Beneath the Surface

by Tara Marlow

  Grace walked to the cracked, grimy window that overlooked the narrow backyard. It was a stretch to call the concreted area a backyard, but that’s what it was for many. Two kids kicked a ball amongst clotheslines set against the rickety wooden fence-line. A line of washing lay limp for days in the constant shade. The sight depressed her. The kids playing in this environment made the scene look even more dismal. This place was transitional, just as she and her father were. Living in places like this was a drawback to moving around a lot. Being on the run, corrected the voice in her head.

  Brushing off the thought, Grace plucked her school uniform from the back of the chair and shook out the wrinkles. Mrs. Goodfellow, her form teacher, berated her the week before about her lack of ironing. Goodfellow. What an ironic name. The woman was the school uniform police. Sure, her uniform was never pristine, but she’d apologised to the witch. She wanted to tell the woman she didn’t own something so frivolous as an iron. But why bother? She’d probably get detention for talking back. The teacher was old-school with no heart. She probably lived in a house with a cosy wood stove, polished floorboards and a vegetable garden in her sumptuously large, grass-filled backyard. She probably owned not only an iron but also an ironing board!

  Yeah, an ironed uniform wasn’t at the top of her priority list. Food was, and there was little of that as it was. Her pay cheque working part-time at Woolies never quite covered what they needed. When she’d taken the twenty dollars from her dad’s wallet the week before, she’d just paid their rent to the real estate agent. She had no money left, and she needed to eat. Did her dad even make money anymore? God knew what he lived on, besides beer and, well, whatever, flashing to the white powder that had been on the table. A jar of store-brand peanut butter was the only thing left to eat in the apartment, and it was nearly empty. Normally, she existed on coffee, toast, and peanut butter, and had for years. When Woolies started offering free fruit to children, an incentive for better eating and occupying kids while their parents shopped, Grace felt like someone had given her a million dollars. Now she was older, it was harder to snatch up a piece of free fruit on her way out.

  Grabbing leggings and a t-shirt, sniffing it to make sure it was clean, Grace headed to the bathroom. It was easier to shower at night. With her dad out most nights, she relished the privacy.

  She flinched when the water hit her bruised midsection. Turning, she let the hot water cascade over her shoulders for a moment, letting the water ease the ache a little. She reached up for the shampoo on the windowsill, wincing at the pain as she washed her hair, then gave up on conditioner when the effort proved too painful. When she finally stepped out of the shower, she felt the cold air hit her steaming body. Grace quickly redressed her ribs with the same stinky bandage she’d used that morning, eased on her clean clothes, and headed back to her bedroom.

  Remembering the white powder on the table, she moved her jacket to the top of her dresser, grabbed the chair, and wedged it under the door handle. While she didn’t believe it would stop her father in a howling rage, she hoped it would deter him. Or, more realistically, slow him down so she could prepare for the inevitable. She’d tried moving the bed against the door one time. But the noise it made, when she needed to get out in the morning, made it impossible. Then there was the cockroach infestation if she moved the dresser. She hated that the chair was her only real protection.

  Grace settled into her squeaky bed and read through the first three chapters of the book Lowell loaned to her. It was an engaging story so far. What did they call women like this back in the day? Her English teacher, Miss O’Donnell, used a word last week that made her laugh. Gumption. That was it. Yes, women with gumption. It was definitely something Grace didn’t have, she mused.

  Around nine, she heard the front door open. She tensed, but she didn’t hear the door slam. Weird. That wasn’t normal. She held her breath, waiting for sounds of movement. Her fingers dug into her cuticles.

  “Grace?” She heard her father’s keys hit the table and something else that sounded like plastic. Then the smell hit her. Chinese food. “Grace? I have food. Come get some.”

  There’s my dad. But, remembering the scene on the table earlier, she was still a little wary of leaving her room.

  “Come on, it’s getting cold.” Her stomach rumbled. Lowell fed her sushi around five, but she was still hungry. And the aroma was intoxicating. She’d ordered Chinese takeaway only twice before with her dad. Both times her dad had been sober, but the beer bottles and coke from before didn’t show sobriety to her. Her stomach rumbled again. She risked it. She shed the lightweight bedcovers and quietly lifted the chair away from the door.

  “There you are. Wasn’t sure if you’d gone to bed.” Her dad looked sober, contrary to the evidence from the table, and he looked like he’d taken a shower too. “Grab a plate. I grabbed extra egg rolls. I know you like those.”

  She did. They were her favourite. She sometimes bought two in the food court because they were cheap. She looked at her father with astonishment. On the table sat eight containers, all open and all full. Steam lifted from them. One was filled with beef, another chicken. Noodles lay piled in two. Egg rolls were in another. Her mouth watered, watching her father pile food on a plate.

  “Where’d you get all this food?” Suddenly, she felt like she was ten again. Had he found a job somewhere or… no, she couldn’t think of that. That had been a horrible time. He’d robbed a petrol station when she was twelve, while she sat in the car with the engine running. They’d eaten like royalty for a week. They’d even found a place to live a few weeks later. But then the money ran out. She knew that whatever this was, it was short term, and he’d want to move again soon.

