Because of You Page 6

  A bloody embrace

  2. A frangipani blossom

  You plucked from a tree

  Sweet on the pillow

  3. The softest whisper

  I almost don’t hear, I love

  You, now, forever

  Who is Tom? And what’s a haiku?

  Nola’s poems remind me of the early days with Scott. When we first started going round together. We’d skip class on a Friday arvo and pedal our bikes back to my house on the scrubby bush track. We’d shut ourselves in my bedroom, listen to music and kiss until our lips bruised. Afterwards we’d lie naked on my single bed, the overhead fan cooling our bodies. I’d rest my head on his chest and doze off, his fingers tickling my face. Sometimes we’d talk. Spending hours planning a life bigger than the one we had.

  Scott wanted to be a pilot. He was getting his hours up. Ready for a solo flight. I was going to cook in the city. We’d get a unit and I’d make it cosy. Maybe later we’d have a couple of kids with his curly blond hair and my green eyes. But first, we’d travel, all over the place. Swapping our dusty, country town for full moon festivals, jungles, motorbikes and white sandy beaches.

  I press my face on Nola’s delicate words, written in perfect handwriting in shimmering pink ink. They can be my pillow tonight.

  I’m not sleeping good right now. I wake up in the middle of the night to hot, tangled nightmares. Most of them are about that day. About the choice I made. In my dreams I don’t do it. I take a different path.

  After lock-out I spend the morning at Rough cafe. They serve bottomless cups of coffee and free sandwiches, muffins and salads. It’s a good place to read the paper, play cards or talk. People listen here. Or at least, they pretend to.

  A student asks me if I feel like painting on a canvas. She reminds me a bit of Nola and I wonder if she’s read my story too.

  ‘Nah, thanks,’ I say.

  The staff leave me alone after that. Except the resident dog. A black lab who hangs around looking for leftovers. He sits pressed against my leg, demanding love and pats.

  ‘He likes you,’ comments another volunteer from the open kitchen. She’s a mum type in a fancy yellow tracksuit and bling trainers.

  ‘I like him, too.’

  ‘I’ve got two dogs – shih-tzu-poodle crosses.’

  ‘I got a dog,’ I say. ‘A blue heeler.’

  ‘Your best mate?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘They’re a loyal breed. Smart too. Can’t get much past them.’

  I miss my dog, Mungo. He was a shelter pup. Our first Christmas without Dad, Mum said as a present I could choose any animal I wanted, but he nudged my hand with his wet nose through the chain fence and it was love at first lick. He’d always been my little mate around the farm, but even more when I was pregnant. He got all protective of me and my bump. He was always a few steps from my heels. Slept on the end of my bed, right up until Charlie was born.

  Even before the pregnancy test told me, I knew. I’d been on the pill, I wasn’t stupid, but not everything is foolproof. My boobs were sore. My period was six days late. My stomach was crampy. I told Mum before I even told Scott because I knew I couldn’t do it without her.

  I was nervous how she’d take it, so I cooked her favourite meal – chicken pie – and broke the news after her last bite.

  ‘I want to keep it,’ I said. That was the only thing I knew for sure.

  Mum cried at first. She thought it was her fault. She’d let me run too wild. She thought I’d ruined my life and, instead of escaping Dubbo, I’d have to live a life like hers. Stuck here, forever.

  Slowly she came around. Sometime around the twelve-week mark, she made ginger tea for my morning sickness and we sat on the floor of her bedroom, sorting through my old baby clothes.

  ‘I’m too young to be a granny,’ she joked, half-laughing, half-crying. ‘I’m only thirty-nine. I thought I’d have a few more years, before all this.’

  She gave me a silver cup, engraved with names, including mine.

  ‘This has been in the family since your great-­grandmother got it on her christening day. You give it to your baby, pass it on, okay? You’re going to be a good mum. I know it.’

  Telling Scott was even harder than Mum. He wouldn’t believe it at first. Took off in his car, didn’t come back for three days. He came home though, smelling like a bottle of bourbon. He told me he’d thought it through and he was going to be there for me and the kid. I believed him, but I knew we were both scared of stuffing it up.

