Losing It

by Sandy McKay

  She hadn’t left a note, which was a good thing, according to Dad. Maybe she just needed a break. Pop didn’t agree. Pop was going nuts. It was his idea to call the police.

  I was so scared when the police arrived. I knew it was all my fault. I knew that Mum had left because of what I’d said to her and the police were bound to find out in the end. They’d only have to look at me to know… It’d be written all over my face. I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t bear thinking about what I’d said and the look on Mum’s face when I’d said it. I might as well have stabbed her with a knife. Or driven her to the edge of the cliff myself.

  So I laid low, spending most of the day hiding in my bedroom and making bargains with God. Weird how I’d never thought much about God before and now I was pleading like crazy with him. ‘Please God, I will keep my room tidy forever and ever if you just let Mum walk through the front door. Please God, I promise never to tease Matt ever again in my life if only … Please God, please, please make Mum come home so I can tell her I’m sorry.’ But God wasn’t listening because Mum didn’t come back. And not only that but they never found any sign of the car, either. Not that they didn’t try. Her photograph was everywhere – even on the TV.

  Missing Woman

  Local woman Miranda Morrison has been missing since June 18. She was driving a 1986 white Mazda Familia hatchback. Police say the 35-year-old woman suffered from depression and may have left the house in a distressed state.

  There have been no reported sightings of the car and her credit card hasn’t been used since her disappearance.

  I was worried about the ‘distressed state’ bit. Did that mean she was still wearing her pyjamas?

  For a while nothing much changed. It was just like Mum was in hospital again. Dad went to work each day and Mrs Jordan came over to clean the bathroom and have a tidy up. And Aunty Kay helped out sometimes. But mostly, Dad tried to carry on like everything was normal. We all did.

  Pop came around as well but he was always going on at Dad in his gruff old Scottish voice. ‘You should n’ya let things get so bad…’ Always growling. Always arguing. Always rowing. Then one day they had a humungous argument and the next thing Pop was moving away to be near Aunty Kay. Dad said Pop was old and set in his ways. A stubborn old codger who liked to blame everyone else. Dad also told me that Pop never went to visit Mum when she was in hospital. Not even once. Didn’t like that kind of thing, he said.

  Our family is so not touchy feely. We usually keep our feelings to ourselves. Especially Dad. Except for that day when I came home from school and he was crying. I’d never seen Dad cry before and it was awful. He was too big to cry. Too old. And it looked all wrong – with his shoulders heaving up and down. I felt scared then. Really scared, because I knew, at that moment, how bad things were. I also knew that I could never tell Dad the truth about why Mum left. Never!

  One day a police car pulled up and a man and a woman came inside our house. The woman wore a uniform. The man was in plain clothes. They asked loads of questions. Dad offered them a cup of tea and some of Mrs Jordan’s shortbread. He got out the good cups and saucers from the china cabinet. They are going to find out now, I thought. This time they are definitely going to find out. And in a way I wanted them to. Except that I didn’t have the guts to tell them myself.

  Afterwards, the police wanted to talk with me alone. They asked weird questions, like had I ever heard Mum and Dad fighting. And did they argue a lot and had I ever seen Dad hit Mum. Of course not. (Dad never hits anyone, I said.)

  They asked all the wrong questions and they left without finding out the truth.

  School was the worst part, with everyone knowing. Jimmie Whaanga from Room 11 asked if we had thought of looking for Mum in the garden because last year someone went missing and they found her buried in the backyard under the blackcurrant bushes.

  When Mum first left, Dad talked as though she’d be back any minute. ‘Keep that drawer tidy for when your mother gets back,’ he’d say. Or – ‘Maybe we could borrow Mrs Jordan’s caravan again when we’re all together again…’

  I don’t know when he stopped saying stuff like that or when we stopped talking about Mum so much. I still tried to make deals with the man upstairs. Like, okay then, what about if I give all my pocket money to the Salvation Army? Huh? But time went by and Mum still hadn’t returned.

  And one day I realised that I hadn’t written about her in my stories at school for ages. And I’d stopped saying ‘Mum and Dad’ like they were one person and I hadn’t set her place at the table by mistake for a long time. Then I noticed her toothbrush gone, which was scary because I didn’t know if she’d taken it with her or if Dad had thrown it out. I couldn’t remember and I was too scared to ask.

  Not thinking about it was the only way to cope.

  It’s funny how your memory works. Like, sometimes I lose the picture of Mum in my mind. Sometimes I can’t remember the exact colour of her hair or the shape of her face. Or how tall she was. And then I panic. The only thing I remember vividly is the look on her face, in the car, after Brownie camp…

  Life goes on. That’s what everyone says.

  Dad started playing touch rugby, which is like normal rugby except that you’re not allowed to tackle. He played with the guys from work on Thursday nights. I liked Thursday nights because Mrs Jordan came over to put Matt and me to bed. I looked forward to it all day. She let us stay up late sometimes and taught us how to play cards.

  She played Snap with Matt and always let him win. Then, after Matt went off to bed, we played Last Card. She didn’t always let me win but sometimes I managed it. I love cards. Later on she taught me Poker and we played with matchsticks and sometimes ten-cent pieces.

