The Accident (4 page)

And I think about that stormy night, about the man. The one the doctors said saved my life. I wonder what he’s doing now, and if I’ll see him again.

‘Would he think that was weird, Yago?’

He looks up at me, ears pricked. I smile. ‘What do you reckon? Or will he just think I’m a kid with a crush?’

I don’t remember much, but I remember the way he talked to me. It hurt so much that I felt like I was drowning, and his words were the only thing I had to hang onto, the only thing that kept me from giving up and letting myself be swallowed up by the pain, giving up and going with Robbie. I remember his eyes and feeling like I could trust him, that I could literally put my life in his hands, and that he would keep me safe.

I get home and Alan meets me at the door. ‘I’m going to pick up dinner. You want to drive?’

He asks me that every time he goes on an errand, as if my previous flat-out refusals haven’t been clear enough. I shake my head. ‘I’m fine. I’ve got homework to do.’

He won’t give up that easily. ‘You can’t avoid it forever, you know.’

‘You wanna bet?’

He’s already tried all the arguments on me, the get-back-on-the-horse encouragement. It doesn’t work. Even with the way my leg is, I’d rather walk and catch public transport. Being in a car still scares me, even if I’m with Mum or Alan. I still catch myself sometimes, in the passenger seat, feeling the panic start to rise up as we approach an intersection, and I look down and realise I’m holding on so tight my fingers are white.

I used to be spontaneous. Careless, Mum would say. Now I stress over most decisions, worrying, weighing up the possibilities; what could happen. Getting back behind the wheel of a car is one of the few things I don’t need to think about. Some day in the future, maybe. But for now I’m sticking to my guns, and it makes it easy somehow, having at least that one absolute.

before
after
later

I heard a story once, a long time ago. There are some stories that stick with you, they haunt you in one way or another, and this one has. It was about a horse race. One particular jockey wanted badly to win and pushed his horse extra hard. The horse responded, giving the jockey everything it had—its whole body straining forwards, blood pumping madly. And as the little horse propelled itself over the finish line—first place—its heart literally exploded in its chest. It gave everything to win that race and the glory that came with it. It gave up its life so its name would live forever.

My mother is a writer. She has been for as long as I remember. She used to write at all hours of the night. I’d wake up at midnight, two, three a.m. and listen to her pacing on worn floorboards in her bedroom above, the steady tapping of keys. I’d always wonder how she could stay awake all night. She often slept during the day, while we were at school, but it never seemed enough, when you looked at her. She was always tired.

Her current routine is to write during the day. Sometimes she’ll start before breakfast, which usually means she ends up forgetting breakfast altogether. Other days, she’ll come downstairs for a coffee and a cigarette on the back step first. That’s usually when she sees us, catches us heading to school in unironed uniforms, notices Morgan has dyed her hair again, reminds us that we’ve forgotten chores.

This week, though, she’s been sleeping in, and by the time I finish my breakfast she still hasn’t come downstairs. Lauren is still asleep, I suppose—her bedroom door is shut. I wonder if Mum even knows she’s back.

Morgan is in the kitchen, putting salad onto a chicken sandwich, arranging the pieces as if she’s creating an artwork. Her bedroom floor is piled ankle-deep in dirty clothes and old school books, but she takes time with food. She wants to be either a chef or an artist, and for the moment she’s both.

‘Two minutes,’ I warn her. We almost missed the bus yesterday.

‘Yeah, yeah.’

I head upstairs to see if Mum’s awake, feeling as if I should at least warn her that the prodigal is home. The curtains are drawn and the room is dark, but she’s awake and sitting in her desk chair in her old green dressing gown. Her room always smells like stale smoke. I don’t think she realises.

She looks up. ‘What?’ She doesn’t get as defensive as Lauren, but she does sound irritable sometimes, as if I’m intruding somehow, because God forbid we interrupt her misery. Torture by a thousand drafts, that’s what she says about writing.

‘Lauren’s back.’

‘I know. I saw her come in last night. This morning. Whatever you call it. Anything else?’

Morgan calls me from downstairs and I escape out into the light, breathing in the fresh air on the landing. I always feel cowardly after those interactions, like I’m supposed to stand up to her somehow—fix something, I don’t know what. I wonder if girls feel this way, or if they just accept things the way they are, and drift along in their own worlds.

Long ago, before my father left us, she was a more ordinary sort of mother. She took us to swimming lessons and went to parent–teacher interviews and served up dinner on time. But as our family life disintegrated, so did the punctuality and efficiency. She chose to spend more and more of her time in a fictional world. She often seemed to loathe it, but I suppose she could at least control it.

It starts to rain as we get to the bus stop. Morgan never brings an umbrella so we huddle under mine, knowing that wet weather means more traffic, means a longer wait in the rain. It’s cold, and she stands as close as she dares—I’m her
brother
, after all, and she’s generally busy creating the impression that my mere existence embarrasses her.

‘Did you see her?’ Morgan asks, balling her hands inside her jumper sleeves.

‘Lauren? Yeah. Not for long.’

‘Why’d she come back?’

‘Don’t know.’

I’m not sure if we were really expecting her to come back. She took off so abruptly, only called home once, and didn’t send a single postcard. It was like she’d finally escaped from a place she hated. Which makes me really wonder, now that she’s back.

‘Maybe she ran out of money,’ Anthony comments, not looking up from his laptop.

‘Maybe.’ I’m not convinced, though. Nothing my older sister does is ever that simple.

