What Does Blue Feel Like? (11 page)

that Bronwyn is lucky

she didn't end up being raped and left in a gutter,

that she hopes we'll stop taking drinks from

people we think we can trust.

That it could've ended up a lot worse.

Dr Aimee tells us with anger in her eyes

about the young girl who was in last weekend.

How she went out to celebrate her eighteenth birthday,

first time in a club

and even though she only had two drinks,

one was spiked.

The security guards thought she was just drunk

and kicked her out.

The guy who spiked her drink

told the guards he was her boyfriend

even though they'd never spoken.

She told the guards that she didn't know who he was

but the guy told them she was just being a drunken fool,

that she didn't know what she was saying,

that they'd had a fight and it was the alcohol talking.

And the guards agreed.

Just another drunk girl falling over herself

babbling nonsense

about to pass out

reeking of vomit.

They were more than happy

for her ‘boyfriend' to take her home.

She woke up

hours later,

Naked

Bruised

Sore.

The tests confirmed

she'd been raped by six guys.

The doctor shakes her head.

‘It's a sad and dangerous world we live in, girls,

a sad and dangerous world.'

Her beeper goes off

and she gives us a tired smile as she leaves.

Bronwyn sleeps,

drip in her arm,

hair plastered stickily across her wan face.

The only colour in her face is the black as black

marks underneath each eye.

As Char paces,

angry,

fuming,

at Nasty Doctor,

and New Guy.

She can't believe

there are people out there

dropping shit into drinks

for the fun of it.

And there are people out there

who are considered so smart

but are so condescending.

What kind of a world is this?

After lunch that day,

when Bronwyn's gone up to a ward

for a day or two,

I go home,

zombified.

Mum is about to go off her nut at me

for going to the party

when she sees the look on my face.

‘For heaven's sake, Char. What is it now?'

I tell her about Bronwyn,

about the Nasty Doctor,

about the ambos.

She tells me, ‘I knew you shouldn't have gone to that party.

See? I knew.'

‘But Mum —'

I say,

‘But Mum — what if I hadn't been there?

Imagine what would have happened.'

She cuddles me, and says,

‘I'm just glad you're okay, Char.

I'm just glad you're okay.'

I tell the shrink

that although Jim wants me to forgive him

for the cheating

I can't.

Because if I forgave him

that would make what he did okay.

I would be saying that it was okay.

She asks me

if forgiveness can mean that

what happened wasn't okay

but you're moving on,

taking what you learnt,

but not staying in the past,

bitter.

That you don't

even have to like people again once you forgive them.

You don't

have to invite them for lunch or want to be around them.

But you don't

carry hate around with you for what they did to you.

That forgiveness can be a release for you,

rather than exoneration for them.

I tell her

I'll have to think about it.

I tell her

that she sure does have some weird theories.

I tell her

she must have gone crazy

after listening to people's problems for so many years.

 

that Mum and Dad have been seeing the shrink as well.

They tell me,

‘When one person in this family is sick, or hurt, or sad,

we all are.

We all feel with you, Char.

And as parents

we need some reassurance that

we've done the best that we could do.

It's not easy,

you know,

wondering if every single decision you make from the time

your child is born

is the right decision

or the wrong decision

and if it's going to come back and bite you on the bum.'

I run into a friend of mine, Kate,

from years ago.

She's older than me

and turns out she's now manager of a trendy clothes shop.

We talk about school.

How much I hate it.

She laughs,

sips her coffee,

and says how great it is once you get out of that fishbowl

and discover that all the things you thought

were important,

like who kissed who on the weekend

and which boys were getting suspended for refusing to

shave their chin fluff,

don't matter at all,

and how great it is

to finally get your independence

and decide

what to wear,

whether or not you want to go to class at uni or tafe,

what time to get up.

She says that life gets so much nicer

once they chuck you out of the fishbowl

and into the ocean.

And it's interesting

watching everyone,

seeing who swims and who just can't hack it.

It's interesting, she says,

because the people that you think would excel

don't always.

They can't handle being the little fish in the big pond

when they're so used to having it the other way around.

But some of the little fish from the fishbowl

get into the ocean

and grow.

 

I wonder

if I'll grow and prosper

when I get chucked in the ocean.

Or whether I'll get eaten,

chewed up by some nasty fish

and spat out on the ocean floor.

My birthday is coming up

and Mum asks me what I want to do.

I shrug my shoulders.

No idea.

I'll be eighteen soon.

Able to

buy alcohol and drink it,

buy smokes and smoke them,

vote,

walk into sex shops (not that I want to).

