Broken (49 page)

Mattie let this realisation permeate until it metamorphosed into an unexpected but very welcome determination that washed away her lethargy and gave her strength coiled around righteousness. And she grasped it tightly, hugging it within her, so that she could carry it back out to the kitchen and explain it to the others. So that they, too, could appreciate that she wasn't going to change her mind.

 

T
he year that Mattie was about fifteen or sixteen, one of the ‘in' words of her group was ‘anguish'. ‘Did you hear about Michael Hutchence and Kylie Minogue? I'm in anguish!' or ‘Dad, if you don't let me go to Mandy's party, I'll be absolutely anguished! Truly!' And they bandied the word about with the least excuse, never stopping to think about the accuracy of its use, just liking the sound as it rolled off the tongue. Anguish
.

Ten years later, Mattie finally learnt the true meaning of the word. And she came to realise that anguish was a rare word, a unique word, a word that rang out with the same despair as its meaning. You could roll the second syllable downwards and then draw it out as if it would last forever. Or collide the last few letters together with a finality that writhed in misery. And the word's proximity to ‘anger' only gave it more effect, so that you could repeat it over and over again and never lose the impact. True anguish didn't just happen, it stabbed and scathed and scarred
.

Because anguish is losing a baby, even if it didn't really exist. Or watching a premature one struggle for breath while you are holding hands with the very person who caused it. And anguish is continuing to believe that something will work, only to be injured by your own stupidity. Anguish is hiding in the darkness with your heart beating so loudly it knocks against your ribcage and then hearing those footsteps coming closer. Anguish is desperately wanting respect and not receiving it from anyone, not even yourself. Anguish is the absence of options, the absence of hope. And anguish is wanting something so badly that you would sell your soul, only to discover, like Faust, that the price is just too damn high
.

M
attie sat in her car with her arms folded against the steering-wheel as she stared at her mother's house. For some reason, just after she had parked in the driveway, she had started recalling the six days she spent there last time she left Jake, just over a year ago. How reluctant she had been to seek sanctuary here, how dubious of her welcome. If it had not been for the fact she had only twenty dollars in her purse, and not a single credit card, she would have taken refuge in a motel, or a caravan park, or just about anywhere else – except home.

So just after nine o'clock that night, and with two wide-eyed children in tow, she had arrived at her mother's house. The bruises hadn't been on show, but her fear and uncertainty had been hard to hide. And she was quite sure that her mother suspected that there had been a lot more going on than just a need ‘to take a break for a little while'. But she hadn't asked, and Mattie hadn't told. Instead they lived for six days just beyond reality, where there was always a pot of tea to hand, and biscuits were eaten off chintz-patterned porcelain lined with paper doilies.

And the funny thing was that she hadn't hated it. Not at all. It was like being a little girl again, playing make-believe in a land where happy ever after was a context that framed the entire game, rather than being an ephemeral concept that remained just out of reach. But Mattie wasn't a child anymore, and she could not hold reality at bay. Gradually it began to seep through and decisions had to be made. So six days after arriving, Mattie and the children returned home. But she took with her a
closeness to her mother that she hadn't felt for many years. And although it was something that proved transitory rather than a building block for the future, she still held the memory close, and treasured it.

Mattie smiled grimly, then took a deep breath and opened the car door with her unbandaged hand. She picked up her handbag from the passenger seat and slung it over her shoulder before gathering up her mother's Whimsicalities parcel and getting out of the car. She slammed the door shut with her hip and then headed towards the house. The front door opened before she even reached it and her mother appeared, looking concerned.

‘Mattie, darling, I was wondering what –' She stopped abruptly as she caught sight of her daughter's face, with its long purpled bruise that ran up one cheek and finished underneath her eye with a swelling that cupped it.

Mattie put out her good hand quickly and placed it on her mother's arm reassuringly. ‘It's okay, Mum. It was just a little accident and it looks a lot worse than it is.'

‘But . . . what happened?'

