The Way Back

by Kylie Ladd

  Maybe it was just his age, she reassured herself. Dan had always been a quiet child. It shouldn’t be a surprise that he was now a quiet teenager. He’d barely cried as a baby, had never prattled as a toddler—in stark contrast to Charlie, who’d done plenty of both. His language development had been normal, and it was never suggested that there was anything wrong. He used his words sparingly, thought before he said something. In that way, then, not much had changed. But he had been a happy child, Rachael thought, hands tightening on the steering wheel. Quiet, yes, but self-possessed, full of smiles and hugs and wonder. She still remembered his face when she’d collect him from day-care, eyes alight with joy, pressing his small damp palm to her cheek when she bent to pick him up, as if checking that she was real. Had he enjoyed day-care? She’d thought so at the time, though now she wasn’t so sure. He’d always seemed content enough when she dropped him there, though maybe in retrospect she’d mistaken acceptance for resignation. But what did it matter now? She’d had to work—she’d wanted to work—and with Matt’s ever-changing shifts as a firefighter, day-care had been the only option. It had been the same for Charlie, and Charlie was fine. True, she was a bit vague sometimes, but she always had plenty to say.

  Rachael indicated and turned off the highway onto the smaller B road that led to the Greater Melbourne Pony Club. She usually enjoyed this part of the drive, which wound its way through farmland, then bush. If she wasn’t running late she’d even slow down to enjoy the scent of the eucalypts, the chiming of the bellbirds. Not today, though. Today she just drove, barely seeing anything around her, her ancient BMW shuddering at every pothole it encountered. Dan had been four at day-care. Now he was sixteen. He was still quiet, but the quality of his silence had changed. The tiny boy had been replaced by an adolescent half a head taller than she, a stranger who lived in her house and ate her meals, who—according to Matt—came home from school, mumbled a greeting, then retreated to his room and closed the door. Sometimes in the evenings they’d hear him playing his guitar, but usually he made no sound at all. It was eerie. It scared her. What was he doing in there? He wasn’t on social media—he’d never wanted a phone, and most nights his laptop remained with his bag in the hall. That ruled out watching porn too, which would have been her next guess, but Dan had never really shown any interest in girls. Matt told her to stop worrying, that he was probably just doing his homework, but if he was spending all that time on his studies it wasn’t reflected in his marks. Rachael frowned. It was all just … unnatural, somehow. Apart from one old primary school friend, no one ever called for him or dropped round to see him; he’d never stumbled in after his curfew smelling of cigarettes or beer. And what teenage boy wasn’t glued to Facebook or Grand Theft Auto?

  She’d mentioned it once to her friend Kathy, but Kathy had just handed her a glass of wine and laughed. You’re lucky, she’d told Rachael. Don’t fight it. Brayden got in after three last Saturday night, and Elliot announced yesterday that studying was gay—she paused to draw quotation marks in the air—and didn’t matter until Year Twelve. I’d swap them for Dan any day. Maybe she was right. Brayden and Elliot—twins, the same age as Dan but at a different school—were always out, and Kathy and her husband Steve seemed to spend their lives either driving them somewhere or waiting to pick them up. Dan, in contrast, was decidedly low maintenance. Maybe she was lucky, she reassured herself, maybe he really was fine, the way he insisted on those occasions she’d worked up the courage to ask. Matt said Dan was a late bloomer; that he’d been the same at Dan’s age, and Matt had turned out OK, hadn’t he? Sunlight filtered through the trees overhead and for a moment Rachael’s spirits rose. Dan would be OK. He was a bright boy, good looking, not particularly sporty but great with his guitar. He was just an introvert. It wasn’t terminal. Now, if only she could say the same about her mother …

  The sign indicating the turn-off for pony club came into view and Rachael braked, preparing to swing onto the unmade road. Her mother was another one who never came out of her room, though for a completely different reason. She had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease three years ago and Rachael and Matt had moved her into residential care just before Christmas when it had become apparent that she could no longer live safely alone in her own home. Everyone at the facility had reassured them that her mother would get used to it, but four months on it was patently apparent that she hadn’t. She spent her days sitting on her bed, rocking or crying or both, hissing at Rachael whenever she dared visit. It was ridiculous, Rachael thought. Her mother had dementia. How, then, could she still recall that it was Rachael who had signed the papers to have her admitted?

