The Accident (2 page)

It’s a clear night, more stars than usual, twinkling away. Robbie had a telescope and he used to explain the different constellations to me, but I could never see them and he’d run out of patience.

I turn to shut down my computer and the pile of canvases in the corner catches my eye.

‘I don’t know what to do.’ I say it out loud. I gaze around the room, staring for a long moment at my photo wall, feeling the familiar stir of indecision, of feeling like I should be doing something but I don’t know what.

Right in the middle of my photo wall is a text collage I spent hours making from newspaper headlines.

You must be the change you wish to see in the world.

Gandhi said that; it used to fire me up, and now it only makes me feel tired. It’s just not so simple anymore.

I think about Alan’s words. We can’t control the things that happen to us; we can only control how we respond to them. Maybe that thought placates some people, but Mum would have killed him if he’d tried to use that on her.

Still…I wonder if she ever asks him that question. I wonder what he says. I wonder what they think when they remember that night, and what it cost us all.

before
after
later

It’s a dream I’ve had a hundred times. I know it so well my subconscious is just along for the ride, a director standing in the wings mouthing the lines while the actors take over on stage.

She comes home with a shiny clunky metal thing. When I ask she says, ‘It’s a shredder, Will. For turning paper into snow.’ Then she starts to pull all her old bundles of manuscripts down from the top of the wardrobe, where Dad once kept his things. She rips the brown paper off one and feeds the cover sheet through. We watch with goosebumps as the machine churns and the paper is sliced into long, white strips.

‘I want to try! My turn!’ we all yell, and Mum stands aside to let us slice open the bundles and feed the pages through, never once pausing to look at the closely typed words covering them. Morgan is sent off for buckets to catch the strips, and when we finish the last pages Mum stands at the top of the stairs and tips the bucketfuls down over us. One at a time, watching the pieces float down like snow, while we dance underneath like the heathens our grandmother says we are.

Two thumps and then a clatter like somebody has upended a bin full of tin cans. My eyes snap open to a dark bedroom. It was afternoon before.

I flip on the light.
Life of Pi
is still open beside me, face down on the rumpled covers. Disoriented, I slide the bookmark in and push myself up off the bed, listening to Morgan banging and swearing in the kitchen.

It only takes Morgan thirty seconds to make a mess. Her school bag and folder are dumped in the middle of the rug, papers falling out everywhere. On the kitchen counter is a torn paper bag. Spray cans have tumbled out, rolled onto the floor and scattered around the room. In her arms she holds a huge, awkward roll of canvas.

‘What’s that?’

‘Backdrop.’

There’s a scowl on her face as usual. She’s in a foul mood. She’s been in it for at least the last year and a half. I remember when she was little I’d give her piggyback rides, and she thought I was the world’s best big brother. Now I reckon she’s got a better chance of carrying me.

She drags the canvas outside, comes back for the spray paint. I follow her, watching from the doorway as she spreads the canvas over the grass, selects a can and starts going over the image. The paint comes in hisses and spurts.

There’s a rumble of thunder in the distance. I saw clouds drifting in earlier, but figured they’d be gone by now. It hasn’t rained in forever. For months all they’ve talked about on the news and weather reports is drought and water restrictions. Now the night sky is filled with serious-looking storm clouds.

I see Morgan glance upwards, gauging whether it’ll rain in the next few minutes…Nah; worth the risk. She wipes her painty fingertips on the old pyjama top she’s thrown on and holds the spray can blindly out to me as she rummages through the cans and lids on the ground. ‘Can you shake this for me? It’s running out.’

I stand obediently shaking the can, considering the backdrop stretched under the floodlight. At least three metres wide by two high. It looks almost finished, a dark stormy sky and wild trees with branches clawing out in every direction. They’re doing
King Lear
. Morgan’s playing Cordelia, though I only found that out through other people. Morgan doesn’t really tell me things. I guess most sisters don’t tell their brothers stuff.

‘Looks good.’

A grunt; she’s working. I take the hint and leave her to it.

