Beautiful Monster (3 page)

She dresses and walks downstairs cautiously. On Friday nights her family used to play games. They'd gather around the coffee table—after Mum had made them all get up and stack the dishwasher—and argue over which game to play. Before Brodie, Tess had begun to feel a certain sway of support for her choice. And though she wasn't aware of it then, she later realised it was their deliberate engineering to keep her in the family games. She was given preference, they accommodated her—it killed her to think of it—because she was nearly a teenager, and they knew she wouldn't want to play with them much longer. That she would want to spend Friday nights out with her friends. Moving on. Who would have thought then, even for a second, that Brodie would be gone first?

Her dad was the Monopoly king—and exceptionally good at Operation. But they all used to complain he had an unfair advantage. Her mum held the crown for Trivial Pursuit, always winning by jumping from one literature question to an entertainment one until the centre—where they'd try and stump her with a sports question. Tess was best at Balderdash; she outwitted them with her false definitions, studying the cards to word her responses just right. Brodie voted for her answer every time.

‘You're just good at lying, Tess,' he'd say when she won again.

Brodie was best at Twister, manipulating his spindly legs into unnatural positions to put left hand on green and right foot on blue.

Now, as a family, they play just one game: If Only.

It's quiet but for the low murmur of the television. She peers into the lounge room. Her mum sits with her feet in her dad's lap. They're drinking tea. They look so normal, so much like they used to that the image stabs her heart.

‘What's on?' she says, falling into the recliner and flicking the footrest out.

‘Some detective show,' her dad says. ‘Criminal Intentions, CSI, RSVP, PTO.'

Her mum giggles. ‘Oh Liam, you're so silly.'

‘I'm a very silly man,' he agrees, grabbing her foot.

Tess watches them and feels torn. The perfect happy family—sitting around their faux fireplace, its gas flames licking artificial logs, Nero curled in front of it, watching their big-screen plasma TV. They look like an advert for heaters or home insulation. She wants to be happy that they're momentarily happy, but it just makes her angry. It could always be like this but it's not. And it's her mother's fault.

Later. when she tells Ned about it, vents about the madness in her world, how the smatterings of normality only come back when her mother is prepared to play, he's not so ready to accept Tess's side.

‘Why do you blame her so much?' He seems pensive.

‘Because it's like she doesn't have to be crazy,' Tess says. ‘She can turn it off and on. Like she does the love and affection. It depends on how she feels. Our family revolves around her mood swings. And frankly I don't buy it anymore. She's a fake.'

She feels Ned's admonishment emanating from him. ‘Tess! How can you say that? You have no idea, do you, none whatsoever, of the hell she's been through.'

‘Yeah, I do,' Tess says, still angry but less sure of herself now. ‘We've all been through it. But then we have to participate in her hell as well. Why can't she hide it? Like Dad and I do? Why can't she work through it—on her own, without dragging us down too? She's a selfish bitch and I hate her.'

‘Tess!' Ned hisses.

Tess wants to cry. She's not sure she even meant what she said but is too proud and angry to retract it.

‘How could you? What a disgusting thing to say.'

She
is
disgusting. Ned's right. How could she think, let alone say, these things about her mum. ‘I didn't really mean it,' is the best she can manage, crying now. ‘I was angry, that's all.'

Ned is silent, his disapproval obvious. She turns her face away, her lip downcast. She wants his approval back, but knows what he's like too. There's no making up with Ned unless he wants to.

‘Just think about it,' he says finally, ‘think about why she treats you the way she does.'

She doesn't speak to Ned for a couple of days. He's gone cold, she senses that. Until he thinks she's served enough penance for her bitchiness, there's no point in even trying to communicate. In the days of stony silence she berates herself. Why can't she show her poor, suffering mother one scrap of compassion? One tiny droplet of kindness? She loathes herself.

She finally catches up with Ned outside the school gates. ‘Ned?' she ventures warily.

She won't look at him directly. They both know she has been at fault and needs to apologise. A lot.

‘I'm sorry,' she begins, her eyes downcast. ‘You were right. I had no business saying such mean things about her.'

‘After everything she's been through...' he says, and Tess feels herself stiffen.

