Paper Alice (15 page)

‘He'll be fine, I'm sure.' He smiled at us all. ‘Sometimes a scare like this is just what's needed – to point out a problem before it gets right out of hand.'

I'll say.

The doctor was dead – though that's probably not the best word in this context – right. Turned out, after a day or so in hospital and more tests, that Dad had had some kind of cardiac electrical malfunction, which didn't require surgery. He was put on a number of different kinds of pills to (hopefully) stop it happening again. Though of course that didn't stop us worrying about him. The thought of losing Dad . . . I don't even want to think about it.

When Mum and I finally arrived home that night, or rather, morning, there were faint streaks of grey in the sky and from somewhere further up the street a lone magpie was warbling. There didn't seem any point in going back to bed. Even though we were exhausted, we were much too hyped for sleep.

So we sat at the kitchen table with a pot of tea and watched the sun come up in a great grimy-looking orange ball over the roof of the Creepy Crawly house. Going over it all – Dad's attack, what the doctors had said, the accident victims, and the crazy person, who'd finally been carted off to god knows where.

But all the while another thought was worrying me, sitting there in my brain like a sliver of glass.

‘Mum,' I said finally, ‘you don't think it was
me
who
caused his heart attack, do you? All my troubles and stuff – lately?'

I'd come home early and spent the rest of the afternoon after that fateful lunch curled up on my bed, numb shock alternating with ferocious hits of pain. And then at dinner Mum and Dad had taken one look at my red and puffy eyes and it'd all come pouring out, with more tears, yet again.

Mum put her mug down on the table.

‘Of course not, darling. It's probably been exacerbated by the prolonged stress of being out of work.' She sighed. ‘There's obviously a problem with his heart that all the extra pressure brought out . . .'

I suddenly felt as though I was melting into a puddle of exhaustion. ‘All
my
carry-on probably being the last straw!'

‘
Al . . .
' Mum frowned, touching my hand. ‘It was going to happen, sooner or later. If it wasn't one thing, it'd be another. No one can avoid stress.'

I laughed bitterly. ‘I'll say!'

She squeezed my hand, looking at me.

‘Have you spoken to him – Dunc – since?'

Slowly I shook my head. The drama with Dad had driven thoughts of Dunc out of my head, and now the panic was over, they were back, swarming into my mind like little black flies.

We were silent; I put my head in my hands, rubbing my eyes. The fridge made a shuddering noise.

Mum sighed again.

‘I know this will sound trite,' she said finally, ‘but it'll all be the same in six months' time. Even a couple of months . . . honestly!'

I stared down at my hands. That didn't help now.

‘Your first proper boyfriend, Al! Would you really want it to go on forever?'

I shrugged, half-shaking my head. Would I, or wouldn't I? I couldn't seem to think. Only feel – the windy, empty void that Dunc had occupied for so long.

‘He's like . . . part of me.' Even though he had been annoying me lately, it was another matter now he'd gone.

I put my hands over my face and took a deep, controlling breath. How selfish was I – Dad could have died, and all I could think about was my own troubles.

‘Sorry.'

‘Al!' she cried, ‘don't be
silly
! It's something we all . . . just about everyone goes through, at some stage.'

I looked at her, suddenly curious.

‘Why, did you?'

‘Oh . . .' She gave a short laugh. ‘Of course I did!'

I kept staring at her. ‘Well?'

It was like getting the chance of a peek at the contents of a trunk that had always been kept locked. Mum hardly ever talked about her younger days, pre-Dad.

‘We-ell . . .' She put her head in her hand, tracing the grain of the table with the other. Then laughed.

‘There was a boy called Tony Lovett in Year 5, who I was crazy about when I was in Year 4. He said I could be his girlfriend, then dumped me about three days later – told me he was going out with the girl who sat next to me!'

‘Mu-um!' I was half-laughing, half-annoyed; it was hardly what I wanted to hear. ‘I mean –
real
boyfriends.
Did you have any . . . major heartaches, before you met Dad?'

