One True Thing (12 page)

It's after midnight when I hear Mum and Dad come in. They're arguing again. Their voices are loud enough that I can distinguish who's talking and when, but not so loud that I can understand the words.

I tiptoe to the kitchen door and stand outside. Is it eavesdropping if their voices are carrying outside the room? I press my ear against the wall, trying to still my breathing.
I'll just wait here a minute
, I tell myself,
to find the right moment to go in
.

‘What do you expect me to do?' Mum says, her voice tired and unsteady.

‘What do you expect
me
to do?' Dad replies.

‘Trust me, Brant. Just … trust me?'

‘I'm trying to.'

‘We can't give it oxygen,' Mum says. ‘They can't chase a non-story.'

‘But it
is
a story! Because it's you.'

‘This is not how to handle it.'

‘But you're not handling it! You're just ignoring it. You don't think the kids will find out?'

‘Frankie knows not to trust Seamus Hale. She knows it's just words.'

‘But they're not just words, Rowena. Are they?'

There's a muffled response, some movement I can't identify.

‘There's no proof of anything, just scattershot rumours with nothing to back them up.'

‘Except that it's true! How long before they find something? Then what?'

‘Tell me how I can fix this?' The anguish in Mum's voice is harsh and shocking. Where's the calm woman I've known my whole life? The one who can cope with anything? Who fixes the unfixable and rights the wrongs?

I hear Dad sigh, though it's more of a groan. ‘Then tell the truth.'

‘I
am
telling the truth. Right now.'

‘Only because you had to.'

‘I know. I'm sorry. I'm trying to make it better.'

‘No, you're not. That's exactly what you're
not
doing.'

‘I know you need time –'

‘God. Ro, time won't change anything. You're missing the point.'

‘Brant …'

There's a heavy quiet, and I press closer to the door, no longer pretending that I'm not listening.

‘I want to make it right,' Mum says, tears thickening her voice.

A chair scrapes across the slate floor. A body sits heavily.

‘You need to put an end to it.'

I hold my breath.
A man half her age
.

‘What?'

‘If you want to fix it,' Dad says. ‘Do that for me.'

‘I can't.'

‘Can't? Or won't?'

‘Both.'

‘That's not fair.'

There's a long pause. ‘I know.'

‘You've kept this secret long enough.'

‘I'll talk to the kids when I get back.'

‘Not just the kids. You've kept it from everyone!'

‘One step at a time.'

‘I want to be there too.'

‘We'll talk to them when you're back from the retreat. They don't have anything, Brantley. Just Seamus stirring things up. We need to deal with this as a family.'

‘And what about the public? The voters? You need to tell them too.'

‘No.'

‘You can't keep lying.'

‘It's not a lie! It's my life. My
private
life.'

‘Except it's not private now, is it?'

‘It doesn't matter,' Mum says wearily. ‘It's not up to me.'

‘You're not thinking this through. What about Frankie and Luke?'

‘Don't you see? That's exactly what I
am
thinking about. They're all I'm thinking about. Frankie and Luke – what it means to them.'

‘And to him.'

‘Yes. To him. God, yes. Finally, to him.'

Him?
There it is again. I stand perfectly still, frightened to move. I hold my breath, aware suddenly how loud my breathing is.

‘Please?' Dad's voice is rough and desperate.

‘No,' she says.

Silence stretches for so long that I wonder if they're still in there.

‘That's it?' Dad says, asking the question like he knows the answer.

‘Don't make me choose.'

‘It feels like you already have, and we have to live with the consequences.' Dad's voice drops so low I'm not sure I hear correctly. ‘I don't know if I can.'

The noise that comes next is almost primitive, like the sound a wounded animal would make. I step back, reeling.
I shouldn't be here.

I creep away as quietly as I can, slipping inside my bedroom. I pull the door to without shutting it to avoid making any sound.

A part of me wants to confront them now, to ask them to explain. Except, no matter how I turn it around, twist it or tilt it to one side, there's nothing else it could mean.

Mum is having an affair.

The morning is awkward and empty – Dad reminds us about his retreat to Woop Woop, acting like nothing has changed. Luke barely looks up from his pile of rabbit pellets topped with every shape and hue of berry known to man, while my toast and honey sits there, growing cold on my plate. It takes every ounce of energy not to yell at Dad to tell us what the hell is going on.

But I don't. Seeing Luke wolf down his breakfast, happily oblivious, keeps me quiet.