‘Yes, I know. You're right, okay? I've thought about it—my intolerance and impatience with her—and she doesn't deserve it. I'll be better. Can we leave it?' She feels close to tears, but won't cry because they are walking across the school grounds now and no one, absolutely no one, can see her like this.

‘Okay,' he says softly, ‘but just try and be more compassionate.'

Later in class, even though she knows she's okay with Ned, she still feels bad. Her poor mum. What must her life be like? One moment she had everything and then, in a few bloodstained seconds, everything came undone. Tessa hates herself. If only she could be a better person. She needs to be the best she can be and then maybe she'll help alleviate her mum's suffering. She has to try harder.

That afternoon the team has its final training session. The regatta is tomorrow. Every rower feels the weight of its importance. We have to win, Tess tells herself, and frankly if she bursts a pooper valve in the process, she doesn't care, she'll give it everything she's got. She will not lose this one.

The next morning starts low-key and relaxed. Just her and her dad. ‘Mum'll come along when the meet starts,' he reassures her as he kisses her cheek. Tess nods gratefully and gets into the boat five minutes before five. She is pleased to note she's the third person there, before Debbie even.

The starter's gun cracks the stillness; the air fills with the scent and plume of the sulphur charge. She hears Debbie shout excitedly, ‘All eight,' and her team is off, rowing like a machine. This is perfection, Tess thinks, as she tucks her legs in tighter and pulls with all her might.

They are gliding, almost flying. The boat glides effortlessly past two others. Her team is really that, for the first time ever: a team.

Now Debbie shouts with urgency, ‘Take it up to full pressure in three strokes ... three ... two ... one ... go!'

Tess sees them coming, St Brigit's, the girls' school from up the road, their greatest opponents, their constant oppressors. They are skimming the water, their white and red uniforms glowing in the morning sun. Tess grips her oars tighter. They pull with all their strength. Tess is oblivious to the pain in her arms and thighs, her abs a taut mass. The bow of the other boat nears them, equals them. Debbie keeps screaming. Through her oar, Tess feels the surge of life. She glances at Maddie's back, then stares down, concentrating on nothing but the strength they all feel.

They pull hard. One, two, one, two. And they hear the cheer from the people lining the river bank as they cross the line. Tess looks around. The girls' school is right next to them, stern for stern. She glances at Debbie.

‘I dunno,' Debbie says to all on board. ‘I think we crossed at the same time.'

They leave the boat. Tess's nerves and muscles are jangling. She's never tried so hard for something in her life. She searches the faces on the river bank. Sees her dad's proud grin, notices instantly her mother's not there.

She quells the disappointment, because there's Ned.

The official calls them in. ‘St Brigit's and St Joseph's,' he states solemnly, ‘a dead heat.'

Both teams and their supporters cheer uproariously. It's a win-win. The best possible outcome. Tess and the other girls leap about on the bank, a blur of blue and gold. They hug each other and Tess puts her arm around Debbie. ‘Great call, Deb,' Tess says, ‘it was you who got us over the line.'

Debbie nods gratefully. ‘Thanks, sometimes the stress seems so much.'

Tess grins in Ned's direction, but there are far too many people around to acknowledge him right now. Later, in private, they'll be able to celebrate the victory. She sees her dad heading over, stopping to photograph each moment.

‘Come on girls, gather in,' he says, waving the team together. They pose on the river bank, arms around each other, grins wide, as he snaps several shots.

He wraps Tess in a fluffy beach towel. ‘Well done, kitten.' He is so proud as he leads her to the car. ‘You guys were amazing and—you know I'm not a biased parent—but honestly, honey, I think you powered that boat.'

Tess nods, elated by her dad's comments. A biased parent he's never been; in fact, since taking over the parenting, he's always seemed to favour the other side. ‘Hang on, Tess,' he'd say when she believed her science teacher was victimising her. ‘Maybe she's had a bad day, a fight with her boyfriend, or something. Maybe there's stuff going on we don't know about. We have to be a bit more open, hey?' Then he'd squeeze her shoulder, in that way he did, that showed her they were still a team, and she'd wonder if he was telling her this so she'd view her mother more compassionately.

Tess feels like she's floating through the rest of the day.