  Dust billowed around the car and she felt the wheels slip. Rachael straightened up, annoyed with herself. She knew this road could be dangerous when it hadn’t rained for a while and the corrugations built up. Matt was always telling her to be careful, but thankfully Matt wasn’t here to witness her having disregarded his advice yet again. He’d offered to pick Charlie up, of course he had. Rachael had a sneaking suspicion that he didn’t have much else to do, but she hadn’t wanted to ask. Somehow it felt as if the pickup was her job, anyway … she’d worked all week and most of that Saturday too. The hour’s drive home with Charlie would be the only one-on-one time she’d spent with her daughter since the previous weekend. Charlie didn’t seem to mind—she had her dad at home most days after school, and didn’t lack for attention—but still Rachael felt guilty. Motherhood, it sometimes seemed, was little more than a gradual accretion of guilt. She should spend more time with her daughter. She should find out if there was anything going on with her son. She should say yes to her husband more often, or make an effort to actually reach for him in bed for once, rather than it always being the other way around. She should visit her mother, ignoring her ire; she should take her for a proper haircut or just out of the home for coffee. Should, should, should. She could feel a migraine coming on just thinking about all of this.

  Rachael pulled into the pony club car park, returning the wave from Ivy’s mother, who was leaving. Duchess’s float bounced behind the family’s four-wheel drive; Ivy sat in the passenger seat eating some sort of baguette. Rachael felt another pang of reproach. Charlie was always starving after a day out riding. She should have remembered to bring something for her. Ivy’s mum clearly had, and she’d been on time. Rachael slammed the car door and hurried towards the main arena. She’d told Charlie to wait for her there, but there was no sign of her. She’d probably got bored and wandered off, and who could blame her? Rachael checked the tack room, then the toilets and the feed store. When none of them yielded Charlie she went to the draughty portable building that Gia used as an office. Gia was inside, bent over a logbook.

  ‘Have you seen Charlie?’ Rachael asked without preamble.

  ‘Hello to you too, Mrs Johnson,’ Gia said. ‘Not for a while. I thought she’d gone. It’s almost six.’

  Rachael flushed. ‘I got caught up at work,’ she said. Why did it have to be horses? It would have been so much easier if Charlie had wanted to do calisthenics or play tennis—close to home, cheaper, none of the injury worries …

  ‘I’m just filling out an incident report,’ said Gia, as if she knew what Rachael was thinking. ‘One of the older girls got thrown today. I’ll come and help you find Charlie when I’m finished.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Rachael. ‘Is the girl OK?’

  ‘She’ll need stitches. Caught her cheek on the stirrup iron. She’s fine, though.’

  Fine, Rachael thought as she headed back out to look for Charlie. Possibly disfigured for life, but fine. That was comforting. A small seed of anxiety was growing in her stomach, but before it could blossom she spotted Charlie in the distance with her back to her, leaning on a gate. It had to be Charlie—the tiny hips, the long legs, the tangle of dirty blonde hair falling down her back. Lately it almost seemed as if her daughter was turning into a horse herself. A newborn foal, with its ridiculously elongated limbs; a dun filly with an uncomb
ed mane. Sometimes Rachael got a shock when she saw her, the lines of a woman starting to push through her child’s body, the still-surprising hints of breasts, of a waist. There was no sign now of the chubby toddler she’d once been. She was just thirteen, and all potential.

  ‘Hello,’ Rachael said when she reached her. ‘I was getting a bit worried. I didn’t know where you were.’

  Charlie turned and kissed her, then went back to staring across the paddock.

  ‘I was saying goodnight to Tic Tac. He’s over there, under the tree.’ She pointed. ‘Doesn’t he look happy? We had a lovely ride today. We raced Ivy home and we won.’

  Rachael peered in the direction Charlie had indicated. Tic Tac had his head down and was tugging at some grass. It was impossible to tell if he was happy or not, but she’d take Charlie’s word for it. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said. ‘Are you hungry? We could get some KFC on the way home.’ It was a guilt offering, much like the pony itself. ‘Just don’t tell your dad.’

