The Drifter

by Anthea Hodgson

  ‘Yes, we are,’ he insisted. ‘You’ve been beating yourself up over this stuff for too long. It’s making it easy for your parents to join in.’ He got up and knelt on the step in front of her. His hands held her shoulders. ‘Sometimes you get too close to believing this crap about yourself. You need to woman up, and go see her parents.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then it’s done.’

  ‘What if they hate me?’

  ‘Then you’ll have something in common. And it won’t kill you.’ His face dipped lower to capture her eyes again, his expression concerned but determined. ‘Cate. You owe yourself this. And you owe it to Brigit not to leave them hanging.’

  ‘It’s too soon.’

  ‘No, it’s not. They need this. Even if they just crap all over you, maybe it’ll make them feel better.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you’ll have tried, Cate. You’ll have shown them you have the guts to try – and you’ll have shown yourself.’

  ‘Henry —’

  ‘Cate, I don’t know much, but I know you have to be able to live with yourself. I’ve been there.’

  Cate looked back at him, with the fear and shame ringing through her heart. She knew he was right. She took a deep breath and thought about Ida. She had to be worthy of Ida, and of herself.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I’ll do it – but I’ll do it alone.’ Henry squeezed her hands. ‘I killed Brigit all by myself, and I owe her parents, not you. You can stay here and feed the chooks.’

  ‘Good,’ he said simply, and she knew the conversation was over.

  They went inside and she dozed against him, lying on the couch in front of a wildlife documentary. He slung a welcome arm over her, and she listened to his heart beating slowly and warmly in his chest. After a while she realised he had fallen asleep, but, with her mind grinding through the past days and months, there was no way she was going to join him. After midnight she gave up, climbed slowly off the couch, and went outside to sit on the verandah in the cold black night air. For a long time there was nothing, then the sound of a small night creature moving in the garden. She stared out at the farm she couldn’t see, and in her imagination it was a different place to the one she had arrived at months ago. It was no longer foreign or pointless. It held memories for her, and she found that she carried Ida and Jack’s memories as closely as her own. Their stories were resting in the darkness now, but they were there, alive, waiting for the light of day to fall upon them again.

  Eventually it came: the slow, sad sound of the curlew, calling for Ida. She listened to the whistle crying into the night, waiting for the reply that never came. Then she looked deep into the darkness and imagined the curlew, down in the bush, looking back at her.

  Cate left early the next morning, keen to get on the road and get it done. She drove slowly down the driveway without a backward glance. Henry hadn’t really spoken to her as he’d made her coffee and scrambled her a couple of eggs. This was her deal, not his, and he had faith in her. The trip to Perth was too short and silent.

  ‘Cate! Cate! Get in the car. Wilko and Rachel called – they’re at a party in the hills. They say it’s amazing and everyone is there already!’

  Cate was carefully tripping across the car park outside the Looking Glass Bar, watching the streetlights move gently around her as she trotted to Brigit’s Audi in her black dress and heels, and Brigit was drinking some sort of new vodka mixer Cate had never seen before.

  ‘Let’s go!’ she shouted, her voice a little too loud because the club was noisy and her brain was struggling to compensate now she was in the cool night air. Brigit fell into the car and pulled the rear-view mirror around so she could check her reflection.

  ‘Wait! Bridge! Are we okay to drive? How many vodka thingies have we had?’

  Brigit tossed her hair over her shoulder. ‘Only a couple, darl, and we’ve been at the bar for ages.’ She rummaged in her sparkly purse for her lip gloss and reapplied. ‘And a couple of e’s, but we’re as bad as each other there.’

  ‘You’re a shocking driver anyway!’

  ‘Ha! You keep getting speeding tickets!’

  They were giggling as they started the car.

  ‘One day we’re going to have to grow up, you know,’ Brigit told Cate.

  ‘Not yet, Bridgey, not yet!’

  They were heading for the hills, passing too quickly through the lights of the city, the traffic lights flashing and changing, celebrating the night with them, showering them in gold and rubies and emeralds. The stereo was loud, and they were singing along to some song with loads of bass.