  I think Mrs Jordan felt sorry for Dad. She was always saying what a good job he did and how hard it must be. She thought he deserved a night out with the boys and looking after us was the least she could do.

  One night there was a phone call and Mrs Jordan came racing over to mind us kids while Dad went off to the police station. They wouldn’t say what it was about but I knew it was serious because Mrs Jordan hugged him before he went and Mrs Jordan and Dad didn’t normally hug. (She’s not touchy feely either.)

  But we had poached eggs and sausages for dinner and when Dad got back he was white as a ghost and needed a glass of Pop’s whiskey (kept in the top cupboard for special occasions).

  The next day at school Jimmie Whaanga told the class for news that someone’s clothes had been found washed up on Castle’s Beach. He had the newspaper clipping to prove it.

  Police have confirmed that the clothes found on Castle’s Beach do not belong to missing local woman, Miranda Morrison. Initially police had believed the clothes might belong to the missing woman. The clothes have now been claimed by a local body surfer. Police still have no clues to the whereabouts of Mrs Morrison.

  Next day – 2:30a.m. and I can’t sleep.

  How can anyone expect to sleep in hospital when it’s never dark or quiet? The night shift nurses seem to revel in making as much racket as they can, especially mean old Morag who has a very irritating humming habit, which sounds a hundred times worse at two in the morning. I guess you can’t blame her – it must be a pig of a job at times, tending to us loonies.

  Some noises are better than others. Like Morag’s humming gets on my nerves whereas the rattle of the tea trolley is actually quite soothing. Funny that. The best noise of all is Leon, strumming his guitar in his room. You have to listen hard but it’s worth it. Leon could strum me to sleep any day.

  Charlotte’s web is spreading over the curtain rod now. Leon said the reason why spider webs don’t go mouldy is because they have a special anti-bacterial quality. No wonder he’s king of Trivial Pursuit. King of useless information more like.

  Speaking of Leon – his mum AND dad came to visit yesterday. His mum doesn’t look anything like I expected. She has white blonde hair cut in a bob and was wearing a lacy red top under a black velvet jacket. Quite t
he stunner, I thought. His dad, on the other hand, is geeky looking with black-rimmed glasses. They don’t look like a couple at all and they don’t look very comfortable in the psych ward either.

  Leon and I were playing cards in the lounge when they arrived but Leon had his back to the door so it was me who saw them first – kind of hanging together in the doorway like they didn’t know where to go.

  When Leon heard his father’s voice he dropped the whole pack of cards on the floor.

  His dad looked seriously embarrassed while his mum stared straight ahead as if she was preparing for something difficult. Like walking the plank perhaps.

  ‘Can we go somewhere, Leon?’

  ‘Sorry, Jo,’ says Leon, getting up. ‘Back soon.’

  His parents followed him out the door without a word. That’s par for the course around here: no one introduces anyone in this place. We keep our private lives separate and visitors must feel like intruders. I wonder if that’s how Issy felt when she came to visit.

  So, Leon went off with his folks while I played Patience.

  But he was back again in half an hour looking totally miserable.

  When I asked how it went he didn’t answer, just grabbed the cards and started shuffling. I kept my mouth shut, figuring he was gonna crack sooner or later – which he did.

  ‘They’re back together,’ he said, finally. ‘He’s bloody moved back in.’

  ‘Your dad?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well? That’s good, isn’t it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  He shrugged. ‘Because it’s not going to change anything, is it?! Like, it’s not going to change who I am and it’s not going to stop them blaming each other for it.’

  I wanted to ask what for but I managed to hold my tongue. It was prickly territory and I felt sorry for him.

  But I could never keep my big gob shut for long. ‘There’s nothing wrong with being gay, you know, Leon,’ I said. Then, for one horrible moment, I thought I’d got it wrong and maybe he wasn’t gay after all because he looked so totally shocked.

  ‘Sorry… I didn’t mean –’ I could feel my face go red.

  He picked his cards up. ‘You didn’t mean what?’ He managed to look both offended and amused at the same time. But there was a smirk leaking through like he knew how awkward I felt and was enjoying watching me squirm. And just when I was about to die from embarrassment he rescued me.

  ‘Is it that obvious?’ he said, and then grinned and we both cracked up laughing. As relieved as each other, probably.

  Bad news – Francine was rushed through to the main hospital in the middle of the night. I could hear them clattering about in the corridor in the early hours.

  Dear Jo,

  God, I have such a sore throat. When I mentioned it to Mum she flew into some new Florence Nightingale routine. It’s almost like she’s waiting for an excuse to start pampering me, which is so not like her. As you know, Jo, a day off school in our house is like a once in a decade treat and only if you are struck down with something deadly or contagious or both. The exact opposite to your soft-as-butter dad!

  Anyway, not this time. This time, one mention of my throat and she’s out with the lemons and honey and wiping my fevered brow and booking me in for sick leave without me even asking.

  It’s like ‘be nice to Issy’ week and it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out why. I suspect the family knows about what happened at the dance, which means they have heard about my blind date hanging around for less than two hours before finding someone better. How humiliating. I can’t stand them all feeling sorry for me and even Meredith is being half-pie decent, which is totally puke-making.

