Freia Lockhart's Summer of Awful

by Aimee Said

  “What the hell is going on down there?” yells Gran.

  “Nothing,” Ziggy yells back, glaring at me to stay silent.

  I pick myself off the floor and open the study door.

  “You’re lucky I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” he says as I close it behind me.

  26

  Boris is waiting for me on the sofa bed, flicking his tail agitatedly in a where’s-my-dinner way. One good thing about having a cat whose main focus in life is his enormous belly is that he’ll let you do just about anything to him if he’s hungry. I pull him onto my lap and bend my head to nuzzle in his soft fur.

  By the time I’ve finished telling him every single thing that’s gone wrong today, Boris’s patience is wearing thin. He gives my wrist a slow, deliberate bite, just in case I haven’t got the message that his bowl is empty.

  “Okay, you’ve earned it,” I say, putting him back on his pillow.

  From the kitchen I can hear Ziggy taking out what’s left of his rage on his punching bag. I dump Boris’s dirty bowl in the sink and scoop the contents of one of the small tins of King Cat Royale he got for Christmas into a fresh one. The cat food has a jellied layer of shrimp and clams; it looks twice as appetising as the floppy burger I had for dinner. My stomach gives an unsatisfied growl. I open the fridge but before I can delve further than yesterday’s leftovers I hear the garage door slam and Ziggy’s footsteps in the laundry. I close the fridge and walk double-time back to the study.

  Ways to distract yourself while waiting to find out if your mum’s going to be okay

  Wonder whether your boyfriend really is away camping or just avoiding speaking to you.

  Tweak your sleeping cat’s tail and then pretend to be engrossed in Charlotte’s Web when he opens his eyes to give you the death stare. (Note: this only works a few times before the advantage of having claws becomes evident.)

  Wonder who your boyfriend is sharing a tent with.

  Brainstorm new brownie flavours. (Yes: raspberry cheesecake. No: wholemeal with carob, even though Mum’d love them.)

  Wonder if calling someone’s mobile to see whether they really are out of range counts as stalking.

  Feel bad about obsessing over your boyfriend when you should be thinking about your mum.

  Dad gets home a little after midnight.

  “What are you still doing up?” he asks when I join him in the kitchen.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” I say, which is an outright lie since I’ve been struggling to keep my eyes open for the last hour. “How’s Mum?”

  “Stable. She’s getting super-strength antibiotics through a drip and they’ve moved her back to the ward.” He goes to the fridge and gets out the ingredients for his favourite late-night sandwich: cheese, pickled onions and mayonnaise. “Want one?”

  I shake my head. “Did they say when she can come home?”

  “A couple of days, hopefully. But we’ve heard that before, right?”

  Dad sounds like his optimism has finally been exhausted. I want to tell him that he can’t lose hope, that he has to have enough for all of us, but he looks so, so tired.

  “I’m sure she will,” I say, but I have nothing better to back it up with than, “It’ll take more than some nasty bacteria to keep Mum down.”

  Dad tries to smile, fails and takes a bite of sandwich to cover it up.

  “Want me to take Boris to your room?” I ask. “He’s being pretty smoochy tonight.”

  “Thanks, love, but I think I’ll go and listen to some music in my study. You should get some sleep.”

  I don’t argue. I’ve run out of cheering platitudes and I’m worried that if we keep talking, one of us will end up in tears … and for once it probably won’t be me.

  Dad spends most of the following two days in his study, except for when he’s at the hospital. It wouldn’t be that different from how he’s been acting since Gran arrived if he hadn’t stopped sleeping in his bed. He’s also stopped inviting us to go to the hospital with him, instead going as early as possible in the morning and coming home late in the evening.

  A few days ago I would have given him a serve about leaving me to accompany Gran on her daily visits, but compared to him she’s the lesser of two burdens right now. After the night in the ICU, she decided I was A Knitter and started pulling out my “scarf” every time she got out her own knitting. Mostly, I go along with it to humour her, but I draw the line at knitting on the bus. There’s always a chance that someone from school will get on it, and knowing my luck it would be Belinda Sinclair herself.