She stared down at the table; gave a half-shrug.

‘At uni I was so busy trying to study and support myself at the same time that I really didn't have much time for the opposite sex . . .'

I'd heard this before, usually during arguments when she started going on about how privileged was my own upbringing compared to hers. Her parents' marriage had broken up when she was a baby, and her mother had taken her to live in a one-horse town in central Queensland, where my grandmother had found work as a shearers' cook. The divorce had been very bitter; Mum never saw her father again.

She'd gone to school pretty well barefoot until she reached her teens and she'd been the only kid in her year at her small area school to go on to university. Dentistry had been her second choice – she said that in those days there was no way she could've got the marks at that school to get into her first preference, which was medicine. She'd managed to get some kind of Commonwealth scholarship, or grant, but it wasn't enough to live on, so she'd worked in a variety of different jobs while she studied.

She's got a box somewhere containing a few old photos and stuff like school prize and piano exam certificates. (My grandmother had apparently always managed to find enough money for the music lessons, which was probably why Mum didn't have school shoes until later on.)

I found it again a while ago; had another look at the photos. The earliest ones are black and white, and mostly pretty small, the faces often not very clear.
There's one of mother and daughter, obviously taken a few years after they came to live in the town, Mount Peary. Not that there's a sign of any mount – the ground in front of the pepper tree and the tank where they're standing looks flat and stony, without a blade of grass.

My grandmother is wearing her big white cook's apron. She stands there, solid and round-faced, holding the hand of her pigtailed, bare-legged little girl. Marisa is smiling shyly, head tilted, finger in her mouth. She must have taken after her father. Her legs and arms were already long and skinny; one foot is planted on the side of her knee, storklike.

But there aren't that many photos, not when you realise that they represent her whole life up until the time she met Dad, about the time she finished uni. Our first family album, from her side of the family, is their wedding one. After that there's a whole stack of them, going from their early married life through to the hundreds of shots taken of every stage of my existence.

I half-wondered why she didn't put those early, loose photos in their own album, but they're a pretty nothing kind of collection, really. Apart from some class photos, there're a few snaps of her at different ages taken with various groups of other kids. I presume they were her friends, but somehow she never looks completely part of any group. Amid their smiling and laughing and clowning about for the camera, she looks too tall and thin and, despite her smiles, somehow slightly detached.

I guess people don't change, basically.

She lived in some kind of hostel to begin with
when she went to uni in Brisbane. The few photos of her from those days have the same feeling as the earlier ones. She's always smiling, but somehow looking as though things haven't quite begun.

Marisa drying the dishes with another girl. Marisa sitting with a group at a dance, glasses on the table in front of them. Marisa at her graduation, standing there in her gown and mortarboard with her mother . . .

I get the feeling that her life somehow only really started properly after she met Dad. Pete must have seemed so . . .
there
, so solid, with the bustling, cheerful life he's always led – up until losing his job, at any rate. Perhaps he was a bit like the father figure she'd been missing for all those years. And for his part, judging from the look on his face in those early photos of the two of them, especially the wedding ones, he couldn't quite believe his luck in snaring such a beautiful, ethereal goddess.

Now, sitting here with Mum at the table, I thought about those photos again. Apart from the standard school-ball snap taken with a grinning, freckle-faced partner who stands at least 5cm shorter than her in her heels, I couldn't remember any shots of just her and a boy on their own – until the appearance of Dad.

Then again, we're talking about my mother. If there
had
been anyone special in her life prior to Dad, a boy who had broken her heart perhaps, she certainly wouldn't have left any photographic evidence of it lying around.

Dad came home the following day armed with various bottles of pills and strict instructions to take it very easy for a few days, ie: stay home and rest. And absolutely no
job-hunting. As that doctor said, sometimes it takes a major scare to put things into perspective.

He needed to have someone to be at home with him for several days, and since I had no desire to go to uni right then and bump into people – especially Dunc – I begged to be his carer. Mum took a bit of convincing that I wasn't going to fail subjects by missing a few lectures and tutes, but seeing it was going to be practically impossible to re-schedule all those twinging molars and root canal therapies in her fully-booked calendar, she finally agreed.

