The Full Ridiculous (8 page)

You listen intently for anomalies in the usual soundscape of bumps and thumps, anything to indicate that he has registered the absence of the pencil case. Surely if he’d noticed you’d hear the telltale sounds of a frantic search—drawers groaning, doors creaking, the dull thud of objects piling up on the bed—but there is nothing.

Does this mean he hasn’t noticed? Or is he canny enough not to let you know? Should you march-hobble in there and interrogate him? Should you act alone, right here, right now? Or wait for Wendy and plan a strategy? Should you call her at work? Is that fair? Why are you asking yourself all these questions?

You wonder what happened to the old you—the guy who would have known what to do and then done it.

Wendy sits at the kitchen table, bent over with her head between her knees, hyperventilating. You get her a brown paper bag to breathe into and her breathing slows. You have bombarded her with too much information. Wendy is a super-coper but even super-copers stop coping sometimes. You wait until the colour returns to her face and make her a cup of tea. Then you both retire to your bedroom and, in lowered voices, talk.

You agree not to say anything about the drugs until Declan reacts to their absence. You pretend that this is a valid non-confrontational strategy but you are both avoiding the horrible fight,

(a) because neither of you has the stomach for it, and

(b) because a horrible fight might reveal a terrible truth far worse than the Declan-minding-drugs story that you have both decided to embrace.

A voice way, way in the back of your head calls,
‘Why don’t you find out? Why don’t you just confront him?’
But you shush it away as Wendy read-whispers Declan’s poems aloud.

Wendy thinks the poems were written during Declan’s earlier dope-smoking phase and that they do not necessarily reflect his current state of mind. Nevertheless she decides to investigate by initiating a chat with him. She finds Declan in the living room watching a re-run of
The Simpsons,
with dead eyes and his mouth slightly open, so that he looks as if he’s been lobotomised.

Wendy sits casually on the sofa next to him. Suddenly he guffaws at something Homer says. Wendy wisely waits for a commercial break and tries to engage him in conversation. His responses are polite but monosyllabic. She plugs away until the programming resumes and he turns and looks at her. ‘Mum, what do you want?’

‘I want to know if you’re
okay
.’

He looks at her as if she’s certifiable. ‘Yeeaaah, ’course.’

Wendy sits there for a while watching him watch television. Spying from the kitchen, you can see her deciding whether to have another go at interaction but eventually she sighs, rubs her knees, and retreats. You both head back to the bedroom where Wendy hatches another brilliant plan: a father-son chat.

You explain that you’re weirdly fragile; you don’t know whether you’d weep or shout at him but either of these reactions would be unhelpful, destructive even. Wendy says she’s fragile too and wouldn’t it be nice if we could put our kids in the deep freeze until we all felt like dealing with them. You know she’s been doing the lion’s share since the accident and you know she’s only provoking you because she’s exhausted too; nevertheless you say, very quietly, ‘Fuck you.’

‘Your son needs you now, not when you feel like it.’

‘I know that, Wendy.’

‘He’s… he’s…’

‘I
know
.’

‘Well do you know when you’re going to be able to do something about it? Michael? When?’

‘Right now! I’ll go and grab him right now and beat the truth out of him, will I?’

‘Just for once, can you not overreact?’

‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you, I’m a wreck! I’m overreacting!’

‘What? Because that woman ran over you? You were overreacting long before that!’

‘Oh, fuck off!’

‘No, you fuck off!’

Things descend into a slanging match. For two literate people, it’s amazing how quickly your lexicon contracts. Rosie hurls open the bedroom door, outraged. ‘Juan can hear you!’ she hisses, shaming you both into silence.

13

Two days later at three in the afternoon, the phone rings. Normally, of course, you’d just let it ring out but you are grateful for the distraction from your attempt at writing so you answer it.

Constable Lance Johnstone is on the line. He sounds friendly, chatty even, as he explains he’s calling about Rosie and that he’s already had a brief conversation with Wendy. Your stomach flips and your temperature rises. Trying to sound relaxed, you tell him you are aware of this.