  On the third day, Dad returns from the hospital before Gran and I are even dressed, bringing Mum with him.

  “I wish you’d told me, Terence,” says Gran. “I’d have cleaned this place up.”

  But not even Gran can break Dad’s mood. His eyes are still ringed with grey, but they sparkle every time he looks at Mum. “Sorry, Thelma, I didn’t know Genie’d be all packed up and waiting for me.”

  “It’s my fault,” says Mum, giving Gran a hug. “I couldn’t bear those pink walls for a minute longer. Anyway, the house looks great.”

  Mum’s lost more weight and is even more fragile than before, but she doesn’t have the drain any more. She puts her arms around Ziggy’s and my waists and squeezes tightly. “Sorry if I gave you a scare, but I promise I’m home for good this time.”

  She sounds so happy and so sure of herself that I can’t help believing her.

  When Mum goes upstairs to shower Dad tells us that Dr Bynes and the oncology nurse have given her strict instructions to take it easy or she won’t be able to start radiotherapy next week.

  “It’s up to all of us to make sure she doesn’t overexert herself,” he says sternly. “And that includes not doing anything to stress her out.” I’m pleased to note that this directive is aimed at Ziggy.

  “Something smells good,” calls Mum from the living room where Gran and I have made her a day bed on the sofa with her mohair rug and lots of cushions for her back.

  I take the hint and put one of the brownies I’ve just finished icing on a plate.

  “New recipe?” asks Mum, holding the plate at eye level to inspect it.

  “Yep. I invented the peanut butter swirl bit, but the icing was Gran’s idea.”

  “I thought it was familiar – it’s her ganache, right? I used to beg her to ice my birthday cakes with it every year.” Mum takes a bite and “mmms”.

  “How are things with you?” she asks once she’s swallowed.

  “Okay. Fine, really.”

  “No news? Nothing happened while I was in hospital?”

  Let’s see, one of my best friends’ parents have split up, Dad’s on the verge of some kind of meltdown and I haven’t spoken to Dan since New Year’s Day. “Nope, nothing except the Ziggy thing.”

  She nods. “Dad told me. He and Mrs Biggins are taking the boys to meet with the ranger this afternoon and decide on their punishment. Poor Zig.”

  I press my lips together to stop myself saying anything.

  When I get to Switch Jay looks more miserable than ever.

  “I just miss Nicky so much,” he says, dunking a corner of brownie into his espresso. “The worst part is not hearing her voice.”

  I scoop a spoonful of whipped cream off the top of my iced chocolate and nod. I know that, technically, it’s my turn to play beagle, but I can’t help joining Jay’s pity party. “At least Nicky’s got the excuse of being in a different time zone,” I say. “Dan’s only a hundred kilometres away and I barely hear from him.”

  “At least you do hear from him. I know Nicky’s completely immersed in her research, but surely she could find a payphone occasionally.”

  “At least you’re not waiting by the phone for her to call when she finally has nothing better to do.”

  “At least you know there are times when he has nothing better to do!”

  We continue arguing about who’s got it worse until customers start arriving for lunch.

  “I’d
better get back to work,” says Jay. “Thanks for listening to my moaning, Freia. It sucks how being in love can be the greatest high and ultimate low at the same time, eh?”

  If a psychic had told me that I’d spend my summer having heart-to-hearts with Jay, I’d have laughed them out of Parkville. Mind you, if anyone had predicted any of what’s happened over the last few weeks, I wouldn’t have dreamed it could come true.

  “There you are!”

  I look up from scraping the last dregs of chocolate syrup out of my glass to see Siouxsie, Steph and Vicky.

  “Your mum said you’d be here,” says Steph before I can ask what they’re doing here. “She also told us you have a killer new brownie recipe.”

  “You went to my house?”

  Siouxsie nods. “We were going to do an intervention, to force you to get over your addiction to being miserable.”

  The three of them look so serious that I can’t help laughing.

  “That’s a good start,” says Steph, “but we’ll need at least three more of those before we can let you go home.”

