The Good Teacher

by Petronella McGovern

  ‘That’d be awesome. I haven’t had much luck yet.’

  ‘What are you after? Townhouse? Apartment? Big house?’

  ‘I don’t mind, as long as it has two bedrooms,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a four-year-old daughter.’

  ‘Cool. I love kids. Is she at Wirriga Public?’

  ‘Yep.’

  The school was only a couple of blocks away from the gym. Gracie had been happy to go this morning after being absent yesterday. Hopefully, she’d be okay with missing Friday each week.

  Maz was walking him towards the staff area now, with lockers on one side and a big cupboard on the other. This girl didn’t really seem to do small talk—Luke felt she’d know everything about him in five minutes.

  ‘Great school. I went there. I always wanted to be a teacher but I ended up here.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got plenty of time for a career change.’ Luke guessed that she was in her early twenties. ‘You never know what the future may hold.’

  ‘Maybe.’ She smiled again. ‘I’ve got to give you three sets of uniform.’

  She pulled open the cupboard, took a black top from the shelf and held it up against him.

  ‘Perfect,’ they both said at the same time.

  ‘Jinx,’ Maz shouted and then covered her mouth. ‘Sorry, my sister and I still do that. I must sound like I’m ten years old.’

  ‘No, you sound like a ray of sunshine.’ Luke laughed then put a hand over his own mouth. ‘Oh shit, did I just say that out loud? It’s my turn to be sorry.’

  Would Maz think he was a sleaze trying to pick her up? He must have eight years on her. What he meant was that she sounded exactly like one of the nurses at the children’s hospital; a nurse who delivered rays of sunshine to make life happier for the sick kids.

  ‘That’s okay.’ She was blushing. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been compared to sunshine before.’

  Maz folded the three black shirts, with WIRRIGA WELLNESS printed in yellow across the top pocket, and handed them to him.

  ‘If you have time, we could pop across to Mum at the agency,’ she said. ‘I’ve got half an hour before my next class.’

  This friendliness made Wirriga feel more like a country town than a city suburb.

  Hopefully, Gracie would like living here.

  Hopefully, Wirriga would accept her.

  5

  MAZ

  Oh, why had she said jinx? She must’ve sounded the same age as his daughter.

  When Nico had asked Maz to give the induction, he’d told her about Luke’s wife and child. Super tragic. Maz had secretly wondered about Nico’s judgement—was a broken man the right sort to be instructing at the gym? Their culture was encouragement and enthusiasm. Could Luke give that to their clients?

  But now she’d met him, Maz could see why Nico had signed him on.

  Yeah, he had the sad eyes—but that voice. The way he said her name was divine. Low and deep and sexy. Not that she was thinking about sex with him. Absolutely not. Too old. But the punters would follow his every instruction in class, that was for sure. Good bod, not too ripped. And with his shaved head, when he did smile, it was like his whole face was smiling.

  And he’d used her favourite word: awesome.

  Maz led him across the road to the small set of shops with the real estate agency at the far end.

  ‘This place has the best coffee,’ Maz said to Luke, pointing at Raw Espresso as they passed. ‘And it does great superfood protein bowls.’

  The new mothers had taken over the cafe’s outdoor area for morning tea, their prams blocking the spaces between the tables. Two of them waved. They were in Maz’s Mums and Bubs yoga class.

  ‘Of course, Nico would prefer that we eat at the gym cafe, but sometimes you need a break.’

  Half her clients were always at these shops so it wasn’t really a break from them. If Maz had enough time, she’d zip down to Freshwater and eat her salad in the park by the beach. A salad that she made at home.

  Maz had nothing to say about the newsagency, the pool shop and the post office. Presumably he knew that Coles was around the back, along with the bottle shop.

  Finally, they reached the real estate agency. Maz pushed open the door and saw the empty reception desk; she should’ve texted first. Maz had left home early this morning, so she hadn’t seen either of her parents today. But suddenly Mum was bustling down the short corridor in a red dress and black jacket. The red material puckered over her stomach and hips, the jacket pulled across her bust—had Mum put on more weight recently?

  They hugged, and Maz explained that the new instructor needed somewhere to rent.

  ‘Luke’s little girl has just started at the school, so something close would be awesome.’

