Forgetting Foster

by Dianne Touchell

  Foster knew that breaking the mirror proved that the General was still in there. That he still had his great powers. No one else understood and he couldn’t make them understand if they all looked at him like they’d been slapped upside the head by a wet fish and then became shouty. There was no cavalry in this room. The peg basket was getting tighter and tighter around the captive. Foster could almost see the imprint of its hard plastic edges on Dad’s face. That snarl of lines around his eyes was his skintight prison getting choky close.

  No one said anything for a while. There was just tea-sipping and contemplation. When James reached across and took hold of Foster’s hand under the table Foster slapped it away because that one act of kindness might make him go bonkers.

  ‘I think we need to talk about all of these things you are worried about, Foster,’ James said. ‘But probably not now. A bit later.’

  ‘I’m not worried,’ Foster said.

  ‘Have you thought about getting some help for the boy?’ Chubby Lady said this leaning across the table to touch the back of Mum’s hand. The touch made Mum raise her eyes and look directly at Foster. ‘We can help organise some counselling for him. He seems slightly detached from reality. There are support programs for the children of—’

  Foster hadn’t climbed the jacaranda in a long time. He began to feel the familiar flurry of tickly, papery wings in his chest that always made him want to climb. But it was dark outside. There was a moon tonight. It had risen into the top left corner of the kitchen window and glazed everything nicely. Foster liked the moon. He liked its predictable changing from nothing to fullness. He liked the way its light was put out every month and then came back. He knew it was called wax and wane. Dad had told him that. Dad had even sung him a song about it. Foster tried to remember the words to the song now but the only thing he could keep in his head was the song about a bullfrog called Jeremiah. So he sang that instead.

  tender meat

  ‘What are you thinking about?’

  Mum had been asking Foster this quite a lot lately. Dad used to ask him that too. But Mum asked it differently to Dad. She asked as if she had no real curiosity. She asked as if she had been told to ask him because asking would show interest. She was never looking at him when she asked. She was always busy with something else, her hands and eyes constantly moving. If there had been a stillness to the question, Foster might have welcomed it. But he had an awful feeling that Mum wanting in on his thoughts was just a trap he’d better not step into. Saying what he thought hadn’t gone too well for him lately. His shift from the ancient tradition of using frogs and toads in scrying to Jeremiah was a bullfrog had made Mum burst into tears and earned him an appointment with a special doctor who also spent most of the time asking Foster what he was thinking about. So rather than feel relieved that he was being seen and his thoughts valued, Foster just felt bossed around.

  When Mum asked ‘What are you thinking about?’ her face said she was far, far away. Maybe even back in her castle. Mostly Mum seemed tired. The strange thing was that it wasn’t a normal tired. It didn’t look like the kind of tired that follows hard work or a long time concentrating on something important. Mum didn’t roll her shoulders or yawn or get up to put the kettle on like she usually did when she was feeling tired. This was a moody tired. It made her unpredictable and Foster heard her complaining to Aunty on the phone about headaches. Her words became a bit slurred, and she seemed to cry more easily than she used to.

  A couple of times Foster came across Mum with her head drooped, rivulets of drool greasing her chin. He learnt quickly enough that she was not comfortably napping and she might swing from this inactivity to crossness without warning and with even less grace. Whenever Foster came across her in this state of dozy instability, he played quietly and watched the clock waiting for Dad to come home.

  Dad was spending more time during weekends at day care. When Dad was in the house Foster felt a single purpose. To tell him stories, read him picture books, and watch his face. Foster was sure that even if Dad wasn’t talking he was listening, so he behaved as if rescue was always imminent.

  Dad was always more responsive after day care. Foster felt it a shame that Mum seemed to miss out on Dad’s best hour because she was already very tired when he got home. Aunty usually drove Dad home from day care because Mum had already had a few tired wines. Foster reckoned that probably helped her when Dad wasn’t very nice to her. It certainly helped her not bite back, which everyone said she absolutely must not do. But then one day Mum did bite back in a way that shocked everyone.

