White Lady (4 page)

The end of recess bell rings. Some kid outdoors curses and bounces a ball; it echoes through the entrance of the toilet block.

Kimiko winks and flicks her head in the direction of the exit as if to say
let’s go
. My mouth is half open, ready to speak, unable to voice my thoughts. “Thank you” somehow doesn’t seem right—neither does silence.

Kimiko shrugs with a tight-lipped smile and turns to leave.

“Um—” I sniff.

She pauses and spins round, lifting one foot off the ground and balancing it on the tip of her shoe. She stares. Her nostrils flare.

Say something.

“Don’t worry.” Kimiko smiles, twisting her hair into a bun and immediately letting it drop loose. It falls in front of her shoulder like liquid. “Start with one. See how you feel.”

See
how I feel?

“How … will I feel?”

“Not much.” Kimiko laughs.

I look at the pills cradled in my palm. The bag is getting clammy. Sweat pools below the plastic.

“You’ll probably feel normal.”

“Normal,” I repeat, trying to make sense of what that actually means.

“Yeah. Normal.” Kimiko shrugs.

I drop the pills into the side pocket of my bag and zip it shut, the
zzz
sound becoming one with the voices outside.

“We’d better get to class,” Kimiko says.

“Wait! Do you wanna, um—” I look at my feet.

Should I?

Kimiko frowns and crosses her arms with friendly impatience.

“Wanna do something later?” I blurt out, feeling my face flush.

Kimiko pouts and says with a curt nod, “Meet you here at lunch.”

I smile. Thank, God. First non-rejection in months.

Together we walk out of the toilet block, separated by a metre of space, teeming with untapped energy.

By the afternoon it becomes an inch, and she lets me call her Kimi.

Chapter 11

Sonia: Is this how you be a mother?

I stand on my doorstep, briefcase in hand, staring at our brass knocker, its lion head roaring at me to smarten up. The wind blows my blouse flat against my back as I look at the round overgrown patch of grass where I attempted to landscape a mini rock garden last year. The pile of decorative pebbles are now lost in weeds, and the tiny apricot tree struggles to survive on its own, producing one apricot a year, as if too stubborn to be conquered by human neglect. Every time I return home, I am sure I can hear the tree spitting at me:
“You never learn, do you, woman?”

I do not want to go inside. I never want to go inside. He is waiting for me. Ready to pounce, either with degrading comments or silence; I do not know which is worse. But I have got to stop doing this. Working late every night is not going to fix the relationship between us. It is not going to fix
me
.

As I insert my key, the sound of a car screeching and crashing leaps from the open living room window. He has left the fly-wire off. Again.

“Fuck you, you motherfuckin’ wanker-fuck!” he screams. “Cunt!”

Something falls to the floor and thick thuds follow, a bit of bookcase abuse, perhaps. The roar of the digital explosion stops abruptly. He must have turned off the TV.

I open the door slowly enough for the hinges not to squeak. I step inside and place my briefcase delicately by the door as I do every night—easy access for the next morning. No. The real reason is I hope Mick will open it and find the journal I leave in there. Read all about my struggles. Maybe he will feel sorry for me and realize how hard life has been with his father. Maybe he will realize he’s had me wrapped around his little finger, and I had no choice.

Maybe the journal is a complete and utter lie I am trying to make myself believe I am not responsible for my actions.

I can still … taste the pleasure. That thrill when the knife slips in and the blood oozes like liquid velvet.

I envision the look of calm on a dead face, relax my jaw, and take a deep breath. I adjust the cuffs and collar of my blouse and push my hair behind my ears. Keeping up appearances, even at home, is important for my rehabilitation.

I stride down the hallway, head high, towards the kitchen. My son’s shadow ripples over the tiled floor as I approach the arched entranceway. The fridge door opens and closes. Its contents rattle like the music of water-filled crystal glasses. Along with a running bath, it is perhaps the only other relaxing sound I ever hear in this household.

“Fuckin’ bitch fuckin’ ate it.” Mick scoffs, snorts, coughs, spits into the sink. It splatters like fresh fish gut.

I lean against the archway, fold my arms under my breasts, and try to drill a hole through Mick’s head with a glare. I am going to have to tackle this with a little less “nice.” I have been trying so hard. To be a good mum. To get this family back on track. But maybe I’ve got the balance wrong.