‘You two,' she said, smiling wryly at me, ‘can do a bit of convalescing together!'

And that's in fact how it turned out. Out of the blue, three days of doing comfort stuff together – thinking up ways to amuse and spoil ourselves. We stayed up late watching old movies and slept in the next morning, while Mum tiptoed around getting ready for work. I baked a batch of party cakes one afternoon and then an exotic feast for dinner while Dad napped. And we played Scrabble, something we hadn't done for years. We ate chocolates while we watched old Fawlty Towers videos, laughing till we cried, despite already knowing just about every line by heart. I even dipped into some of my favourite kids' books, still lurking in the bottom of my bookcase. There's nothing like a dose of
Possum Magic, Charlotte's Web
and Harry Potter to get you feeling like your old self again.

Dad's doctor even wrote a letter for me to the effect that I was to be exempt from tutorials due to temporary home-care duties.

On the last day I drove Dad to see the doctor, and
while I was sitting waiting for him my phone beeped. My own heart almost went into arrest when I saw the number, the la-la land I'd floated into instantly evaporating.

Havent seen you round. Just checking youre ok x Dunc.

I sat there, frozen, a two-year-old
Woman's Day
sliding off my lap. The trials of Brad, Angelina and Brittany forgotten. A thin fuse of hope and excitement had caught fire across my chest, despite my best efforts to put it out.

I peered down at the text as though it was code. Was he starting to miss me – had he decided that Miss Commerce or whoever he was sure to have gone out with wasn't so hot after all?

And did the
x
really mean a kiss, or nothing at all?

Just checking
. . .

No, I thought suddenly, the message would be guilt-inspired. Probably by Sophia; not by his parents.

You mean you just
dumped
her, after three years, and you haven't even messaged her
once?

The fire went out, leaving me choking on a pall of misery, jealousy and plain old fury.

My aura must have been pretty black, because after a while I became aware of a toddler standing there, staring up at me in wide-eyed horror. As though I was some kind of animal, with such a lifelike snarl that she couldn't make out whether I was real or stuffed. Her chubby hands clutched a one-eyed elephant from the toybox in the corner; snot trailed from her nose.

I gave her a watery smile; said hello.

What is it about little kids? She wasn't fooled, not for one second. It was clear I was damaged goods, contaminated and dysfunctional. With a loud wail,
she whirled round and staggered off towards her grandmother on the other side of the room. Halfway across she fell, splat, on her nappied bottom and started bellowing. Her grandmother picked her up and soothed and shushed her, but not before I'd been given accusing stares by every old fossil in the room.

I sat there, avoiding their collective gaze, wondering whether to answer Dunc or maintain a stony silence. My brain opted for silence, my inflamed heart the opposite.

And guess which one won? Plus, I succumbed to that old ploy of laying on a guilt trip.

Not really
, I texted.
Dad's had a heart attack and I'm staying home to look after him.

I just signed it
A
; I certainly wasn't sending an
x.
Then I turned off the phone and tossed it in my bag. I knew he'd phone back straight away after getting that message, and I wasn't going to have all these old crocs straining to hear every word when I answered. Besides, I didn't want to be too available . . .

He left messages on the mobile and the home phone. Then, ten minutes after Dad and I arrived home, the doorbell rang. And when I went to open the door, there he was.

H
e looked so familiar, yet strange. Once mine, and now not. The thought hit me like a cleaver in my chest.

‘Hey,' he said, ‘your dad–'

Then he leaned forward awkwardly, to give me a hug. I stood there like a block of wood.

‘Come in,' I said, as offhandedly as I could.

He looked at me, his hand still on my shoulder.

‘Al–'

‘He's a lot better.' I turned away, my throat feeling as though it was closing up. ‘We've . . . just got back from the doctor's. Come through.'

He followed me into the family room, his footsteps echoing mine on the polished floors.

