White Lady (10 page)

“Thanks for cleaning the kitchen,” I say, brushing off my hands, trying not to touch my clothes. I smile to avoid appearing threatening. I do not want him to think I am going to lecture him about anything. I have done enough of that. And who am I to lecture him about how to behave, anyway?

“I didn’t.”

“Then who did?”

Mick turns and slams the fly wire door behind him. Something crashes in the kitchen. Pots hitting the floor? Did he just swipe them off the counter?

I have to confront him about the knives. I have to get to the bottom of this, to save my son from his father. For a moment, I think that maybe what he needs is saving from is me. But honestly, if he has gotten himself mixed up with Ibrahim’s colleagues, I worry that he will do something “wrong” and get himself killed. I saw what my betrayal did to Ibrahim, the sacrifices he had to make to continue living his life. How he constantly had to run from himself. Could he be back in all his glory, but smuggling weapons instead of drugs under an alias? I would not put it past him.

I return the shovel to the shed and stare at the stapled bag of fertilizer. I suspect it’s not actually fertilizer. Do I want to open it and see? I shake my head. My best option is to ignore it. I hardly use anything that is in here anyway. And if Ibrahim is back in town, my bet is the next time I need something from in here, the bag will be gone.

I walk inside. Slam the door. Maybe it is time “Mrs. Shâd” took some time off. Lay off the over-articulation of my speech. Why I thought avoiding contractions made me sound more like a respectable teacher is beyond me.

I pick up the pots from the floor and rest them on the kitchen table. No more pussyfooting around. Time to get dirty.

“Mick! Get the
fuck
out here. Now!”

Mick turns his stereo up full blast.

“I Killed the Prom Queen.”

I’d recognize their sound all the way from the Dame Phyllis Frost Centre.

I sit on the edge of the table and bury my head in my hands. Grit my teeth, slam my fists on the table by my thighs. The pots rattle. That’s what it sounds like inside my head. Night and day.

I break out in a cold sweat and lick my top lip. Stand. Open the fridge. I eye the slab of steak, but grab a tub of low-fat natural yogurt instead. I peel back the aluminum cover and stare at the gelatinous slush, look at the cutlery drawer, then at the dirty teaspoons in the sink and use one of those instead.

I scoop out a spoonful of yogurt and hold it up to the light streaming through the kitchen window. It’s almost translucent. A globule of embryonic membrane. I put it in my mouth. It tastes like snot. I look at the expiry date on the lid. It’s two weeks over. I spit the yogurt into the sink, throw the tub in the garbage, cup my hands under the tap to rinse out my mouth.

Violent metal beats and grating vocals rattle something in the hallway.

Roar, roar, roar, roar …

I stand in front of Mick’s bedroom door and stare at the black Texta marks that conceal the peeling paint. I think of Ibrahim smashing my head against it and feel sick to my stomach. Then the excitement of him penetrating me from behind.

I wipe away a tear and bang on Mick’s door. No answer. I try to open it, but it’s locked. Anger flushes through my body so fast my veins might burst. I hold my breath, clench my fists, and bang on the door again with both hands.

I scream.

It’s so loud inside my own head that my brain vibrates against my skull, and my face feels like it’s burning off.

The music stops.

Mick opens the door.

We stare at each other.

My chest moves up and down as I try to catch my breath. Mick doesn’t say a word, but a glimmer of pity passes over his eyes.

“Please,” I breathe, “we really need—”

“Is this about Mr. Weston?”

I shut my mouth. Blink. Swallow.

“You know about Nash?” I croak.

For a very short moment, the creepiness of Mick’s expression makes me forget he’s my son, and I feel violated.

“Don’t get yer scanties inna knot. I don’t give a fuck.” Mick picks at a bit of paint from the door frame, peels it off, rolls it into a ball, and flicks it over my shoulder.

I squint. Wish he’d do something about those blackheads. What a stupid thought to have right now. But maybe it’s the mundane things like this that I can rely on to prevent me from retreating into my prior self.

Mick glares back. “Whatcha think? I’m gonna crack the shits ’cause he’s not Dad?”

I look down the hall as if I’ve heard a noise. I haven’t. But I need to look away. Mick’s eyes haunt me. I wonder if he notices. If he cares. “No, I—”

“Dad is a
cunt
. The homeless dude down the road could look after us better.”