He looks up at me, holding the laptop so I can see the screen. There’s a large photo of a muddy river with pale-skinned tourists in conical hats teetering in wooden canoes. ‘Vietnam for schoolies. Contiki. My brother met his girlfriend on a tour. What do you reckon?’

Anthony talks big but if a girl so much as sneezed in his direction I reckon he’d probably wet his pants in terror. Not that I can judge. My stomach knots at the prospect of heading out into a great unknown. I scan the oval in front of us, as if the expanse of muddy grass will give me answers. ‘I don’t have any money.’ It’s a lame excuse.

‘Get a job. We’ve got a few months, you can save up enough.’

‘Mum won’t let me. Not during the HSC.’ Another excuse. Mum probably wouldn’t even notice. Lauren worked murderous hours throughout her HSC and still came third in her grade.

Anthony sighs, tapping the screen longingly with his index finger. ‘Maybe I can talk Jimmy into it.’

Kierkegaard said that to venture causes anxiety, but not to venture is to lose one’s self. The first time I read that I knew it was meant for me, but even knowing that isn’t enough to overcome the sheer dread I start to feel at the thought of stepping out. I don’t know why. I’ve thought about it—too much, probably, with my habit of overanalysing. Maybe because when my father left us I was permanently deprived of a sense of security. Maybe because I feel some twisted sense of obligation, as the only male in the household, to stay. Maybe I’m just a pathetic pussy.

The story about the racehorse always bothered me. A child’s mind is different from an adult’s. A child might dream of being great, but those are safe dreams, tucked up tightly in the future. There’s an element of desperation about adult ambitions. Maybe because when they’re grown up and they haven’t fulfilled any of their grand ideals, they begin to feel as though time is running out on them. Bigger risks, higher stakes.

I write too. I can’t help myself. But I don’t let it become an obsession, all I care about. That just seems wrong. The thing I’ve never understood about Mum is the same thing I’ve never understood about the horse story. Why would you want glory if the cost is everything else?

before
after
later

Friday. Get busted doing Sudoku instead of writing up my biology prac. Mrs Williams hits the roof and the whole class gets a lecture. It takes her ten minutes to say, ‘Do your work or don’t come to my classroom.’ Then the stupid cow keeps me in at lunch. Makes me wash out the beakers from her year eight science classes.

It’s not that I’m not interested in biology. But this stuff is tame; I’ve known it all for years, from books and journals and websites and documentaries. Mrs Williams doesn’t get that. I used to pester her to let us do more interesting stuff, like dissecting a brain, and she just got annoyed.

‘We’re following the syllabus.’ That was her argument in total. Stupid narrow-minded bitch. Seriously.

Izzy grabs my arm as she passes me on the way out of school. ‘I’ve got us hooked up for tonight, I’ll text you the address. It’s gonna be awesome.’

I never bother turning up to parties before nine or ten. Nothing happens before that, and it gives me time to say goodnight to Tash, wade through some of the homework we’ve got stuck with for the weekend, before getting myself organised.

Dan Stevens’ brother is minding a house down in Coogee. Compared to Terry and Rose-Marie’s every house seems big, of course, but this one is genuinely huge. Only a street or two back from the beach. A white mountain alive with people and energy.

When I get there the party’s in full swing. Light and sound pulse from a hired jukebox. Must be at least a hundred people. I recognise maybe a quarter of them, most from last year’s year twelve. Izzy sees me as I enter. Rushes over to grab my arm. ‘You look
hot
. Damn, I wish I was Asian, look at that little size-six butt.’

‘Half Asian.’ Presumably. Going by the mix of features. I mean it’s not like I actually
know
I’m a half-caste mongrel. Half-caste. Mongrel.

‘You got the good stuff, though.’ She tugs my arm. ‘Come into the kitchen.’

Hot and tightly packed with people and laughter and talking. We squeeze our way through, not bothering to apologise. Score a few glances, the sort that travel up and down your whole body before they get to your face. One guy in particular, lounging against the wall with a beer. Doesn’t look away when I look back, eyebrow raised. Tall, too built to still be in school. Twenty at least and pretty good looking. I make a mental note and move on, feeling his eyes on the back of my legs as I follow Izzy into the kitchen.

Somebody’s tried freezing vodka inside a watermelon and it’s turned into a pink vodka slushie. I down a few shots and then follow Izzy outside.

This is what Izzy lives for; she’s the biggest slut I know. She’ll easily hook up with at least two different guys before the end of the night, and considers it her job to make sure I’m likewise provided for. ‘Not that you really need any help, looking like that,’ she whispers in my ear.

There’s a slight breeze coming off the ocean, sharp and cool. It plays on my bare back, arms and legs while I make small talk. Let a few guys chat me up. I know what they want. But it gets cold, and Izzy’s busy with some guy’s tongue down her throat. I slip away unnoticed, back inside, where the lights are still strobing. The vodka’s hit me and I take careful steps. Don’t want to stack it in heels, don’t want to wobble like a drunk. Squeeze through the crowd in the main living area, everything loud, flashing, moving. Looking for somebody I know. Another huge room, but quieter. Away from the jukebox, calmer without the lights. It’s well decorated, expensive, but impersonal. Rose-Marie’s taste. Potpourri. Rose-Marie-pot-pourri. God, I sound off my face already.

‘Hey.’

The guy from before. Still easy and confident. Comes up to me and sticks out his hand. ‘Nick.’

As I shake it I know exactly what I’m signing up for. ‘Eliat.’

‘Elliot?’

I spell it for him. He nods and fetches us both a beer. Touches my hand as he passes it to me.

‘You’re freezing.’