  “Ah, got it from a place I was doing a job for. They had a slow night.”

  “What kind of job?” she asked, the question slipping out before she realised she really didn’t want to know.

  “Just a kitchen job. Temporary.” A job was a good sign. Maybe it would lead to another? Maybe they wouldn’t be moving after all? Her father sat at the table and started eating the fried rice mounded high on his plate.

  “How’s school?” he asked. “Keeping your grades up?” Her dad had been strict about that once. He called her the smart one when he was sober. Then, when high, he called her an idiot. She didn’t know what was going on now, but she appreciated his sobriety for the moment. That was a good thing, but she still wondered whose coke it was.

  “School is going okay. Grades are still good.” He pointed to her plate, encouraging her to eat. She picked up her fork, wary, but her stomach reacted to the food before her.

  They bantered about what subjects she was studying, and she told him about her English assignment as they ate. She wasn’t too hopeful, but it was nice to see her dad being himself again.

  Her father told her about another job lined up the following week and gave her fifty dollars to buy groceries. The gesture shocked her. What happened to last week’s rage over twenty dollars? She took the money and slipped it under the rim of her plate. He continued talking, sharing a story about the restaurant owner. His eyes were clear. His voice soft. This was so different from the week before.

  “I was thinking about the garden we talked about,” she said, hesitantly. “You know, when we were in the bush those few weeks. With the tent. We have a patio now. We could put some plants out there.” She knew she was taking a chance, but that time was one of the better ones over the years.

  “Well, let’s see if I can find something more permanent before we do that,” he said. She thought about suggesting a job in landscaping, since he mentioned his business years before, but her father was up, washing his plate before she could get the question out.

  “I’m going to head out again for a bit. Put whatever’s left in the fridge when you’re done. It’ll be nice to have some food in the fridge again, won’t it?” He smiled down at her. She bit into her third egg roll and plastered a goofy smile on her face. He laughed, kissed her head, pi
cked up his keys, and headed back out the door.

  Yes. There was her father.

  6

  She sensed it before she even saw it coming. The slap came down across her cheek, hard and fast. She gasped, shocked at the intense burn, then recoiled against something thorny. She reached around and felt warm blood where the thorn pierced her tiny fingers.

  “RUN, I said!” Her father’s face was suddenly in hers. His breath was horrendous. A musty, rotten smell with a hint of something she couldn’t place. He looked crazy mad. His eyes were bulging, his pupils the size of pinpricks and surrounding them, red, spindly lines. The vein in his neck pulsed visibly.

  Something jammed into her back. This felt different. It wasn’t the thorns she felt before. She looked behind her to see blood covering a red suitcase. A lot of blood. With that moment of hesitation, her father’s hand, red and scratched, reached down and yanked her up by her arm.

  “MOVE!” he hissed, and pushed her forward. She stumbled. It was pitch black, and she had no clue where she was, but she could hear voices nearby. She wanted to scream for help, but her father scared her witless with stories of little girls that cried for help. Not wanting that to happen to her, she picked herself up and started running.

  “FINALLY!” her father said in a rasped whisper. He was on her heels now, dodging branches as they ran.

  The dream fast forwarded. It was the same scene, but now she was ten years old, about five years later. She did not know where they were running to. But the house they had been in, the house with the red suitcase by the front door, was no longer home. Nor was the house after that. Or the house after that. Grace looked back. A woman stood by the door of their original house. She held her hand out, saying something Grace couldn’t hear. Grace wanted to run back to her, but her father was dragging her by the elbow in the opposite direction. Red filled the dream. Red everywhere.

  * * *

  Grace woke, gasping for air. She was sweaty, but ice cold. When she finally opened her eyes, the overhead light blinded her. Shivering, she got up and hit the switch. Just as the bedroom went dark, she heard the front door open. Grace stood dead still. The door slammed shut with a resounding thud. Experience told her not to alert her father to the fact she was up. As if working on instinct, she moved to the corner of her room to grab the chair. Then, tiptoeing back, she wedged the chair under the door handle.

  She heard her father swear, then felt the entire apartment vibrate when something crashed against a wall. Shit. So much for the sobriety.

  “Where’s my fucking beer!” her father screamed. His pounding steps shook the entire apartment. He approached her door, but she put her body against it, hoping with her added weight, the barricade would hold. The door handle turned, and while the door held, she knew she was no match for her father in a rage.

  “What the fuck?” He tried again. She pushed all her weight again against the door. “Open the fucking door!”

  “No,” she responded, knowing she was taking a risk.

  “Then where the fuck did you put my beer?” he yelled, slamming his hand against the door. She jumped, but stayed where she was, leaned in more.

  “You’ve drunk them all. Look inside the recycling. The empty bottles were on the table when I got home.”

  “Open the fucking door!”

  “No. Go look in the bin. The empties are there.”

  “You drank my beer?” He slammed his body against the door. Grace pictured the door breaking against the chair, but it only wobbled. “Open the fucking door!”

  “NO! You drank them before you left.” She dared not mention the white powder she’d found.

