Crossing the Line (10 page)

‘Sophie.’ It’s one of the psych nurses who was on duty when I was in hospital. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I need to see Helen.’

‘Oh. Okay. But you can’t see her without an appointment. In any case, she’s not here today.’

I feel alarmed. ‘Is she sick?’

‘No.’ She looks concerned. ‘Can someone else help you?’

I smile as though I haven’t got a single care. It’s the best way to stop her from getting nosy.

‘It wasn’t important.’

A patient comes up, demanding the nurse’s attention, and I slip away as quickly as I can.

Back at the hospital entrance I sit under a tree, wondering what to do. I’ve come such a long way without seeing her, and now my feelings are more intense than ever. I feel so close to Helen, yet so far away. I need her terribly.

19

T
he shadows of trees are lengthening and it’s almost dark as I climb the last hill. It’s been a five kay walk and for every step Helen has been beside me. Hands shoved deep in my pockets for warmth, I visualise her coming to her front door. The look on her face when she sees me – that will be the moment that decides everything. Once she gets past the surprise, will she be happy or sad? No, not sad. Why would she be? I’m a friend. I hope, of course, that she’ll wrap her arms around me. I’ve imagined that so many times. Perhaps, though, it will just be a handshake at first; her strong hand cupped in mine. ‘Welcome, Sophie,’ she’ll say. ‘Welcome.’

The closer I get, the more frantically my heart beats. This is almost too much to take. It’s terrifying. It’s sublime.

With the moon just beginning to rise, I walk down her driveway, gravel crunching underfoot. At the front of the house is a wide veranda. I mount the wooden stairs to the door, pause, and then knock loudly. Boldly.

No one answers. Mist hangs in the air and a sudden coldness rushes through me. I rub the tops of my arms as I look out over the valley. The trees are bare-limbed in the orchard, and far away down the hill I can make out the faint shape of another house. It’s so isolated here.

As I walk the perimeter of Helen’s house, I see a sedan with an interstate number plate parked in the side carport. Nearby is a barbecue area stacked neatly with wood. Did she cut and stack the wood herself? Who owns the car? So much to explore. So many questions. Further along, I look through a window into the laundry.

Back at the front of the house, I climb the stairs again and put my face up close to the glass in a window. A dining room leads into a lounge room and further off to the right through a doorway is what might be a bedroom. Perhaps it’s hers . . .

I jiggle the front door handle. To my utter surprise, the door opens. Why has she left it open like this? I wonder as I step inside Helen’s house. I’m scared but elated at the same time. It’s as if I’m tripping on a drug that no one knows about but me. And it feels so much as though I belong here. For a while I stand stock-still, listening to my breathing, aware of my heart thumping. The moon is shining into the lounge room. In the corner there’s an opened roll-top desk with Helen’s briefcase on it. I’m tempted to pull out the patient files to see what she’s written about me, but I know that wouldn’t be fair to her. I never want to hurt her, not in any way.

On the wall of what I’m sure is Helen’s bedroom is a corkboard covered with photographs. There’s one of her when she is much younger and thinner, looking pretty and proudly holding up a baby for the camera. I wonder where her husband is. There are a few photos of her and an older couple who I take to be her parents, and other photos of her with couples who could be siblings. But there’s not one that indicates a partner. She needs someone in her life to look after her. I’ve always thought that, and now I know for sure. I put my finger to a photo and stroke her face. At that moment, it feels like we’re the only two people in the world . . .

I find a recent photo of her. She’s smiling with those small, perfect teeth, her sense of humour obvious. I have to have it. She surely won’t notice it’s gone, and it will bring me comfort when I’m missing her.

I’m freezing by now, having left home without warm clothing. There’s a jumper draped over a chair so I pull it on. Immediately I’m enveloped by Helen’s warm, musky aroma. Eyes closed, I feel the delicious sensation of being whole and loved and secure. On a small table is a bottle of moisturiser. I rub some on my hands, inhale the scent. Then I pull back the patchwork cover on the bed and lie under it. When I was little I would put on Arlene’s high heels and lipstick and call myself a princess. Now I am better than a princess. I am Helen, alone in my sanctuary, no patients to worry about, relaxing and enjoying the serenity of this moment. ‘It is so good to have you visit, Sophie,’ I say to the young woman I love. ‘You are welcome to stay here for as long as you like.’ She spreads her arms and welcomes me into her embrace.