  Anyway, they’ve been acting weird and I’m sure that’s why. I just want to forget the whole thing. I mean who cares about rotten Mike Maxwell anyway. Because, like you say, I had a lucky escape.

  Luv,

  Issy

  P.S. Oh, I forgot to tell you. When Gemma and Mike arrived at the after party there was someone waiting for them. Luke!!! He must have sobered up enough to make a return appearance. Apparently there was an ugly scene. Oh, to have been a fly on the wall, eh.

  Dear Issy,

  Just desserts, Issy. Just desserts. Yeah, a fly on the wall would be fun.

  Luv,

  Jo

  P.S. I miss you and I wish I could leap out of bed and give you a great big hug.

  Dear Jo,

  Me too.

  Hey, your dad phoned here the other night wanting to know if I had any news. I felt really sorry for him, Jo. He sounded worried and kind of desperate. I think you should let him visit. What harm can it do?

  Luv,

  Issy

  Dear Issy,

  Please drop it. I can’t face Dad right now… and that’s all there is to it.

  D,

  Had a good talk with Dot yesterday. I think it was the most honest I’ve ever been with anyone about throwing up (including myself). The good thing about Dot is that she doesn’t talk down to you, which makes it easy to tell her stuff. Maybe I told her too much. I’m so used to being secretive that it’s become like part of my nature, which is weird because it’s not the way I used to be. I’ve always been more an upfront type.

  Anyway, I was trying to be honest. When I think about my binges, they’ve always been at some really emotional time or when I’m not coping. Like when Aunty Kay came I’d start out feeling confused and then I’d get angry. I think it was because she reminded me of Mum and she had this new baby and stuff. And eating kind of helped. But then, after I’d eaten so much I’d feel disgusting and have to get rid of it. When I first started throwing up it was only after bingeing but then it became a habit and now I throw up after everything. Now I don’t keep anything down at all.

  One of the patients in here cuts herself – I won’t say which one because that’s against the rules. But the other day she was talking about how she feels afterwards. It sounded so familiar – the feelings and everything. When I first started throwing up I’d feel good afterwards. Relieved. Emptied out. De-stressed. Now I just feel revolting and guilty.

  Like I said, we all have to stay in the dining room for at least half an hour after meals and if you have to go to the loo then one of the nurses goes with you, which is pretty embarrassing when you think about it. But that half hour, for me, is like torture. It’s like being denied my fix – like some druggie or something. That’s what I was trying to explain to Dot.

  Group Therapy Homework:

  Things people do to harm themselves:

  Cut, pull hair (their own), binge, starve, take drugs, steal stuff.

  Dear Mum,

  They haven’t said when we’re allowed out home yet but I hope it’s soon. Yesterday, as a special treat, we were allowed to order our favourite meal. I chose homemade scones with cheese melted on top, like you used to make. Remember how you let me help with mixing the dough and I always had the first one hot from the oven? We’d pile the butter on thick, and jam too. Apricot jam. The other thing I loved was apple crumble with whipped cream and runny custard.

  Dad isn’t nearly as good a cook as you. When you first left we had hot chips a lot. Dad would get them on his way home from work and we had chips with absolutely everything. It’s better now. Dad has this little repertoire going. Like, on Monday it’s sausage casserole, on Tuesday it’s something with mince like spaghetti bolognaise or nachos, on Wednesday it’s fish pie with mashed spuds, Thursday it’s stir-fry and Friday it’s macaroni cheese. In the weekend it’s just whatever’s around.

  I haven’t had hot chips in months.

  They don’t do them here.

  Take care,

  Jo

  P.S. I was reading some stuff about spiders. Apparently the spider lays her eggs in autumn, wraps them in a silk bag and then gets ready to die. The interesting thing is, after laying the eggs she is so exhausted that she simply can’t carry on, which is why you don’t see many spiders about in
winter.

  I was wondering, Mum. Was that how you felt after having Matt?

  Fishing

  I fish around the clear blue lake

  Watching. Waiting.

  In the silence I hear a jump.

  A fish, a fish, a fish, I cry!

  With all that screaming, I look around.

  The fish has gone.

  Perhaps he drowned.

  By Johanna Morrison – aged 8

  The Fat Cat

  I have a new cat

  It sits on the mat

  It is very, very fat

  Because it eats lots of pies.

  I’m going to be sad when it dies.

  Because it has bad cholesterol

  From all the pies.

  By Johanna Morrison – aged 10

  D,

  In group therapy the other day Caroline was telling us about this great-aunty of hers who’d never touched alcohol all her life until she had some Christmas cake with sherry in it when she was seventy-eight years old. And the sherry must have triggered something off inside because after that she became an alcoholic. Leon didn’t believe her. He said that sounded like a load of bollocks and who ever heard of someone becoming an alcoholic after eating Christmas cake. But Veronica said don’t scoff because addictions can be very strange things. She said they’re just like allergies in a way and sometimes people get addicted to things they’re allergic to. Like, for example, someone with a wheat allergy could develop a craving for pasta.