks her head back against the door. ‘God, I’m kind of crap at this, aren’t I?’
I frown and smile at the same time, ease back on the pillows. ‘What are you talking about? You’re a good nurse.’
Amie snorts.
‘You are,’ I say. ‘You handle my dad like a champ. And you were great with me this arvo.’
‘You don’t have to keep apologising for your dad, Harris. And the nursing…’ She straightens, rubs at her forehead. ‘I don’t know sometimes.’
‘You always wanted to do this kinda work?’ I don’t know why, but I feel the urge to keep her talking. Being high sometimes makes me chatty. Amie looks like she needs a chat, and I don’t mind the company.
She shrugs. Some of the colour is returning to her face. ‘I guess. My mum did it. I know the life.’
‘Not your dream job, though?’
She laughs softly, but it’s a proper laugh this time. ‘I’m a few decades too late for that. My dream job would be to work with Ansel Adams.’
I dunno who that is. I like seeing Amie laugh, though. Good-looking chick. Gotta admit, whenever she’s in the room it’s a struggle to keep my eyes off her rack. I look at her plait now instead, which is flopped over her shoulder. Her hair must be long when it’s loose – the plait is a thick rope. Her eyebrows are dark and her skin is an even light brown, like a really nice tan, and everyone knows the sarge’s wife was Indian, or Pakistani, or something like that.
She takes a step closer, tucking in her work shirt at the back. I catch her scent, which I remember from when she changed my sheets earlier – some sort of flower shampoo. ‘What was your dream job? When you were a kid?’
The question takes me by surprise. I have to think about it. ‘Um, I dunno. I think I wanted to be Matthew Richardson.’
‘The Richmond footy hero? Makes sense.’ She smiles, tilts her head. ‘You never said anything.’
‘What’s that?’
‘About having a senior sergeant for a father. You never said anything. Everyone makes stupid jokes about staying on the right side of the law…’
I shrug. ‘I’m not everyone.’
Well, of course I never made a joke. She didn’t think I noticed, but I saw her expression this afternoon when I made the connection between her and her dad. I know what that’s like: having everyone raise their eyebrows when they hear your name, cos of what your parent did.
‘Well…thanks. For not making a joke out of it.’ She bites her lip. ‘I’d really better go. You should sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
She eases the door of the room open, pokes her head out, slips through. The door sighs as it closes behind her. I sigh, too.
Maybe Amie and me can cut a deal. I won’t make jokes about the cop thing, if she’ll stop asking about the footy thing. I haven’t played footy in three years. Thinking about it just makes me feel like crap. And I’m worried a genuine answer might pop out of my mouth if she keeps pushing.
Better not to talk about it. Better not to remember what it feels like to run hard on the freezing winter ground with a slippery ball in your hands, judging the kick. Having a whole team of mates calling for you to belt it their way. Leaping for a mark, with the sky so close that you…
Shit.
I’m not gonna explain it to her. How Dad was being smart about it. How Saturday was match day, so bruises that appeared on Sunday could be explained away by the clashes at footy the day before.
That was where I collided with Simmo’s head.
I got that in the game.
Mike was the only one who never bought the bullshit. He’d give me a look if he saw my busted fingers, or the bruises over my ribs. But it didn’t matter. By the time I was sixteen, logic won out over passion.
Why’d I give it away? Because I figured it out. Footy was beautiful. Footy was pointless.
I could never win.
*
‘D’you remember when we used to go yabbying?’
Dad’s voice wakes me. For a second I wonder where I am, then everything slams back into focus. It’s Wednesday. My leg aches from this morning’s physio session. There’s a bitter taste in the back of my throat.
Dad’s standing over by the window, looking out.
‘I used to shoot a rabbit the night before,’ he says, ‘and you’d wake up keen as mustard. Grab the bucket and get the net from under the house. You were always so bloody excited to go. Even if I made you carry the rabbit.’
He sounds like he’s talking to himself, but I think he knows I’m awake, the same way I know whenever he’s in the room. Psychic tension.
‘We’d walk to the rez,’ he says. ‘Take our time. Find a nice shady spot on the bank to sit and bait the net. Stretch our legs while we waited for the net to fill up.’
The feel of it comes back to me. Hot sun baking my skin, flies on my lips, the weedy decomposing smell of the reservoir.
‘I remember,’ I say softly. ‘You’d have a coldie and a smoke while we waited.’
Dad nods at the window. ‘You used to draw in the mud with sticks. Build those little mounds of stones.’
‘You never let me skim them.’ I remember that, too. He used to cuff me over the head, say I’d stop the yabbies from coming.
Dad grins. ‘When the flies got too much for us we’d haul in the net.’
I think of the mud-streaked bodies of the yabbies. The green and purple and blue of their shells, the way their giant pincers snapped helplessly. Out of their element, their glistening armour was just extra weight to carry around. I always felt sorry for them, especially the big ones. They’d survived so long in the murky underwater pecking-order of the dam, grown to such a size, and there they were, floundering in the net: defeated warriors. It almost felt mean to take them home and eat them.
‘They were nice-sized yabbies,’ I say.
‘Bloody great eating,’ Dad agrees. ‘Into the pot, then onto the newspaper on the table. Bit of vinegar, salt…’ He shakes his head and makes that sound that always reminds me of horses nickering.
I wonder where this is all going. The yabby memory is from ten years ago, but I’ve got fresher ones. Less pleasant ones. There’s still a bruise on my cheekbone from when we fought over the rifle I borrowed to help Rachel. Dad was pissed about it; the rifle was unlicensed, so the sarge confiscated it.
‘We had some good times, didn’t we, Harris?’ Dad turns around. ‘We haven’t always seen eye-to-eye, but there were good times.’
