‘A Brazilian.’
‘Not in a million years.’
Roberta snorts on the other end of the phone. ‘You’re telling me you wouldn’t even try it? Even if it’s on special?’
‘The hair is there for a reason, Robbie. Not to mention ouch.’ I have a thought. ‘God, tell me your mum isn’t doing it.’
‘Ew! Please. Mum makes Pam do all the waxing treatments. Anyway, I’m not gonna tell her I’m getting one, and neither are you.’
I laugh. ‘You’re safe, because I’d never have that conversation with your mum, like, ever. And for the record, I think you’re totally bonkers.’
‘Gotta try everything once,’ Roberta says, and I can hear her grinning. ‘Maybe next time you come up here to Mildy, I’ll bring you to the salon. You might change your mind…’
‘Not a chance,’ I say, still laughing.
‘So how’s things at the hospital with Nick?’ She says it casually, so I know she’s softened me up with the Brazilian joke.
‘Fine.’ I pick at a bald patch on the knee of my jeans. ‘We’re not twelve, Robbie.’
‘I know. But I’m pretty sure he’s still into you.’
My cheeks warm. ‘We broke up ages ago, Rob, and we decided that together. Anyway, I like what we have now. Me and Nick get along great. Everything’s friendly.’
‘Good. I mean, I know Nick’s not a jerk. I figured he’d be all right.’ Robbie sounds satisfied. But her next question is more tentative. ‘And is your dad doing okay?’
This is the question she should have prefaced with the Brazilian joke. I swallow before replying. ‘He’s fine. No more dizzy spells. He knows this is his last year on the force, he’s already talked to the Mildura CO about it.’
‘That must be a relief.’
‘Yeah.’ I sound upbeat, but I’m not sure. What will Dad do if he’s not a copper? ‘Anyway, he’s on medication for his heart. The doctor says…’ I pause, struggling to keep my tone light.
‘Ames? What does the doctor say?’
I shake it off. ‘Nothing. Dad’ll be okay. I’m keeping an eye on him.’
Once I finish on the phone with Robbie, I take off for Pink Lakes with the camera. It’s not the best time of the day for shooting, but it’ll do.
Last month, I went through a phase of shooting close-ups of old metal – gate bolts, padlocks, faucets, rusty flakes peeling and broken. Now I’m a bit hung up on native mistletoe. Tight frames of dripping sap, of sticky green tendrils burrowing their way into bark, smothering the new growth… I don’t know exactly what’s drawn my eye, but I find the subject fascinating.
Time seems to move differently in certain places, and Pink Lakes is one of them. The salt pans throw the light up in the air: everything seems to glow like a Martian landscape. Sometimes I get so focused I’ll take shot after shot, and only realise when I look through the viewfinder that the sun’s gone down and I’ve lost the light.
Time moves differently in hospitals as well. Depending on the roster, I work four or five shifts per week. Anything can happen in between. Some days I go in and the patient I’ve been seeing in a certain room is gone. Recovered and checked out, or moved to another ward. Sometimes you know they’ll be back. Sometimes it’s like they’ve disappeared, snapped out of existence.
Mrs Dougherty’s angina clears and she returns to Aged Care. Kevin Monaghan comes into A&E having nearly completely ring-barked his left thumb after a fence-wire accident. He stays overnight. Monday to Friday is generally pretty sedate. In that time we get the usual complement of geriatric cases, a whiplash patient from a minor fender bender near Sea Lake, and an infant with febrile convulsions. Friday night through to Sunday afternoon is the busiest period. We see kids who’ve banged themselves around playing junior sport, as well as people who’ve waited all week to come in after injuring themselves, and a number of DFOs (drunk, fell over).
Harris Derwent won’t get to see that. He’s due for discharge today. He’s moved from the bed to a wheelchair and now onto crutches, in his five days on the ward. He’s been examined by the physio and sits in a chair for meals. It was weird when I came on shift and saw him standing again for the first time – I’d forgotten how tall he is. Pushing six foot, and broad in the shoulders.
I go in to collect his tray and he’s wearing a faded black T-shirt and navy trackie pants, standing – crutch-supported – by the window that looks out onto the back car park. Far as I know, the only thing to see out there is a series of external vents for the hospital air-conditioning and the plastic milk crates where Barb and a couple of the other die-hard smokers sit during their break. Barb isn’t out there now. She’s here, in the room, and so is Harris’s dad.