  There was silence. Then a grunt. She heard him walk away, open a cabinet door, slam it shut. Then the fridge opened, and she heard a clink. Oh, thank God. A bottle was left. Good. Maybe that would sate him for a while?

  “Leave my fucking beers alone next time!” he hollered. She kept still against the door, unsure of what more was to come. She heard the groan of the futon in the lounge room.

  Still, Grace leaned against the door for what seemed like forever. She was too scared to move. She dug into her cuticles once more, grimacing when she struck a nerve in her nail bed. Soon, loud snoring reverberated through the apartment. She took a steadying breath, then walked as gingerly as she could to her bed. The sheets were still damp from the nightmare. She was so ready for this actual nightmare to be over.

  Grace stretched out, her feet sticking out over the end of the bed. Her heart was still hammering, but now, the familiar dose of disappointment overwhelmed her. She knew her dad was still inside that crazed person. She had to believe that. Why else would he bring home Chinese food and give her money for food? He hadn’t always been a drunk or an addict. Maybe…. But hope lost out to tears. She was stupid to think he was clean, if the white powder was anything to go by. Why had she hoped for anything different? She’d heard the same empty promises before. It was like being on a merry-go-round. Why did she think one moment would change things?

  Her thoughts shifted to her dream. Why did she keep having the same nightmare? Always running. Running had been much of her life, so she wasn’t surprised by that aspect. But why was there always so much blood? She shivered. The one thing that really confused her, the thing that bothered her the most, was the red suitcase by the door. That was new. It appeared in her nightmare three times now. What did the suitcase mean?

  7

  Grace was up half the night, waiting for her dad’s rage to resurface, but exhaustion finally took over. She startled awake when sunlight hit her eyes. She panicked, grabbing her phone from the floor to check the time. It was dead. Remembering she left her charger at Lowell’s, she flew into auto mode.

  Forty-five minutes later, Grace ran into the school compound, composed of two-story red brick buildings clustered around a large concrete courtyard. It was just her luck that first period was at the very back of the school. Getting caught being late wasn’t quite at the top of her list. Rules dictated she required a late note from the school office, but explaining why was too risky.

  Hitching her backpack higher on her shoulder, Grace found her English class. She already had a major target on her back being the new girl. Being late didn’t help. Standing outside the classroom, waiting for the right moment to enter, she looked like a wreck. Her uniform was a mass of wrinkles, and she was relieved most of it was covered by her stained school jumper. She’d forgotten to wash that, too. She looked down at her scuffed boots and hoped she didn’t run into Mrs. Goodfellow. She didn’t just look like a wreck; she felt like one too.

  Grace peered through the door. Her English teacher faced the whiteboard. Great. She could sneak in without notice. One of the popular girls, Sarah, sat in Grace’s usual seat. Sarah, with her crisply ironed uniform and her shiny blonde hair pulled high into a ponytail, tied off by an equally crisp blue ribbon. Crap. She scanned the room and found an empty seat right in the middle of the classroom.

  She opened the door quietly and made her way to the vacant seat. Before Grace could reach the chair, Sarah noticed her.

  “Did you forget about school today, Grace? Too busy whoring yourself out to remember?” The words caught Grace mid-stride. Sarah was a vicious one, but she suspected it was because Sarah’s boyfriend had asked Grace out first and Sarah despised being second choice in anything.

  “What...” Grace, breathless, flushed scarlet, frozen behind the vacant chair. The teacher turned toward her, her back straight, her eyes sharp as daggers.

  “Grace. Nice of you to join us this morning. Please, take a seat and start working on the essay on the whiteboard.” Miss O’Donnell, her 2-unit English teacher, stared cooly at her before turning to Sarah. “And Miss Williams? Please refrain from making such vulgar comments.” The teacher walked to her desk and sat primly in her chair.

  Grace slunk into hers and watched Miss O’Donnell’s hazel eyes survey the room. Taking the nudge, Grace opened her workbook and begin the Shakespeare essay. Sarah sni
ckered and muttered something nasty under her breath. Grace ignored her. Moments later, Miss O’Donnell rose from her seat and glided toward Grace. Saying nothing, she simply handed Grace a note, then walked to the storage room at the back of the classroom. Not sure what else to do, Grace read the note.

  I allow one ‘under the radar’ late pass per year for each student. This is twice. See me after class. By the way, the debate sign-up is today. I expect your name on it.

  Grace fumed while re-reading the note and felt herself unravel. She was emotionally raw with little sleep. She couldn’t do more than she already did. The forced expectation from O’Donnell was the last straw.

  At the end of the class period, Grace walked to the front of the room where the teacher sat, uneasy yet determined. Grace shook, the tears in her eyes contradicting the anger she felt. The note became a crumbled ball in Grace’s white fist.

  “Miss, I’m sorry I’m late. I know it doesn’t look like it, but I’m doing my best to be here and to be on time. I just…” Grace sighed. She sagged visibly; her shoulders hunched. She was exhausted trying to blend in, exhausted keeping up with her studies, exhausted just trying to live. Grace gathered her strength and straightened, looking Miss O’Donnell in the eyes.