After dinner she flops on the couch to watch TV, her usual slack self. The sky is rumbling; every once in a while there’s a particularly forceful roll of thunder and the TV screen flickers. Then one crashing strike, and the lights go out as the rain starts to pound down outside.

‘Shit.’ Morgan jumps up off the couch, sending cushions flying. ‘The backdrop.’

So long, drought. The backyard is a quagmire. The storm is in full swing: rain bucketing down, lightning bolts bouncing around the sky. I stand just inside the door, hovering as Morgan dashes out. She’s soaked within seconds, her socks wet and flopping as she sloshes through the grass, trying to drag the canvas under the eaves. I almost call out and tell her not to bother now, it’s too late, but I don’t. I watch as she struggles with it, as the wind catches it. It’s heavy with all the absorbed water, far too big for one person to wrangle. She probably has bigger muscles than I do, but still. She drags from one corner, then another. It’s mostly off the grass but the rain, driven by the wind, still pelts down on it under the eaves. Lost cause. Give it up, Morgan.

She does eventually, and pushes back past me inside, dripping wet.

‘Thanks for helping.’

‘I didn’t think it was worth…’ She’s not interested.

She heads towards the bathroom, leaving a trail of muddy sock prints on the hardwood.

I can’t sleep. Even after Morgan has mumbled a goodnight and disappeared into her room, I roam around the house, too restless to stop and settle down. Occasionally I can hear Mum moving around upstairs but she doesn’t come down to check on us. It’d take more than a storm and blackout to get her out of her room.

The storm passes, leaving an eerie stillness outside, and when I stand at the lounge room windows and look out I can see the front yard is a mess of fallen branches and leaves. The entire street is dark. In a few windows I can see the flickers of candlelight or roving torches, otherwise it’s just slivers of moonlight as the clouds start to clear.

It’s silent upstairs and I wonder what Mum is doing, whether her laptop battery has enough charge to last her. It’s nearly midnight, but she never gets to bed before about two. Morgan will be buried under the doona, her iPod lulling her to sleep.

I try to do some study by torchlight, but it’s more effort than it’s worth trying to hold the torch at the right angle. Finally I give up and put on my running shoes.

It’s only mid-May but it’s cold outside. I can see my breath as I do a few quick stretches before taking off down the street. The moonlight paints everything silver, and the fallen branches shiny with raindrops smell of fresh eucalyptus and pine. I know by daylight the storm damage will seem far more devastating than it does now.

My feet fall easily into rhythm. I run on the road, erratic as I circle the wide puddles of overflowing stormwater drains. I turn onto Sentinel Avenue and up ahead there are the lights and trucks and commotion of the State Emergency Service, tying a massive tarp over somebody’s damaged roof. A red gum split by lightning has crashed through their lounge room window.

‘Hail the size of golf balls up north,’ I overhear one of the SES workers calling to another across the rooftop. Maybe, I think to myself, I should join the SES. Learn how to climb on roofs and use chainsaws instead of being stuck in my room with a book like a girl. Yeah; I’d last a week.

I push onwards, trying to pick up my pace. At the end of Sentinel there’s two choices—swing right for home or left to do the bigger loop alongside Galbraith Gorge. It’s late and it’s dark and my chest is burning but I know if I head home now I won’t be tired enough to sleep. I take a left, loving the meaty slap of my sneakers on the wet road. The round trip’s only three k or so, but it takes me nearly half an hour in the dark. The streetlights are still out and in some places the trees are so thick the moonlight barely reaches through.

Our street is dark and quiet. Obviously we missed the worst of the storm, because it seems everybody here has long gone to bed. I slow to a walk as I approach our house. Hands behind my head, deep breaths; realising there’s at least one other person still awake. I can hear Kayla next door, practising quietly. She normally plays her real drums in the afternoons when most neighbours are still at work, but sometimes when I’m awake late at night I can hear the low thud of her practice pads through my open window. It’s a bit creepy sometimes, like a tribal beat forming the background for human sacrifice. She’s weird enough, I wouldn’t put it past her.

