Give Me Truth (13 page)

A salty aroma, warm and buttery, wafts through the lounge room. We're all out of our wet clothes and into PJs, cosy in front of the fire. Following Rory's example, we slouch on the floor, scooping up sticky handfuls of popcorn from a glass bowl on the table. It's eleven-ish – late for us with school tomorrow – but it's like we've invented our own special day, one that demands to be celebrated right now. It's so important, it stops time.

Rory is back in every way. He tumbles out words and excitement at a dizzy gallop. All twenty sentences can be summed up with: ‘That was cool! Can we do it again tomorrow?'

Mum and Dad readily agree. Rory doesn't know it, but if he wanted the moon tonight they would lasso it for
him. Positioning themselves on either side of him like bookends, they hang on his every word, if only to drink in the sound of his voice. There's no fleeting touching of fingers with them, no accidental on-purpose brushes with their feet. That's not going to happen any time soon. They remain two people on the edge of becoming strangers. But something is different. For the first time in ages there's laughter in our gloomy house. Smiles are on the loose. Anger and bitterness don't belong here tonight. I know that in the morning, when their sense of relief isn't as strong, Mum and Dad will probably return to their separate islands. I don't want the morning. Let's just keep now. While it lasts we're a family again.

Rory rushes to the cupboard where our board games are stored. It's Mum who gives into him.

‘All right then.' Her shoulders slump. ‘Just a quick game before you go to bed.'

Rory rattles around until he finds the Monopoly set.

‘This one!'

‘No.' I pull a face. ‘That takes far too long, Rore.'

‘I'll be really fast! Go on, Mum – Dad – pleeease!'

This is the kid they almost lost tonight. Are they going to send him to bed unhappy? I don't think so.

Dad mutters, ‘I suppose it won't hurt to stay up for a little bit longer – just this once.'

Rory gives Mum the big-eyed look – the waiting in suspense,
my whole life depends on what you say next,
look.

She nods. ‘Okay. One quick game.'

‘Yaaayy!'

Make the best of this, Rory. Tell them you never want to do homework again. They've forgotten how to say no.

Before long he has bought all the railway stations on the board. My baby brother is on the verge of becoming a millionaire. He waves a wad of phony notes at me. Flicks them in front of my face. This is his favourite game in the world. That lasts for close to half an hour, but then he has a run of bad luck: lands in gaol, has to pay water and electricity bills – has to hand back some of his precious money.

‘It's not fair,' he whines.

Mum enjoys this part because she gets to console him. Lately she hasn't shown much tenderness to anyone. Now her hard shell crumbles to dust. She rubs Rory's back as if he is a baby again and she is a brand new mother.

‘You're looking a bit tired, mate,' Dad says. ‘You want to go to bed?'

‘Nooo! We've got to finish the game!'

Ten minutes later he's asleep.

After wrapping a rug around him, Dad steers a lock of hair away from his eyes. Rory doesn't stir. There could be a bowling alley in the room and it wouldn't wake him.

‘He's exhausted.' Mum kisses his forehead. ‘Poor lamb. He's had such a big day.'

Dad stands next to her. ‘You want me to carry him for you?'

‘No. He's not all that heavy.' Mum pauses, their eyes meeting. It's not quite a smile she gives Dad, but it's not a slammed door, either. It's a look that says, ‘Still keep away, but don't go too far'.

She hauls Rory into her arms – ‘He can sleep in my bed tonight' – and he flops limply across her shoulder like an overgrown koala.

Mum starts to leave but then remembers she has
two
kids. She pecks me on the cheek while Dad, who's beside me, pointedly steps away to avoid an awkward moment. I know it's not the chance of a kiss he's avoiding, it's the certainty of a rejection. ‘Goodnight, you two,' she says.

Knees creaking, Dad, who's a rusty forty-eight, drags himself up off the floor and takes a blanket from a shelf before flopping facedown on the couch. Snuggling under the blanket, he growls and groans like a bear settling in for the winter hibernation. A disembodied voice mutters, ‘Goodnight, Caitlin. You better make a move, too. School tomorrow. Turn the light off when you go. Sweet dreams.'

Everything he says sounds normal, but my father's camping on the couch, like some not-so-special friend who's just dropped in from out of town. At least Mum could let him sleep at the foot of her bed like a faithful dog … The word ‘faithful' scratches at me and makes me remember why he was relegated to the couch in the first place. It's hard to feel sorry for him, but I do.

‘Dad.'

‘What?'

‘Will things ever go back to how they used to be?'

‘No … probably not.'

‘It was a tiny bit better tonight – don't you think?'

‘I don't know. Go to bed, Caitlin.'

‘But I can't sleep.'

‘Try shutting your eyes in a darkened room. Go to bed.'

‘Is the couch comfortable?'

‘I am now officially asleep.'

‘You can have my bed if you like. I'll take the couch.'

He makes loud grunting noises. That hibernating bear again.

‘I'm going to make toast,' I say. ‘You want some?'

Dad raises the fake snores to an even higher pitch. I'm almost out of the room when a set of headlights slices through the darkness outside. I watch as a car parks in front of our house. The same car I've seen before.

‘Hey, Dad.'

‘I can't hear you.'

‘This is serious.' I shake his arm. ‘I'm not joking.'

He pulls down the blanket. ‘What's going on?'

‘That car's back – the blue one.'

Dad is quickly on his feet.

I walk to the window for a closer look.

