Crossing the Line (4 page)

7

A
fter school one day Greta invites me over to her place. It’s not wild and chaotic as I’d imagined. Instead, it’s clean and neat and comfy. Crocheted rugs, patch-worked wall hangings, and photos of family and friends in frames adorn every ledge and table. It’s a home that’s loved.

Greta is like a string bean, long and thin. Now I meet her mother for the first time – and she’s short and dumpy with burnt-grey hair in need of a cut.

‘Sophie, meet Dragon Lady. Grrrr!’ Greta drapes herself around her mother’s shoulders, grinning and chuckling.

‘I’ll Dragon Lady you,’ her mum replies, the affection between them obvious. ‘Call me Daisy,’ she says. ‘Good to meet you, Sophie.’ She hugs me and then grimaces. ‘Sorry, I forgot I had flour on my hands.’

‘Oh, so have I,’ says Greta. She takes delight in slapping my backside to cover me in flour marks.

‘Watchit, you,’ I snarl, but I’m not angry and Greta knows it.

‘Behave yourself!’ Daisy scolds. ‘She’s such a menace, Sophie.’

A pang of envy stabs at me. It would be so good to have this kind of relationship – so good to have a mum.

‘I’m going to make you a drink,’ Daisy calls as she waddles off to the kitchen. ‘Would you like some biscuits with it?’

‘No biscuits, Mum.’ Greta winks at me. ‘Just bring in a bottle of bourbon.’

‘In your dreams,’ Daisy calls back.

I wander over to check out a photo of the whole family on the wall, two beaming parents with three clear-eyed children smiling angelically, and then there’s Greta, no blue and red hair but still playing up for the camera, cross-eyed, her face wreathed in laughter.

‘Come and listen to the best music in the world.’ Greta grabs my hand and guides me down the hall to her room.

The great divide between my life and hers hits me, crushes me. Everything seems so simple for her, so definite. She’s happy and confident. I see the same contentment in her at school. It bubbles out of her like spring water. And she seems so uncomplicated. I’m sure that Greta never mulls over matters as I do until her head is jammed so tightly that it feels as though it’s going to explode. That’s a world she doesn’t even know exists. I could never tell her about the grudges I harbour, the hurts and anxieties that eat away at me like acid. But I can put on the act of being like her today – I lap it up. We veg out together on the floor, music blaring, her loving mum hovering about. But behind the facade I see myself in the mirror, slashing until there is nothing left but a bloodied mess.

‘How do you eat that stuff ?’ Amy shuffles into the kitchen, kimono hanging loosely from her shoulders; tie adrift to reveal her black bikini knickers. Mornings are not her best time. I wave my pan with its slices of ham and gooey egg under her nose.

‘Yeuk! Take it away!’ cries the do-gooder of the animal world, whose main diet is rice crackers and anything coloured green or orange. She pours boiling water into the diffuser and then goes hunting for lite soy milk, muesli and dandelion tea: she’s so healthy it’s sick. Well, apart from the occasional joint, that is. No one’s perfect.

I flip my greasy food onto a plate piled with slices of bread and sit at the kitchen table. Now Amy sits down in front of me and frowns. I’ve heard it before. ‘Why on earth do you eat that crap? White bread! You’ll die of cancer, girl.’ She doesn’t say those exact words this morning but I hear them just the same as she looks at me, rolling her eyes in disgust. We sit for a while, me reading a rock magazine someone’s left on the table, she sighing every now and then as life seeps into her dreary morning body.

‘Hey, gang.’ It’s Matt, dressed in his work clothes, his hair damp from the shower. Amy grumps a reply, I look up and smile with a lift of my lips and eyebrows. He slaps a few doors around, clashes dishes, drops a piece of crockery and swears, and then we are three around the table, happy campers.

‘So,’ says Matt, ‘I’m off to work, and you lucky buggers are bludging, I suppose.’

Amy’s too intent on chewing every skerrick of her muesli to bother answering. But I’m not letting him get away with it. ‘Well, if you call spending hours getting the groceries and then slaving away in a library writing an English essay bludging, so okay I’m bludging.’ I don’t tell him that I’ve also pencilled in chocolate fudge ice-cream and a ten-tissue movie.

‘Fair enough,’ he says, backing away and grinning as though there’s a wicked thought brewing. Then the thought emerges. ‘Just so long as I come home to a spotless house with my dinner on the table.’

Amy almost chokes on her muesli. I jump up, grab at a broom and swing it in the general direction of his silly head, both of us laughing.

‘Did I say something wrong?’ he asks as he disappears out the door. ‘Bye!’

‘You’re a moron,’ Amy calls. ‘Grow up!’ She turns to me and mutters, ‘He’s so immature.’

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Just hopeless.’

We both shake our heads, and smile.

After breakfast, Amy offers to help me with the grocery shopping.

‘Sure,’ I say. ‘That’d be nice.’

We take our time dressing, and a while later dawdle down the street to the shopping centre.