As I lie here, blissing out, I’m startled by a flash of light cutting across the room. A car is in the driveway. Helen! I jump out of bed, pull off her jumper, and run onto the veranda, closing the door quietly behind me, and then leap to the ground where I disappear behind some bushes. There I crouch low, listening. I hear a car door slam, then another, the sound of voices – Helen, and her daughter, Cara. Wooden stairs creak under their weight as they climb. The door opens. They talk to one another, but their words are indistinct. I squeeze into a space under the house, moving closer to the voices until I’m directly under where they are talking.

‘It’s been a long day for both of us. As soon as you brush your teeth, it’s off to bed, darling.’

‘Can’t I stay up just a bit longer, Mum?’

‘I’m afraid not. School tomorrow.’

‘But Muumm.’

‘Cara . . .’

In the silence Helen is hugging her. I know because I can feel it. I hold myself tight, wishing her arms were around me. I decide to stay here where I am close to her, at least for a while. Sitting with my back against a brick foundation, I listen: murmurs and footsteps, the flushing of a toilet, the clicking of switches. Then all is still. Helen is safe in her bed and I wish I was there beside her. I feel her, soft like a fluffy pillow against my skinny frame. I so want to be close to her, to be held by her. Like a child with her mother. Without her I feel so empty.

For a long time I consider knocking on her door again. In a few minutes I could be inside, sitting next to her on the lounge. She’d see that I was cold and wrap a rug around my shoulders. I can hear her loving voice so clearly, ‘Sophie, my dear . . .’

I am almost sure that’s how it would be, but I have to be cautious. I can’t take the risk of being turned away. There is nothing that could be worse than that.

Coldness intensifies as the night draws on. I’m shivering, and I don’t like the idea of walking along that country road alone. No, it’s better to stay here and endure the cold. I settle myself as best I can, folding into a curled shape for warmth, and close my eyes. A moment later I’m wrenched into wakefulness by something landing on my face. A spider. I gasp and slap at it. So much noise. I listen in the darkness, fearful that Helen or Cara might have heard me but nothing stirs. Soon I give myself to sleep, whispering Helen’s name, over and over.

All through the night I’m cold and restless, constantly startled awake by a rustle that could be a rat, or a feeling of repulsion as the memory of the spider looms large. I sleep again only to wake confused and frightened –
what am I doing in this damp, alien place
? My one redeeming thought is the knowledge that Helen is near. With that in mind I drift back to sleep.

Eventually morning comes. A rooster crows on a nearby farm. Footsteps in the house. A cat comes to examine this dishevelled stranger. It’s ginger and white and arches its tail, rubbing itself against me and purring. I stroke it. ‘I’m Sophie,’ I murmur, ‘Mummy’s friend.’ From the back door, Cara calls ‘Puss, puss,’ and the cat, running, leaves me. A radio blares: news, weather reports, music – all the morning things – toilets and showers, toast, coffee. Helen and Cara are talking, their voices muted. Soon doors slam. A car engine starts up. Moving across to a trellis near the back door, I peer through it and see Helen in her car, turning to reverse up the driveway. I want so much to run out to her calling, ‘Helen, Helen. It’s me – Sophie! Please stay home with me today.’ Courage fails me though and I remain transfixed until the car is at the end of the driveway and I can no longer see my dear Helen.

20

A
s I’d expected, Matt’s at home, waiting anxiously for me.

‘I’m starving,’ I reply to his quizzical expression.

‘I don’t want to hassle you, Soph,’ he says, ‘but I was worried about you.’

‘I’m sorry; I couldn’t get to a phone.’

‘You could have phoned, if you’d really wanted to.’

His insistence annoys me. ‘The truth is I couldn’t.’

‘You couldn’t get to a phone? Not one? Couldn’t borrow a mobile?’

‘I don’t owe it to you to tell you every little thing that goes on in my life.’

‘I’ve got a right,’ Matt insists.

‘What right?’

Matt’s face is flushed but he meets my gaze, challenging. His voice is skating on the thin edge of anger. ‘Damn it, Sophie, you’ve just come out of hospital, and I thought . . .’

