The Protected (14 page)

Twenty-two

Monday. Anne sits opposite me, her elbow rests on the arm of the chair, propping up her chin. Long, dangling strands of purple stones hang from her earlobes, swinging when she moves.

‘Your mum rang me this morning. Do you know why?'

I don't. She has never rung Anne before. Since the accident it's always Dad who calls the school if something's wrong.

‘She said that you had a fight. She was worried about you. She said she thinks you might be starting to remember what happened.'

My head feels like one of those cannonballs you see in cartoons: heavy and thudding, with a wick alight, set to blow. I imagine exploding right there in Anne's office, blowing apart into little fluttering pieces. Settling like dust on the carpet.

‘Are you starting to remember, Hannah?'

‘It wasn't his fault.'

Anne leans forwards a little. I keep my eyes on my lap, where my hands are clasped, fingers laced so tightly I don't know if I will ever be able to prise them apart.

‘I'm sorry?'

‘It wasn't his fault,' I repeat, a little louder.

Out the window, in the sky, a flock of birds twists and turns against the blue. They dive, climb, change shape together. So many tiny birds come together to form one large one. I wonder how they can keep their eyes open with the air rushing past them so fast. I wonder if it stings.

‘Okay. Do you think it was someone's fault?'

The birds switch direction, the head becomes the tail.

‘Not his.' My voice is a whisper and I'm not even sure if I've spoken at all. ‘He was trying to help me.'

I can't see the birds anymore. They are blurry and distorted, like I'm looking up at them from the bottom of a deep pool. I feel the first tear slide.

‘Hannah. It wasn't your fault. You know that, don't you?'

‘It was. I was a coward.'

‘You were not a coward, Hannah.'

‘I was the reason we were in the car. I was the one who was late because I didn't want to go to school. I was a fucking coward. I let them treat me like that. I was the reason that we were in the car. And you know what's worse, she died and it all stopped. They – everyone here – they stopped everything.'

Anne doesn't flinch, doesn't recoil or look at me in horror. Instead she hands me a tissue.

‘The people who tormented you for so long suddenly grew a conscience. You didn't make anything happen. You didn't wish for this to happen.'

There is snot and tears and my head thuds.

‘If I was stronger, Katie wouldn't be dead. It's that simple.'

I wipe and wipe at my cheeks with shaking hands. My whole body feels tired, hollowed out. There is no energy left to try to stop the tears.

‘I don't think it is that simple. But, if you remember now what happened, you don't have to be assessed by a psychiatrist. You do have to stand and testify at the trial. They will ask you questions and you will have to tell them what you remember because you'll be under oath.'

I nod.

‘Okay. Look, I don't think you should be here today. I think you should go home. I'm going to call your mum. In the meantime, you can wait here. Is there anyone who you want to come sit with you? A friend?'

Josh enters Anne's office, hands in his pockets, shirt untucked. He looks around, eyebrows raised.

‘Jeez, they give you the presidential suite, Jane? You know what this place needs? A plasma. Yeah, I can really see a plasma there under the window.'

Anne has given us both a glass of water and gone into her adjoining study. Josh sips his water, smacks his lips.

‘You know, I appreciate this, Jane, I really do. Shoulda seen Rourke, I swear she was about to throw me through the window – then I got called out of class.' He dips his head a little, looks at me intently. ‘You all right?'

I shrug.

He sighs. ‘And I thought I was effed up.'

‘You are.'

He smiles, gives my arm a little shove.

Then he takes my hand and squeezes it.

Josh carries my bag and we make our way across the school grounds towards the front gates. Everyone else is in class, learning about ancient Rome, or
The Great Gatsby
, or the life cycle of plant cells. My hands are still shaking.

‘Don't get any ideas about this, yeah?' he says. ‘I'm not going to be carrying your stuff everywhere from now on.'

‘Least you can do. I got you out of class.'

‘Yeah, well. At least you haven't gone off at me for being a chauvinist. Had this girlfriend once who almost punched my head in because I opened a door for her. Swore I'd never be polite to a female again. By the way, you eaten anything? Like, this year? Looks like you're about to disintegrate. It's the only reason I'm brave enough to carry your bag.'

‘Not really. It's not my strong point at the moment.'

We get to the front gates and he unzips his bag, and hands me a packet of corn chips. I try to eat one but it feels like cardboard in my mouth. Josh watches me and there's a quietness in his eyes, not pity, something else.

‘You gonna be okay, Jane Eyre?'

I swallow, try to nod convincingly.

‘'Cause I wasn't actually drunk. I meant what I said. I like having you around.'

I feel I could cry again.

‘I'm a good listener, you know,' he says softly. ‘Despite what they say round here.'

