The New Girl

by Ingrid Alexandra

  ‘Great. Can’t wait.’

  Before Mark, I used to head to this lookout a few kilometres from my aunty’s place where I sat and relished the feeling of being alone. There’s something freeing about being disconnected from the human world, with no one knowing where you are. Something exhilarating – like for a moment, it’s possible you might not exist at all.

  But things are different now. And tonight, at the lookout Rachel’s taken us to, I’m feeling nervous rather than exhilarated, my fingers grasping the alarm in my pocket so hard I fear I’ll crush it.

  We cycled along the perimeter of the beach to a camping area at the tip of a crest at the northernmost end of the beach. There are campers nearby, so we’re not completely alone, but I can’t help it. We shouldn’t be here. Not with Mark out there, looking for me, even though logically I’m sure he can’t know where I am. I should be more worried about tomorrow, when I’ll be at Aunty Anne’s house. A place he knows.

  We’re spread out on a picnic rug under a Moreton Bay fig, looking out at the sea. There are boats out there, cruisers and houseboats, holidaying families and rich kids with a party agenda. It’s humid as the orange sun crawls towards the skyline, the tang of brine in the air. It feels weirdly romantic.

  ‘He was a friend of my foster father’s,’ Rachel says suddenly, her voice nearly swallowed by a sudden gust of wind. Her comment comes out of the blue, making me jolt. ‘The guy I was seeing, I mean.’ She’s picking lint off the skull-emblazoned, sleeveless T-shirt she’s wearing, and I notice she’s left some bruises visible.

  ‘You were in foster care?’ I ask.

  A flock of seagulls flies over us, their cries piercing the quiet.

  ‘Yeah. My parents died when I was little.’

  ‘God. I’m so sorry.’

  Rachel laughs. ‘Yeah. Me too. I know some people have good experiences in foster care, but not me. My foster father … Steve. He was such a bastard. Disgusting old perv. You have no idea.’ Her face darkens. Then she looks at me in a way that makes me feel like I’m being examined. ‘Or maybe you do.’

  I ignore the rush of heat to my cheeks, look away. ‘He sounds horrible.’

  ‘He was,’ she nods. ‘I started seeing Dean to piss Steve off, to start with. Dean was always hanging around. I know he wanted me. Lots of guys do, you know.’

  I don’t say anything. I get that she’s not looking for validation. She’s not saying it in a conceited way. If anything, she sounds sad.

  ‘He was thirty-seven and I was fourteen. I know, right? I actually thought I was using him at first. What a joke. I just wanted to get away from Steve and Marnie – she was my foster mum, but she was useless, a total drunk. And Dean offered me a place to stay. I packed up my stuff and got out of there.’ She looks at me, almost defiant, as if she expects me to be shocked.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I thought I was so smart, Mary. But I was just a dumb kid. I thought I’d found my saviour, you know? He was a douche, but he was a million times better than Steve. I never called him dad. I refused to. What he did … it’s not something a father should do.’

  Rachel’s eyes beg me for understanding and, though I’m shocked – horrified – I use one of Doctor Sarah’s tactics, staying silent, waiting for her to continue.

  ‘Dean got me into drugs. I wasn’t keen, at first. Even I wasn’t that stupid. But he was persuasive. He made it sound like it would be the answer to all my problems. And you know what? For a while, it was. It felt good. I’d forgotten what it was like to feel that way.’ Rachel’s chin is high but her lower lip quivers. I reach out, place my hand over hers and she looks at me gratefully. ‘I was there for nearly five years. Can you believe that?’

  ‘Yes.’ Of course I believe it. I’ve lived it myself.

  Rachel releases a puff of air that might be a laugh. ‘I knew you’d understand.’

  The sun has set, yet ribbons of purple, pink and grey dominate the darkening sky. I feel warm from the wine, the humidity, the intensity of the conversation.

  ‘So this was the dickhead who hit you? Your ex?’

  Rachel flicks me a glance; for a second I could swear she looks guilty. ‘Dean was the first,’ she said slowly. She sighs. ‘But it was my most recent ex that gave me these.’ She gestures to her torso. ‘He was worse.’

  ‘God. I’m so sorry.’

  Rachel shakes her head. Her expression has darkened. ‘Don’t worry about me. He wasn’t the first, but he’ll be the last. Believe me.’

  I watch her, unsure what to say. After Mark, I swore I’d never be fooled again. But maybe it’s not that easy. Rachel’s been through so much more than I suspected, and something tells me it’s not the full story. I’m unsure my pain can even compare.

  She lifts her head and luminous hazel eyes gaze into mine. ‘Thanks for listening, Mary. I’m really glad we’re friends.’

  I smile hesitantly. ‘Me too.’ Refilling our glasses, I choose my words carefully. ‘Can I ask … why do you hate him so much?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your foster father. Did he …’ It’s as far as I get, but it’s enough.

  Rachel’s shoulders shake, and though it’s almost dark now, I know she’s crying.

  ‘Oh, Rachel.’ I put my arm around her, pull her close, and she lets me. It’s a basic human need, physical intimacy, and I wonder if she’s ever been held without someone wanting more from her. It’s a dark, lonely thought. ‘I know. It’s okay. I know.’