‘Sure, there were good times,’ I say slowly.
And there were. Like when I’d ride on the tray of the ute, jouncing down to Five Mile. Or when Dad and I would sit together of an evening, on the couch at home, watching quiz shows and competing to see who could answer the questions on the telly first. Or my best memory: Dad working on an engine in the shed, showing me where to use the tools, the radio oozing out some daggy seventies song in the background as the cool afternoon bled the heat out of the shed walls.
Those memories have a clear crystalline bite. They could’ve happened yesterday. But I remember them so well because they were standouts. Like a leaping redfin on your line, they jump up easily from the grey background.
At the moment, Dad’s only focused on the fact I’ve replied in the affirmative. To Dad, being agreed with is the only acceptable response.
‘Yeah, there were good times,’ Dad says, nodding. ‘Which is why I’m gonna ask you to do this. I know, I know… We have our barneys, and you were keen to move to Melbourne. But this is important, Harris.’
I get a cold clench in my gut. ‘What’re you talking about?’
Dad presses his point. ‘It’s bigger than you and me. Bigger than a few spats.’
‘Dad –’
‘I’m sick, Harris,’ Dad says. He looks right at me. ‘Cancer.’
I feel sick, too. It wells up suddenly, like a vat of acid, red and bubbling.
‘You’ve got cancer.’ I stare at Dad, only half-believing. This could be a trick. I wouldn’t put it past him.
His voice goes quiet. ‘It’s for real, Harris. I’ve gotta come in for treatment.’
‘Bullshit.’ The word explodes out of me before I can stop it.
‘I said it’s for real. I’m not lying.’ Dad sighs. ‘I’m seeing Doc Clifford. She wants me to start a course of chemo after Christmas. Until then I’m on some kinda medicine to get the ball rolling. I mean, look at me, yeah? I’m dropping weight, I’ve cut back on the cigs… I dunno what else I can say to convince you, Harris, but it’s true.’
My head is sloshing around with the combination of this morning’s drugs and now this news. I can’t seem to process. My dad has cancer. He might be dying. I don’t know what to feel.
‘And that’s what I wanna ask you,’ Dad goes on. ‘That’s all I need. It’s what kids do for their old folks – stick around when the going’s tough.’
That’s when it all comes clear. When I finally understand what Dad wants, and what it’ll mean.
‘You want me to come home.’ My voice is flat. ‘To stay with you.’
‘While I go through treatment, yeah. If you do that, things’ll be different. I’ll mend me ways. Stop ragging you. But I need you home now, son. You’ll have to get back on your feet, and I’ll be on my medicine. We can look after each other.’
Look after each other. Those words have a whole different meaning under Dad’s roof. I remember plenty of times he’s ‘looked after’ me – usually it happened when I wasn’t doing as I was told, or doing it fast enough, or sometimes when I was getting up to strife, or resisting him. I’ve got enough memories of those times that only the really painful ones stick out now.
It’s not like it’s been all one way, either. I always thought it was impossible to stand up for myself, then when I got tall, I found my fight. I did it out of anger, or out of desperation, or just to save my sanity. Does that make me a bad person? I dunno.
What I do know is that since I hit puberty, me and Dad in combination can’t be anything but wrong. Oil and water, chalk and cheese, fuel and flame; some things just shouldn’t be mixed.
‘I think you’re fucking crazy.’ I stare at him. ‘I’m crook, you’re crook. How’re we s’posed to help each other? What, you want me to –’
‘I want you to do something good for me!’ Dad’s face is livid. He realises he’s bellowed, lowers his voice, which I can see takes some effort. ‘I want you to do what a son should. Take care of me before I go into the ground. I’m tryin’ to talk reasonable with you, but you can’t even do that!’
The bed I’m in seems to have turned into malleable plastic. I can feel the pillows under me, the padding I’ve shrunk into. My whole body is tense – I try to relax my thigh, which is throbbing again. Dad’s flare-ups do this to me, every time.
But I’m stuck here on this bed. I can’t get up and walk away. I’ve just gotta take the hit, and hope there’s still enough spring left in me to bounce back.
I start slow. ‘If you’re seeing a doc about it –’
‘It eats you up from the inside.’ Dad glowers at the floor. ‘Nothing smells good, nothing tastes good… And it hurts. It’s hard to get up in the morning sometimes.’
I close my eyes. ‘Dad, I dunno. This is…’
This is what? Insane? Stupid? All of the above? I got away from Dad once. Going back would end me. It’s not gonna happen. No fucking way.
‘Look, I’ll sweeten the pot,’ Dad says suddenly. ‘I’ll come clean with you.’
My eyes open. ‘What?’
‘Come back home. That’s all I’m asking. If you do that…I’ll tell you where to find your mother.’
The silence in the room now is a glaring contrast to Dad’s bellow of a moment ago. I truly feel as if my lungs have stopped working.
It takes me a whole minute to push words out my throat. ‘You know where she is?’
‘Yes.’
I absorb this for a second. Make my throat work again. ‘And Kelly?’
‘They’re together.’
Together – my mum and my sister are together.
‘I know you’ve been hunting around for them,’ Dad says. ‘I know you’ve been trying to track them down.’
I won’t ask him how he knows this.
‘I’ll give you contacts for them.’ Dad looks at the sheets on my bed. ‘Once I go into hospital, you can get in touch with them –’
‘I want to get in touch with them now.’
‘Harris.’ Dad meets my eyes. This isn’t something we’ve ever discussed before. I might be okay with sticking up for myself, but I’ve never been brave enough to broach this topic.
Dad shifts his stance, and I flinch.
‘Come home, son,’ Dad says softly.
I hold his gaze for a long time before I nod.