  ‘I love this song! I LOVE this song!’

  ‘Ha! You only love it when you’re hammered.’

  ‘I love everything when I’m hammered! I love you!’

  ‘AND I LOVE YOU!’

  The streetlights were spreading now, and the darkness between them was lengthening. Now. Now. Now. Flashing across the girls’ faces like God was their personal paparazzo, and he wanted photos of them both; he wanted to capture them like that, exactly as they were, laughing, and free.

  When it happened, it was instant. And Cate could never remember why or how they had ended up upside down, like two toys thrown away because the game was over. The engine stopped, and a horrible silence flew in through the open windows at Cate, who was half hanging from her seatbelt, and at Brigit, whose poor head was twisted at an impossible angle, her eyes still on her friend.

  The road was dark, but someone would be past in a minute. Cate’s back was sore; it had been wrenched and her arm was throbbing. Perhaps it had hit the door as they flipped.

  ‘Brigit?’ she whispered into the stillness. Brigit. Brigit. ‘Brigit?’ Her friend’s eyes were open, and they were asking her something she couldn’t hear. Cate reached for her seatbelt, released, and fell to the ground again, struggled out of the horrible mess, quiet now except for the sound of hot metal clicking as it cooled in the night air. She could hear a vehicle in the distance. She ran quickly to the driver’s side of the car and dragged Brigit out, past the steering wheel. It wasn’t hard because it wasn’t her; it was someone else running on pure adrenaline and horror. It was someone who desperately wanted to wake up now, and who knew she never would.

  ‘Brigit, Brigit, Brigit . . .’ She was whispering in the dark on the side of the road, looking into the face she knew would never look back at her again, wishing for the voice that would never speak, waiting desperately for a benign god to breathe her spirit into her empty body. When Cate looked down upon the tears on Brigit’s face, it was because they were her own, and she could see only Brigit’s face in the night, patiently listening to her cry as, somewhere, in another world, a car full of people pulled over and shouted and grabbed her, and asked questions she couldn’t answer, and called the police, who came with blue and white lights, who had notebooks and badges and hats, who knelt beside her, and an ambulance, which flashed more light across Brigit’s frozen white face, her eyes still open with the wonder of it all.

  There were voices around her, kind voices, and gentle hands checking her, trying to make sure she was okay, and for a while they tried to move her towards the ambulance. They wanted to collect up Brigit like a pretty dead doll, but Cate screamed and screamed at them to go away – to go away, stop touching her – and so they did, knowing that it was over, that there was nothing to be gained by hurrying the girls along now; there was nowhere for them to go.

  And she looked at Brigit, whose parents were so proud of her, and she allowed herself for a moment to imagine them hearing the horrible news, that their precious girl had died, so young, so foolishly. And she imagined them telling people for the rest of their lives that their daughter had killed herself drink-driving. And the shame of it nearly killed her. And she knew there was nothing she could do to make it better; nothing she could do for Brigit, or her parents, or herself.

  A blanket was placed around her shoulders, and she slowly moved it back a little so she could still see Brig
it’s beautiful face. Finally she heard a question. ‘Who was driving the car?’

  Brigit stared up at her.

  ‘I was,’ Cate said.

  Eventually, Cate pulled up outside Brigit’s large and modern home, as she had a hundred times before. She looked at the house, and it looked back with its darkly curtained windows and neat path to the huge cedar front door. Her stomach started to clench, and she breathed in and out.

  ‘Okay,’ she muttered. Open. The. Door. She got out of the car, walked up the path and knocked before she could change her mind. After a moment, Brigit’s mother, Ghadah, opened the door and froze when she saw her there. She had aged in the months since Cate had seen her last, staring vacantly at the coffin of her daughter with her husband. Her eyes were different now to the way Cate had remembered them; they were tired of life, and waking each day without her daughter there to greet her.

  They stood staring at each other. Finally, Ghadah spoke. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Ghadah, could I come in for a moment, please?’

  Ghadah stood looking at her, unwilling, with bitter tears falling on her cheeks.

  This was a mistake. ‘Please?’