  Charlie smiled. ‘OK. Can we just watch Tic Tac for a few more minutes?’

  ‘Sure,’ Rachael agreed. Now that she was here and Charlie was fine—not lost, not lacerated, seemingly not even aware that her mother was half an hour late—she could relax. It had been a perfect early autumn day, fine and clear, and the lowering sun was warm on her back. A finch alighted on the fence post next to them. She slipped an arm around her daughter’s middle and buried her nose in her hair. ‘I thought I told you to tie this back,’ she mumbled.

  ‘I forgot,’ said Charlie. ‘Look, Mum, Jo-Jo’s come over to talk to Ticcy.’

  Rachael looked up. A sturdy chestnut was standing next to Tic Tac, rubbing its face on his neck.

  ‘They’re really good friends,’ Charlie went on. ‘They always want to be next to each other when we have a trail ride.’

  ‘It looks like Jo-Jo’s just itchy to me,’ Rachael said.

  ‘Mum!’ Charlie protested. ‘You’ve got no imagination. And they are friends. Horses don’t like being alone any more than people do.’

  Try telling that to Dan, Rachael thought. Dan. She needed to get home and check on him. There were things to do. She couldn’t stand out here all night.

  ‘Speaking of that,’ Charlie was continuing, ‘today while I was waiting for Ivy, out in the bush, I saw …’

  Rachael cut her off. ‘Come on,’ she said, manoeuvring her away from the fence. ‘We’ve got to get going. Your dad will have started dinner.’

  ‘Can I still get KFC?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘I suppose so, as long as it’s drive-through.’

  Charlie turned and waved. ‘Bye, Tic Tac. See you soon.’

  The pony whinnied in reply as they walked together back to the car.

  ‘Hey! Everyone listen. Who wants to play Three Minutes in Heaven?’

  Britta had turned the music down and was standing on one of the couches waving an empty plastic Fanta bottle above her head. Charlie snuck a look at Ivy. It was Ivy’s party, and Ivy liked to run things. She wouldn’t be happy about Britta taking over.

  ‘I hope your shoes are clean,’ Ivy called out from where she was hovering by the table with the food. ‘My mum will kill you otherwise.’

  Britta glanced down at her gold sandals and shrugged dismissively.

  ‘Whatevs.’

  Charlie stifled a laugh. Ivy wouldn’t be happy about that either, or the fact that Britta’s sandals, which had a slight heel, were leaving marks on the leather. Ivy was Charlie’s friend, but for some reason it was a thrill to see her crossed. Everything always went Ivy’s way, and you could get tired of that.

  ‘So—who knows how to play?’ Britta asked.

  A few people shook their heads. Britta was so lucky to be allowed to wear heels, Charlie thought. There was no way her mum would let her. Britta didn’t need to wear heels, anyway. She was already almost a head taller than most of the boys, and could tuck Charlie under her arm. Charlie quite liked that, though, especially since they’d started high school this year. No one would ever give her any trouble standing next to the loud, funny and undeniably tall Britta.

  ‘It’s a bit like spin the bottle,’ Britta continued, all faces now turned towards her, ‘except without any of that random stuff. We all sit in a circle and someone spins this.’ She thrust the Fanta bottle aloft again. ‘Whoever it points to gets to choose someone else, and then they go outside and spend three minutes alone together.’

  ‘Doing what?’ yelled out a boy in a red Vans t-shirt. Charlie didn’t think she knew him, then realised he was Damon from her French class. Everyone looked so different out of uniform.

  ‘Duh—whatever they like.’ Britta rolled her eyes. ‘But here’s a clue: it’s called Three Minutes in Heaven for a reason. They’re probably not going to play Angry Birds.’

  People laughed and Damon flushed.

  ‘Right then,’ said Britta, jumping down from the couch. ‘Let’s get started. Everyone in a circle.’

