And I did love him. So what was the big problem?
The big problem was that I wasn’t sure I wanted to do it. And the heavier he got, the less sure I was. Maybe there was something registering deep in my subconscious that I didn’t want to recognise. About Sergio, or about myself. Something I’d been willing to recognise with Chris when I finally told him to take a hike (which he did, and went away looking for someone else to exercise his hormones on).
So when it finally happened, it was as much of a surprise to me as it must have been to Sergio, who looked like he couldn’t believe his luck – until it was over, which didn’t take long.
I don’t know if I suddenly decided that the time was right or if I simply got tired of resisting, but all of a sudden I didn’t say no, and by the time my defences began to activate it was too late.
And it was awful: fumbling and awkward and almost mechanical.
I remember thinking about those books Andrea used to bring to school in Year Eight, the ones we’d devour at lunchtime in the sun behind the admin, block. Well, it was nothing like the way they described it. Nothing at all.
Sergio was smiling. I looked up at him and he was grinning like an idiot, and I realised that here I was doing it with a total stranger. I’d spent so long convincing myself that I was in love with him that I hadn’t noticed that I didn’t even know him – let alone even particularly like him.
Then it was over. And before I knew it I was back home, and Georgie was showing me the latest offering in his diary, while Mum cooked chicken casserole and complained about the new roster at the hospital.
Nothing had changed at all. Except me.
It was a strange feeling. I wasn’t devastated. I wasn’t ashamed. I just felt … empty.
I knew it was finished between Sergio and me. Oh, we’d go on for a while trying to hang on to what we’d never really had in the first place, but it was over. It would never happen again, and I knew that eventually he’d get sick of waiting and drift away.
And I didn’t care. Not just at that moment.
Diary
Saturday 14 August
Gemma hitt me. i hidd in the cubbrd in her (ru) room an sed boo to her Lik i do wen im pLaing and she stratid cring, then she smaked me with her hand and toL me to get out!
i cride to, gemma never hitt me befor and it hert i toL mum and she toL gemma why you hitt georgie and gemma rund out of the hows cring im not mad with gemma evn if she did hitt me but mum is verry mad mis tomson sais my ritings geting reeL (gu) good we Lernd oo yesterday it sais oo Lik in boo and room its hard but mis tomson (sai) sais im geting the hnag of it and im a reeLy good studet, she Liks me wen i tri hadr i hop gemma coms home soon (thats anothe oo werdl)
Deborah’s story
Wendy, the triage nurse, looked exhausted, and even in my state of near panic I couldn’t help feeling for her. Those damned penny-pinching bureaucrats had got at the rosters, and I was willing to bet she’d just landed a double shift. It’s amazing how work issues get inside your head even in moments of crisis.
It’s funny I work at the place and I know it like the back of my hand, but Casualty looks totally different from the other side of the admissions desk.
Wendy looked up from the clipboard and smiled a tired smile.
‘Ward Three. She’s a lucky kid. That car was really travelling. A cracked leg and a couple of ribs. She’ll be bruised, but she’ll be fine. They’re doing an internal work-up, just to make sure, but it’s only a precaution … Debbie, are you all right?’
I realised by the way she said it that I must have looked awful. When the police called, I was already frantic. Then dumping Georgie off with the Rabys next door and dashing to Casualty … I guess I did look a little done-in.
But not as bad as Gemma.
Her eye was already beginning to swell and there was a graze down the length of her right arm. Her leg was splinted – they hadn’t got to the plastering stage yet – and they had her dosed up to cope with the pain.
As I entered the room, she turned her head slowly smiled half-heartedly for a moment, then her face crumbled and she began to cry. No noise, just a silent sobbing and the tears rolling down her cheeks.
‘Mum, I’m sorry … I wanted to tell you, but I couldn’t … I didn’t know how.’ Then she rubbed her nose, wiped her face with her hand and fell asleep.