  She stood aside and opened the door, allowing Cate to enter. The house was not exactly how she remembered it, although it had only been a few months since she had been there last. It was darker and silent. The walls were hung with art collected during their lives with the American Consulate, before they had settled in Perth, and with bright, happy photos of faces from around the world. The flowers Brigit had insisted on bringing home every week were gone, the jackets and scarves that were always tossed over the chair by the door weren’t there, and the sound of Birds of Tokyo wasn’t booming down the stairs. Ghadah gestured for her to go to the lounge, where Brigit’s father, Seth, sat like an old man. He looked at her like he’d seen a ghost, or maybe like he wished it was so.

  ‘Seth, I came because I wanted to speak to you and Ghadah.’

  ‘Why?’ he asked briefly, his eyes on her as if it hurt to look at her.

  ‘Because I want to apologise for Brigit’s death. It was my fault.’ Seth was staring through her now. ‘I was horribly irresponsible with your daughter. We were young and stupid, and she died, but it’s my fault. I wish we hadn’t got in the car, that we’d caught a taxi home, that I’d at least made sure we had seatbelts on —’

  ‘Well, you say that now, don’t you, Cate?’ he asked bitterly. ‘You know that now.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, that’s very nice, Cate, to hear your apology. What part of that brings our daughter back to us?’

  ‘No part of it. But I wanted to say, I know it was my fault, and I’m sorry every day, that I think of Brigit every day of my life, and I always will. I’m sorry that I let her get in the car, that I didn’t look after her as well as she deserved. She was extraordinary – she was the best of us – and it breaks my heart that I took her from you.’

  ‘It all sounds pretty empty to me, Cate. I bet you’ve got some poor guy waiting for you somewhere, have you?’

  Cate moved to her other foot. She obviously wasn’t about to be invited to sit down.

  ‘I do have someone waiting for me, but I’m not the same person you knew, Seth. I’m changing my life, and I’m working out what to change it into.’

  ‘Brigit won’t get that chance.’

  ‘I know that. But that’s part of the reason I must. I owe it to her to learn something. She shouldn’t have had to pay that price, but life is unfair and cruel sometimes, and it took her away. I can’t do anything about that with my shame and regret – I can only live my life better.’

  ‘You silly girls. With your boys and your shoes and clothes. It was all one big game to you, wasn’t it? Not one of you with any brains. Only our beautiful Brigit. And she’s the one who died.’

  Cate swallowed. He was kind of right. She touched her cheek and found her face wet with tears.

  ‘I was wondering if there’s anything I can do for you – I mean, I know there’s nothing – but if you’d ever like to talk about Brigit with someone who loved her and admired her . . .’

  Seth’s face was hard upon hers, resentment making it stone. He glanced away from her again, wishing she was already gone. Ghadah came and took her arm.

  ‘I’ll show you out, Cate,’ she murmured.

  Cate nodded, feeling sick through her whole chest.

  They walked back to the door, arm in arm. Perhaps, if the world was fair and gave second chances, they would have walked this way triumphantly to Brigit’s wedding or her baby shower. Not this grim march to the door, where life was lived, still, on the other side of those dark curtains. Ghadah opened the door and the bright light of the day flooded in.

  ‘Thank you, Cate,’ Ghadah said quietly, her voice husky and sad. ‘I appreciate that you at least came to see us.’

  Cate stood awkwardly for a moment, then nodded again. It was time to go. She started back towards the car. Ghadah watched the beautiful young woman leaving, glad to get away from the sadness behind her, going back to her car, ready to drive off into her future. She was right. Life was cruel.

  ‘Cate!’ Ghadah called and trotted down to her. ‘Do you think you could come back again sometime? Maybe we could talk about Brigit, or you might have a few pictures I haven’t seen?’

  Cate felt something flood through her. It was warm and shiny. She couldn’t speak for a moment, but she threw her arms around Ghadah, clasping her tightly to her heart. Ghadah stood frozen until something in her sighed, and Cate felt her return the embrace.

  Yes. Yes. Yes. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ she promised, and drove away.