‘Actually, I was thinking of taking in a movie,’ I confess as we approach the cinema.

‘Tell me it’s that love saga set in India.’ Amy’s eyes are alight, and when I nod, she whoops. We check out the session time, and find that
True Obsession
isn’t on for another twenty minutes.

‘Let’s leave the shopping till after, and wait in the park,’ she suggests. So we sit on the grass, Amy with her skirt tucked into her knickers and me in shorts, exposing our legs to the sun, watching Saturday afternoon passers-by.

‘I’m going to get a navel ring.’ Amy pats her tummy. ‘My mother had one. Hey, maybe we can get one together.’

‘Nah. Not really my scene,’ I say. Then I quickly steer the conversation away from me. ‘Your mum a bit of a wild child, was she?’

‘You could say that.’ She smiles, almost in a sad way. ‘Mum and my little brothers – Thorn and Harley – we mostly lived wild.’

I laugh, but she continues in earnest. ‘Who knows where my dad was? – Mum never talked about him. We lived in this bush camp way out of town, in a sort of hippy commune.’

This explains a lot about Amy: the way she dresses, her habit of leaving her belongings everywhere, the fact that she has no concern about having lights on all day, or leaving the house unlocked when she goes out.

‘We grew our own vegies – no chemicals, like really organic, Soph. Good healthy food. And we made our own bread. There were about three families, single women with kids, and we got on really well.’ Amy flips onto her stomach and hoists up her skirt for the sun to do its tanning.

I ask, ‘What about school?’

‘There was none. I mean, we could all read – Mum made sure of that. She was always reading to us. We got by.’

‘What was she like? Your mum?’

Amy tears out a tuft of grass. She’s in her little space. Can’t be reached.

‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Forget I asked.’

She turns and smiles wryly at me. ‘No, that’s okay. I can handle it.’

It takes a moment more for her to gather her thoughts.

‘So you want the story of my life . . . okay.’ Amy’s head droops and I can’t see her face. ‘Well, my mother was a good person, but she did weird, sometimes freaky things.’

She squeezes her eyes shut, fighting back tears. I don’t know whether or not to comfort her, but I hate people ‘helping’ me when I’m upset, so I say nothing.

‘She used to get really off her face,’ she continues. ‘Not drunk or drugged, just out of it – mental problems, I guess. This one time she was so bad I talked her into seeing a doctor. Real clever idea, that. We got into town and he tried to convince Mum she was schizophrenic and needed to take medication. She just laughed at him.’ Amy picks at some fluff on her jacket for the longest time. ‘Anyway, some welfare people came out to our camp not long after that and took us all to a women’s refuge. That’s when Mum really lost the plot – got paranoid, imagined bad people were coming after her. That night she took my brothers and disappeared . . . The story of my life – ta da!’

I want to hug her but Amy doesn’t give me a chance. Abruptly she’s on her feet and striding away.

‘Must be time to see that movie,’ she says. ‘You coming?’

I know how painful it can be when you’ve stood naked and shown your scars. I tag along behind her without speaking.

When the movie comes out there’s still a healthy slice of day left. The sun is gentle and so is the breeze; perfect garden weather. I decide to leave my assignment for the time being.

Back home again, Amy plants herb seeds, and I stare at weeds, trying to scare them away. I’d pull them out but that would mean I’d have to get out of my lovely, peaceful hammock. We chat a while before I say, ‘Got a hard question for you, Amy. You up for it?’

‘You know me. Up for anything. Ask away.’

‘Well, I was wondering . . . how come your mother didn’t take you with her?’

‘Wish I knew, Soph.’ She kneels in front of me, brushing hair out of her face. ‘Maybe she thought I was too old to be carted around the countryside. Maybe she just didn’t think at all. Keeps me awake sometimes, trying to work it out.’ She shrugs. ‘What can you do?’

‘Then you got fostered, I suppose?’

‘Sure did.’ She drives a fork into the dirt and unearths a clump of weeds. ‘Some genius decided to put me with the most boring middle-class family they could find.’

‘That would have gone down well with you.’

‘Oh yeah. Big time. The Browns handed me back just in time. Another day and I would have burnt down their house.’

‘I know the feeling.’

‘Yep. And then the same genius gave me all the M families – Murphy, Mitchell, Morrison – I hate Ms! And then it was the Dawsons – hopeless! And finally some nice Greeks. That didn’t work because we couldn’t understand each other. I’d swear at them and they’d smile. Where’s the fun in that?’

‘Did you ever find out what happened to your mum?’

‘No. She’s just gone . . .’

‘Hellooo. Anyone home?’

I see a face peering over the side fence. It’s Jan. I run to open the gate but halfway there force myself to slow down. I can’t let her see how much she means to me.

‘Hi, Sophie.’ I get a warm smile. She and Amy, who stays in the garden, exchange waves.

‘It’s so good to see you, Jan.’ I hear myself gushing and try to tone it down. ‘You going to stay for a coffee?’

‘No, I can’t this time, sweetie. Have to catch a plane – the big trip begins today!’