Dennis Derwent looks the same as all the blokes I know locally who do the heavy lifting and hard slog of day-to-day farm work. He wears the same kind of jeans and boots and flannie shirts. He isn’t any more physically imposing. But he’s intimidating. He gives off a strange energy, like an acrid smell. His muscles are always tense, his eyes narrowed. He reminds me of a guard dog: hackles raised, ready to snap.
Maybe all the time spent looking through a viewfinder has honed my eye, but to me it’s very clear, the family resemblance between father and son. They don’t have matching eye colour, and Harris is stubbled while his dad is smooth-faced, but they both have strong full-forward builds, although Dennis seems leaner, as if he’s lost weight. Dennis is dark-haired, close-cropped; Harris’s messy blonde surfer hair stands out as an almost deliberate point of difference. But together like this, their similarities are more striking. Harris has the same slow-twitch muscle, the same tanned skin. Harris also seems tense. He doesn’t have his dad’s intimidating presence, but he has the same sense of contained energy.
Dennis sits back in the hospital chair in his son’s room, legs loose and knees akimbo, rolling a cigarette. His tobacco pouch rests on his thigh. Barb seems to be trying to keep his attention on her.
‘…so yes, he’s ready to go, except for the paperwork. But he’s going to need time to rest, and a bit of looking after when he gets home.’
‘Yep. No worries.’ Dennis is focused on his smoke, dressing the paper with the brown threads.
‘He has to stay off that leg for a while, and keep doing the wound-dressing we talked about –’
‘He’ll be right once he gets home.’ Dennis licks the edge of his rolling paper. ‘You’ll be right, won’t you, Harris?’
It doesn’t quite sound like a question. Harris is still looking out the window.
‘Yeah,’ he says, over his shoulder. ‘Yeah, I’ll be right.’
‘See?’ Dennis slips the cigarette into the corner of his mouth as he looks at Barb. ‘He said he’ll be right. He’ll be fine.’
I’m not really supposed to be party to this conversation. I’m just the clean-up lady, the silent unnoticed servant. I slip over to the trolley by the window on Harris’s near side and tidy the rubbish on the tray.
Barb talks on behind me. ‘Is that true, Harris? If I sign you out and give you some wound-dressing stuff, will you be okay at home?’ She gives the words a strange emphasis.
Harris turns his head to reply and sees me there, my fingers busy on the tray. When our eyes meet, it’s like they get stuck together. And while his expression is frozen in neutral, there’s a whole world of stuff in his green gaze that worries me. I don’t recognise everything in there, but I know it’s a far cry from the relief most patients feel when they check out and return home.
We share that moment of recognition. Then Harris swallows, blinks, and turns back to the window.
‘Sure,’ he says. ‘All good.’
Barb makes a little sigh. ‘All rightie.’
I lift the tray and escape.
Harris goes home an hour later. I carry his duffel bag for him as he hobbles behind his father towards the sliding glass doors. Harris has to hunch his shoulders over the crutches. It makes him look smaller.
His dad opens the passenger door of a beat-up white Toyota ute and Harris clambers his way in. The afternoon light is fading, taking on a cool blue-grey tone from the shadow of the pergola above the ambulance bay. Harris takes his bag, props it on his right leg as I help wrangle his crutches into the cab.
‘Cheers.’ He only looks at me once, and it’s a quick glance.
He pulls the door shut, still not looking at me, as his dad starts the engine. I get that feeling, like the person I’m trying to engage with is uncomfortable because of something I said or did. It rankles me. I’m damned if know what I’ve done to make Harris Derwent feel uncomfortable.
Then I think about what I saw back in his room. What I saw in Harris’s face. And I realise something: that is a secret part of him. Something he never shows anybody.
A powerful urge wells up inside me to reach out and grab the door handle of the Toyota and yank it open again. But I don’t do that. Mainly because I have no idea what I would say after that point. ‘Get out of the car’? Or ‘Don’t go home with your dad’? And what would happen then?
I don’t know. I don’t know what else I can do, so I just stand silent on the pavement as Mr Derwent revs the engine. Harris sits in the passenger seat, his face turned forward. His profile doesn’t give anything away as the old ute eases out, drives off.
Barb moves to stand beside me. She scratches the back of her neck as she watches the ute turn onto Britt Street. ‘Hm. Not exactly what you’d call an ideal outcome.’
‘Why did he do that?’ I’m thinking of Harris’s expression. ‘Why did he even agree to go home?’