When Dad gets up to leave, he tells us he'll check in when his phone is in range.

I leave Luke in the kitchen and follow Dad to the front door. ‘Is everything okay?' I ask, trying to keep my tone neutral.

He touches my hair, presses his hand to my cheek. ‘It will be.'

And then he kisses my forehead and leaves.

Mum caught an early flight to Mildura and won't be back for a couple of days. She left a note saying she needs to talk to us when she returns, that she'll call later to check in.

On my way to school I turn off my phone and shove it in my bag. I don't want to talk to either of them if they're just going to keep lying. I don't bother with the tram – I need to walk.

I stand on the blocks at the pool centre for the start of the 200m Freestyle, desperately wishing I'd chucked a sickie as I wait for the starting gun. The school swimming carnival sucks at the best of times. Today, it feels like a special kind of hell.

But when the gun fires, something explodes inside me. I launch into the pool, an all-consuming fury driving me forward. My body seems to glide along the surface almost like I'm flying, the other competitors lost in my wake.

I towel off after the event, my legs like rubber, hands tingling with the exertion. A couple of kids from my class clap me on the back or call out their congratulations. Kessie is down the other end of the pool deck, a clipboard in her hands. She's the middle-school sports captain and
has responsibility for marshalling. On any other day, she'd be cheering wildly while mocking my ‘talent', but today all I get is a grim smile, a half-nod and then I'm on my own, and it's all about recording times and numbers before I'm free to disappear into the crowd again. I tuck my towel around my waist and head back to where the rest of the senior students are knotted together. I find my bag and am about to escape to the change rooms to get dressed when I notice a small group of Year 10 kids huddled around an iPad, their focus trained on whatever they're watching. One of them looks up at me – Alicia Harrison from my English class – and she seems almost to wilt.

Whatever they're watching is somehow relevant to me.

I rack my brain for things I've done, or might have done, that could have been captured on film. Has the vomit meme made a comeback? Is there a director's cut I didn't know about? Then my fuzzy, sleep-deprived brain remembers the night before. No, it's not about me. It's about Mum.

The slow pounding of my heart seems to fill my ears. It's like I've been anaesthetised and am slowly waking up.

‘Put it away!' Alicia hisses.

Eight faces turn to look at me.

I step towards them, determined to see. It's difficult to make out the images on the iPad in the bright sun, but my vision adjusts and then I can see clearly. It's a photo of Mum, front and centre, her hand cupping the chin of
a young man. They're staring intently at each other like there's no one else in the world except them.

The caption across the top screams ‘Yummy Mummy's Secret Rendezvous'.

Consorting with a man half her age …

My face burns hot and my knees wobble beneath me. I shift on the cement, the warmth against my soles the only sensation that feels real.

‘Yummy Mummy's got a toy boy, has she?'

I look up to see Travis Matthews smiling cruelly. I open my mouth but no words come out. A surging wave of fury envelops me and I find myself climbing over the huddle of kids, grabbing at the iPad. I half-stumble, half-fall, but Travis is too fast. He clutches the iPad to his chest, leaping to his feet and moving out of my reach.

‘Give it to me,' I say. ‘Fuck off.'

‘Give it to me.' I step towards him.

I know that getting Travis's iPad doesn't change the fact that the picture still exists. It's not going to stop anyone else from seeing it. But clutching it in my hand and turning that brutal thing off has suddenly become the only thing that matters. I hold out my palm.

Travis cocks his head. ‘Can I help you?'

Everyone is watching now.

‘Give it to me,' I repeat. My hand shakes as I hold it out to him but my gaze does not waver.

‘Give us a kiss and I'll think about it.' Travis chuckles, taking a step closer. He twitches a little as he holds the iPad.

My feet are glued to the spot though my body screams to get away from him. ‘In your dreams, Meathead.'

He blinks a little – no one calls him Meathead to his face – then he laughs, a sharp, biting sound. ‘Bad luck, then,' he says and turns to walk away.

I lunge at him again and this time my hand makes contact with the iPad. But only enough to knock it from his hands and send it crashing to the ground, where it shatters against the cement.

Stunned, we all stare at the mess on the concrete. I don't know what I thought would happen when I lunged for it but, oddly, it wasn't this.

Travis is speechless. He closes the small space between us and it occurs to me that he's angry enough to hit me. I should be terrified. I should back off and hide. Every fibre in my being is saying, ‘Run, Frankie! Run!'