I move to stand in front of him. ‘What did you think?’

‘That maybe you’d hurt yourself.’

‘Don’t be stupid.’

‘Don’t call me stupid!’ Matt’s face is transformed.

‘Well you are stupid, if you think you own me!’

‘Stuff you, Sophie! Why do I bother with you?’

‘I wish you’d stop! I wish you’d just get out of my life!’

He looks at me strangely. It feels like we’ve hit the borderline. We’re right on the edge of goodbye, and yet he hangs back as if he’s reluctant to take that final step.

‘If that’s what you want.’ There’s no anger left in his voice. His eyes lose the lion that was in them only moments ago.

I turn my back on him. Arms folded. Spikes in my heart. I want to run, to escape from this house. But where would I go? This is all I have. And yet home doesn’t seem to fit anymore. I feel like a husk, a snail shell without its snail.

‘Sophie?’

Now I face him, the silence between us like a black hole. Words are caught behind the fence of my teeth.

‘It’s all too much,’ I finally reply. ‘I don’t want you putting any pressure on me. I can’t take it.’

Matt sighs. ‘Is it pressure, Sophie? I thought I was just showing you that I care – isn’t that a natural thing to do when someone means a lot to you?’

I’m touched by what he says, but I’m not ready to show it. Maybe I’m scared that it’s not real.

‘I’m not used to people caring,’ I say. It comes out stone cold.

Despite this, he moves towards me, ever so slightly, as though he wants to hold me. And I want to hug him close to me, so tightly that we become one. I can’t, though. It’s another borderline. One I’m not ready to cross. Not now.

‘I’m sorry,’ I mutter, turning for my room.

On my bed I imagine I can hear Arlene’s voice, soft as smoke, whispering comforting words in my ear, anchoring me with love. I so much want her and Dutch with me again. I take out Arlene’s old nightie and hold it against my cheek trying to rekindle a memory, a time when I was at peace.

I drift into my past. I am seven years old, pigtailed and sprawled on the living room floor making a library of my books, writing a card for each one, gluing stars against titles, depending on how much I’d enjoyed reading them. Dutch is in his armchair, a glass of beer beside him, listening to the horse races on the radio. Arlene is sitting at the dining table, straight-backed and neat, writing a letter. I am looking up at these two people I love so dearly. All is right with the world.

Holding onto this vision I pass into a deep and dreamless sleep.

That afternoon I have another session with Noel.

‘Hi!’ I say, brightly.

He nods and his smile broadens. ‘You look cheerful today.’

‘Maybe I had a great time last night.’ It’s so tempting to tell him. ‘Maybe it was incredible.’

‘And did you have a great night?’

Helen’s in my head. She’s sleeping and I’m under her house again, almost as if I’m guarding her from harm.

Sweet dreams, Helen. No one will hurt you while I’m here.

‘I might have.’

‘Are you going to tell me?’

I can’t help grinning. ‘No – but you can guess, if you like.’

He shrugs, a smile still lingering.

What’s she doing now? Having morning tea? Has she noticed that photo missing? The one that’s in my pocket at this moment?

‘Is there anything you’d like to talk about, Sophie?’

‘That depends. Are you sure it’ll be confidential?’

‘Well . . .’

Noel launches into a speech about how most things are confidential, but if I confessed to a crime, like murder, he’d have certain legal obligations.

‘Have you broken the law?’ he concludes.

‘Don’t think so.’

‘Mm,’ he murmurs after a long silence. ‘Perhaps you’d like to share it with me.’

I do want to tell him about Helen. To say her name aloud, not to hide her away in my mind, but I think back to the last time I spoke openly to Noel: he betrayed me and I ended up in hospital.

‘No. I’ve got nothing to share with you. Not a thing.’

He nods, ever patient. I’ve played so many mind games with him and this is simply another. ‘I respect your decision, Sophie.’ He leans back in his chair, awaiting my next move.

I tiptoe inside Helen’s house, into her bedroom. She looks so perfect. Her flowing hair hangs loose around the pillow, framing her face. I tuck her in gently, struggling to control my breathing – it’s so loud and frantic – but I do. And then I breathe in time with Helen, rhythmic and peaceful.

‘Sophie. Sophie.’