‘Get down, Caitlin.'

He flicks off the light switch then crosses the room in a few big strides to kneel beside me. Together we peer
from behind a curtain.

‘See, Dad. It's the same one, isn't it?'

‘Yes.'

The car starts up.

‘He's leaving,' I say.

Instead, the car hurtles in reverse, screeches to a stop, then lunges forward again, into our driveway. It stays there, its lights burning on high beam.

‘What's he doing?'

‘Being stupid, Caitlin, that's all.'

‘I'm going to call the police.'

‘No. Don't.'

‘Why not?'

‘He'll go away.'

‘Are you kidding me? It's past midnight. He's got his lights full on. In
our
driveway. He's gotta be crazy. Forget it, I'm callin' the cops.'

‘No, you're not!'

I stare at him. Dad never raises his voice to me.

He touches my arm. It's his way of saying sorry. ‘You should go to bed. Don't worry about the car. He'll go away in a few minutes.'

‘I won't give my name. I'll say we think he's a burglar or something – a prowler.'

‘No.'

‘But Dad, it could be something like that – we should let the police check it out.'

‘It's nothing like that, Caitlin.'

‘How can you be so sure?'

‘I'm not sure. I'm guessing … but I don't want the police involved.'

‘Why not? Tell me.'

‘Because I might know who it is.'

‘How could you know that?'

‘Does it matter? Please, Caitlin, don't push this.'

‘I don't have any secrets from you, Dad. I'd tell you anything.'

He looks out the window again, then back to me. I know he's struggling; weighing up what to say, finding the nerve to say it.

‘All right. I think it's her husband – the woman I used to see – I think it's him.'

‘Aw, no.'

‘He's followed me a few times.'

‘He's
followed
you?'

‘I should have done something about it before this, I know.'

‘Why didn't you?'

‘I thought he'd stop.'

‘Dad, he's stalking you.'

‘He's trying to scare us, that's all.'

‘And it's working! You do what you like. I'm gunna call the cops!'

I march to the phone.

Dad's voice stops me.

‘Don't! I caused this. I'll talk to him, Caitlin.'

I don't have time to reply. Dad's off and out of the room. I'm jabbering ‘No! No!' I'm grabbing at his arms. I'm trying to make logical arguments on the run. I'm pleading. But he is beyond listening and then there's a blare of a car horn, throwing down a challenge –
Come out! Come out!

I'm yelling the house down, ‘Mum! Mum!'

And Dad steps out the front door into the blazing yellow light.

A door flings open. A man jumps out of the car. He walks so purposefully up to Dad, so fast. I'm watching a movie. A horror movie. The man is swearing. Dad is backing away. He walks further down the street. Out on the front lawn, three houses away. The man goes after him. My feet are leaden weights. I scream. That's all I can do. I can't move.

One punch. The crisp thud of bone on bone. Dad drops as if his legs have been cut off.

‘Get up!' The man stands over him, ‘Get up, you bastard!'

I scream again and Dad looks helplessly towards me. He tries to stand but he's not quick enough. The man shoves him backwards. Then both his hands are around Dad's throat.

‘Alan!' Mum flies out of the house. She turns around
to Rory, ‘Stay there!' And then she's running hard, wailing, ‘Alan! Alan!'

Her voice snaps me out of my shock. I run with her.

‘Go back, Caitlin!'

I run faster.

Someone cries out for help. Dogs bark. The man's fingers dig deeper into Dad's neck.

In a blind panic we bash at him, kicking, dragging at his arms, his clothes. He is locked on. Unstoppable.

‘Dad!' Rory reaches us. Before we can grab him his small hands beat on the man's back. He's howling and crying. ‘Dad, Dad!'

The man's head jerks up. He stares at Rory as Mum pulls him close to her. ‘Don't you touch him,' she says. His eyes shift to each of us and he seems bewildered, as if we've popped up out of nowhere. He looks down at his hands, Dad, stares all around, taking in the scene before him – the horror movie of his own making.

He stands and steps away.

Dad holds his throat and coughs, but still manages a nod for Mum to tell her he's all right. A siren blares in the distance. Neighbours watch from behind their fences. One of them has called the police. The man doesn't care. Head bowed, he leans against the car door in his own unreachable space.

I strain to hear Dad's wheezing voice as he sits up. ‘I'm sorry.' That's what he's saying. And as the siren grows
louder and closer, there's something else. He mutters, ‘Go – go.'

Slowly the man climbs into his car and drives away.

When the police arrive Dad refuses to talk to them. ‘It's a private matter,' is all he'll say. At first Mum is full of questions – ‘Who was he? Why did he attack you?' – but after Rory and I have left them alone to talk, she doesn't pursue it any further. I watch as she tends to Dad's cuts and scratches, empty of feeling as if he's just another anonymous patient. But that night, on Mum's suggestion, we bundle in blankets and pillows from other rooms, and all bed down together on the lounge room floor. Even Dad.

Rory is the first to drift off. Mum keeps an arm around him so they both feel safe. Sleep gradually creeps over her but she remains tucked up close to him. Dad and I are the sentinels. He is fully dressed, ready for anything that might come. I listen to the creaking house and wonder if it's the wind or the man.

In a hush, I say, ‘You have to report this to the police, Dad. He's crazy. He should be put away.'

‘No, he's just hurting. I can understand how he feels.'

‘But, Dad –'

‘Go to sleep, Caitlin. It's going to be all right. Go to sleep.'