‘She’ll sleep for a while.’ I turned at the sound of a familiar voice.
‘Rashid.’ He smiled and fiddled with his stethoscope that was caught up on his security tag: ‘Dr Rashid Bhandara’. The photo looked nothing like him.
‘Hello, Debbie.’ I tried to read the look in his eyes. Had they found a problem? Was everything alright?
‘Is she really okay?’ I knew I must sound the same as every other worried parent, asking the question they weren’t sure they wanted answered.
Rashid slid a chair over for me to sit on. I took his lead. When he spoke, there was a strange hesitancy in his voice.
‘She’ll be fine.’ Then that pause, there was something more. I could read it in his eyes. ‘And …’
‘And?’
‘And so will the baby.’
Suddenly there was the feeling I remembered from all those years before that I thought I’d forgotten.
‘The baby?’
Rashid was speaking again. ‘I didn’t think you knew. You would have told us. We found out when we were doing the work-up. She’s about ten weeks or so.’ He paused again. ‘Everything looks quite healthy. Pretty lucky under the circumstances.’
Pretty lucky! I suppose it depended on your definition.
Gemma’s story
Was I sure it was his?
Can you believe the guy? I didn’t even answer him. I just gave him ‘the look’, then waited to hear what he was going to say next.
He blustered around, looking like Georgie does when you catch him out in a lie.
‘What do you want me to do?’ He was almost whining, out of his depth. This wasn’t part of the deal. It’s easy to do the ‘macho’ thing when you’re trying to impress, but now …
I didn’t feel dirty or anything when it happened, or even when Doctor Lansing told me I was pregnant. But at that moment, looking at Sergio squirm, watching him trying to find a way out of the mess he was half responsible for, I felt degraded. I’d actually let him …
I don’t know what I’d expected when I told him, but I knew one thing for sure. Even if he’d offered to ‘do the right thing’ (that was just the sort of corny phrase I could imagine him using!), I would have told him to shove it. The thought of spending a moment more than necessary with him was puke-making.
Then he came out with it.
‘There are places you can go. To get rid of it, I mean. I could …’
He trailed off. He must have read the look on my face. But he couldn’t duck in time.
Right between the eyes.
I don’t spit as a rule, so I was pleased with the accuracy. He looked as if I’d punched him in the groin, and for the first time since I’d found out I felt good.
‘Goodbye, Serg. Have a nice life.’ It was an exit line I’d heard in a movie and I’d saved it up. I didn’t use it when I broke up with Chris; I was too emotional. But this time I felt strangely calm.
I walked away. It’s important to keep your dignity.
I could feel him watching me as I turned the corner. I sneaked a quick look over my shoulder – and walked straight into the path of that damned car.
Diary
Sunday 15 August
gemma got runover by a car and mum was reeL scard! she Lefme wiht misis raby and misis raby Let mepLai with the xbox gam., but im not reeL good i cant’ mak the littleman jump an the monstrs aLwais get me but its fun but gemma dint’ die I dint’ think she wood becos she Lovs me im riting her a getwel cade shes not hom yet mum sais I mis her alredy (im riting her a getwel ca) oups I sed that alredy
Gemma’s story
They kept me in for three more days
. I guess they weren’t taking any chances ‘in my condition’ – that was the hospital social worker talking. They must train those people to use all the old clichés. Actually, she wasn’t too bad. I have a suspicion they set her on to me to find out if I’d walked in front of that car on purpose, because of my ‘condition’. They didn’t know me too well!
The worst was over. Sergio was ancient history, and the worst injury I suffered was a greenstick fracture of my right leg. Not too bad under the circumstances.
And Mum knew everything.
At first, she was all for calling Mr Leone and letting him know what a … Mum doesn’t usually swear, so I’ll do her the favour of leaving out exactly what she thought of Mr Leone’s only son. Anyway, I convinced her it really wouldn’t achieve much, and the less I had to do with Mr Leone – and his only son – the better. After all, I’d never consider marrying Macho Man, even if his father’s Chilean pride forced him to offer.