She almost bounces with joy. Her eyes gleam. I’m glad to see her happy but that feeling is smothered by another. She’s leaving me. Still, I smile along with her, my mask firmly in place.

Jan explains she only dropped in to do her duty: tell us her replacement’s name, say an official goodbye. I knew that was the reason for her visit, but still it hurts me to hear it from her. Moments later I feel okay again. Transported out of my misery into bliss. And all because she hugs me, squeezing the cuts hidden under my jumper, making me feel alive.

‘Now you take care of yourself, eh, Sophie?’

‘I will, Jan. Come back soon, won’t you?’

‘Be back before you know it. You keep safe now.’

I want to hug her again but I just stand there, rigid. She puts a hand on my shoulder.

‘You okay?’

‘Couldn’t be better,’ I say. ‘Perfect.’

8

F
or days after Jan’s visit, my thinking is chaotic and irrational; I can’t concentrate at school and my sleep is restless. Matt comes into my room one night and I shriek when I find him standing over me, his hand reaching for me.

‘You were having a nightmare,’ he says quietly. I remember that and nothing else as I fall back asleep straight away. It’s not a restful sleep. I wake again and again, terrified by my dreams.

‘Something was really upsetting you last night,’ Matt says at the breakfast table. ‘What was going on?’

‘I can’t remember,’ I say, shrugging.

Amy shuffles into the kitchen. ‘What’re you two talking about?’

‘Nothing,’ we answer in unison.

In today’s session Noel has finally taken the initiative and asked me a definitive question. He wants to know what I plan to do with my life.

‘Become a shrink,’ I reply. ‘So I can torture people.’

Something about that answer tickles him and he grins. ‘Do you think that’s what I do, Sophie?’

‘You try sitting here,’ I say.

After that we slip into the world of silence. Ten minutes of mental chess goes by and neither player blinks. Finally boredom gets to me.

‘We’re studying Political Science at school. Politics interests me. Might try that as a career choice.’ I don’t mean it. It’s just something to say. I like to confuse him when I can. ‘About being a shrink, I was only joking.’

He nods and purses his lips, which is one of his few facial expressions during our sessions.

Encouraged by his response, I talk about school, the subjects I’m studying and a little about the group I hang with. They’re not bad girls, really, but they don’t back down easy, and all of us are feminists.

‘Not man-hating feminists,’ I point out, just in case he was wondering. ‘Not the sort who burn their bras and want to cut off men’s balls.’

I said that for effect and it worked. A nerve twitches on Noel’s forehead. The mind-flash I have of my shrink reaching down to cover his privates causes me to laugh. Can’t miss an opportunity like this.

‘Not that they don’t deserve it,’ I add.

‘Mm,’ comments Noel. And I think to myself, ‘
Checkmate
!’

That night I have another one of my dreams. I’m tumbling into a bottomless gorge in slow motion. This merges into a scene where I view the world as if from a vast distance. There are no clear edges to anything. Colours take on a grimy appearance; everything is brushed with the same shade of grey – sky, grass, people. As I move, I feel as though I’m automated and that parts of my body – my hands and fingers, legs and chest – belong to someone else. When I speak, the words echo as if in a chamber. Everything about me exists in another time and place. I wake in a lather of sweat.

The next day I carry the dream with me. All through my classes I trip in and out. Physically I’m sitting in front of my easel in the art room painting a rural landscape, but my mind is riding to another place. It’s an unsettling feeling. Much of the time I don’t dare to close my eyes for fear of dreams, and now they pursue me in the daylight.

At lunchtime I hear Greta’s voice, loud and commanding. ‘She’s been cutting herself.’

How could she know about it? How could she tell people? I’m about to run when someone asks Greta who she’s talking about.

My heart double-beats.

‘Hayley Evans,’ Greta answers. ‘That pretty new girl. She must be an idiot.’

I move closer, making sure as I do that the sleeves of my jumper are pulled down to cover my own scars.

Cassie steps into the discussion. ‘That’s not fair, Greta,’ she says. ‘You can’t just judge her like that without knowing the facts.’

‘The fact is she’s dumb. Why would anyone want to cut themselves up?’ Greta looks around at us, demanding an answer. Her eyes stop at me.

‘What do you think, Soph?’

‘I have no idea . . . unless it makes her feel good.’

‘Are you mad? How could cutting yourself feel good?’

My shoulders slump. I want to disappear.

‘I don’t know,’ I say lamely.

Someone points out Hayley, standing near the canteen.

‘I’m going to set her straight,’ Greta says.

She strides away before I can stop her. But I know deep down that I really don’t have the courage to speak up. I hate myself for that.

‘I know other girls who cut themselves,’ Cassie tells me. ‘It’s not like Greta thinks – they’re not dumb.’

If I say anything I’ll draw attention to myself, so I shrug and change the subject.

Later I think about finding Hayley and comparing notes. But the coward in me re-emerges. She has her demons, I have mine. We must each face them on our own.