It's only a couple of weeks and then I'll be able to do

all of that.

I'm secretly relieved

that I don't have to deal with that just yet.

I find out

that Char has a tattoo

when she's hanging out some washing.

I'm watching her through the window,

looking at her lithe limbs,

glossy hair

smooth skin.

Then I see it,

where her shirt's ridden up,

a crude etching,

on her back.

My tea is going cold

but I can't bring myself to drink it.

I sit,

thinking

about looking her over just after she was born.

The inspection,

Paul called it,

joking that we'd call for a refund if need be.

We counted her fingers, her toes.

Marvelled at the intricacies of thumbprints

and lines on palms

of a child just born.

Awed at the softness of her skin,

the fragility of this child completely entrusted to us.

She seemed so wonderful and beautiful and perfect and

complex all at the same time.

I shudder at the thought

that my little girl

lay face down on a table

and let a stranger stab needles into her skin over

and over into that perfect, silken, beautiful skin.

That is now marred

with black ink.

 

I don't tell Char

I saw her tattoo

even though I want to go nuts.

Because I know

the only reason I want to yell at her

is to find out what else she hasn't told me.

I sit in the rocking chair in my parents' room

when they've gone out

and,

for a second,

I picture a nursery perfectly laid out for the child

I could've had.

It hurts,

the pain like the short sharp stab of a needle.

I open my eyes

and think about Mum and Dad going ballistic.

And Jim hating me for a child he didn't want.

Even though it's

Sweet,

Bittersweet,

to imagine,

the reality

would've been much different.

I stand up,

and walk out of the room.

I turn eighteen on a Thursday.

Mum, Dad and Tim

come blaring into my room,

too early in the morning for my liking,

and wake me up,

singing loudly and off-key

and loving every second of it.

I rub my eyes,

smudging yesterday's eyeliner all over my face.

Oh well,

at least it matches the bed hair.

Tim gives me a necklace,

not a half-bad one either.

Mum must've picked it out.

Mum and Dad grin at each other,

handing me a tiny present,

perfectly wrapped,

Mum's doing, of course.

They kiss me on the head,

Dad first,

then Mum.

Dad's getting the video camera ready.

Must be a good present.

I rip it open

in my usual slapdash style.

A single key falls out.

Guess it's some symbolism that I just don't get.

Maybe it's for the back door or something.

Mum tells me to get out of bed

and close my eyes.

She leads me down the hallway,

while Tim sings, ‘I know something you don't know,'

over and over.

I can tell someone is opening the front door,

and I don't want to go out there in my pj's

but I get a shove from behind.

‘Open your eyes, birthday girl,' says Dad.

In the driveway,

there's a car.

A little white car.

With the ribbon like they use at weddings on it.

I must be dreaming.

 

A car.

My parents bought me a car!

A car!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I have a car!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

Dad assures me that even though it's old,

it's in really good condition,

and it's even got a CD player.

 

I have to tell everyone I know

and even everyone I don't.

How good is this???

 

I drive it to school,

Mum clinging on for dear life in the passenger seat.

If she was a Catholic,

she'd be asking for the last rites by now.

By the time I pull up to school

Mum has already called the driving instructor to

schedule more lessons.

The ribbon's still on the car.

I get out.

Bronwyn screams,

jumps up and down,

attracts the attention of everyone in the entire school.

But I don't care.

I'm eighteen now.

And I've got a car.

Jim makes me go to the bottle-o that night

and buy a bottle of champagne,

winking,

and saying,

‘Just because you can.'

He's been telling me all day

that I had to wait until the night to get my present.

We go back to his house

and his mum grins at me,

hugs me,

and kisses me on the cheek.

His little sister is sticking a sign on the fridge that says,

Fish are friends not food
,

but by the smell of the dinner cooking,

she didn't get the message across in time.

His mum hands Jim the ‘good glasses' and an ice bucket

and we go into his room.

There are candles everywhere,

but I don't know whether Jim is truly being nice

or whether there's an ulterior motive.

He pours the champagne,

says happy birthday,

and we clink glasses and drink,

both pretending we like the taste to show how

sophisticated we are.

I can feel the bubbles popping on my tongue.

Jim pulls out a little blue box,

I know it's jewellery.

When he opens the box,

I come face to face

with a diamond ring.

not to panic

it's not an engagement ring

but I did turn eighteen today

and we have been through some shit,

worthy of a diamond.

He says,

did I know

that a diamond is the hardest natural substance

known to man?