That evening, in her bedroom, Ned says, ‘It was a great competition—how happy are you?'

Tess smiles widely at his praise; she can't express her happiness, she has nothing to compare it to. But St Brigit's is their biggest rival. And they drew.

‘So happy,' she says. ‘We gave it everything. It was unbelievable the strength we all felt. The power and the pull. We put in our best effort and made it through.'

‘Yeah, it was a pretty good effort.'

She frowns at the use of ‘pretty'—its connotations are ‘not good enough'—and hesitates before speaking. ‘You can't imagine what it's like unless you're on the boat.'

‘Sure,' he concedes, but something in his voice indicates distaste or disbelief or just plain old dissatisfaction. He's silent and she feels uneasy.

‘It's our first big win,' she says softly, ‘against St Brigit's—the top team.'

‘You want to call it a win?' he says sardonically. ‘If that makes you happy, go ahead.'

It feels as though he's slapped her and she doesn't understand why. This was a victory; even their coach thought so, lavishing praise on them.

‘A dead heat,' she begins uncertainly.

‘Yeah.' She catches the dismissive shrug in his voice.

‘Yeah, what?' she asks.

‘In my book a dead heat actually means no one won.'

She can't speak for a moment. His words fill all the empty spaces of her head. ‘So,' she says slowly, ‘you're saying this was a lose-lose, not a win-win?'

Silence is one of his tactics: give nothing away, especially when you have the upper hand.

‘If no one won and no one lost,' he says eventually, ‘then I guess it's really a nothing.'

She realises her mouth is agape, and shuts it quickly. Why does he have to be so arrogant and self-righteous?

‘Whatever,' she snaps finally. ‘It's just semantics.'

But later in bed she knows it's not. Semantics doesn't explain the fact that they didn't beat St Brigit's, even though they thought they were good enough. If they had been, there would be no draw. It would've been outright victory.

Ned is such a pain in the arse. Sometimes it's easy to hate someone who is always right, no matter how much you love him.

It is still dark and the condensation from the night clings like jewels to the leaves and the grass. The mist over the lake gives the morning an eerie feeling. It is still and quiet, except for the rhythmic slapping of feet against the hardened pebbled edge.

‘I'm going to try and drop a couple of kilos over the next two weeks,' Tess says casually as they jog around the lake. This is the plan she'd formulated as she lay awake in the early hours of the morning. She keeps her eyes fixed on Nero, running ahead of them.

‘Why?' Ned says.

‘I've been thinking we could do with a lighter boat. That'll help us in the semis.' Tess can feel her breathing beginning to labour. Why can't she be as fit as Ned wants her to be?

‘Can't get rid of Deb the Mouth, then?'

He laughs as he lifts their pace. Despite her developing stitch, she has to keep up with him; he always sets the challenge and she's far too proud not to meet it.

‘She ain't gunna lose nothing from her posi in the boat. But you...' His voice is appraising. ‘You're beautiful, Tess.'

She smiles at his compliment—Ned doesn't fling them around freely, so when she gets one she clutches it to her heart. She reaches for him, but he has sprinted ahead of her, his breathing not compromised in the slightest. Tess speeds up, despite the pain in her legs and the burn in her lungs.

‘But it won't hurt you, I guess,' he says. ‘Maybe your thighs could do with a tighten up.'

His comment stings. Ned doesn't mean to hurt her; he wants to help her, better her, she knows that. Sometimes, just sometimes, she'd like someone to tell her she's perfect the way she is. But she can always trust Ned. That's probably what she likes best about him.

For dinner that night, Dad makes her favourite steamed vegies with mash and a tuna pattie. She pushes the food around on her plate.

‘Not hungry?' he asks.

‘No,' she says. ‘I ate after training and I guess it spoiled dinner.'

He gets up to clear the plates. ‘Okay, no point in filling what's already full. Try and wait next time, yeah?'

She feels guilty lying but remembers Ned's words: ‘Those thighs could do with a tighten up.' She nods, stacks the dishwasher and vanishes into her bedroom before anyone can ask questions.