Constable Johnstone wonders whether you would mind bringing Rosie down to the station for a chat. You ask him what he means by a chat. He tells you that he needs to ‘wrap things up’ and he really can’t do this until he hears Rosie’s side of the story. He says this like it’s a boring but necessary procedure and he just wants to get the whole thing over and done with. You’d like the whole thing over and done with too, so you agree to bring Rosie in when she gets home later that afternoon. You ask how long it will take. ‘Hopefully not long at all,’ he says lightly.

It’s a chilly day but small beads of sweat break out across your forehead. You hang up and tell yourself you are being ridiculous.
He’s obviously a perfectly reasonable man, just doing his job. Just doing his job.

You call Wendy at work and let her know that you’ve heard from this Constable Johnstone character again. She decides to come home early to drive you and Rosie to the police station. She reminds you that Rosie starts back at school tomorrow and it’s important to keep things running smoothly.

An hour later, Rosie stands in the kitchen with a slight frown on her lineless brow. This is the first time she has heard about the police and she’s taking the news surprisingly well. After the initial fright, her tough-girl persona kicks in and she tells you that she’s actually pleased to be able tell the cops what really happened with that stupid bitch-faced slut. You know she is saying this largely for the benefit of her bemused audience, Juan and Declan, nevertheless, you ask her to confirm that she knows not to use that kind of language when she is at the police station.

‘Der,’ she says and flounces down to the car.

Wendy takes Rosie’s hand as they ascend the concrete steps to the police station. They wait at the top for you to hobble up the disabled access ramp on your crutches and you look up at them: Rosie in her crisp blouse and skirt, trying to look world-weary; Wendy in her crumpled suit, trying not to look world-weary. Finally you reach them. Wendy takes your elbow as a sign of solidarity and the three of you enter the police station together, Team O’Dell.

The reception desk is a long, unmanned Laminex bench. You stand there, waiting. Several police are seated at their desks in the room beyond, but clearly they have more pressing matters to deal with. A young policewoman appears through a rear door, laughing and holding a cup of coffee. She sees you and comes over. Her bright tone is reassuring. You tell her you are here to see Constable Johnstone. She asks if he is expecting you. You say, ‘Yes,’ and she disappears through the rear door in search of him. Moments later she reappears and tells you to take a seat, he shouldn’t be too long.

Team O’Dell retreats to a wooden bench and sits. Rosie looks at you with scared-rabbit eyes so you take her hand and are surprised when she lets you continue to hold it. As Wendy scans the noticeboard, you remember that she is familiar with this particular police station.

Years ago, when the kids were small, Wendy was part of a volunteer program based here and next door at the courthouse. Every Tuesday, she would come to support women, victims of domestic violence, who were seeking legal protection from their violent partners. She would sit with the women, listen to their stories and explain how the court procedures would play out. Sometimes she would run interference between the women and their partners who were either begging for forgiveness or threatening retribution. In the two or three years that Wendy was part of the program, she became friendly with a couple of the police and police prosecutors.

Holding Rosie’s hand, you hope that some of Wendy’s alumni are still here, that one of them will walk through the door, recognise Wendy, and throw their arms around her. You hope that this warm reunion will be witnessed by Constable Lance Johnstone; you hope that Wendy’s alumnus will explain to the constable what a remarkable contribution Wendy has made to the community and what a fine family the O’Dells are.

But none of this happens when Constable Lance Johnstone appears and calls you over to the counter. This is the first time you have seen him and you are surprised by his maturity. He appears to be about your age and you wonder why a man in his forties has not graduated past the rank of constable.

After a peremptory greeting, he asks Rosie to join him on the other side of the counter. You start to accompany her but he says no, just Rosie. Wendy pipes up and says a parent needs to accompany her if she’s being interviewed. The constable says he’s not interviewing her yet; he’s taking her into custody.

Custody?

Rosie looks from the cop, to you, to Wendy, panic rising. You and Wendy bombard him with questions and protests. What do you mean, custody? You said it was just a chat! Custody for what? How long? She’s fourteen
,
for God’s sake. Do we need a lawyer? Look at her! Why didn’t you warn us?

Constable Johnstone informs you that Rosie is going to be charged with assault.