‘Who can say?’ Barb shifts her weight from one foot to the other. ‘Sweetie, I’ve worked at this hospital for seventeen years. Worked with your mum in theatre, worked A&E… Seventeen years is a long time. Some things just curl your hair. You don’t get used to them, and maybe that’s how it’s supposed to be.’
‘So you knew.’ I didn’t mean it to come out so accusing.
Barb doesn’t seem to take it personally. ‘Every time that boy came in to A&E, I wanted to punch his father in the face. I tried reporting it, and I wasn’t the only one. But Dennis always had Harris cleaned up and polite when Social Services came knocking. That kid…’
‘He’s not a kid now,’ I point out. ‘He’s nineteen.’
‘That’s right. And he’s old enough to make his own choice. He chose that.’
A mental image of Dennis Derwent, casually rolling a cigarette, clashes in my mind with an image of Harris, white-faced and sweaty when I prodded him to give me a number. I don’t know Harris, not really. I can’t hope to understand why he did this. But I have a sick feeling I know what it will mean for him.
‘Maybe he doesn’t think he’s got choices,’ I say.
Barb shakes her head as she turns away. ‘Lord only knows, Amie. Lord only knows.’
*
I have to pick up groceries from the Ouyen IGA before heading home. It’s the same list every time: tins of fruit punch, bacon rashers wrapped in paper, cartons of milk… Harris Derwent’s blank hard profile lingers in my mind the whole time I’m shopping. Ten minutes past the sign for Walpeup in the warm car I catch sight of my house though the windscreen. That’s when I finally start to feel better.
Sometimes, in books, you read about a girl – it’s always a girl – described as ‘plain’. It’s kind of an old-fashioned term. It’s supposed to mean someone who has a nice personality but isn’t much chop in the looks department. Our house is plain. Painted weatherboard with an attached carport, an old picket fence with a creaky wire gate, grass growing high. An old Holden carcass sits on bricks between the carport and the fence – Dad periodically raids it for parts when he’s working on fix-it jobs.
But my whole body relaxes when I see the ramshackle yard, the dun-white walls. It’s home. It’s mine – mine and Dad’s. I never feel anxious or afraid returning to it, the way Harris Derwent felt returning to his.
I’m lucky, I realise as I pull the handbrake. Home is a haven for me. Not everybody has it so good.
The squad car is parked in the driveway, which means Dad’s home for lunch. The heavy bags of groceries make me lumber awkwardly down the hallway and into our tiny kitchen. Dad’s keys, wallet, and phone are on the table. His jacket is hanging over the back of a chair. I dump the green bags on the lino floor, grab Dad’s phone and wander out through the back door to the roofed concrete area near the outside laundry.
Dad’s got his blue uniform sleeves rolled to his elbows and an apron on. The apron is a faded pink floral number, an ancient one of Mum’s. Dad always wears an apron over his uniform when he’s tinkering – he has a terrible habit of wiping his hands on his front when he’s working on cars. I’ve tried to break him of it, but I think it’s an unconscious thing.
‘Dad, your phone.’ I stand on the top step and hold the offending item out.
‘Hey, love. What?’ He looks over and blinks. He’s got a fanbelt, like a big black licorice strap, in one gnarled hand. ‘Oh bugger. Was it on the kitchen table?’
‘Jared’s gonna have a heart attack if you miss another call. And I’ve had enough medical emergencies for today. Did you take your pills?’
‘Yeah, sorry.’ He winces in apology. ‘How was work?’
‘Oh, y’know, fine. Have you eaten?’ He’s supposed to eat with his pills.
‘Not yet. Just wanted to find a match for this bit of rubbish.’ He waggles the fan belt.
‘I’ll make you an omelette.’
‘That’d be great, love, thanks.’
Dad and I have this incredibly boring gendered division of household labour, where Dad fixes the cars and plumbing and electrics and stuff, and I do all the grocery shopping. But we both take turns making meals and doing laundry and tidying. It’s a flexible system – we both work nights at various times, so it has to be – but it seems to keep the house functioning okay. And me and Dad, of course. We function okay, too.
Once I’ve changed out of my nurse-wear and into a T-shirt and jeans, I go back and wash my hands at the kitchen sink before cracking eggs into a bowl. Dad clomps up the steps as soon as the aroma of bacon omelette starts wafting around.
‘You good?’ I watch him as he washes his hands at the sink. He’s looking a bit grizzled today, and his greying hair needs a cut. He uses the potato brush to get the grease out from under his nails, which makes me wince, but he’s obviously thinking about other things. He often comes home to tinker when he’s got a particularly knotty problem he’s trying to work out.