  Mum sat them down at the desk, angling the computer screen so they could see it. Of course, Maz had already told Mum all about him last night, but if Luke wasn’t going to bring up his tragic circumstances, they’d have to pretend they didn’t know.

  ‘Do you have any other transport needs?’ Mum asked. ‘Do you or your partner need to be close to the bus stop, for example?’

  ‘It’s just me and Gracie. My … er … my wife died.’

  ‘Oh my gosh, I’m so terribly sorry.’ Mum reached over and patted his hand; she sounded completely shocked. Maz was impressed—she’d never seen Mum in work mode like this. Shame that she hadn’t got the job in sales. Maz reckoned it was because of Mum’s weight. The agency’s sales people were as tarted up as the houses they sold.

  ‘We have some apartments on the edge of Manly and a renovated semi.’ Mum clicked through the pictures on the screen. ‘Nothing in Wirriga at the moment. There’s a flat above an Indian restaurant on the main road in Brookvale. Lots of pollution from trucks, though.’

  Had Mum just given herself away or did all agents talk about air pollution?

  ‘Actually, Gracie is sick, so pollution’s an issue.’

  Luke looked downcast and Mum rushed to reassure him.

  ‘Don’t worry, love, we’ll find a nice home for you and Gracie. It’s a lovely area. Do you have any family in Sydney?’

  Luke shook his head.

  ‘What about your parents? Where are they?’

  Mum was such a busybody. Maz tried to catch her eye and warn her off the interrogation but Luke didn’t seem to find her questions intrusive.

  ‘In Western Australia. We had a falling-out. They said some unforgivable things about Gracie’s illness.’

  What a nightmare. Maz knew her own mother would be the opposite in a medical crisis.

  ‘Oh, love, that’s so sad,’ Mum said. ‘Why don’t you come over for lunch next Sunday? Bring little Gracie.’

  ‘Five, six, seven, eight and jump. Okay, here’s the swap. Make sure the other foot is out in front. Now, let’s go again. Punch it, one, two, three …’

  Maz surveyed the boxing class—a good turnout for the end of lunchtime. These days, her classes were filled almost every time. It had taken two years of hard work to get to this point. Woo-hoo. Maz gave an extra hard punch in the air and bounced her right hip up and down—her glutes rock hard, her butt tight. Man, she felt fierce. In her best shape ever. She’d be rocking it at her twenty-third birthday party in June. She just had to settle on a date and book a place. Nowhere too expensive. One of those wine bars by the beach in Manly? Or the new pub at Collaroy? She’d pay for finger food and a couple of jugs of sangria and beer to start. When she’d turned twenty-one, she hadn’t been able to afford a party.

  ‘Let’s go hard, guys. You get out what you put in!’

  Counting out the punches, Maz kept an eye on a man she’d never seen before. Cute bod, needed some work on his biceps and quads. Around Luke’s age, or maybe older. Luke’s physique was better, with just the right amount of definition. Maz couldn’t imagine what Luke was going through. Her grandparents, aunts and uncles were all alive, despite their fried breakfasts, fatty chops and ready-made macaroni cheese. She’d never had a death in the family
—only the one here in the gym, and that had shaken her up big-time.

  After the class finished, Maz opened the storage boxes for the mats and gloves, and directed everyone to drop them in. The cute guy was hanging around. Smiling in his direction, Maz collected the last set of gloves and dragged the box back to the corner.

  ‘Can I help you with that?’ he asked, rushing over to take the other side.

  ‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’ She smiled again. ‘I do it every day.’

  ‘I was wondering if you’d like to meet for a drink one night?’ He spoke with the confidence of someone who was rarely turned down. ‘In the city. Maybe at one of those cool bars in Barangaroo?’

  Up close, Maz realised he was older than she’d first thought. Mid-thirties maybe.

  ‘Oh wow, that’s really nice of you to ask,’ Maz cooed. ‘But I have a boyfriend.’