A red Echo is parked on an angle under the Moreton Bay fig, bonnet clean and shiny after the rain. My stomach tightens.

Lauren.

The front entryway is dark and empty. I slip inside and I’ve just about made it to my bedroom when I see yellow light and steam spilling out from under the bathroom door. I’m still staring and the door suddenly opens.

Skeletal.

It’s the first word that comes into my mind. The harsh shadow created by the torchlight probably doesn’t help. She’s cut her hair short, and it’s sticking out all over the place, wet. There are hollows under her eyes and her skin is stretched tightly across her cheekbones. Her arms are muscled—like Morgan’s more than mine—but they look stringy and her black singlet and dark striped pyjama pants hang off her. I look at her and I know she doesn’t look normal.

For a long second she just stares at me. She wasn’t expecting to have to face somebody so soon. Then, without a sound, she squeezes past. I listen to her retreating footsteps and the gentle click as she pulls her door shut.

Morgan doesn’t confide in me, but I think that I do at least exist in her little self-centred world, somewhere on the periphery. It’d be optimistic to think she still sees me as her big brother, but maybe there’s a tiny part of her brain that knows we’re family and we have to be there for each other.

But to Lauren…At best, she chooses her words to cut me down. At worst, she treats me like I don’t exist at all.

before
after
later

Thursday. Terry is at the kitchen bench sorting the mail when I get in. Only half an hour till dinner but damn I’m starving. Grab the Froot Loops from the cupboard. Perch on a bar stool, eating dry handfuls.

Terry’s tall with a shaved head. I saw photos of him once before he shaved it, gawky and thinning on top. Made him look a lot older. Shaved, it gives him a bit of attitude. He’s got a sense of humour when he gets a chance to let it off the leash. We get along all right.

‘Hey, Eliat. How was school?’

‘Punch-ups, obscenities, drug bust…Just the usual.’

‘And who said no to a private school?’

‘You kidding? You couldn’t write anything that good.’

Smiles. Pours himself juice.

‘You still all right for Saturday night?’

‘Yeah. Party’s all organised. Got the pot stashed under my mattress and the bedrooms set up for underage sexual encounters.’

He’s used to me. He snorts like he gets the irony. ‘You know if Rose-Marie ever hears you talking like that, she’ll never leave you alone again.’

‘Terry, I’m your A-grade student, remember? Besides, what’s the point of a fake ID if you never go out?’

‘With Tash in tow, I suppose?’

‘Nah, she’ll be right. She loves it here on her own. Put The Wiggles on and crank up the volume.’

Shakes his head, pretends to be horrified. ‘Seriously, if Rose-Marie heard you…’

‘All right, relax. Tash’ll be in bed by seven and I’ll be churning out two thousand words on
Othello
. Might be on a bit of a caffeine high by the time you get home, and I can’t guarantee not to get into your chocolate stash if things get serious. Better?’

‘Much.’ Pulls out the wok. ‘How was the driving lesson?’

‘Too many one-way streets in the city, too many traffic lights. I stalled again. Haven’t done that in weeks. But I guess the upside is I didn’t run into anyone…’

‘Progress.’

‘That you, Eliat?’ Rose-Marie calling from upstairs. Time to get Tash out of the bath.

‘Gotta go.’ I put the box of Froot Loops down on the bench and climb off the bar stool.

I’m at the bottom of the stairs when Terry calls after me. ‘One last thing…’ He looks serious but I know his style.

‘Hands off your chocolate?’

‘If you want to see your eighteenth birthday.’

It’s warm in the bathroom. The heat and smell of a recent load through the dryer. Tash is singing to herself as she wriggles and slides around in the tub, her shiny wet bottom breaking the surface. Rose-Marie is folding socks with the same cheerful patience she brings to any task, no matter how unpleasant or mundane. Rose-Marie irritates me. Not sure why. She’s like a sweet fragrance, okay in small doses but overpowering when you get too much. Don’t know how Terry ended up with her, really. Sometimes I want to rile her up just to get a break from the sugar.