She has stuck to a regime of small amounts of food and lots of water for a week and now it's time to weigh in before she goes jogging. She slides the scales out from under the long coats and dresses hanging in her wardrobe and adjusts the knob. The thin red line sits exactly over the zero. Cold, wearing only a G-string and bra, she rubs at the goose pimples on her arms. She steps onto the scales with her eyes shut, waits for her weight to be evenly distributed and peers down at the reading: 57. She stares at it for the longest time. In a week she has managed to drop only 1.5 kilos. She steps off the scales and then back on again. Just to make sure. The line stops on 57 again. But this time she thinks it's slightly to the right of the mark. A few grams heavier than 57? She pushes the scales back under her clothes and walks to the mirror.

It's never been hard to maintain her weight—that's always been something she's closely monitored. But to actually lose weight? She's never had to try before. This is harder than she imagined it would be. Her stomach is fat, so fat. She ate too much yesterday.

One and a half kilos. She sneers at herself in the mirror. Fat and disgusting. Ned told her it was all in her head. ‘If you want to be fitter, faster, thinner, Tess, just don't eat the food that's making you fat.'

‘Just say no. Okay?' she says to her reflection. ‘We want 55 kilos by the end of next week.'

Disappointed, but determined now to shed those kilos, she pushes herself around and around the lake. Ned doesn't come and it gives Tess the opportunity to think about the race next weekend. If she reaches 55 kilos and trains hard every day, then she's sure to perform at her best. The team will win. A real win this time, not like that loser dead heat.

Out of breath, she sits on the bench and sips her water. No calories. She knows that. In fact, she must strictly limit her food intake this week and drink only water; then she's bound to achieve her goal. Her stomach already gurgles from the water and lack of food this morning. ‘Shut up,' she says, ‘you sewerage system.' That's all it is, really, a gigantic drain chasing effluent out of her body. She laughed when Ned had first described his vision of her internal organs. ‘Like where the rats live in that kids' film. You know, getting about on bits of rubbish, like boats. That's why stomachs make such weird noises, gurgling and clashing around.'

Hers is doing that right now. She checks her watch. She ran for an hour and a half. That's okay. Tomorrow she'll row in the morning and run in the evening. Sounds like a plan.

Crowds line the river banks again. This weekend there are more of them, students and parents, waving school banners. This is the qualifier. Tess sits in the boat, legs outstretched, gut clutching nervously. The sun is out, its weak rays illuminating the heavy rain clouds around it. Tess waves to her mum and dad on the river bank. Dad points his camera and takes several shots. Mum waves madly. Tess feels relaxed and happy. They are both here. She has a really good feeling about today, starting with her weigh-in this morning: 55. She'd let out a small whoop when the red line landed on 55. And to the left as well, not the right. Maybe even a few grams under?

She stretches her legs again. They are waiting, in position, for the starter's gun. Her legs are encased in their tight black lycra leggings, her thighs pushed flat against the seat. It makes them look so much wider. Fatter. Ned has told her before it's much more flattering to sit with her knees pointing up, resting the weight on the balls of her feet. ‘Gives your legs a longer, more shapely look,' he had said admiringly.

Another boat moves up next to them. The girls all smile politely at each other. Tess scans the banks again. No sign of Ned yet, but she knows he'll come. He wouldn't miss this one for anything.

The gun cracks. They pull hard and cut through the water. They instantly have rhythm. Debbie calls, ‘Half slide, next stroke ... go!' And they pull even harder. Tess feels them skimming the water's surface. Sweat beads across her forehead and upper lip. They have pulled so far in front of the other boat that they are guaranteed victory. They cruise easily over the finish line to the cheers of their supporters.

‘In two, weigh enough!' Debbie shouts. They lift their oars—and stare at each other silently. Tess hears whistling from the bank. She doesn't need to turn around to know it's her mother's four-fingered whistle. She smiles wildly. It worked. They did it.

‘We did it!' They look at each other and laugh. Even Debbie's scowl turns upwards. ‘We won it, guys!'

Mr Mycock has tears in his eyes as he embraces each one of them. ‘Excellent job, girls. Each and every one of you dug so deep. And now for the first time in our school's history, we've made the finals.'

They hug each other, elated.

‘We'll keep up the training schedule for the next two weeks and win the trophy,' the coach says confidently.

It had seemed so elusive but now it was a possibility. They could win the title.