Another barrage: Assault? But you haven’t heard her side! She’s fourteen, for God’s sake! How can you charge someone when you’ve only got one side of the story? We need a lawyer. Can we come back and do this when we’ve got a lawyer?

Constable Johnstone informs you that he’s going to put Rosie into a holding cell while he gets the paperwork in order, then she will be fingerprinted, interviewed and formally charged.

It is absolutely critical that you remain calm and clearheaded but panic and fury collide with your good intentions. Your mind reels. Rosie clings to you, sobbing. The cop peels her away and she looks at you like she can’t believe you’re letting him do this. You can’t believe you’re letting him do it either. Wendy is on the phone, calling a lawyer, talk-shouting in a strange, high-pitched wail.

The cop tells you it will all be over quicker if you all just calm down. You watch impotently as he leads your daughter away and locks her in a holding cell at the far end of the room. She wraps her little hands around the bars and looks back at you, her face distorted. Suddenly she recoils and looks at her hands in disbelief. There’s blood on the bars and now there’s blood on her hands and she holds them out to show you. You can see that she’s going to scream but no sound comes out.

Instead, you give voice to her horror and shout in a huge voice, ‘For God’s sake! For God’s sake!’ You point at your little girl and now every cop in the police station is looking and they see Rosie and rush towards her.

Wendy walks back through the front doors and you realise she’s been outside on her phone. She asks, ‘Where’s Rosie?’ and you explain about the blood and that they have taken her away to wash her hands. You ask when the lawyer is coming.

The lawyer is an acquaintance of Wendy’s from her volunteer days. Shelley Mainwaring is an ex-police prosecutor. She knows most of the cops in this precinct but she doesn’t know Constable Lance Johnstone; he must be new. Or newish. She tells Wendy that he sounds like a bit of a dickhead and reckons he’s just trying to give Rosie a fright.

Shelley’s advice is to comply. Go along with this guy, let Rosie give her statement, and make sure you get a copy when she is finished. There’s no way this matter will end up in court; if it did it would be thrown out in two seconds. Shelley says she’s not coming to the station—that would be a waste of time and money—and to call her tomorrow and debrief.

Rosie reappears in the company of two policewomen and you can see she is struggling to remain composed. She looks so small and vulnerable next to these two taller, armed women. You want to wrap your arms around her and hobble as far away as you can go.

Wendy examines Rosie’s hands and cross-examines the cops about the blood. They apologise and explain that there’d been a fight in the cell earlier and they didn’t realise there was blood until Rosie discovered it. You know Wendy has gone straight to
AIDS
and you look at Rosie’s hands for any signs of cuts or abrasions, but
Thank God they’re clear.

The older policewoman tells you she is now going to fingerprint Rosie. Wendy asks if that’s really necessary. The policewoman—
Carol Fossey
it says on her badge—says yes but you can tell she doesn’t mean it.

Carol produces a large inkpad, takes the index finger of Rosie’s right hand, rolls it across the pad, then presses it onto a document, producing a perfect impression. Rosie does not look up but you can see the humiliation burning across her face. You imagine grabbing Carol’s gun and blowing all these fuckers away but this offers little comfort so you try to focus on the mechanics of the fingerprinting.

Ring finger: roll, press.

Pinkie finger: roll, press.

Thumb: roll, press.

Watching your daughter’s lovely hands, you are transported back fourteen and a half years.

You’re kneeling on the floor in front of Wendy, your jeans soaked in blood and water. The baby’s head has crowned and the midwife says, ‘Don’t push,’ but Wendy shouts, ‘I can’t not push!’ and this slippery little creature shoots out and you just manage to catch her in your hands. The umbilical cord is wrapped around her neck and the midwife quickly uncoils it. You look up at Wendy; she’s crying and laughing at the same time and you both try to absorb the miracle before you.

The midwife says, ‘It’s a girl.’ Indeed, she is a girl. You scan her body and that’s when you notice them and see that Wendy has also noticed them: her hands. Even on this tiny newborn, the hands are remarkable: long delicate fingers, impossibly expressive and elegant.

Wendy says, ‘Beautiful hands,’ and you nod, too moved to speak. ‘Great for jewellery,’ she jokes. And you’re nodding and smiling and smiling and you can’t stop smiling.