  Sometimes she loved the attention, sometimes she didn’t. Male punters thought they could chat up any instructor, that it was Maz’s duty to be polite to them, date them, admire their bodies. The boyfriend tactic seemed to shut them up, as if the only reason Maz wouldn’t want them was because she had a better option. At the moment, though, she was happily single. Oakley, her ‘friend with benefits’—that sounded so much better than ‘fuck buddy’, which was what her sister liked to say—was now working as a trainer in a resort in Thailand. When Maz had commented on his awesome Insta photos, Oakley suggested she should come over. It was a stunning place to live, he’d told her, but the pay was pretty low—he was selling bodybuilding supplements to get some extra cash.

  ‘That’s a shame.’ The man chuckled. ‘For me, obviously, not for your boyfriend. The name’s Colin, by the way. I’m already looking forward to my next class with you.’

  Colin’s eyes lingered on her breasts. Maz arched her back and pushed them out further. You can gawp all you like, mate, but you’re not touching these. Em-Jay reckoned it was the best way to treat the punters who focused on her tits.

  By the time Maz got home, Mum had already started dinner. A box of chicken Kiev from the supermarket freezer: battered chicken, dripping with preservatives and some kind of processed butter. Dad was mashing potato, adding more butter. Maz could see two empty bowls in the lounge room, the remnants of their barbecue chips and salty nuts. If she looked in the recycling bin, she knew there’d be three empty VB cans.

  Flipping hell, Dad just needed to stop eating and drinking like this and the kilos would drop off. He was only forty-seven, but he had arthritis in both knees and his hip. Half the time, he was limping. Maz kept telling him: ‘A kilo off the body is equal to four kilos of pressure off the knee.’ She’d offered Dad and Mum a discounted membership at the gym but they’d said, ‘It’s not our kind of place.’

  After what had happened last year, Maz figured they might be right. When the overweight guy on the rowing machine had collapsed, Maz assumed he was just taking a break, exhausted from a hard workout. Then one of the punters had called out, ‘I think he’s unconscious.’

  Ten o’clock at night, Maz was on the late shift. Nico and the senior instructors had gone home. She’d trained in CPR but never actually had to perform it. The two other men in the weights room had panicked.

  ‘Hurry up and do something,’ they’d shouted at her.

  He was slumped awkwardly over the rowing machine—it took all three of them to drag him clear. Maz sent one guy to get the defibrillator while the other called an ambulance. She was trying to check the man’s breathing and his pulse but it was hard to find the carotid artery in his thick neck. What if she was feeling in the wrong spot? What if she started CPR when his heart was still beating?

  Once Maz had turned on the AED—the automated external defibrillator—she calmed down a little as the recorded voice issued instructions. But the man’s shirt was too tight and they couldn’t inch it up above his chest. Someone had to find scissors but the office door was locked. Maz didn’t have time to get the key. She ended up biting the material with her teeth, her face pressed against the man’s sweaty groin, until she managed to make a tear. Hands shaking, she stuck the pads on his skin and delivered the shocks. Then she started compressions.

  After two minutes, the machine requested another shock.

  Maz stared at the man’s puffy red face, the wet hair flat against his head. Somehow, she knew he wasn’t going to survive.

  Before the workout, he’d said, ‘It’s my wife’s birthday tomorrow so I’m getting my exercise in tonight.’

  He’d only joined the gym a week earlier; Maz had shown him how to use the machines. He’d talked about getting into shape now that he was forty, wanting to play soccer with his twin boys.

  By the time the ambulance arrived, Maz’s shoulders were sore from doing CPR. The adrenaline had kept her going but when the paramedics took over, she crumpled backwards against the rowing machine.

  ‘Please save him,’ she’d whispered.

  They tried. They all tried.

  His name was Joseph.

  Two weeks later, the wife came in to thank Maz for her efforts. Four weeks later, Nico had a letter from a solicitor stating the gym had provided an inappropriate program for Joseph’s weight and fitness level. The letter asked why ‘inexperienced’ Maz had been the only instructor on that night; whether she’d learnt first aid; and if she’d done training on an AED.

  Joseph’s family wanted to sue.

  Nico protected Maz from the worst of it. The legal back and forth stretched on for ages but, eight months later, Nico said it’d finally been sorted. He didn’t tell her how.

  Every day at work, Maz glanced at the rowing machine and wondered if she’d acted quickly enough. Wondered what else she could’ve done to save Joseph’s life.