When I said that, a strange look crossed Mum’s face. At first I thought she was mad, but then I realised it was something else. She looked nervous, worried.
Then she spoke, and it was as though she was speaking to herself, talking herself into something.
‘Gemma, there’s something you should know,’ she said.
Deborah’s story
And so I finally told her. There was no point in pretending anymore. She was old enough to know the truth. About Joe and me. And Georgie.
Gemma’s story
‘But times were different then,’ she said. ‘It was twenty-five years ago and people … Your father and I made a mistake and we had to do the right thing.’ I laughed at the phrase and she looked confused. And hurt.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I was just thinking of something else.’
She looked at me for a moment. ‘We knew we didn’t really love each other. What we’d mistaken for love was – well, you know.’
I knew all right!
‘But you got married anyway?’ I was feeding her lines. It made it easier for her to go on. She was still nervous.
‘Of course. That was what you did in those days. There weren’t as many single mothers then. But most marriages of that kind didn’t last more than a few years.’
She paused again and I knew that she was building up to something important.
‘I want you to understand something. When I say we didn’t love each other, it doesn’t mean … You have to understand, your father and I …’ This was really tough on her, but I kept quiet, listening. ‘I did love your father, and I still do. And he loves me. But not in that way. We were always good friends. The best. And we always would have been, even if we had broken up in the early years. We almost did, you know, when he first met Susan. It was long before you were born, and he fell for her …’
She paused again, but she was smiling sadly. She didn’t sound a bit jealous.
‘Of course, by then we had Georgie. He was born a month early. We’d only been married six months. And there were the complications. They don’t know how long he was without oxygen, but at least they saved him. Your father decided he couldn’t leave us alone, not with the sort of care the boy would need. He broke it off with Susan. I told him not to, but you know your father …’
I was beginning to realise that I didn’t know him at all.
‘After Susan left the scene, we settled down and made the best of it. There are a lot worse things than living with your best friend, you know.’
She took hold of my hand and squeezed it. I didn’t have the heart to tell her it was still bruised. I just smiled. She went on.
‘At times we tried to be more, and sometimes, for a while, it almost worked. We had you.’ She smiled again and looked quite proud of herself. ‘But whatever the spark is, whatever it takes to be more than friends, it was never really there between us. Still, we never regretted a moment of it. How could we? We had the two of you. And each other.
‘Then last year we met Susan again. And we both knew.’ She hesitated, remembering. ‘We talked it through. It was never going to be easy, but Georgie’s bigger now, and this time I had you to help me. I couldn’t let Joe do it to himself again. You know the rest.’
I did now.
All of a sudden the anger was gone, and the self-centred monster I’d despised for so long was my father again.
Twenty-four years he’d cared for us, worked for us, ‘done the right thing’. Those words didn’t seem half as corny now.
Twenty-four years. Mr Leone’s little boy hadn’t even managed twenty-four seconds.
Mum was looking at me. She’d run out of words and the silence was painful for her. I wasn’t sure what I was going to say, so I just started talking while my brain tried to catch up.
‘Do you think they’d mind if I took a short holiday in Brisbane? I think it’s time I got to know Susan properly. And Dad.’
Diary
Monday 7 March
Gemma cam home today. I got to cary the baby in from the car Mum sed to be carful and (i) I was. (Miss Tompson sais I have to be carful with my capitle leters. and full-stop. but shes hapy with me. (s) She sais Im the best studet she has!) Gemma sais I can hold the baby eny time I want solong as Im carful.
Hes (bautif) reely nise exept that he crys if his napis wet (he has evn mor acidents than me!) but he liks me And I lov him. Im going to teech him to rite the best uncle in the world! as soon as he gets to be neely as smatr as me.