  The furniture was pushed back and Charlie joined the other guests in a somewhat haphazard ring on the rug in the middle of Ivy’s parents’ living room. One of them, anyway. They seemed to have any number of living spaces: this big room at the back of the house with the French doors opening to a courtyard and the lawn, another more formal area at the front where Charlie guessed Ivy’s mum and dad were taking cover right now, and a separate entertaining area with a bar and a billiard table and lots of framed pictures of racehorses that overlooked the pool. Then there was the huge space upstairs that Ivy shared with her younger brother, but she’d told Charlie that she didn’t want to have the party there because all the boys would end up playing the Xbox. This was the first year seven party that had been held, and she was determined to make it sophisticated.

  Charlie sat down next to Araminta, whom she’d just met that year. They smiled shyly at each other.

  ‘Do you know who you’d pick?’ Araminta whispered. ‘I’ve got no idea. I’m still learning everyone’s names.’ Araminta had been the only person from her primary school to come to Holy Cross. Charlie shuddered at the thought. Beginning high school had been frightening enough. It would have been downright terrifying if she hadn’t had Britta, Georgina and Mita from St Paul’s starting with her. And Ivy too, she supposed, glancing across the circle to where Ivy had wedged herself between Damon and a boy with holes in his jeans. She and Ivy had known each other since joining the pony club around the same time. They’d realised over summer that they were bound for the same secondary school, but still it had felt weird to bump into her on the first day, their jodhpurs replaced with starchy new uniforms. Ivy had had matching ribbons in her hair, which was neatly plaited; Charlie’s had been all over the place, as usual. Would they even have spoken to each other if they hadn’t had the pony club in common? Charlie doubted it. Ivy wasn’t really her type. She was too neat, too confident; she had her hand up in class before the teacher had finished asking the question. Ivy knew everything, and if she didn’t, she pretended.

  ‘Me neither,’ she whispered back to Araminta, though it wasn’t quite true. She’d pick Liam. As soon as she had the thought she blushed, then prayed no one had noticed. Would she, though? Would she actually have the guts? Britta could do it—stand up in front of everyone and make her choice without turning a hair—but she wasn’t Britta. Just say Liam looked disappointed, or worse, appalled? Just say all his friends teased him, or they got outside and he sat down and turned his back to her? She’d never survive. It would be better to pick someone she didn’t like, so it didn’t matter, or not to get a turn at all. Sweat prickled her armpits. She’d die if the bottle pointed at her.

  ‘Stop talking, everyone. Pay attention.’ Britta placed the bottle in the middle of the circle. Ivy immediately leant in, grabbing it.

  ‘It’s my party, so I get to spin it,’ she pronounced. No one argued. Ivy checked to make sure they were all watching her, then set the bottle going so violently that it skidded across the rug towards Charlie. She shrank bac
k, willing it away, then watched hopelessly as it came to a stop pointing somewhere between herself and Araminta.

  ‘Charlie! You have to choose!’ Ivy shrieked. Charlie peered at Britta, who immediately swooped on the bottle and spun it again.

  ‘It was on the line,’ she said. ‘Doesn’t count.’ Ivy spluttered a bit, but fell silent when she saw that everybody else was more interested in who the bottle was going to select next.

  ‘Phew,’ muttered Araminta. ‘I thought that was going to be me.’

  Charlie’s heart was hammering so wildly she couldn’t reply. Ever since she was little she’d had a horror of being singled out, of being the centre of attention. Her parents had offered her her own party when she’d turned thirteen in February, a month ago, but she’d refused, telling them that she barely knew anyone at school yet. It was true, but even if she had she still couldn’t have managed an event like this. Oh, it was fun to attend, to giggle in a corner with her friends and peek at Liam when she knew he wasn’t looking, but there was no way she’d want to be responsible for ensuring it was a success, having everyone turning to her, waiting to be entertained. The thought made her cold. Thank God for Britta. Britta got it. Britta knew that Charlie couldn’t choose someone and stroll out of the room with him while the rest of the party watched, so she’d called it a liner and spun again. Gratitude surged through her and she tried to catch Britta’s eye to thank her, but Britta was absorbed in the game. Her mum had warned her at the end of grade six that things might change in high school, that people changed, grew up, made new friends, but Britta, thankfully, had remained true. Charlie would be lost without her.