Dad raises his glass high above the flickering candles and white linen covered table. ‘Here's to the long awaited, much expected something we wished for.' They lean inwards and clink the rims. Tess is glowing. Her dad has allowed her a glass of wine to celebrate; her mum is smiling and even engaging in the conversation.

‘So babe, the finals,' he says excitedly. ‘I can't wait.'

His enthusiasm blankets her. Tess smiles widely. ‘Me too, Dad. Who'd have thought, hey? Team Loser could be Team Winner.'

‘Don't say that, Tess.' Her dad shakes his head. ‘You guys were never Team Loser. You were just inexperienced up against so many well-established teams.'

‘Anyway,' her mum pipes in, ‘you now have the chance to show them all what you've really got. I'm so proud of you, honey.'

Tess smiles at her mum.
So proud of you.
She can't remember a time when she ever felt so special.

When the waiter arrives with their food, Tess has a momentary feeling of alarm. The fish portion is large, and the sauce is on it, not on the side as she requested. She smiles at the waiter, doesn't breathe a word and pretends she's impressed with the meal.

‘How's the fish?' her dad asks, slicing a piece of his steak.

‘A bit bony,' she says, pushing chunks of the white flesh to the sides of her plate and eyeing it dubiously. ‘But the bits without are delicious.'

She eats small mouthfuls and chews until they are almost liquid, scattering the rest of the food around the edges of the plate, making it look like there's less there than there really is.

They eat in silence. It's been a while since they've dined out as a family, and they are out of practice.

‘So what are you going to do when the finals are over? No training for a few months?' her dad asks finally.

‘I don't know,' Tess says. What will she do to fill the gap? She'll need something. ‘I was watching some of the girls playing tennis the other day. That might be fun.'

‘Tennis,' her mum says. ‘Oh Tess, that's a wonderful game. Do you know when I was your age I was a state player?'

Tess knows this, of course, but shakes her head, encouraging her mum to keep talking. These moments are so precious to her, she doesn't care if she has to hear repeats. Her dad interjects occasionally, reminding her mum of funny stories on the court.

‘Tell Tess about the time you whacked the umpire with your racquet,' he says, laughing.

Annelise's face brightens again. ‘Oh Liam, you know that wasn't one of my finer moments.' She shakes her head, her golden ponytail swinging behind her.

The candlelight illuminates her face and Tess watches her mother in wonder. She is so beautiful, poised and clever. Why can't she always be like this instead of hiding inside that dark, sorrowful shell she inhabits too much of the time?

‘He'd called my ball out. The man was blind. I was angry. It felt like I'd been playing my opponent
and
the umpire all game.' Annelise shrugs her shoulders defiantly. ‘Anyway, I knew I shouldn't have argued—it's against the Rules of Conduct—but I'd had enough. You know?'

Tess nods—she knows exactly what that's like.

‘So I told him to go and get his eyes checked, and he told me to move my bony arse back to my side of the court.'

‘He said what?' Tess is impressed, reminded of how, back before Brodie, her mum would never take crap from anyone. ‘Your bony arse?'

‘Yes.' Her mum sips her wine. ‘I said to him, “Sir, my arse may be bony but your face is really ugly. I can always fatten up—but you can never look any better than you do right now.”'

Tess and her dad are laughing loudly now. Several other people in the restaurant look their way.

‘Oh Mum, that's so funny.' Tess wipes the tears from her eyes. ‘What happened next?'

‘He said, “Little girl, you have overstepped the mark and I'll have you banned from the next match.” The next match was of course the finals. But it wasn't that threat that pushed me over the edge. It was the term “little girl”.'

‘Patronising pig,' Tess agrees.

‘Exactly.' Her mum is nodding. ‘So I marched back over to him and said, “Little girl? Would a little girl do this?” and cracked my racquet strings over his head.' She claps her hands, amused by the recollection. ‘I ruined the racquet and was banned from the next match. In fact, I was banned from the club. But I didn't care. It felt so good not to be pushed around by someone overblown by their own self-importance.'

‘Did you join a new club?' Tess asks.

Her mum starts laughing. ‘Two, because the first club I joined had that useless umpire as their head coach!'