I wriggle back into reality. Time has passed so quickly. Noel glances at the clock. The session’s coming to an end.

‘I’ll see you next week.’ He stands at the door. ‘Perhaps you’ll share your secret with me then.’

‘I might.’

For now though, Helen’s safe in my heart.

At home I lie on my bed, eyes closed. Helen is swimming in the ocean. It feels as though I’m high above, watching from a cloud. I think about swimming laps, how it helps me move out of the tumult in my head. Side by side, I would love to swim with Helen, stroking through the water, looking across at her and smiling! That thought puts me in a serene mood.

By the time Matt gets home, it feels like a cloud has lifted. ‘I’m making dinner tonight,’ I say. ‘You have two choices: spaghetti or spaghetti.’

‘Gee,’ he says, ‘that’s a tough one . . . I think I’ll have spaghetti.’

I’ve missed this, I decide, as I potter around in the kitchen. Cooking, being active – it helps me get out of my head. And it’s great to be able to do something for Matt for a change. He’s been so good to me.

‘Enjoy!’

‘Thanks, Soph.’ He twirls spaghetti around his fork. ‘I’m so hungry.’

My thoughts fly back to Helen. Are she and Cara having dinner now?

‘Sophie.’

‘Yes?’

‘You didn’t answer – I was talking to you.’

‘Oh sorry, Matt. I didn’t mean to be rude. What were you saying?’

‘I’ve become friends with the new neighbours. You haven’t met them, have you?’

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘There’s a single mum, Joanne, and she’s got four kids.’

‘Wow.’

‘Yeah. They’re nice kids, but what a handful. They moved in a few weeks ago and since then . . .’

I drift away again. Can’t help it. More to the point, I don’t want to stop.

I wonder if I should write to Helen. She told me I’m good with words. Was she inviting me to write? It’s a perfect way to be close to her again, and she couldn’t possibly mind it. A poem. Yes. I can say so much in a subtle way with poetry. Tell her how much I miss her, how much I want to see her again.

Soon I’m conscious of Matt standing, collecting the dishes. He’s hardly touched his spaghetti.

‘Was everything okay?’ I ask.

‘It was fine,’ he says. ‘I just wish you could have been here to enjoy it with me.’

‘I don’t understand, Matt.’

‘You didn’t listen to a thing I said.’

‘Yes I did. The new neighbour – she has four kids.’

‘Sophie, I said lots more than that. You disappear into your dream world all the time. You’ve never been this bad before. What’s up with you?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Okay. Forget it then. Forget it.’

He stands at the sink with his back to me. I walk over and put my arms around his waist, locking my hands in front of him.

‘There is something going on, Matt. And I do want to tell you about it . . . but I don’t think you’d understand.’

‘Yes I would. No matter what you said, I’d understand.’

‘I can’t tell you. Not yet. Give me time. Please, Matt.’

His hands take mine and clench them tight.

‘Okay, Soph. Take all the time you need.’

I make a conscious decision not to let thoughts of Helen intrude for the rest of the night. It’s selfish of me. Besides, there’ll be plenty of time for that when I’m alone. For now I have to stay focused. On my suggestion we’re going to visit our new neighbour. I’ve raided the cupboards for goodies and come up with an assortment of biscuits and chocolates for her kids. For Joanne I pick some daffodils that Amy has grown – I know she won’t mind. I wrap them in red paper and tie a ribbon around them.

‘What do you think?’ I ask Matt.

His glorious smile says it all.

Joanne opens the door, her blonde hair standing on end as though she’s had an electric shock.

‘Hello. It’s Matt from next door.’

‘And Sophie.’

‘Oh, hello,’ she says. ‘This is a surprise.’

I hand her the gifts. ‘These are from both of us. We wanted to welcome you.’

‘Really?’

‘I didn’t have much to do with it, to be honest.’ Matt looks at me. ‘Sophie did it all.’

‘Aw. That’s so nice of you. Now come inside – please – meet my family.’

Three small boys in PJs come rushing towards us.

‘Who are you?’ demands the youngest. He’s freckle-faced and has two front teeth missing.

‘I’m Sophie.’ I smile down at him and he grins back.

‘This is Sammy,’ Joanne says.

‘Are you Matt’s girlfriend?’