My mum's car turns into the drive. She pulls up in front of us and gets out. She has brushed her hair and pulled it back. She is wearing lipstick. I see the moment she notices Josh and does a double take. He doesn't hesitate, walks over to her and offers his hand.

‘Hi Mrs McCann. I'm Josh, friend of Hannah's.'

‘Oh. Hello.' She shakes his hand, gives me a sideways look. Josh hands her my schoolbag.

‘Better get back to class, hate to miss anything, you know.'

‘Sure,' my mother says. ‘Thank you, Josh.'

‘Pleasure, ma'am. See you, Hannah.'

I smile, overly aware of my mother next to me trying to work out who this guy is who shakes hands and calls women ‘ma'am'.

Mum drives slowly out of the school. She keeps looking over at me.

‘You tell me when you're ready to make a statement. I'll take you. Okay?'

I nod.

She reaches over and brushes her fingers against my cheek. It's the first sign of affection she's shown me in I don't know how long. She wipes her face and I can see that she is crying.

***

Nanna and Grandad were there, next to my bed in the hospital. They were on one side and my mother was on the other. When I opened my eyes she was holding my hand, her head next to mine on the pillow, her eyes closed. When I woke up she sat up and put her hands on either side of my face. She started to cry. Nanna explained that they had sedated me to reset my ankle and to calm me down because I was hysterical in the ambulance. I remember that there in the hospital was the only time I had ever seen Nanna without make-up and it seemed like such a strange thing to notice. I was in a room by myself and I thought that was odd. I felt there was a reason for it.

‘Is Dad dead?' I whispered.

‘He's going to be okay. He's in surgery,' Nanna said.

‘Where's Katie?' I looked at my mother. Nanna patted my arm. ‘You should try to get more rest.'

‘Where's Katie? Mum?'

Mum couldn't speak. Grandad stepped forwards and took my hand in his. I had never seen him cry before.

‘Hannah, Katie died,' he said softly.

‘But I was talking to her, she could hear me. No. She's not. Where is she?'

‘Love, she died when they were trying to get her out of the car.'

I stayed curled up on the bed, drifting in and out of sleep. Every time I woke I would think it was all a dream before the reality of the hospital room would chip its way in. Two police came in to speak with me, both women. Nanna and Grandad had left by then, but Mum remained, holding my hand.

‘Hannah, we know it's hard. But we need you to tell us what happened.'

I focused my gaze on a fine crack that ran down the wall next to the bed, it looked like a river might, as seen from space, vast tracts of emptiness on either side.

‘Hannah?'

‘I don't remember.'

‘Tell us what happened leading up to the accident, then. What happened that morning?'

‘I don't remember anything from that morning,' I tell them.

‘Really? Nothing at all?'

‘Nothing at all.'

They didn't leave it at that. They spoke to my doctor and the nurses. They came and visited me at home. I couldn't tell them anything.

It seemed bizarre that she could be killed so simply. Katie couldn't be killed by something as ordinary as a car crash. I don't think I really believed that she was dead until later when I saw her body. Sometimes I still don't, it just seems too strange.

I was discharged from hospital two days after the accident. I was lucky. I had whiplash and a broken ankle. Nanna and Grandad came with Mum to take me home. As we came out of the hospital my mother broke down just outside the sliding doors.

‘I can't leave without her,' she said. ‘I have to take her home! I can't leave her in that cold room.'

It was horrible. I felt like I wanted to vomit. The people standing around the front entrance, some in hospital gowns, some smoking, glanced at Mum and then quickly looked away. Nanna shushed Mum and she and Grandad led us to the car. You couldn't tell Nanna was upset other than the tears that slid silently down her cheeks.

We came home and Nanna instructed Mum to take two of the sedatives she had been prescribed. The local paper was on the driveway. Grandad swiftly picked it up, in the hope we wouldn't have to see the front page. But I saw the headline.
Horror Smash Kills Teen
!
I felt angry that they had used such a cliché to describe what had happened, as if it were just another ordinary tragedy, comparable to every other story that had ever used that headline.

***

Twenty-three

Now, we get home and Mum doesn't say anything else and neither do I. It feels looser between us, though. I go outside to the flat rock and I sit there watching the tops of the trees. For the first time in a long time there is no static in my head, no noise, just quiet. The type of quiet that comes after you have made a decision. After a while I hear the back door slide open and I turn, expecting to see Mum, but it isn't, it's my dad. He leans on his crutch and hobbles stiffly down the stairs to the path. He keeps his eyes on the ground in concentration and I can see the deep line between his eyebrows. I turn and look back up to the trees as he nears me.

‘Hey, Spanner.'

‘Hi.'