‘Dunc–'

Dad put down the paper and stood up, smiling uncertainly. Glancing quickly from him to me and back again. ‘Good to see you . . .'

Dunc smiled back, equally ill at ease. They shook hands, patted one another on the shoulder.

‘Sorry to hear about . . . what happened, Pete?' Dunc said. ‘Just dropped in to say hi, see how you were going.'

And not to see me
. . .

‘I'll live.' Dad gave a small laugh, indicated the sofa. ‘Sit down–'

Dunc perched on the edge, elbows on his knees. ‘I can only stay a minute,' he said, half-glancing at his watch. ‘Got a lecture at two . . .'

A whole hour away.

‘So,' he said, looking at Dad, and then me. ‘What
happened
?'

‘Well,' started Dad, just as I interrupted:

‘Would you like a cup of coffee or a drink or something?' Addressing the question to somewhere about ten centimetres over Dunc's head.

‘Or a sandwich?' asked Dad, extra-jovial in his awkwardness. ‘Have you had lunch?'

‘Oh . . .' Dunc held up his hands and shook his head exaggeratedly, as though we'd just offered him a free trip around the world. His smile moved from Dad to me, morphing into a tiny frown en route. ‘I'm fine . . .'

‘Well,' I said brusquely, ‘I'm having a coffee.' I turned to Dad. ‘Dad – sandwich?'

‘Oh . . .' Dad's glance slid sideways to Dunc. I could see him thinking that under the circumstances I shouldn't be removing myself, over behind the kitchen bench. ‘I can get it–'

‘No,' I cried, ‘you sit!'

I went and busied myself with making sandwiches for all of us – Dad having finally persuaded Dunc to eat too. And as I made Dunc's ham and tomato one I gave
a brief thought to the rat poison in the cupboard under the sink . . .

Dad, meanwhile, was giving our guest a brief rundown on the trip to the hospital. He looked over at me, expecting me to join in, but I kept my mouth shut. Normally I would have chipped in with my own exaggerated version of all the horrors, but instead I just kept my eyes on what I was doing with what I hoped was an ironic, Mona Lisa-type smile. I could feel Dunc looking at me from time to time, but no way was I going to meet his glance.

After we'd chewed our lunch and drunk our lemonade – through several uncomfortable silences – Dunc stood up to go.

I could hardly avoid accompanying him to the door. And when he'd opened it and stepped outside, he swung round to me once more.

‘Al–'

I waited for it.
I know this has been tough, but there's no reason why we can't be friends . . .

‘Yeah,' I said, before he got the chance, giving a little wave and a brittle smile, ‘see ya!'

And I shut the door, almost in his face.

What I really wanted, after I heard his car drive off, was to go straight upstairs to my room, but for the sake of my pride I had to put on a brave front for Dad. So I assumed a stony mask and marched back to the family room, willing him not to come out with the inevitable.

Which of course he did, maddeningly, as soon as I walked through the door:

‘Well, I get the feeling he didn't just come to see me . . .'

My reaction was just about as predictable.

‘As if, Dad!' I said furiously. ‘He was visiting you! After all, he's probably seen just about as much of you as his own father since we've been going out! And anyway,' I added, grabbing the plates with a clatter, ‘I don't want to talk about Dunc any more, OK? I . . . I don't even know whether I
like
him any more! As far as I'm concerned, it's over!'

Later, when Dad was taking his nap and I went and lay on my bed, I vaguely wondered what bits of these statements might actually be true.

I tried conjuring up images of Dunc as he'd been just now, and my reaction to him. Did I still love him? Would I really want him back, or had he become more of a not-so-good habit, like reading trashy magazines, or having sugar in your coffee . . .

My eyelids sagged and I was dropping off, just like my invalid father.

The following Thursday night I worked a shift for Bunters at a cocktail party for an insurance company. Whoopee. Glamour gigs of the celeb-studded kind are few and far between, I'm afraid. And I wasn't particularly looking forward to this event, staged in the Coral Sea Room of a suburban RSL club, way out the whoop-whoop.