I can feel myself blushing as I shake my head, but this doesn’t stop him. ‘Mattie’s got a girlfriend, Mattie’s got a girlfriend!’ he chants at the top of his voice as he hurtles back down the hall.

The other two little boys are watching me and laughing.

‘Don’t mind Sammy,’ says Joanne. ‘You’ll get used to him. Say hello to Sophie, Mike. You too, Ricky.’

‘Hello,’ they chorus.

The lounge room, as we pass through it, looks like a tornado has struck. In the kitchen, a girl of about thirteen is washing up. She looks a bit like Cara. ‘This is my lovely Olivia.’ Joanne holds her close.

Olivia turns to me, a smile peeping out from behind shyness. ‘Hello.’ She has a pretty face but you have to look past the pimples and crooked teeth to appreciate it.

‘Leave the dishes, sweetie.’ Joanne taps her lightly on the back. ‘You have a talk to Sophie and Matt while I make us a cuppa.’ Turning to Matt and me, she asks, ‘Coffee be all right?’

Olivia is sweet, and she’s intelligent, too. She tells us about school – ‘I think I’ll be a scientist when I grow up’ – and pulls a face when I ask what’s it like to have three little brothers.

‘They’re very smelly,’ she says, oh-so-seriously, as if describing a scientific experiment. ‘But they’re all right, I suppose – for boys.’

All too quickly I ease myself out of the conversation. I hear Olivia chatting and Matt asking her questions, but the words stop having any meaning . . . I’m writing a letter.

Today I met this young family. I’m sure you’d love them, Helen. There’s this girl who’s so much like Cara. It must be great to have a daughter. What sort of things do you do together?

‘Here you go, Sophie.’ Joanne has a cup of coffee in her hand. ‘Do you want sugar?’

‘No thanks.’

Matt frowns at me. Focus, I tell myself. Focus.

As we talk, Sammy, Mike and Ricky dart in and out from the lounge room where they’re supposed to be watching TV.

‘Mum! Mum! Ricky punched me!’

‘Sammy changed the channel!’

‘Mum! Mike spilled his drink on the carpet!’

‘I’m thirsty!’

‘I’m hungry!’

Every five seconds brings a major drama. Joanne answers each call without complaint. Nothing is too much trouble. Olivia helps, too, fetching water, rocking one of her brothers on her knee. In many ways she’s more like Joanne’s younger sister than her daughter. It could be like that with me and Helen. I might be able to help her in the hospital; filing, typing – any number of things. I’d sit with her in the car each morning and go home at night to dinner and a fire. Spending every day with Helen would be incredible.

‘You okay there?’ Joanne has her hand on my arm.

‘Sure. I’m fine.’

‘Sophie’s been taking some medication,’ Matt says. ‘For headaches. Right, Soph?’

‘Yes.’ I smile. ‘It’s doing all sorts of funny things to my head. I find it hard to concentrate.’

‘It’s not serious is it, the problem?’

‘No. Nothing a new head wouldn’t fix.’

‘I could do with one of those, too.’

Joanne’s face crinkles as she laughs. I like her, and her kids, too, especially Olivia. We chat some more and the conversation twists and turns until she’s telling us about her new part-time job.

‘I’m doing some bar work down at the club,’ she says. ‘I love it but it means that I have to leave Olivia in charge of the kids at night – only for a few hours though.’

Call it my maternal instinct, or just plain stupidity. Whatever the reason, I eagerly volunteer to help.

‘Hey, Joanne,’ I say, ‘anytime you need a babysitter, here I am – and I work for free.’

‘Do you mean it?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘I won’t ask unless I really have to – maybe if I get stuck with a long shift one night.’

‘It’s not a problem. I’d love to do it.’

‘That’s so generous of you, Sophie.’

Joanne hugs me. She almost feels like Helen.

Before long the boys have become so noisy and demanding that Joanne announces it’s their bedtime.

Back at home, Matt says, ‘That was nice of you. Saying you’d babysit the kids.’

‘Just something to do,’ I reply, shrugging it off.

‘You know, Sophie –’ He takes a step forward. ‘One of the qualities I like most is kindness. You’ve got heaps of it.’

It seems a perfect time to kiss him, if only I didn’t feel so conflicted. If one day we do kiss, I want to mean it with all my heart.