So I just say it.

“What did the fucking bitch fucking eat, Mick?” I raise my eyebrows, trying to maintain my assertiveness from the morning.

He looks up and smirks, shoves a hand down the front of his jeans, and rearranges his package. I look him up and down. Mick winks, spits into the sink again, and walks out without uttering another word.

“You did not just walk away from me,” I call towards the ceiling, trying to disguise my tears with volume. “You come back and apologize. And apologize for this morning in class.”

Mick’s bedroom door slams, and the boom of heavy metal sucks the oxygen out of the house. This is a prison. And I built it myself. But how could I have possibly done any better? I have been the perfect textbook mother since Ibrahim left. Is it the lack of a sane father that has done this? If only I could get him to see someone, to
talk
to someone, then maybe we’d have a chance.

I pull out a chair and sit down. The kitchen bench and sink is overflowing with dirty dishes. There’s something pink and sticky that smells like cough syrup all over the floor by the dishwasher and broken brown glass sitting mercilessly at the base of the garbage bin.

I cry. My shoulders shake, and my throat constricts from the effort of keeping quiet. I am
sick
, I think. The chaos that was this household before my husband left was the only thing that kept me sane when my parents died. Especially when Mick said he couldn’t wait until I followed suit.

I wipe my eyes with the heels of my hands, prop a shiny carving knife on the windowsill above the sink, and glance at it now and again, while I clear away the mess.

Chapter 12

Nash: She wouldn’t, would she?

As the chicken breasts grill, I prepare a salad, wondering where Mia is. It’s been months since she’s been late home from school. I was all hyped to have that talk. But now my confidence has waned. I couldn’t bring myself to call Celeste either. What’s got into me? Crikey. Have I become that much of a wuss? I’m a father to a beautiful young woman, and I can’t even bring myself to talk to her about something that surely worries her as much as it does me. She’s quite mature for her age sometimes, and she can probably handle it, but I feel like all I’m good for nowadays is putting my nose in where it’s not wanted.

I think seriously about what Sonia said in the staff room as I chop lettuce into paper-thin strips. In the back of my mind, Celeste nags that I’m going to cause the leaves to oxidize.
Who gives a
…
? Would Mia really think I’m trying to help her lose weight because I’m ashamed of the way she looks? I reckon she’d understand I just want what’s best for her. Sonia has to be overreacting, speaking from her own insecurities. Why do the skinny ones lack more self-confidence than the overweight ones?

Mia hasn’t shown any signs of resentment towards me. Has she? She always seems so much angrier at herself than she does at me. Which is a good thing. Wait. No. That can’t be a good thing at all¬—

Mia flings the front door open. It ricochets off the arm of the couch and slams shut. She throws her schoolbag at the foot of the coffee table and runs to her room without a glance in my direction. Her footsteps rumble in my stomach like a bad meal.

“Dinner. Ten minutes,” I call out, groaning at her inability to be human and at my inability to act natural around her. I always feel like I’m putting on an act, being the boring, responsible parent, trying to “do the right thing,” when all I really want to do is be her best mate, take her to the footy, order ham and pineapple pizza, pig out on burgers. Shit like that.

This is fucked. I can’t even offer her a big juicy steak!

Silence.

Footsteps on floorboards in the hallway.

Door handle squeak.

Slam.

Something hits the floor.

Stereo full blast. Magic Dirt: “I Was Cruel.” It’s the only song I ever hear anymore.

I smile sadly as nostalgia pulses in my temples. I dice the last cucumber, chuck it into the salad bowl.

I squat to take a gander at the chicken under the grill. The intense dry heat radiates across my forehead and stings my eyes.

I’ll give it a couple.

I stand, wash my hands, and lean my back against the counter, wiping my hands dry on my T-shirt. I look out the kitchen window and say to myself, “We’re doing alright. I’m doing the best I can.”

I am, aren’t I? I can’t tell anymore. But the more I let myself feel guilty for wondering if I’m doing a good job or not, the more I feel like I’m not doing a good job. I reckon I have to count myself lucky that she’s a decent human being with a kind heart. Even if she often tries to hide it.