  We’d planned to move in together before the birth. A rundown granny flat on his brother’s farm. We got a cot, painted the walls and fixed it up. Scott was looking for farm work. Maybe one day we’d get married. Everything was working out fine. Or at least I thought it was. Maybe if I’d stopped to ask him if he was okay? If it was all too much too soon? Things would’ve turned out different.

  Before everything went bad, I sat on the stairs of our verandah rubbing Mungo’s head, my hand resting on my stomach.

  I was twenty weeks pregnant. The halfway mark. Our two black alpacas stared at me from a nearby paddock. Bees fed on the lavender bush. I was happy. Excited.

  I was waiting for Scott to take me to the hospital in town for a scan. Our first. We were going to find out the sex of our kid. I was sure it was a girl. I had a name for her, Caitlin. I’d secretly bought a tiny pink headband, studded with white roses. It was in a bag underneath my bed.

  At first I didn’t worry that Scott was late. He always was. But ten minutes became twenty. Became an hour. I rang him and left messages. The first ones were patient. Then became more and more angry.

  Scott – where are U? We’ll B late for the scan. Did you forget?

  Finally, I rang the hospital and cancelled the appointment. If I couldn’t go with Scott, I didn’t want to go at all.

  ‘You want to reschedule, sweetie?’ the nurse said on the phone.

  ‘Not yet. I’ll talk to my boyfriend,’ I said, doubt creeping in.

  I prayed for a cloud of dust on the Northern Road, telling me Scott was on his way. But there was no sign of him. It was so quiet I could hear leaves moving in the trees.

  I stayed there until the sun burnt out and the sky turned black and dusty with stars. My breath caught in my throat when I heard a car turn down the road up at the corner and saw lights beaming down our dark driveway. I stood up and blinked into them. For a few blissful seconds I thought it was Scott. Then Mum parked her little Barina in front of the house and my whole body sighed with disappointment.

  ‘What are you doing out here?’ she said, slamming the car door. ‘Thought you and Scotty had your scan today?’

  ‘He didn’t turn up,’ I said. ‘He’s not picking up calls. Mum, do you think he’s got cold feet?’

  Mum sat down next to me on the stairs. She put an arm around me and squeezed my shoulders.

  ‘He probably forgot. You coming in?’

  ‘I’m okay out here for a bit longer.’

  I stayed on the step, waiting. Mum brought out my dinner, a glass of water and a blanket. Came back for the plate when I was done. I pulled the blanket tighter around my shoulders, feeling the baby move inside me like a fish blowing bubbles.

  Then I got Scott’s text. A text I’ve read hundreds of times since.

  I can’t do it, I’m so sorry. I’m gunna go away for a while. You’ll be a good mum. S

  I threw my phone away, as if it was poisonous – chucking it way out into the garden. Then I burst into tears, gripping my legs with my fingernails. Wanting to break the skin.

  Mum ran out on the verandah.

  ‘What happened? What’s wrong?’

  My phone blinked in the grass, and Mum walked out to get it.

  ‘Read it,’ I said.

  Mum sat down next to me, and stroked my back in soothing circles
. ‘So, he can’t step up. You and I will figure it out. We always have. Come inside. It’s getting cold out. You and my grandchild need to rest.’

  She took me inside and put me to bed. I couldn’t sleep. I stared up at the ceiling for hours and wondered how I would do it on my own. I wasn’t sure I had it in me.

  I leave Rough after lunch. Hope Lane won’t be open for hours. I have nothing to read. Nothing to listen to. Nothing to do. No one to see. Zak’s gone into the city for the day, to his favourite pub. He’ll be on a bender until his Centrelink payment runs out.

  I walk down Darlinghurst Road, past the Tool Shed with its rubbery sex toys, the sushi bar and T-shirt store. I don’t stay too long in one place. People stare and I smell like a plate of food left out in the sun. Time moves so slowly it’s agony. I pass a white van parked on Taylor Square.

  Its doors are open and there’s a book stall set up. Street Library. Enriching Lives by Giving Books. I hang around, wanting to come closer, not sure I’m welcome.