But I don't. Instead, I step forward and lean in, daring him to go further. ‘Go on, Travis. Do it.'

There's a tiny flicker of uncertainty in Travis's eyes. I see it then – the boy I knew in primary school, the boy who used to ride his bike to my house and watch TV when it rained. But then it's gone and the Meathead is back.

Still, I hold his gaze.

‘Teacher!' someone yells.

Seconds later, Mr Campaspe appears, finding space between Travis and me. ‘What's going on here?'

Travis doesn't flinch but he doesn't answer, either.

Mr Campaspe looks to me. ‘Frankie?'

‘I broke his iPad,' I say quietly. ‘It was an accident.'

Mr Campaspe waits, a frown denting his forehead. ‘Travis? Is that right?'

Travis appears momentarily confused, startled even.

‘Is it?' Mr Campaspe glances back and forth between us.

I wait for Travis to answer, daring him to argue. He finally turns to Mr Campaspe and nods slowly.

And the tension has gone. Just like that. I didn't flinch or surrender, and it worked. There's power in that, I realise – in holding your ground. I pick up the broken iPad, show it to Travis and say, ‘I'll get this fixed for you.'

I wrap it in my towel and leave them all standing there in stunned silence.

I dress quickly in the locker rooms and head out of the pool centre without telling anyone. I walk blindly, muscle memory taking me all the way home.

My hands are shaking and I can't find my keys, so I ring the doorbell, hoping someone is home. Gran Mulvaney opens it and the vision is so foreign to me that I don't move. She has babysat me and Luke maybe five times ever. She's wearing a ridiculous purple-and-pink chiffon caftan and smells of crème de menthe. She's already on her second grasshopper, she reports as she crushes me in one of her un-grandmotherly hugs. The movement is brisk and businesslike.

‘Don't tell your mother,' she says, winking.

‘Hey, Gran,' I say tiredly, still a little numb. ‘I thought Mum had organised for Christie to pop in.'

Gran scoffs at this, blowing air through that lipsticked mouth. ‘It's a time for family,' she says, as though there is no further need for explanation.

‘Right. Thanks,' I add lamely.

Gran pulls me into another hug – a gentle one this time, the sort I didn't know she was capable of giving. She lets me go and it's only then that I realise why she's being so weird.

Behind her, the TV is on. The sound is muted but the pictures are as clear as day. I recognise the one from Travis's iPad. There's a whole series of still shots flashing across the screen, one after the other, cataloguing what looks like the seconds up to and following this moment. My mum and the young man are pulling away from each other in tiny increments as though they have just hugged or kissed or … I don't let myself go there.

A ticker tape is running beneath the photos, demanding to know who Premier Mulvaney is meeting in undisclosed locations. There's more about unexplained expenses, but that just blurs into white noise because I can't stop staring at the man beside her. He's shot mostly in profile and it's blurry, but I make out short hair, crew cut, strong jaw. And he's young. He looks like he could be one of Dad's students. Rougher, though, and vaguely familiar.

A cold shiver runs along my spine as I consider the
possibility that I might even know him. I think I groan or swear or something, because Gran is suddenly beside me, her arm around my shoulder, pulling me against her.

‘I thought you knew,' she says. ‘I thought that's why you'd come home.'

‘I, um …' I shake my head, as though to shake loose the right words.

I sense Luke before I hear him, and find my brother standing behind me, staring at the TV, eyes wide with confusion and … something else. Something that makes him seem even tinier than usual. He looks frightened.

They've moved on to new pictures now, or old ones. A picture of Dad hurrying towards the university, his head twisted away like he's trying not to be seen. He's dressed in a jacket he hasn't worn all year, so I know it's an old photo. But next to the other images, it takes on a whole new meaning.

‘What are they saying?' Luke says softly.

I jolt into action. I switch off the TV and shepherd him towards the door, frowning at Gran on the way past. ‘That's just rubbish, Luke,' I say. I turn him around to face me. ‘Do you understand? The media just make stuff up. That's their job – to sell papers, get clicks and take pictures that will make people watch.'

Luke pushes me away. ‘Who is he? Why was Mum looking at him like that?'

I let go of Luke. ‘I don't know who he is.'

Gran clears her throat. I shoot her my sternest look, and she seems to hold back. Actually, she looks hurt, no longer that large, imposing presence. She huffs off to the kitchen, leaving us alone.