  We move to the couches in the back room. Steph and Siouxsie sit together, leaving me to sit next to Vicky. I suspect it’s no coincidence, especially since the two of them immediately start talking about some obscure band that’s touring. Vicky and I pretend to be interested in their conversation until Steph pointedly raises an eyebrow in Vicky’s direction and she turns to me.

  “So … happy new year!” she says with awkward enthusiasm.

  “Thanks, same to you.”

  “Thanks, but our new year isn’t for another week or so. Buddhists follow the lunar calendar.”

  “Oh,” I say and we fall silent again.

  After another couple of minutes (and probably another cue from Steph) Vicky clears her throat.

  “Uh, I think I might have said some things at the zoo that upset you, and if I did, then I’m sorry,” she blurts. “I really, really didn’t mean to be insensitive. I was just trying to be a good friend.”

  When she finishes speaking she waits for my reaction with wide, worried eyes. Suddenly, staying upset with her makes no sense at all.

  “I know, Vix. I’m sorry I overreacted. I think I just needed someone to take my anger out on and you were an easy target. It was a shitty thing to do.”

  Vicky shrugs. “I guess that’s what friends are for.”

  “Yeah,” says Siouxsie, who’s obviously heard every word we’ve said. “What’s that saying about always hurting the ones you love?”

  “Don’t,” I groan. “You sound like my gran.”

  Steph laughs. “We met her when we went to your place. She answered the door with her knitting in one hand and a parrot on her shoulder, like some sort of pirate craft maven.”

  “I hope you didn’t tell her that. She’d take it as a compliment and get her and Rocky matching eye patches.”

  “She wasn’t so bad,” says Vicky. “My nanna wouldn’t have let us leave without making us a full meal. She thinks every teenage girl has an eating disorder and that only she can cure them.”

  Soon it feels like old times, the four of us in our usual corner, trying not to choke on our brownies when we laugh. It feels like the perfect school holiday Wednesday until I notice the empty table where Dan usually sits.

  “Oi, no moping!” says Steph, throwing a cushion at me.

  “I’m not moping.”

  “You are,” says Siouxsie. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing.”

  Souxsie’s eyebrows narrow. “You’re not doing this again, are you?”

  “Doing what?” I ask.

  “Pretending everything’s fine and retreating into your burrow,” says Steph.

  Vicky looks alarmed. “I thought we weren’t going to mention wombats.”

  “We weren’t,” says Steph, “but now I can see that the intervention’s needed after all. Freia, we’re your friends and, as Vix and I have already explained to Siouxsie, it’s our duty to care if you’re upset or angry or feeling crap. We want to help, even if all we can do is listen to you whinge and keep up a steady supply of chocolate.”

  Siouxsie and Vicky nod in earnest agreement.

  “It’s stupid,” I tell them. “It’s just stupid insecure girlfriend stuff and I know no guy’s worth feeling so bad over and I should be capable of enjoying myself without Dan around and if he is doing any of the things I’m going crazy thinking about him doing then I’m better off without him …”

  “But you miss him,” says Vicky.

  I nod and try to blink away my tears.

  Steph comes over and sits on the arm of the couch next to me and Siouxsie crouches at my feet, the three of them forming a sort of friend force field around me.

  “Dan’s a good guy,” says Siouxsie. “Whatever’s going on with him, I’m sure he doesn’t realise he’s being such a tool.”

  “He’s probably got stuff of his own going on,” agrees Steph. “I’d be pretty preoccupied too if I was forced to spend my summer holidays in the middle of nowhere with my estranged mother.”

  “Plus, verbal communication isn’t most guys’ strong point,” adds Vicky.

  We stay for another hour, catching up on Siouxsie’s dad’s progress as a bachelor (not much, but at least he’s bought some cutlery), Steph’s tales from the dark side of Parkville Metro and Vicky’s adventures with the twins. By the time we leave it almost feels like things have never been weird between us.

  27

  I instantly recognise the silver BMW parked across our driveway when I get home. It takes all my willpower not to “accidentally” scrape my bike along the passenger door as I wheel it into the garage.

  When I walk into the kitchen Rocky starts bouncing on his perch, flapping his wings with excitement. “Hellohellohello,” he screeches.