  This particular afternoon Dad was really chatty. They were all gathered around the kitchen table apart from Mum, who after checking Geraldine was still in the yard, started peeling beetroot at the sink. Aunty encouraged Foster and Mum to join in, to try to be involved in the stories Dad was remembering, even if he didn’t seem to be making much sense. Foster was happy to sit holding Dad’s hand while Aunty tried to steer him towards things that had happened a long time ago. That was his best place, his happiest place. The long ago. So between all the hissing and harrumphing Dad sprayed in Mum’s direction, he had periods of nonstop banter and giggling with Aunty and Foster. It reminded Foster of that Christmas when Dad had had four glasses of blueberry port with a beer chaser. There was the same joyous temper in his tone and his eyes. Every now and then he would bawl at Mum for a few seconds, his irritation increasing when Mum didn’t respond. But Aunty would bring him back to point with a distraction, a question, a memory.

  Foster didn’t notice Dad become quiet right away. He was watching Mum deliberately doing the lazy-peel on the beetroot. She said beetroot-peeling had to be done quickly and efficiently to prevent skin-staining. Foster had always liked watching her do it. But this time she was doing it slowly, haphazardly rolling the bulbs in her palms, deliberately smearing herself with the purple juice. It bothered him in the same way it bothered him when Mum dressed Dad in clothes that didn’t match. He was about to walk over to her and ask if he could help when he noticed Dad staring at her in a peculiar way. Then Dad said, ‘The gall of that woman.’

  He actually used that word too. Gall. Foster remembered that very clearly because he had thought Gall was an ancient Roman province. He had only recently read about it in a picture book.

  Aunty immediately interceded, ‘Malcolm, do you remember that dog we had when we were kids? The one that went missing for weeks and we all thought we’d never see it again? Even put up a memorial to it in the back garden. And then it just walked into the yard one day! Do you remember that? You loved that dog so much. Dad let him sleep on your bed after that because you were so worried he’d go missing again. What was that dog’s name? Do you remember that dog?’

  ‘Geraldine?’

  ‘Geraldine’s the dog we have now, Dad.’

  ‘Oh.’ Dad paused, seemed to go away for a bit, and then said, ‘People in Korea eat dogs. In soups and stews. The best meat is from a beaten dog. Makes the meat tender. They say a beaten dog tastes better.’

  That’s when Mum reacted. She bristled quite noticeably, as if she had a bad taste in her mouth or someone had walked on her grave. She turned slowly to look at them and then filled her cheeks with air. Foster looked again and more closely, just to make sure, but that’s exactly what she was doing. Puffing out her cheeks until they were all mottled, her eyes squeezed shut. He wondered if she would burst. He wondered if her cheeks were full of words, trapped in there behind her teeth. Foster imagined those trapped words milling about, trying to knit themselves into proper meaning things. He suddenly felt nervous. He pressed his lips together to prevent a smile from splitting his face. Then Mum pressed both her hands down onto the kitchen table, palms flat and fingers extended. She leaned forward, simultaneously releasing all the air in her face. The hot rush that was discharged from Mum’s pooched lips made a squeaky fart noise and was close enough to Dad to disturb his hair. Then Mum said the only word that had been stuck in there. She said, ‘Woof.’
r />   Dad stood up and released a yawp that shuddered through the house. Foster scooted out of his chair and pressed himself against the wall. Safest place to be. He didn’t know why but it occurred to him that that was precisely the sort of noise one would make just prior to throwing something. He had never heard Dad make a sound like that before. He didn’t know anything that deep and gravelly could come out of a person. Aunty began fussing with dishes and talking loud and fast at everyone and no one, thrusting plates with uncharacteristic force into the sink. Foster wondered if he should help her tidy up but there was something in her manner that made this look like more than just a tidy-up. Aunty looked like she was preparing to clear out. If she was, Foster decided, he was going with her. Mum uprighted herself, and stepped away from the table leaving two purple handprints dark as bruises. She looked very heavy-lidded and steely angry. Her face made Foster ache in a strange way. It was more than fear making Foster’s chest thump and mouth dry out. It was awe. Mum had managed to slap them all down with one hot word.

  march hares

  Things were weird. All the grown-ups in the house had started looking at each other sideways.