He kisses the top of my head as he dries his hands. ‘Yep, I’m good.’
I slip the omelette onto a plate, set it on the table. ‘So what’s going on?’
‘Ah, nothing.’ I can see that’s not true just by his expression, so I wait it out. ‘Well, something. You know, there’s always something.’
I nod. This much I’ve learned.
Dad fesses up as he shuffles into a chair at the table. ‘The Donovan boy. He’s gone missing again.’
‘But they brought him back!’
‘Well, he got hold of some more gear. I’d say Snowie Geraldson tuned him up.’ Dad sighs, picks up his fork. ‘Gavin tore up the house looking for cash and now he’s pissed off in his mum’s car. They know where he’s gone –’
‘To Mildura, to get more drugs.’
‘Yeah. But there’s about a dozen places he could be, and his father wants me to do some asking around up there. So I might be heading up this arvo.’
Shit – that means Dad won’t be home until late. And he looks peaky already.
‘You won’t get him back before evening,’ I point out.
‘I know.’
‘So why don’t you get the Mildura blokes to search this afternoon, then go up tomorrow morning?’
Dad shrugs. ‘It’s not their job, to go hunting for Patchewollock kids who’ve gone out on a tear. They’ve got plenty to do already. And his mum’s worried.’
‘She’s right to be worried.’ I pour myself a glass of juice, sit at the table. ‘She should have a talk with Mrs Davies. Jesus, I don’t know if I could deal with that. Having a son who’s slowly losing his mind.’
‘It’s not…’ Dad frowns, considering how to phrase it. ‘Gavin’s not a bad person. Craig’s not a bad person, either.’
‘I know he’s not a bad person. He’s a nice person, Craig. And Gavin and his little brother came to the Walpe Christmas do, just last year, remember? He was chatting up the girls, helping with the barbeque… He’s a nice kid. I don’t get it.’
‘Drugs make people do bad things.’ Dad concentrates on his plate. ‘This drug in particular.’
I nod and sip my juice, but the conversation has made me sad. Or maybe I’m still feeling sad from dealing with the Harris thing. I’m not sure.
‘So work’s going okay?’ Dad scrapes up eggs with the edge of his fork, but he’s no fool. I’m only quiet when I’m pensive like this.
I shrug. ‘It was okay. A bit horrible at the end, when I had to watch Harris Derwent go home with his father.’
‘Dennis took him back?’ Dad straightens, pushes his empty plate forward. ‘Yeah, not exactly the happy homecoming, I imagine.’
‘That’s what Barb said.’ It annoys me that I helped manage the guy’s care for five days, but apparently I’m the only person who’s not up to speed on the situation. ‘How long has that been going on?’
‘Longer than I would’ve liked.’ Dad shakes his head. ‘Probably feels like forever to Harris.’
‘Why didn’t you do anything about it?’
It’s not like the way I spoke to Barb; I really do sound accusing this time. Barb’s hog-tied, to some extent. She can make recommendations, but there’s a limit to what she can do.
Dad’s a copper, though. He’s in a position of authority. He has more power in a situation like this.
‘It’s not so simple, love.’ He angles his head to hold my eyes. ‘You know what it’s like – I get a call-out for a domestic and by the time me and Jared rock up, everyone’s gone quiet. Or the wife has started defending the bloke who’s bashing her, and the kids are told to keep their mouths shut. It’s a bloody complicated business.’
I take a sip of my drink, feeling dry-mouthed and frustrated. ‘But Harris isn’t a minor anymore. Why’d he go home? What would make him go back to that?’
‘We might never know. Maybe Dennis has got something over him, or something there keeps pulling him back.’ Dad turns in his chair, leaning one elbow on the table. ‘It’s a shame, yeah? Dennis is a complete bastard, but Harris… Funny kid. Personable, y’know? But obviously not quite a hundred percent. I remember about six years ago he started pinching stuff around Five Mile, getting into strife in other ways. Lots of attention-seeking stunts, I guess, which stands to reason. Stole that ute out of Shane Morang’s front yard – remember that? You might have been too young…’
‘No, I remember. That was a big deal, wasn’t it?’
‘Too right it was a big deal. New generator sitting under a tarp in the back of the tray and along comes this snot-nosed thirteen year old, decides to take the whole thing for a joy-ride.’
‘Was he charged?’
‘No, but he came bloody close. I had Shane in the back office at the station for about an hour, talking him out of it.’