  ‘Hello there,’ says a woman behind the stall, waving like she knows me. ‘Do you want to check out our books?’

  ‘Nah, thanks.’

  ‘We’re the Street Library. We provide reading material to the homeless.’

  ‘Why? Don’t we need food? Money?’ Reading isn’t going to make me any less hungry. Isn’t going to take the cold out of my feet and hands. Fix my messed-up head.

  ‘Stories are nourishing, too. I could recommend something you might like. You can take as many books as you can carry.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘It’s free.’

  ‘Oh.’

  I shuffle closer to the stall. There are so many books. All kinds. Thick ones. Thin ones. Romance. Kids’ books. YA. Crime stuff like Mum used to read at home when it was raining or cold out. She could read an entire novel in one slow, winter weekend, curled up on the couch with her hot wheat bag. Lost in another world. Trying to figure out whodunit.

  I like fantasy. Maps and adventure, castles, dragons and quests. I pick up a book and smell the pages.

  ‘Paper smells great, doesn’t it?’ says the lady. ‘Whenever I get a new book I take a big old whiff.’

  ‘I don’t need a book,’ I say. ‘Why do you even care? Haven’t you got better things to do?’

  ‘Nothing better than this.’

  I’m about to walk away when she speaks again – sadder and quieter now. ‘I lost someone to the streets. My son, Benjamin. He died when he was twenty-seven. I’m Meredith by the way.’ She tidies a stack of books and I can see she’s about to cry. This is too heavy for me. I have my own problems to deal with.

  ‘Sorry about your son. But giving away books isn’t going to bring him back, is it?’

  ‘No, but it keeps his memory alive. Ben loved reading. After he died I didn’t have anywhere to put my grief. It was overwhelming. So I started doing this. That was twelve years ago. And I’m still here. Every week. Some nights, too. Ever want to take your mind off something bigger than you? Sadness so big you might get crushed under it?’

  Meredith and her books make me feel things I can’t afford to. I back away.

  ‘Tell you what. I’ll keep some books for you. A custom order. When you’re ready, they’ll be here. What’s your name?’

  ‘Tiny.’

  ‘Hello Tiny. What do you like to read?’

  ‘I like fantasy books.’

  Meredith smiles and rubs her hands together. ‘This will be fun. I like fantasy too.’

  Ebony is waiting for me at the school gates so we can walk in together. We air kiss and link arms.

  ‘Did you get my message about Collie?’ she asks right away.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Are you screening my calls now?’ She’s annoyed.

  ‘No, I was … tired. I had that homeless writing group at Hope Lane. Tom and I only just broke up, I’m not ready for anything new. I haven’t decided on my formal partner yet.’

  ‘Well, Tom’s out of the running. I heard he and Holly were all over each other on the weekend. Like, get a room.’

  ‘I didn’t need to know that,’ I say, slipping my arm away from hers.

  ‘You don’t want to wait too long to ask someone to the formal. All the best guys will be snapped up soon.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll have a think about it.’

  ‘Do you want to meet up with Beau and his mates tonight?’ Ebony asks me. ‘Collie might be there. You could suss him out. See if you like him?’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Why not? We’re all going to Kara’s house afterwards to talk about the formal. What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m going out with my parents for dinner,’ I say. We reach our lockers and I can’t wait for the conversation to end. I dump my bag in my locker and check on my schedule. Double English Lit. I pick up my copies of Mrs Dalloway and The Hours. Two straight hours of compare and contrast.

  ‘You don’t seem interested in the formal at all,’ says Ebony. ‘Do you even want to be on the committee?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ I lie. ‘Sorry, I’ve been distracted lately.’

  ‘Can you get un-distracted? We have so much to do.’

  ‘Sure.’

  As I head for roll call, my phone rings. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Nola?’

  ‘Yes, who’s this?’

  ‘It’s Eddie, from Hope Lane.’

  ‘Oh. Hi.’

  I picture him on the other end of the line and wonder what he and Aimee must think of me for sneaking out early. I didn’t even stick around to get my logbook signed. I’m probably the worst volunteer they’ve ever had.