‘Me, that's what happened,' Mattie laughed. ‘One of those stupid things. See, I was running up the front steps and tripped somehow. Probably over my own feet. Anyway, I managed to put one hand out, which broke my fall, otherwise I would have done some real damage.'

‘It looks like you already have.' Mattie's mother stared at her daughter's face and then dropped her gaze briefly to the bandaged hand.

‘Could have been worse,' said Mattie cheerfully. ‘I would have whacked my cheek directly against the step if I hadn't put my hand in the way.'

Her mother flinched. ‘Ouch. You poor thing.'

‘Probably serves me right. Anyway, can I come in?'

‘Of course, how silly of me.' Mattie's mother stepped back and closed the door after her daughter came through. ‘I'll put the kettle on.'

Mattie followed her mother into the lounge-room and then sat down in an armchair as her mother went through into the kitchen to make a pot of tea. Mattie slid her handbag off and let it fall to the floor by her feet but kept the brown-papered Whimsicalities parcel on her lap. She closed her eyes briefly, the left eye immediately feeling less stretched and puffy.

‘Would you like a piece of date loaf, Mattie?' called her mother, from the kitchen.

‘Sounds lovely' replied Mattie. She gazed across at her mother's selection of framed photographs, which were arranged in a semicircle on top of her crystal cabinet, directly opposite Mattie. The outer edges were predominantly made up of older, sepia-tinged photographs, grandparents sitting stiffly on wicker chairs and grim-faced family groups in which even the children looked pained. Then there was a selection taken during the early lives of Hannah and Mattie: black and white ones that showed babies wrapped in crocheted shawls, a pigtailed Mattie holding hands with her big sister, and a couple of school photos that spoke clearly of the awkwardness of adolescence.

But it was the photos in the centre of the semicircle that drew Mattie's attention today. These were the more recent ones, of Hannah and Mattie as adults with their own families. Full colour testimonials to the subterfuge of the camera. In Mattie's family grouping, which stood just to the side of Charlotte's debut, Jake stood tall and proud behind a white wicker sofa that contained Mattie, with Max and Courtney on either side of her. All of them were smiling, and not the fake, tight smiles that often marred those kinds of photographs, but big joyous grins that spoke of happiness and contentment and a sense of all being right within their world.

‘Here we are then.' Mattie's mother came in bearing a well-laden teatray that she placed carefully down on the circular coffee table. She picked up the gently steaming teapot and poured out two cups before adding a splash of milk to each and passing one over to Mattie.

‘Thanks.' Mattie added a teaspoon of sugar and then leant back, stirring her tea.

‘Have you been to the doctor about that eye, darling?'

‘Yes.' Mattie took a sip of tea and then put the cup back down on the coffee table, next to a plate of lightly buttered date loaf. ‘He said it looks nastier than it is. Give it a few days and everything will be back to normal.'

‘Well, make sure you put plenty of cream on it. You don't want the skin to dry out.'

‘Okay'

Mattie's mother looked critically at the coffee table and then nodded before lowering herself slowly into the armchair opposite her daughter. Once settled she looked curiously at the parcel on Mattie's lap. ‘And what's that you've got there?'

‘Oh, your order from that party I had.' Mattie passed the small parcel over. ‘It arrived the other day'

‘Lovely!'

Mattie sipped her tea as her mother peeled the sticky-tape from the brown paper and then folded the sheet open to reveal an inner layer of bubble-wrap. Soon that too was off and Mattie was surprised to see an autumn-toned ceramic frog just like the one she had ordered, complete with splayed, gold-tipped feet.

‘Isn't it beautiful? I couldn't resist.'

‘Very nice,' said Mattie with sincerity. ‘Very nice indeed.'

‘Do you really like it?'

‘Yes. Very much. It's gorgeous.'

Mattie's mother rewrapped the frog loosely in the bubble-wrap and held it out. ‘Then you have it. As a present.'

‘But . . . it's
yours.'
Mattie shook her head and kept her hands on her lap.

‘No, I'd rather you have it. Really. It would make me happy.'