“Oh. Well—”

“Yeah, go ’head. Have ’em over. Fuckin’ A. I promise I won’t spit in Mia’s face.”

Mick slams the door in my face and turns his stereo back on. The heavy metal razors cut through the walls, my head, and my heart.

I kneel on the floor to relieve the sudden dizziness and notice a faint footprint near the front door, but it doesn’t look like it’s from Mick’s runners. I crawl over to take a closer look.

Army boot.

Ibrahim.

I hold my breath. I knew it.

He never left.

FLASH-FORWARD

A small gasp. Female.

“What happened? What’s going on?”

A man coughs, spits on the road—it splatters like phlegm. He tells the woman to shut the fuck up.

“Oh my God, I can’t feel my legs. I can’t feel my legs!” she cries.

“Don’t move, ya cunt—stay in the fuckin’ car.” The man’s voice quivers, its tone anxious, familiar. I think I know who it is. But it can’t be.

I roll onto my side, clenching my teeth through the sharp stabbing in my leg, and look towards the voices. It’s Mum, face covered in blood, trapped in a rent-a-car wrapped around a tree. What is she doing here? Why?

My breath quickens. I look at the car, and at Dad, still motionless. Shooting pain crawls up my left arm and into my neck like an electric shock.

I look up.

It
is
him.

And he has a knife to Mum’s throat.

Chapter 26

Sonia: Cytotoxic lymphocyte

The kettle boils. Its auto-stop is broken. I neglect to switch it off. Instead, I remain seated at the kitchen table, staring at the steam hitting the base of the cupboard above it, watching condensation form on the cream gloss finish, listening to the whistle become fiercer and fiercer, until the water bubbles through the nozzle and splashes on the counter, an inch from my mobile phone.

I remember the time Ibrahim held my head over this steaming kettle. It lasted for only a brief moment. If it wasn’t for the steak knife resting on the counter from the previous night’s meal, I wouldn’t have walked away with anything less than third-degree burns covering the right side of my face. Sometimes I wonder whether physical scars would have been better than the emotional ones it left behind. I stabbed him just below the ribs. It was shallow. But I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since. Mainly because I enjoyed it so much. Someone needs to put me down. I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up.

I stand. Switch the kettle off from the power point on the wall.

I flip open my mobile and lean my hip against the counter.

Message Nash.

I’m sorry I ditched you in the car park. I was upset about what I found in Mick’s room. I was upset that you didn’t seem to care. Can you forgive me? BTW, I told Mick about us, and he thinks it’s great. So let’s all do dinner?

I stare at it. Bite the inside of my left cheek. Delete it and start again.

I told Mick. Dinner is a go. PS: I’m sorry.

I groan. Delete it again.

Told him.

I press Send. Flick the phone closed. Wait.

I shift the weight between my feet, rest the mobile on the counter, and watch it until the screen dims.

The phone vibrates, flashes blue. I flip it open again, open the message.

great

I take a deep breath and slowly exhale through my nose. I want to leave it at that. To not give Nash the impression that I need him to stay sane, to stay … clean. But can’t help myself.

Sorry about today.

OK

What night?

Talk tomorrow.

I want to call him. The messages are unsatisfying. I have to make sure he’s okay. No. Make sure he’s okay with
me
. But I don’t. I resist. If I call, it will only make me feel worse—unwanted. He’s obviously in a rotten mood. And I don’t blame him. What an awful thing to find out about Mia. Celeste was so lovely in high school. She took me under her wing, helped me become “cool.” She even convinced me to hook up with Ibrahim so I could become a more solid member of their group. She used to be so down-to-earth. I wonder what turned her into such a fitness-and-beauty freak? And what kind of mother leaves her only child with a man she suspects isn’t the biological father? It just doesn’t make sense.

I turn my phone off and head to bed, feeling like all the colour has drained from my skin and into my childhood rainbow. I think about Mick’s prayer mat and contemplate pulling it out. Maybe I need to reunite myself with Allah. Maybe he can help me continue to be a good mother, to keep suppressing my older self, the craving to sin. But I can’t stop likening the prayer mat to a pool of blood. And that just makes me lose touch with reality even more.

Because the last time I prayed was over ten years ago.