  Aunty had moved in, and brought her dog, Archie, which Dad took to with an affection that baffled Foster given Geraldine was still in danger of being pushed into oncoming traffic by the very same man. Mum complained about the dog being in the house all the time. She said it stank. She had a brief and triumphant hissy-fit when she started finding what she thought was dog poo all over the house. Finding out it was Dad collecting his own poo in ice-cream containers seemed only to disappoint her because then she didn’t have an excuse to throw the dog out. Other than that Mum seemed to take all these changes in her stride. Foster watched her seeking out suspicious containers hidden around the house.

  Mum worked more hours because Aunty was able to be there in the evenings. Foster felt better with Aunty there. Even though Mum and Aunty still weren’t good friends, Aunty was a good buffer between Dad and Mum. Dad didn’t get anywhere near as cross at Aunty as he did at Mum.

  There had been a meeting after the woofing business. That’s what Aunty called it. The woofing business. Foster didn’t understand why Mum had woofed at Dad, only that something changed that day. Something broke. Like when mountain goats perch their twiggy-legged bodies on rock faces and then suddenly horn each other off. Foster had seen it on a TV show. Dad said they have cloven hooves which help them keep balance on very small ledges. They look impossibly stable on the steepest cliffs. But even the most sure-footed can topple, especially when challenged by another goat. Whenever something went really wrong Dad used to laugh and say ‘Well, she’s at the bottom of the mountain now’. Just like a horned-off goat. That’s how Foster felt. No more pretending to balance. No more pretending at all.

  ‘I think it’s really important that we’re all honest with one another here,’ James said. Aunty had organised the meeting because she thought Mum was ‘losing her shit’. That’s what she said on the phone anyway. So James, Sophie, Skinny Lady, Mum and Aunty all sat in the lounge room with no tea tray and no sausage rolls. Mum couldn’t be bothered, apparently, to which Aunty had said, ‘Thank God!’ Dad was in day care. Foster sat in the kitchen with his soldiers.

  ‘She’s at the bottom of the mountain now,’ Foster said loudly.

  ‘Fossie, what are you doing in there?’ Mum asked.

  ‘Eavesdropping.’

  ‘How do you know a word like that?’ Sophie asked.

  ‘From Dad.’

  ‘What did you mean, Foster? What did you mean when you said she’s at the bottom of the mountain now?’ James asked.

  ‘It’s something Dad would say when someone lost their shit.’

  There was a brief silence before Aunty started to laugh, something she attempted to swallow in a discreet snigger but which eventually cracked the air in a great barking guffaw. Soon she was gulp-sighing on the exhale, and snot-sniffing on the inhale.

  ‘That’s so true!’ she said.

  ‘What else did your dad say?’ Sophie asked.

  ‘He said that stories are the most important thing. He said people don’t tell stories or listen to other people’s stories enough. He said people are mad as March hares but to love them anyway. He said battles are won or lost before the first shot is fired. He said babies need to get the finger of God on them. He said if God is real then so are dragons. He said the brain is a superhero and he said Mum is a princess. Oh, and he said an unkind word can clear a room quicker than a fart.’

  All of this was delivered while Foster moved his soldiers around the spill-stained placemat in front of him. He used cutlery to make a shining river through the brown wasteland and contemplated a full-frontal desperado assault over the benefits of a guerillapincer move. It was a few moments before he realised everyone had gone silent. He wondered if they’d all snuck out of the house like Dad sometimes did. He looked over and could see heads above the top of the couch. He waited a bit longer then slid from his chair and walked over.

  ‘Why are you crying, Mum?’

  ‘Tired, Fossie. Just tired.’

  ‘Do you want some wine then?’

  ‘Just come sit with me.’