‘What did Dennis say?’
Dad doesn’t reply for a moment, and it’s as if the light in the kitchen has shifted. The lines of wear on his face suddenly look like shadowed gouges.
‘Don’t know if you want to hear it,’ he says finally.
He’s right: I don’t know if I want to hear it. Just looking at Dad’s face is enough. But it’s all tied up in what I saw, what I felt this afternoon. Somehow, I have to know.
My voice comes out quiet. ‘What happened?’
‘Well, it was years ago, but...’ Dad traces the edge of the table with the flat of his thumb. ‘Dennis collected Harris from the station the day before, so I went up there to see what the outcome was. Dennis kept me talking in the front yard – it’s a broken-down old place, I figured he didn’t want me sitting in his kitchen, y’know?’
I nod. Lots of rural folk keep up outward appearances, but the insides of their houses reveal the quiet poverty of farming life. And not everyone is comfortable with the local constabulary in their kitchen.
‘Anyway,’ Dad continues, ‘I just had a bad feeling. I couldn’t see Harris around. I didn’t want to get Dennis any more riled, but I asked to see his boy, made some excuse. So Dennis goes in, gets Harris to come out.’
I’ve already steeled myself to hear the worst, but the look on Dad’s face still makes me shiver.
Dad sighs out through his nose. ‘Well, he was knocked around, I could see that. Big shiner on one eye, and he was moving funny. He wasn’t like he is now – this was before he got a bit of height and meat on. He was just this skinny little bugger, with about two inches of ankle showing where he was growing out of his jeans. I said to him, Harris, are you okay? Like, of course he wasn’t okay, why was I even asking? But he said he was fine. That he fell off his mate’s dirtbike.’
Dad shakes his head. I can see it’s hurting him to remember, and the hurt is because the situation made him feel powerless. And I totally get that.
‘Well, I didn’t want to get him in more trouble. Bad enough I’d even shown up in Dennis’s yard. But I asked him anyway, straight out – Harris, did your dad lay into you? And he just looked at me. He didn’t say anything, but his face…’
Suddenly I can imagine this picture with frightening clarity. Because Harris would’ve worn the same expression then as he did on Tuesday, when I asked him whether he was in pain.
Don’t whitewash it. Just tell me.
Now I understand why it was so impossible for him to answer. The idea makes me sick. It’s weird, too, knowing this personal stuff about Harris. I can picture the scene so vividly, it makes me feel like a voyeur.
I have to swallow before I can speak again. ‘What did you do?’
‘Wasn’t anything I could do,’ Dad says softly. ‘Had to get back in the squad car and drive away. Praying the whole time that Dennis wouldn’t make Harris pay for me showing up. That was the worst part – knowing I might’ve caused more harm just by visiting.’
‘That’s… Dad, that’s awful.’
‘Yeah. They’re the times you really hate the job.’ He sighs again, and I know his thoughts have strayed. Now he’s thinking of another lost boy, and the efforts he’ll have to make to find him. ‘Look, are you gonna be right tonight if I go to Mildura?’
‘I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me. But if you finish later than nine-thirty, you should stay the night with the Murphy’s.’
‘Amie, it’s only an hour back from Mildura –’
‘Seriously, Dad, just think about the time before you get in the car to drive home. I don’t want to worry about you writing yourself off because you had a dizzy spell, or fell asleep behind the wheel.’ I drain my glass, stand up to take the dirty crockery to the sink. ‘I might go out with the camera for a bit this arvo. Call Nani and say hi.’
‘Sounds good. Okay, I’d better move.’ He stands up, collects his stuff off the table, then stops when he looks down to put his keys in his pocket. ‘Shit, I’ve still got this bloody apron on.’
I can’t help but grin. ‘You look nice in floral.’
‘Matches my eyes.’ He unties the apron, looking sheepish, before pecking me on the cheek. ‘See you later on, love.’
Once Dad’s driven off and I’ve finished rinsing the dishes, I go back to my room and flop on the bed. But I can’t nap now, it’s too late in the day, and my mind is too busy. Harris Derwent’s face keeps materialising inside my skull. I drag on my boots, grab my camera and my keys, close the front door behind me.
Don’t whitewash it. I feel stupid for having said that, now I’ve got Harris’s full story. Just tell me. As if it were easy. As if he would. He’s probably so used to hiding his hurt, it’s weird to talk about it.
And maybe – now that he’s living with his father again – talking is too dangerous.