The day I was baptized a killer on our back porch.

Chapter 27

Nash: Is. And always will be.

I lie on my back. On the grass. By the Yarra River. Smoking. Contributing to the grey of the low-hung clouds. I don’t want to go home. How can I look Mia in the eye and keep Celeste’s secret? And for fuck’s sake, I don’t give a shit whose junk conceived her—she’s still my daughter.

My
daughter.

Always will be.

But will Mia feel that way? What if the mere technicality of it sends her spiraling into an even bigger depression? What if she goes to live with Celeste in LA? How would I cope? The thought of losing the only person I love more than I loved footy is hard to swallow.

Assault? That is rich. Really rich, Celeste.

Leaves rustle in the wind. A cyclist’s chains clink as they glide by my head only a metre from the footpath. Cars rumble on the bridge behind me. The sun disappears, thunder cracks, and rain pelts down.

But I don’t move.

I close my eyes, allow myself to become as soggy as my cigarette. I throw it towards the river knowing it won’t even make it close. This time I don’t feel guilty. The river is brown. City brown shit pollution crap, what-the-fuck-are-we-doing-wrong
brown
.

What’s one more fag?

What’s one more sorry broken soul taking his shit out on the river?

What difference does it make?

“What difference does it fucking make?” I roar, punching both fists and feet repeatedly towards the sky.

And then it finally happens with one huge breath of wet air.

I cry.

I cry, and my body trembles against the earth.

Chapter 28

Mia: Lost in a labyrinth.

I pop another pill, sit cross-legged in the middle of my bedroom floor, categorizing the music on my iPod: male, androgynous, goddess. My left knee bounces up and down, the fat of my calf acting as an air bag. I press play on “Bird Song” by Lene Lovich in the “goddess” category and look at my window. It’s raining. The drops splatter on the glass like giant spitballs. All I want to do is jump. On a trampoline. I regret letting my dad throw it away.

Trampoline in the rain, trampoline in the rain, Hi-Ho the Derry-O, trampoline in the rain
…

The phone rings, shrill in my left ear as I adjust my earphones, a mix between tweeting birds and nails down a blackboard. But I dance to my feet anyway, trying on the dub step moves, unsuccessfully, but who cares. Man, at the moment I feel like I could do anything.

I yank the earphones from my ears and drop my iPod on the bed, dance to the living room, answer the phone; the smile on my face fades when I hear her voice.

“Mia? Darling?”

“Oh. Mum.”

“How are you?”

I look at my reflection in the picture frame on the wall, my face an essence within a nostalgic footy game, Dad in the motions of kicking the ball towards the goalposts, his mouth contorted with passion—young, handsome, pre-single father lost in the labyrinth of responsibility.

“Same,” I say quietly.

Lahhhst in a laaabrynth
…

“How’s your— How’s Nash?”

I shrug. “Same.”

Lahhhst in a laaabrynth
…

Silence. Saliva. Scent of suppressed hunger.

Kids screaming, running in the street in the rain—it filters through the open window. I want to join them. Play hopscotch, clapping rhymes, grow up … nicer.

“Ah… how’s—”

“Why are you calling?” A dog barks and growls. Next-door neighbour tells it to move, it whimpers, a door slams shut.

Mum laughs. Squeaky. Phoney. Small.

“Sweetie, I’m just calling to see how you are.”

Singsongy.

Lahhhst in a laaabrynth
…

“You never call just to see how I am.”

Mum inhales. Drama queen. I picture her nostrils flaring and bite dry skin off my top lip. Something pings through the phone. A microwave maybe. Or maybe Karter gave her a time limit on the phone, and this is her cue to get off. Wouldn’t be fucking surprised. Arse.

“So. I did have a reason for calling actually. I just wanted to let you know that I’m coming to visit! Good news, isn’t it?”

I hold my breath and look at my swollen ankles, my wrists, the ring I can’t remove from my middle finger. My cheeks flush——an urgent need to run, to run anywhere—pinches just below the surface of my skin like an itch, an itch, the creepy crawlies in my bones, eyes hot, they sting, like I need some water, I’ve been forgetting the water, forgetting to eat, when did I eat, when did I stop thinking about the chocolate under my bed, oh shit, oh shit, oh fuck, visit? What? When when when?