Mia surfaces from the hermit’s cave she likes to call her bedroom when I pull the chicken out of the grill and leave the tray on the stove. Is the universe being friendly to me tonight, or is it some sort of test? Usually I would have to knock on Mia’s door over and over before she showed her face. By then, her food would be cold, and I would be accused of being an incompetent father. I would defend myself, make sure Mia knew it was her own fault the food was cold. And then she’d retaliate with, “You know I take ages. You should start calling me twenty minutes before you actually wanna serve.”

You can’t beat that logic, I reckon.

Mia approaches the kitchen counter with a grin.

“You okay?” I say.

Mia
tsks
.

“Okay, stupid question.” I’m about to ask why she’s so cheery, but then realize I might be pushing it. Maybe I should save the interrogation for later. Or maybe I won’t even need to talk to her after all. She seems so much better than she was in the morning.

“Nice to see your teeth for a change.” I wince at my unintentional sarcasm, bracing myself for back talk. I put away a few dry dishes to avoid eye contact. There I go again. I should be awarded wuss of the year.

“Lucky I’ve been using your whitening stuff, then,” Mia says.

I laugh and scratch my beard, half on the verge of getting shitty about her using my toothpaste, and half pleasantly surprised that she thought to look after her appearance. That’s got to be a good sign.

I slide the bowl of salad towards Mia and point to the chicken breasts resting on the stove. “You can serve yourself today.”

Mia grabs a plate, fills it to the brim with salad, and puts half a chicken breast on the side. I watch in silent satisfaction, grab myself a plate of food, switch on the TV, and slump into the couch.

“Weather’s nice. Gonna eat in the backyard,” Mia says.

I stand. “Good idea.”

“Um. Alone.”

“Oh.” I sit again and nod. “Go for it.”

“Sorry.” Mia screws up her nose as if she might be feeling guilty. “I just want to … you know … think.”

“Yep.” I salute. “Understood.” I do understand. But I can’t deny I feel a twinge of rejection. I reckon I just have to accept that I’m never going to be her mate. A father is a father, and always a father.

Mia shakes her head. “You’re such a dick.”

“Thanks. Your compliments always bring a tear to my eye.”

“Anytime.” Mia stands there, plate in one hand, a glass of water in the other. She stares at me with a strange smirk on her face. I’m happy she seems happier today, but was it brought on by something? And how has the incident in class not gotten her down?

“Mia. Go. I’m fine. Wanna watch
7:30 Report
anyway,” I say. It’s true.

Mia blinks, as if she’s just snapped out of a trance. “Yep,” she says, and walks out dragging her tattered and grimy tracksuit cuffs along the carpet.

I flick to the ABC and pull the coffee table between my knees. Footage of a school trip gone troppo in Echuca with kids smoking and shooting up, drinking copious amounts of booze, and getting arrested flashes over the TV screen. I cut off a piece of chicken and put it in my mouth; chewing and chuckling at the memory of being a bit of a teen rebel myself, at Celeste and me smoking pot, getting drunk, having sex in the back of my father’s E-Type Jag while it was parked in the garage right next to my parents’ bedroom. God, it was fun trying to be so quiet.

Crikey, C. We really pulled the wool over their eyes, you and me.

I laugh out loud and chew with my mouth open.

Then my chewing slows. I rest my knife and fork on the edge of my plate. Swallow. Rub my hands over my face. Squint at the TV, elbows resting on my knees.

I sway side to side a little. Then hang my head.

Oh, Mia.

Suddenly, I feel sick. She wouldn’t be doing anything stupid, would she?

Chapter 13

Sonia: It is simply a safety net.

The phone rings. A welcome distraction. But how can I hear anything with Mick’s metal blaring like it is the end of the world? I lift the receiver off the wall and hold it to my right ear. I stick a finger in my left to block out the music.

“Hello?” I say, trying not to shout.

“Sonia, it’s Nash.”

“Oh hi. Sorry about the racket, but I cannot do much about it at this point. Do you want to call back later?”

“No worries, I’ll be quick.”

I nod and pinch the skin between my eyes. “Is everything okay?”

“Mia’s behaviour is—uh, I want to get your opinion about something. Can we meet?”

I sigh with relief. Any excuse to get out. Any excuse that isn’t my own flight-before-fight syndrome.