  As the car turned the corner a strange noise came out of her mouth. It was somewhere between crying and moaning. It was messy and wet and exhausting, and she did it for the next half-hour as she sat by the side of the road. Finally, when she could, she breathed in deeply and the air was new and pure. She drove without thinking to Cottesloe Beach, sparkling in the sun, waiting for the next wave to fall gratefully upon the white sand and wash it clean again.

  The first day of school was always going to be tough, Cate told herself, and it had been. Her uniform had been the wrong size, for starters, and she’d had to clamber into a new tartan skirt picked up on the way, and pull a fresh white blouse over her head at the traffic lights. Now she was shuffling along, looking for her locker, and wondering just where the science block was, even though whenever she asked anyone, they had gestured to the distance and said something about the media centre. She was out of her depth. This was private school, and none of her friends were coming here.

  Locker 612. Here it was. She heard again the sound of giggling behind her, which then passed away up the corridor. Was it her? Were people laughing at her? She tried to get a grip, but her face was flushed scarlet, so she busied herself with her new bag and new books and new locker, listening blindly to the footsteps and giggles of the girls who marched behind her, knowing exactly where they were going. There was another laugh, which was so loud – like a clearing of a throat – that she had to turn. A group of three girls stood there, but the one in the middle was obviously in charge.

  ‘Are you new here?’ she asked, as if Cate was a new member of her household staff.

  ‘Um, yeah. First day.’

  The girl looked amused, sweeping her own bag and her new books into the locker. Cate glanced back for a moment. The girl was tall, with long dark hair pulled back with a white ribbon. She was very pretty, with large green eyes and a perfect smile. But she was staring at Cate like she was an idiot.

  ‘Do you have scissors in your pencil case?’ she inquired. The other girls giggled.

  Oh, dear. Was this girl going to be her designated bully? ‘Um, yes I do.’ She fumbled for a while before she got them out, and the tall girl took them from her.

  ‘I’m year eight, too,’ she said, ‘but we were all in junior school together, so we know how to wear the uniform.’ Cate looked confused and the girl crouc
hed in front of her and made a couple of snips and tugs. When she stood, she was holding a long thread.

  ‘The box pleats are tacked together to hold them while the skirt is in the shop. You have to take them out so you can actually wear the skirt.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t know – I thought it was some sort of weird tradition. How embarrassing.’

  The other girls laughed.

  ‘It’s easy to do,’ the tall girl said. ‘Just make sure you don’t do up the top button on your blouse and you’ll be fine.’ She smiled at her, and Cate was filled with relief. This was kindness. The tall girl handed her the scissors. ‘Where’s your next class?’

  ‘Science.’

  ‘Well, why don’t I take you there? If you have Mr Cantwell, watch out – we reckon he’s a pervert. What’s your name?’ the girl asked.

  ‘Cate. What’s yours?’

  ‘I’m Brigit.’

  Cate was almost running now, dumping her shoes and rushing to the edge of the water. The ocean was cold on her skin. She shrieked and jumped, fully dressed, shouting into the water as her face went under.

  ‘Brigit!’ The salty water filled her eyes and mouth and ears and pulled at her hair. ‘Brigit!’ Her clothes floated around her like seaweed and her body pushed against the weight of the water. And she was there, with her, whooping with joy and dragging her up to the cold air above her, shouting over the wind from the sea.

  ‘Cate!’ she heard her yell again. ‘Cate! It’s cold! So cold! Are you crazy?’ She laughed, with water drenching her hair and running down her face, and she thought she could hear Brigit laughing too, and her heart was finally free.

  It was time to go home. Henry. She was soaking wet, and she drove with the window open, chilled and salty, and utterly at peace. It was three short hours later that she pulled in to the drive and took her car slowly towards the old house.

  She looked out at the farm and found, to her surprise, that she could still see Ida, leaning on the rusty gate that led to the race, her battered hat on her head, shutting out the breeze. And Ida was there, inspecting the old pepper tree next to the workshop, pleased to see it so recovered from the hot summer, and again at the chookyard, gathering a basket of white-and-brown eggs, talking to the chooks about the news of the day. And Ida was there, too, sitting on the front verandah with her cup of tea, waiting for her return.