  Mum scooched over in Dad’s armchair so Foster had enough room to squeeze in. He liked that.

  ‘Well. Now that we’re all at the bottom of the mountain together,’ Sophie said, ‘let’s get a plan in place that suits everyone and make sure everyone gets the support they need. Carer burnout is a serious and devastating issue and we are on the cusp of that here. So let’s just open the floor and . . .’

  Foster unfurled his fingers and wiped his palm sweat off the General with the bottom of his shirt. Mum’s hand rested on the small of his back, making circular motions like she used to do to coax him to sleep when he was little. The General was looking rough. His sword was gone now, snapped off when Foster accidentally stepped on him. The small disc of plastic grass he was rooted to was cracked. Still solid enough to keep him on his feet but something needed to be done about it. Foster wasn’t allowed to use the smelly glue because it could stick your fingers together so bad you’d need a blowtorch to get them apart again. At least that’s what Dad said. But some sticky tape would work in a pinch. One of the General’s eyebrows had rubbed off too. Foster thought he should stop picking him up by the head.

  the general

  It took a while to get used to the door alarms. In the beginning everyone other than Dad started setting them off. They weren’t scary alarms. They played songs, or chimed, depending upon which door it was and whether it was being opened or closed. Foster would just call out ‘Sorry, that was me!’ and Mum or Aunty would come and reset it. When Aunty set one off she would usually mutter ‘Shit!’ and reset it herself. Eventually they got used to them. They didn’t frighten Dad, which was the main thing.

  James said it was important to keep Dad and everyone else in the house safe. Special clips were put on the cupboard doors. Foster could still open the cupboards. It was just fiddly work. You had to slide your fingers inside a gap and push on a plastic spring. There was nothing in those cupboards Foster needed, but he couldn’t help but try out the little clips to see how difficult they really were. Dad never attempted snaking his fingers inside the small opening. He seemed happily resigned to a drawer not opening when he pulled on it. Mum left two cupboards unclipped and filled them with plastic bowls and lids so Dad could pull everything out and put everything back in if he felt like it. Sometimes Foster would help him sort out the right lid for each container.

  Mum removed the door locks on the bathroom and bedroom doors too. Just in case. Foster didn’t like that so much. He couldn’t reach the bathroom door while he was sitting on the toilet and Dad kept walking in on him. That meant Foster had to call out for Mum or Aunty to come and get Dad. That meant even more people fussing about in the bathroom while he sat there with his whitey-tighteys around his ankles. Foster started holding on and only pooing at school.

 
; They went for walks in the late afternoon. When the sun was going down in both the day and Dad. That restless time of day when Dad became unsettled and sometimes even angry. Foster liked the walks best if it had been raining. If there were puddles reflecting the last of the light, making even the smallest water slick on the path look like an entire world. Dad said there were worlds everywhere if you looked for them. They’d take Archie on the walks. Dad liked to hold the leash. As they walked Dad’s face would begin to settle, his fingers begin to rest, and he would start to talk. Mum would link arms with him on the leash side and Foster would hold his other hand. When they got home Dad seemed more rested and Aunty would use the opportunity to take Geraldine for a walk. Sometimes Foster would go with her because he felt sorry for Geraldine. They couldn’t walk both dogs together. It made Dad cross.

  The walks weren’t always a good thing. Sometimes they’d get to the end of the garden path and have to grapple with Dad to get him turned around and right back inside again. Aunty would say ‘Never mind’ and put some music on instead. Aunty said if you can get used to the idea that the routine isn’t always routine then you’ll never be kicked in the arse by your own expectations. Foster wasn’t sure exactly what that meant because a routine was routine, but it made Mum laugh so he did too.

  They went for drives. They didn’t necessarily get out of the car when they got to where they were going. It was always dependent upon Dad. Foster liked the drives because Dad would hum. Dad used to hum a lot when he drove the car. Foster would close his eyes and imagine it was Dad driving with Mum in the passenger seat like it always had been. And maybe they would stop for ice-cream.