He lowers himself down onto the rock, sets the crutch leaning up against it.

‘You're home early,' I say.

‘I think we're both a bit early today.'

‘Yeah.'

‘Mum rang me … She said that you feel you can make a statement.' He pauses and looks up at the sky. ‘Whatever happened, Hannah, you tell them the truth.'

‘I will.'

‘I did something stupid, didn't I? I've been able to feel it.'

I can't answer him. I just shake my head.

‘Listen to me, Hannah. None of this is your fault.' His eyes meet mine.

‘I disagree,' I whisper.

‘Well. You're wrong. Look at me, Hannah. Tell them exactly what you remember.'

‘Can Nan take me?'

‘To the police station?'

‘Yes.'

‘If that's what you want, sure.'

On Tuesday morning she is at our house at eight o'clock with a fresh loaf of bread and a pot of home-made marmalade. She makes me and Dad toast for breakfast and instructs both of us to eat up. But I can't.

In the car, the radio is turned up loud. Nanna doesn't sing though, she just sighs a lot. And then she looks over at me.

‘What a bloody wretched business this is.'

I focus on pulling the breath into my lungs and letting it all out again. Like I'm swimming. We get to the police station and my hands shake when I open the car door. Nanna walks in beside me, chin up and shoulders squared.

Senior Constable Warner is younger than I remember her. Her brown eyes are carefully made-up, hair pulled into a sleek bun. She greets us and gives me a smile like a doctor who's about to administer an injection.

‘Hi Hannah. Thank you for coming in today. We're going to go into the interview room. Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee? Water? I can probably even rustle up a Coke if you want?' She speaks like a librarian, ushering us into a small room with a table and four plastic chairs. Nanna asks for two cups of water. When Constable Warner has left us she shifts her chair closer to mine.

‘I'm here,' she says. ‘You're not on your own.'

The policewoman returns with two plastic cups of water. She sits down and moves her chair in close to the table, folds her hands on its surface. Her fingernails are perfectly manicured and I wonder if they come in handy when she has to arrest people. Although I can't imagine her arresting anyone.

‘Hannah, I'm going to be recording this conversation. If that's okay with you, can you say “yes” for the tape?'

‘Yes.'

‘Thank you. I'm sorry we have to ask you to do this. I can imagine it's very difficult, but the more information we have, the better judgement the magistrate can make. I would like you to tell me everything you remember about the accident from when you first got in the car.'

‘Okay.'

Nanna puts her hand on my shoulder and squeezes it. I tell them everything.

The sky is dark with clouds when we come out of the police station, the air thick and humid. Nanna holds my hand and puts me in the car. When we arrive home, my father is on the back deck, leaning on the rail, gaze cast out over the bush. The trees bend and moan in the wind. I go outside to where he is and the first few fat drops of rain begin to fall, speckling the baked concrete steps. He looks over to me.

‘Hannah, I am so, so sorry.' His fragility tears at me. You're not supposed to see your own father like this. I want to look away from him. He looks up at the sky, blinking in the rain that sweeps under the deck awning. He finds his voice again.

‘Whatever happens, Han. It will be okay. It will all be okay. We will all get through it.'

The only thing I have in my head is a picture of Katie, sitting there on my bed, crying over Jensen.

*

Thursday. I haven't been to the cemetery since Katie's funeral. It's behind a golf course, on a hill dotted with turpentine trees. As we walk through the headstones I read the names and dates. There are a lot of loving and much-loved grandparents. Sometimes there are two graves side by side – husband and wife. There are a few children and when I read their epitaphs I feel as though I am intruding on someone else's sadness, yet I can't help but look. There are some headstones that are so old the writing has been eaten away by wind and rain, the things intended to remind us themselves faded.

Some graves have fresh flowers placed on them, even one that is twenty-two years old. There are a few with fake flowers: faded and brittle from the sun. Less maintenance, I guess.

My dad hobbles awkwardly over the uneven ground. Mum is next to him, but they don't touch. When we reach Katie's grave he lowers himself onto the ground. He kneels there amongst the parched grass, head bowed.

Katie's headstone is white marble with black lettering and I can't help wondering if it's what she would have picked. I've heard people talk about graves as if they're talking about the actual person, saying ‘we went to visit old Aunt Beryl' or whoever, when they actually visited the grave. I don't feel like that. Katie isn't here. I don't know where she is, but she wouldn't be hanging around near a golf course with a bunch of old people.

There's a bouquet of fresh tiger lillies on her grave. Mum has brought purple tulips. She stands in front of the grave and looks at it for a little while. Then she puts the flowers down, leaning them against the marble.

‘Some of her friends must have been here,' Mum says. ‘We miss you, beautiful girl.'