  And every time she studied her father, with the same body type as the dead man, she worried for his health.

  She’d done research on turmeric and curcumin for Dad’s arthritis; bought a cookbook for improving joint health; prepared nutritional dinners; coaxed him into some simple exercises. Dad had grunted through one set and refused to do any more. Before Christmas, the GP told him that he had to lose twenty kilos—and the doctor was being polite. Really, Dad needed to lose more to get to a normal BMI.

  At the shampoo factory where Dad worked, the ladies baked cakes and slices for morning tea every day—it had turned into a competition. At home, Mum liked to make dessert. Everyone in their extended family thought that food meant love. No: it meant clogged arteries, sore joints and feeling exhausted all the time. By getting into the gym as teenagers, Maz and her sister had managed to see the light.

  Just last week, when Maz had been looking for a pen in the kitchen drawer, she’d found Mum’s terrible cholesterol test. Some of her friends complained about their parents but Maz knew she was lucky: Rick and Wendy were the very best parents a girl could have. Maz wanted them to be around for a long time yet.

  Maz put the cutlery and water jug on the table for dinner. At least they were drinking more water.

  ‘Love, can you get the carrots out of the microwave?’ Mum said.

  Over-cooked carrots. Not much nutrition there. Maz found some broccoli in the bottom of the fridge and zapped it. She added the vegetables to each plate as Mum served up the chicken Kiev. Dad took his to the table, along with another can of VB.

  ‘The twenty-first is coming up soon,’ Mum said. ‘We’ll need to get a present.’

  ‘How about a case of beer?’ Dad took a swig of his own.

  Hadn’t Dad taken any notice at Christmas lunch? The oldies were pissed while the younger ones glugged Coke and Red Bull. Her cousin didn’t drink alcohol.

  ‘What about a nice shirt?’ Maz suggested.

  ‘Do you know if it’s a big party?’

  Maz could hear the heaviness in her mother’s voice.

  ‘It’s okay, Mum, I’m paying for my own birthday party.’ Maz blew her a kiss.

  Later, as she was clearing up after dinner, Maz heard a ding on her phone. She rea
d the text message from her sister about drinks on Friday, then clicked onto Facebook. Luke had accepted her friend request. With one ear on Mum’s conversation, Maz peeked through his profile. His most recent posts were photos of Gracie on Manly beach. So excited to be in Wirriga and seeing the new specialist. Fingers crossed!

  Scrolling back in time, Maz came across a post by Sarah Branson—Luke’s wife, she presumed—where she’d tagged Luke. A hospital in Melbourne: Chemo day. Gracie is so brave but I’m a mess. No photos of me crying! Then Luke with Gracie in her purple beanie: Love my gorgeous girl. A picture of a bunch of kale: We’re doing a superfoods diet for Gracie. Any suggestions welcome! Maz zoomed in on the pictures of the wife. Dark curly hair. Dimples. And a thousand-watt smile. No posts in October. In November, Luke had written a tribute: Sarah was the love of my life. The best wife and mother in the world. Our hearts are aching beyond words. In December, a short post saying: Thanks for your support. We really appreciate it. Gracie and I are going to the children’s hospital Christmas party today. A photo of a clown in the hospital ward. Christmas must have been horrendous.

  ‘Maz, can you hear me?’ Her mother waved a hand across the phone screen. ‘What shall we do for lunch on Sunday? Sausages on the barbecue?’

  ‘Oh no, Luke’s little girl has a special diet. I’ll go shopping on Saturday after class.’

  Luke had mentioned Gracie’s diet when she’d given him her address: sugar-free, low in red meat, high in leafy greens. If Maz left it up to Mum, she’d kill the girl with sweet treats of kindness.

  Before Luke and Gracie arrived on Sunday, Mum had gone to the garage and pulled out the old Barbie dolls and Lego. Maz couldn’t believe she’d kept them.

  ‘That was my Barbie,’ her sister Kelli said.

  ‘No, she’s mine!’ Maz pulled at the one in the leopard-print dress. ‘I remember cutting her hair.’

  ‘Girls, seriously,’ Mum snapped, ‘I didn’t think you’d be arguing about dolls in your twenties. It doesn’t matter whose was whose. Gracie can use them all.’