  ‘You missed the best bit,’ Eddie says. His voice is deeper on the phone.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The other day, when you ditched. You missed getting to know them all.’

  ‘Sorry. I had to go, I had an assignment to do,’ I say. I cringe at my lame excuse.

  ‘The group we work with is challenging, I know. Some of them could take more regular showers. But don’t judge them on their life circumstances right now. Being homeless means they’re missing a home. It doesn’t mean they lack intelligence or humour. They’re good people, Nola.’

  ‘Is that what you rang to say?’ I ask.

  ‘No. I wanted to ask if you’re coming back next week. Because otherwise I’ll have to ring your teacher, Mr Jeffreys. Uh, I’m not sure if I’m supposed to say this, but I got in a bit of trouble at school when I was your age. Nothing serious, I wasn’t very good at attendance. Anyway, you need twenty hours of community service to graduate, right? Come back to Hope Lane. We’ll get you over the line.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I say. ‘I didn’t, like, fit in very well.’

  There’s a few seconds of silence and I hear Indian pop music playing in the background. Where is he calling from?

  ‘Fitting in takes time,’ Eddie says. ‘I’ll leave it with you but if you come back, we need someone who wants to be part of it. Warts and all.’

  I wasn’t expecting Eddie to notice, or even care that I’d done a runner and now he’s asking me to come back. Trying to help me avoid the wrath of Mr J.

  ‘Can I think about it?’

  ‘Sure. This program took me a year to get into the shelter. A year of forms and red tape, evaluations, meetings and phone calls to Aimee. I nearly gave up on it. But I’m glad I didn’t. Writing group is important to these guys. It makes them feel part of something good. It makes a difference. Their stories matter. Yours do, too. Sorry, I’m talking too much. I do that sometimes.’

  ‘That’s okay. I like it.’

  I hear the bell ring for my first class, but I sit down on the stairs, not wanting the phone call to end. Eddie is so passionate. There’s nothing in my life that makes me feel like he does now.

  ‘Hey, if you’re interested
in giving us another go, we’re doing an excursion with the group this weekend. A trip to Bondi Beach. We’re meeting up at twelve on Saturday, outside the shelter. Bring a wetsuit and a towel if you’re brave enough for an iceberg dip. You could rack up at least five hours for your service. Can you make it?’

  I have no Saturday plans and Eddie is right, it’d be a good dent into my hours. ‘Yeah, okay. Thanks for not turning me in to Mr Jeffreys.’

  ‘I saw you talking to Tiny outside the shelter. You can make a connection with her. With all of them. I think you already did. Nola, I gotta go – I’m late for my lecture. I’ll see you Saturday.’

  ‘Bye.’ I hang up and immediately transfer Eddie’s name into my contacts folder.

  Did Tiny and I connect? I’m still thinking about her and her baby.

  Dad meets Mum and me outside the restaurant, kissing both my cheeks and examining my face for a moment. Everyone says I look like him. We have the same high cheekbones, small nose and swimming-pool coloured eyes. Back when he used to wear a ponytail, our hair was identical – long, curly and teak coloured. Now Dad is receding and grey. He has a few stray wrinkles that his foundation stick can’t cover up, but he’s still beautiful.

  ‘I missed you dreadfully, Nola,’ he says. ‘Three weeks away from my daughter is too long.’

  ‘Why don’t you move back home, then you could see me every day?’ The comment is snippy, and he gives me a confused look.

  ‘Oh dear, we talked about this. I needed my space, darling. It was time.’

  Nothing has gone right since he carried the last box out of his room and drove away, leaving Mum and me with a spare bedroom and nothing to say. If he moved back in it would fix us. Fix me.

  ‘Are you at least staying on the weekend?’

  ‘This weekend? We’ll see. I have to unpack and do ten loads of washing first.’

  Dad promised he would stay over most weekends, but he hasn’t, and I feel like a visitor sleeping on a pull-out couch at his miniscule, elegant one-bedroom terrace in Potts Point. I never seem to get enough time with him.

  ‘Okay, some peace offerings then,’ Dad says, handing us each a wrapped present.