I no what his nam is going to be. Gemma wisperd it to me in the car on the way home but she told me not to tell Mum not yet. Its a surprise, shes’ calling him Joe the same as like Dad.
FREE
I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon,
Than such a Roman.
William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar
Raid
When the wolves came, we were unprepared.
Chelsa heard them first, padding softly through the snow north of the camp, growling their insults at us as they came. Then I caught a glimpse of grey fur slinking between one evening tree shadow and the next. The wind was from the south, or we would have scented them. But wolves are smart; they don’t make elementary mistakes.
Tactics. Approach downwind. Wait until dusk. Strike quickly and get away before they know what’s happening. It’s been their style for a thousand generations, ever since the humana drove them from their lands.
Who can blame them?
Mostly, they don’t hurt us. They insult us, call us slaves, maybe nip us a little. But we aren’t the enemy. We’re just the creatures they might have become, if they’d accepted the truce as our ancestors did.
And you have to admire them. They keep up the fight, against all the odds, though their numbers grow smaller season by season, and the humana, with their weapons and their cruelty, are winning the war.
Perhaps it was always so. Perhaps there was never a chance of winning, or driving out the humana – of surviving. But wolves are proud. And free. Even if they are doomed.
Urak, our team leader, bared his teeth, offering the ritual resistance. I could see his hackles rising, but I knew it was fear rather than any desire to fight. We were shackled, free to move but not to escape. What chance would we have stood against them if they chose to attack?
Chelsa was all for warning the humana, but Urak said no. This was a food raid, nothing more. They could be in and out almost before our masters were aware of them. Clean and without too much bloodshed. Give them away, and who knew what might follow? Wolves have long memories. Next time, they might decide to make us pay.
And there would always be a next time.
It is no accident that Urak is team leader. Chelsa held his gaze for a moment, then bowed his head.
And we remained silent.
I had never seen a pack in action. This was my first trek. But I had heard stories. Back at the settlement the old dogs told wild tales of the trails they had worked and the things they had seen, but especially of the wolves.
Even as a pup I had learned to admire t
hem, in spite of the warnings of my mother and her friends.
Barbarians and fools! That was what she called them. Hiding from the humana all summer and starving in winter. And calling themselves free.
But I listened to the stories. And I was not so sure.
Being my first trek, the traces that tied me to the sled were biting into my shoulders. My pads were raw from the frozen trail, and I had felt the bite of the whip more than once, when our master had deemed our progress too slow.
Fools?
I watched them circling the camp. They had never worn the traces. They had never had to wait, tethered to the snow, for one of the humana to decide it was time to ration out the food. Maybe they did starve. Maybe they lived on the edge. But no one threw rocks or hard-packed balls of snow at them if they decided to howl at the moon.
And no one told them what to do.
I was not so sure that they were barbarians – or fools. And neither, I think, was Urak. I watched the leader’s eyes as the wolves moved closer. I’m not sure what I had expected: fear, anger, loathing. But there was little of that. What I saw was admiration, a kind of pride.
A wolf appeared at the treeline, with the forest behind him and a stretch of unbroken snow in front. He paused for a moment and looked across at us, maybe twenty bounds distant. He remained motionless, his yellow eyes fixed on us, on Urak. And I saw the leader bow his head, as Chelsa had done a few moments before.
Then the wolf raised his muzzle and released a howl that split the night in two and brought the humana stumbling from their tents. It was our signal.
The pack was ready, and we could make as much noise as we desired, as if we were warning the humana.
It was the way it was always done. Warn them too soon and there would be retribution later. But once the attack was joined, it didn’t matter. We could bark and growl and tear at the thongs that bound us, to demonstrate our loyalty to our masters and avoid punishment later. It was the wolves’ concession to the ‘slaves’.
I remained silent. The wolf had stood unmoving until the last possible moment, until the humana had had time to grab their weapons and look around for a target. Across the barrier of snow, he had caught my gaze and held it, and I had not looked away.
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