I wouldn't have gone at all if I'd have known who else was going to be there.

I was just re-stocking my third tray of drinks from the bar, trying to remember how many whites, sparklings or beers I needed most of, when I heard our supervisor Paula having a bit of a set-to with the chick in charge of the event.

‘Well I'm sorry,' Paula was saying, ‘but we're still one
staff member short – hopefully he'll be here any minute.'

You could hear the shards of glass in her sugary tones. Paula's a moody cow at the best of times and right now she was clearly finding the old customer-is-always-right adage a real challenge. I'm not surprised, judging by the customer in question's tone of voice.

‘Well, it's just not good enough,' the other woman snapped, wagging a finger. ‘If we order five staff, we expect five staff, right on time. Not–'

But she was interrupted, in fact, nearly knocked flying, by the missing waiter arriving around the corner. Looking as usual as though he'd just got out of bed – shirt half undone, bow tie missing, apron scrunched in one hand, its strings trailing. Hair sticking out in all directions, half-covering the eyes . . .

‘Hey, sorry!' cried Andy, grabbing the boss lady's elbow to steady her as she teetered on her stilettos.

She shook herself free, glaring at him as though he'd arrived with a wrecker's ball and chain to waste the joint. He, however, was turning to Paula.

‘Oh, hey, Paula! Sorry I'm a bit late. Our dog mauled my bow tie and I had to buy another one!' And he whipped said object out of his pocket and held it aloft, as though it was a winning lottery ticket.

The two women stared at him. He seemed so earnest; it was impossible to tell whether it was the truth, or complete-and-utter bullshit.

‘Your dog,' said Paula finally, ‘chewed your bow tie.'

I pictured the well-trained Jack in the spotlight at the Cave; he hadn't seemed like the tie-demolishing type.

‘Yep, and I had to get off the train at Parramatta and
run all the way to Big W to get another one. Lucky they were having a sale!'

That was the moment when, despite my initial shock/horror at seeing him, I burst out laughing. Then just as quickly clapped my hand over my mouth, but it was too late. All three of them swung round to me.

‘Well, bless my soul,' Andy cried, his face breaking into a huge grin. ‘If it isn't Alice – again!'

As though I was stalking him.

‘I didn't know you were a Bunters person!' he added, as though it were some huge and glorious honour.

I shrugged; smiled weakly.

Paula, meanwhile, had snapped to her senses again. Her glare swung between the two of us as though we were co-conspirators.

‘You'll neither of you be Bunters people for much longer if you don't get to work!'

Andy started furiously tucking in his shirt; doing up his top button.

‘Right.' He grinned at me again. ‘Where are the trays?'

I did my best to steer well clear of him for the next couple of hours, drifting off at another tangent if I saw him circling my way. I was doing drinks and he was on food, so at least we didn't meet up at the bar. But as the crowd started to thin, it became harder to avoid him and finally there was no way I could not come face to face with him around the far side of a group of guests without it looking obvious.

And both our trays were empty at the same time. Or rather, laden with lipstick-smeared glasses, chicken bones, olive pips and scrunched napkins. We turned
and headed together in the direction of the bar and servery hatch.

‘So,' he murmured after a moment. ‘Alice.'

Alice the nut case
. . .

‘Hey,' cried a man's voice behind me, ‘where's that beer I ordered?'

I swung round. A pair of watery eyes glared at me above a bulbous nose and ginger moustache.

‘Oh . . . coming, sir, in one minute . . .'

‘You old turd.' This was from Andy, a soft mutter.

I turned back again, hoping the guest hadn't seen me crack up, and bit my lip. ‘Shut up!' I squeaked.

‘Ah, hospitality!' He sighed cheerfully. ‘Will we ever end up being the servees rather than the servers?'

I was still giggling. ‘Probably not.'

Was that the wittiest reply I could make? ‘Not at the rate I'm going, anyway,' I added.

It occurred to me that I didn't even know what he was studying. Arts, most likely, like me . . .