  “Shut up,” I tell him, after checking to make sure Gran’s not lurking in the shadows.

  “Freia, is that you?” calls Mum. “Come and say hello to Dr Fairchild.”

  I shoot Rocky the death stare as I head for the living room. “Thanks a lot, stupid bird.”

  Mum and Dr Phil are sitting on the couch. There’s a teapot and three cups on the coffee table, and Gran’s knitting is plunked on top of her tote bag, as if she left the room in a hurry – probably to send Archie a text message.

  “Hello, Dr Fairchild,” I say in a monotone from the doorway.

  Dr Phil turns his head but doesn’t bother shifting in his seat to face me. He looks even more tanned than usual, as if he’s been to Fake’n’Bake at Parkville Metro and asked them to dial the spray gun all the way up to Oompa Loompa.

  “Hello, Freia,” he says smarmily. “How are you? Enjoying the holidays? Keeping busy? That’s the way.”

  He turns back to Mum before I can answer, which is just as well since if he’d waited for a response, I probably would’ve said something along the lines of, “I’d be much better and enjoying myself a lot more if you hadn’t forced my boyfriend to go away for an indefinite period,” which may have been satisfying but would also have made Mum’s face turn purple, something I’m trying to avoid until she’s made a complete recovery.

  As it is, Mum smiles at me for being polite and then says, “Make us another pot of tea, will you? Your gran said she was going to do it but I think she may have gone for a nap instead.”

  While I wait for the kettle to boil, I recall a movie I watched on TV when I was home “sick” one day, about this woman who killed her whole family by putting rat poison in their tea. I remember that she looked like a nice motherly type, with an apron and her hair in a bun on top of her head, but when her victims got sick, she laughed and laughed. I didn’t drink tea for a month after that.

  The refilled pot is very hot and too heavy to carry easily in one hand. I wish I’d brought in the tray as well, but I can’t be bothered making another trip to the living room to get it. Halfway down the hall, I stop and rest the teapot on the hallstand while I shake out my wrist. I’m about to pick it up ag
ain when Mum says, “How’s Daniel getting on at his mother’s?”

  “Well, you know he doesn’t tell me anything,” says Dr Phil, “but it’s a positive sign that he’s still in Little Ridge. I must admit, I was shocked when he asked if he could visit Anne-Marie, especially after what happened last time, but he was determined to go. Is it too optimistic to think that he might be growing up at last?”

  The two of them are still chuckling when I put the teapot on the coffee table.

  “Thanks, Fray,” says Mum. “Would you like a cup?”

  I shake my head and leave without saying a word.

  I don’t know why Dr Phil would lie to Mum about Dan, but it just doesn’t make any sense. After everything Dan said about his mum – and all the things he left unsaid – I can’t believe he actually wanted to spend time with her. And if he did, why would he lie to me about it? Was there some other reason he wanted to go? Or someone other than his mum that he wanted to see?

  I close the front door behind me as quietly as I can and bolt down the driveway before Dr Phil or Mum can come after me. Not that they would – they’re now deep in conversation about Ziggy’s “issues” – but the last thing I need right now is to be subjected to any of Dr Phil’s kiddie shrink questioning.

  It’s dog-walking hour in the park. The owners stand around in groups with their backs to the Dogs Must Be Leashed sign while they keep a weary eye out for the ranger. I can see the wounded tree from ten metres away. It has a sort of bandage around the middle of its trunk, like a gunshot victim who’s taken a bullet in the stomach, and there’s a low fence around it, made out of wooden stakes and orange-and-white striped hazard tape. I know it’s only a tree, but it looks like it’s in pain. (Note to self: ask Vickypedia if trees have feelings.)

  The bandage is about ten centimetres wide and smells strongly of something natural and chemical at the same time. It covers Jim loves Elsie and Sara loves Ty and, of course, DTF + FL. It’s as if all traces of me and Dan have been obliterated. I reach across the hazard tape to touch the trunk, running my fingers over the smooth bark, then the ridges of someone’s initials and up to the bandage. A trickle of sap has escaped it, making a dark, sticky, bloodlike streak. The tears come so quickly this time that I couldn’t stop them even if I wanted to.