Luke stares up at me, his eyes watery and pale. ‘Why are they saying that stuff?' He's trying so hard to be grown up, but his voice is cracked and husky and he looks like he's about to cry.

‘I told you. That's what they do. They make things up.'

Luke tilts his head, frowning. ‘That looked pretty real.'

‘Even if it is, there'll be a reason. Mum wouldn't do anything to hurt us. Or Dad.' My voice catches. ‘We don't know what this means at all. Don't fill in the gaps, Luke. Harry's always saying that.'

Luke narrows his eyes, trying to decide if I'm telling the truth. And I am – or I think I am. Even what I've seen doesn't explain everything there is to know, so that's what I focus on. ‘That photo of Dad is from ages ago. Remember that horrible jacket we made him give to the Salvos?'

Luke squints up at me, unconvinced.

‘There'll be a reason. Something completely innocent,' I say, placing my hand on his shoulder.

Gran appears with a cold glass of Milo for Luke, timing it perfectly.

‘Won't there, Gran?' I say, making sure the warning is clear on my face. ‘Mum will have a perfectly good explanation.'

Gran considers me for two beats longer than natural, then says, ‘Yes. I'm sure.' She hands Luke the drink with a grim smile. ‘There you go, just like you asked – with an extra scoop.'

Luke takes the drink and nods. ‘Okay.'

I flick on the TV and change channels to
Horrible Histories
. Luke takes his usual seat and slurps his Milo. I head into the kitchen, followed by Gran. I slide the door shut behind me, leaving Luke absorbed in a sketch about the use of chocolate as ‘brain food' during the Boer War.

Gran stands at the kitchen counter and begins the process of mixing herself another grasshopper. The blender is coated in the creamy green liquid, and I wonder if she's had more than she's admitted to.

I sit across from her and refocus. ‘What's going on?'

Gran takes her time measuring the crème de menthe, her hand as even as a surgeon's, the result a precise, level nip.

I wait. The house is too quiet. A week ago I would have loved having an almost-empty house but suddenly it feels like the bottom of a well.

Happy with her work, Gran approaches my side of the counter and sits down, drink in hand.

‘So, who is he?'

Gran's mouth firms. I'm about to ask again when she holds up a hand. ‘This is not my story, but know this – it's not what you're thinking.'

‘Really? What am I thinking?'

She frowns. ‘You need to speak to your mother.'

I look around the kitchen deliberately, then turn back to face her. ‘Far as I can see, she's not here.'

‘Talk to her when she's home.'

‘Yeah, and when will
that
be?'

Gran sets down her glass and looks at me. ‘I don't know.'

‘That's not fair.'

‘No,' she says. ‘It's not.' She sucks in air, her huge breast heaving with the effort. ‘But she'll be back as soon as she can.'

‘Dad knows too, doesn't he?'

Gran presses her lips together. ‘This is hard on him.'

‘What about me? And Luke?'

‘They need some time to sort this out. You need to be patient.'

‘What am I supposed to do in the meantime?'

‘You need to wait for her. Wait until she can talk to you properly, and try not to watch the news.'

‘Ha!' I say. ‘Like it's “the news” I'm worried about.'

Gran grimaces. ‘The internet too.'

Gran wouldn't know what the internet was if a giant meme fell on her, but I know she's right. God, when I think about the possibilities … but I can't even do my homework without going online. ‘Yeah, right. Not likely.'

Gran reaches for her glass of mint-green gunk, pinching the stem between her fingers. She swirls the
liquid around and around, staring at it like it will reveal her future. She places the glass back on the bench between us. ‘I'm sorry – I wish things were different.'

‘So, I just stand here and watch while this whole family falls apart?' I say too loudly, gripping the table as though I'll fall if I let go.

‘It's not my place, Francesca,' Gran says, regret edging her words. ‘It really isn't. Not anymore. Maybe never again.'

I'm surprised to see genuine hurt in her eyes; they're usually hard and unyielding. I'm not sure what to say, how to react to this new version of my grandmother. All these years I'd imagined the cool distance between Mum and Gran was the only way they knew how to relate to each other, that it had always been this way. But maybe it wasn't. Maybe something caused the distance.

‘Give your mother some time,' Gran says gently. ‘She needs you now more than ever.'

Even though I want to scream that maybe
I
need
her
now, I nod and let Gran pat my hand before she disappears to check on Luke, leaving her grasshopper untouched on the table in front of me.

And somehow this upsets me more than her words.