We'd reached a parting of ways between the servery and the bar. I reached over and took the few used glasses on his tray to return them with my lot.

‘Thanks.' He grinned. ‘Well, if we're talking about careers, you could always go into the collecting business – debts, shoes, whatever.'

I made a face at him.

‘Or write plays, like your sister.'

Oooff.
It was like being winded.

‘Ciao,' he added, wandering off to the hatch. Leaving me standing there, mouth hanging open.

By the end, when the last few stragglers were noisily exiting in little flocks, like tipsy parrots, I'd become determined to get things off my chest, set the record
straight. I'd been moving around through the throng as though in a capsule, deaf to the noise and laughter and probable demands for more drinks. Operating on auto pilot.

Avoiding Andy's eye, at all costs.

I plodded on, picking up dirty glasses and debris, stacking my tray and carrying it to the bar. It was when I bent to unload one of the dishwashers that he was suddenly there beside me, hauling out hot glasses in a cloud of steam, head next to mine.

It was now or never.

‘I–'

I stopped. He turned and looked at me.

‘I'm not really her sister–' I swallowed, nearly choking on my own gabble. ‘I only said I was, to get out of it, explain why I was there–'

I broke off, my fingers gripping wine glass stems, my face prickling with warmth and shame.

His eyes were full of genuine bemusement.

‘What?' he asked, starting to laugh.

‘Y'know,' I cried, almost crossly, ‘the Wilda thing!'

‘Oh, the
Wilda
thing!'

Could he be serious about anything? I felt like hitting him.

‘Hey you two – how about getting a move on? So we can all get out of here before midnight.' This was from Fred the barman, at the sink.

‘Aye aye, captain.' Andy gave a little salute and bent to the machine again. But he also put a hand on my shoulder.

‘Why don't we go and grab a coffee,' he murmured, ‘when we get out of here, and you can tell me all about it?'

I got on with the clearing up quite a bit quicker after that.

Main street suburbia at eleven on a Thursday night was not exactly bopping. Most places had shut, and gusts of wind tumbled dead leaves and bits of rubbish along the footpath, pinning them up against the darkened shop fronts. The only open coffee shop had lace curtains in the windows, plastic flowers on the tables and a sole customer sitting there in the gloom – the owner, most probably. It certainly didn't look as though it'd have the world's best brew.

‘Well, why don't you get off at Summer Hill with me – have a coffee at my place,' Andy suggested. ‘Lil makes the best.'

It'd been easier to catch the train than try and find my way driving way out through all those unfamiliar suburbs.

‘Will she still be awake?' I asked, wrapping my jacket tighter around me. If I was Lily, I didn't know whether I'd want me arriving at that hour of the night, particularly if she was tucked up in bed.

‘Yeah – she's up till all hours,' he said, ‘listening to god knows what on the radio.'

I pictured pretty, delicate Lily sitting with her ear glued to the airwaves. Somehow the image didn't fit. And she didn't look like an insomniac. But perhaps she was studying communications and it was for some kind of an assignment . . .

‘Anyway,' he added, ‘she loves having people round.'

We walked along to the station and down into the tunnel to cross to the city-bound side, our footsteps echoing round the grimy, yellowed tiles. I half-held my
breath, waiting to be hit by the usual stench of dried urine.

I always try and make sure I travel home with someone from work if I go by train. But I couldn't believe who that person was tonight.

‘By the way,' I asked, when we were climbing the steps on the other side, ‘did your dog really chew your bow tie?'

He grinned.

‘Jack,' he said, ‘wouldn't be seen dead with it, let alone chew on it.'

We laughed.

‘But you were so convincing!' I cried. ‘They didn't know what to think!'

‘That's me.' His eyes gleamed in the soft platform lights. ‘Convincing Andy.'

Suddenly I felt confused, as though I too might be one of the hoodwinked. I stared at the hoarding across the other side of the tracks.
Girls just wanna have fun
, it said, underneath a couple of groovy chicks dancing with four or five admiring boys.