Mattie stared at the sincerity in her mother's face as she reached out and silently took the frog. It was too late now to say that she already had one, just like this, as her mother would probably think that Mattie was making it up as an excuse not to accept the gift. She placed the frog on her lap and ran a finger over the porcelain, made bumpy by the bubble-wrap. Then she glanced back at her mother. ‘Thanks, Mum. He's beautiful.'

‘My pleasure.'

Mattie dropped her gaze to her mother's hands, and the ropey blue veins that ridged them, splaying out to run up and over each knuckle. Today, she noticed, her mother was also wearing her engagement ring, a solitary diamond grasped securely by golden claws that winked with reflected light as she reached down to pick up her teacup. Mattie
watched the diamond as her mother's fingers curled around the handle of the cup and, with her other hand holding the saucer, lifted it towards her mouth. ‘Mum, were you and Dad happy?'

‘Pardon?'

‘Were you and Dad happy? As a couple, I mean.'

‘What a funny question.' Mattie's mother gave a small frown as she rested her cup and saucer on one knee. ‘Of
course
we were.'

‘But . . . you must have had times when you were annoyed with each other or whatever. Like – did you ever argue? How did you resolve things?'

With the frown still in place, her mother stared back at Mattie and then she laughed lightly, breaking the mild tension that had started to build. ‘You
are
in a strange mood today, aren't you? Maybe it's because of your eye. Is it giving you pain?'

‘It's not because of my eye. It was just a question.'

‘Well, if you must know, we
didn't
argue. Your father was a most reasonable man and marriage is, after all, based on give and take. Now, enough of that.' Mattie's mother took another sip of tea and then put the cup back down on the coffee table before struggling back to her feet. ‘It occurs to me that having given you a present, I should do the same for the children.'

‘You don't have to do that,' protested Mattie, as she watched her mother walk over to the walnut sideboard by the door and open up one of the narrow drawers.

‘I know I don't
have
to, but I
want
to.' Mattie's mother rifled through the drawer for a moment and then brought out two folded twenty dollar notes before closing the drawer securely and bringing the money over to Mattie. She held it out with a smile.

‘Mum, really, you don't –'

‘Holidays are coming up soon,' said her mother, putting the notes down on Mattie's armrest, next to her cup of tea. ‘So you tell Max and Courtney to use this for something special, or for their Christmas shopping. Whatever they like.'

Mattie stared down at the two folded notes and blinked. ‘Thanks, Mum. They'll love that. It's very nice of you.'

‘And it's very nice of you to drop in on me like this,' replied her mother, still standing by the chair. ‘We should do it more often.'

‘Yes. We should.'

‘And now I'm going to top up our teapot. Then I'll tell you about my outing with Mrs Gardiner from up the road.'

Mattie watched silently as her mother picked up the teapot, which was still half full, and took it out to the kitchen. Then she looked back down at the money lying on her armrest. She took a deep breath and let it out with a rush that fluttered the notes and sent them sliding towards the edge. Before they could fall, she picked them up and then, leaning over, collected her handbag, which she put in her lap so that she could get her purse out. She opened the purse up and slid the money into the notes section, where there was a folded piece of white paper. Although she already knew what it said, Mattie took the paper out and unfolded it slowly, staring down at the address and phone number written in Hannah's distinctive sloping handwriting.

She read it through, and then read it through again, as if committing it to memory. Then, with a sudden rush of frustration, she crumpled the paper up with her good hand and closed her fist over it so that not even an edge of white could be seen. She gazed down at her straining knuckles for a few moments and then relaxed them as she opened her hand and watched the paper partially open again, like a flower slowly coming into bloom.

The sound of the kettle's whistle in the kitchen broke her reverie and Mattie hurriedly straightened the piece of paper and folded it back over. Then she shoved it into the rear of her purse, where it could not contaminate her mother's generosity. And where she couldn't see it either. With that accomplished, she pushed her purse back into her handbag and dropped it onto the floor again, by her feet. And prepared herself, for just a little while, to play make-believe.