  Rachel clings to me, her hands fisting my T-shirt, her face at my throat. I rock her back and forth as her tears fall, hot and wet, against my skin. Her body shudders in my arms.

  ‘Sorry.’ She pulls back, hiccoughs. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Shhh, hey. What are you sorry for? That your foster father’s a sick bastard?’

  Rachel makes a funny sound in between sobs, and it takes a moment to realise she’s laughing. She hiccoughs again. Then laughs harder.

  I find a crumpled napkin in my handbag and hand it to her.

  Rachel blows her nose and wipes her eyes on the back of her hands. Mascara smears her cheeks. ‘It started when I was six.’

  Something hot and ugly throbs inside me.

  ‘No one believed me.’ She gives a bitter laugh. ‘That’s fucked up, isn’t it? Why would a little kid make up something like that?’

  I want to pummel something, but I rein it in, breathing slow.

  ‘I believe you,’ I say, surprising myself with the ferocity in my voice. ‘And I’m so glad you left. That was so brave, Rachel. And even if you did end up with some arsehole for a while, you’re safe now.’

  Rachel’s eyes glimmer in the moonlight. ‘Thank you,’ she whispers. She catches my hand and holds it to her heart, as if making a vow. ‘You’re safe, too.’

  I manage a half-smile, thinking that’s a strange remark. But, of course, Rachel doesn’t know how wrong she is.

  Chapter Fifteen

  30th November 2016

  It feels unnatural keeping something from Cat. Especially when it’s about someone we’re living with, someone with the potential to impact on our lives. But there are some things I just can’t share with Cat, and Rachel’s secret is one of them.

  Cat’s been there for most of my life. Literally. Sometimes I think my parents had more faith in her than they did in me. She was always a go-getter, trustworthy and hard-working. Loyal to a fault. With the exception of when I was with Mark, but that was my doing. I withdrew, shutting out the world. It doesn’t matter that she doesn’t fully understand what I’ve been through. No one can. But she’s there. Always. And that’s enough.

  Cat’s the kind of person who wouldn’t hesitate to give you the shirt off her back if you needed it, but may hold a grudge if you forget to give it back. Aside from my aunt, she’s the person I trust most in the world; the one person I know will always stand by me. That’s why Aunty Anne trusted her to take care of me. That makes me sound like a shut-in or an invalid or something, but it’s not as seri
ous as all that. It’s more like someone to check in, make sure I’m taking care of myself. Someone to report back to Aunty Anne to make her feel better about her poor messed-up niece living far away in another city. Since I’m shit with numbers, Cat manages the bills, my disability payments, all the things Aunty Anne took care of before. It’s not that I’m incapable – it just makes life easier not having to think about all that. I can focus on recovery and it gives my aunty peace of mind.

  The arrangement with Cat was part of the ‘conditions’ of me moving out alone. After what happened with Mum and Dad, my interrupted therapy and recovery – and then the trouble I got into with Mark – I suppose I was considered a bit of a liability. Doctor Sarah and Aunty Anne weren’t keen on the moving out idea at all. They thought I needed more time. But then Cat came to my rescue, offered to step in. She wanted me to be able to have a normal life, to enjoy my youth and my freedom instead of continuing to pay penance for the things that have happened to me.

  I’ll never be able to repay her for that. I couldn’t ask for a better ally, someone who understands my needs better than I do at times. It hasn’t always been the most stable relationship, but it’s been the longest lasting.

  I can still recall with clarity the day I met Cat. It was on the first day of Year Two, and I was crying behind the library building because a boy – this fat, freckly Year Four bully called Simon – had taken my lunch, eaten half of it and flushed the other half down the toilet. Cat found me, listened when I told her what happened, called Simon stupid names until I laughed, then shared her lunch with me.

  By then Cat had had her fair share of run-ins with bullies. For some reason, she was a target. I could never quite pinpoint why; maybe because she was so much cleverer than everybody else. I always believed she’d taken me under her wing, but Cat swears it’s the other way around. She swears she’d have suffered severe and swift social death if I hadn’t come along. That she only learned to fit in by association.

  I’m not sure whose version of events is true. I do know that after that incident, we ate lunch together every day for the rest of the year, and every year after that. We went to the same high school, made the same friends, took the same classes. And it’s been her and me ever since.

  I found out later that on that first day she’d found the boy who’d been mean to me and thrown his backpack over the fence and into two lanes of traffic. His sandwich was splattered like roadkill.

  We had our ups and downs in high school. All girls do, I guess. Especially when they’re as close as we were. She never had any luck with boys, and for some reason, I did – which in itself is a recipe for disaster. But we never had any epic fall-outs like some girls do. And these days, if anything, she gets more attention than I do. Even though it’s usually from the wrong kind of men. Not Mark-status wrong, of course. But every guy she dates ends up having some spectacularly unexpected quirk, like a funny but unfortunate twist in a rom-com. And it’s always a deal-breaker, like the bartender who was ‘between jobs’ and still flat-sharing with his ex, or the incredibly charming restaurant owner who turned out to be polygamous and already married to two other women. Or the hot bearded guy with the rats. (Seriously. Thirty-two pet rats. All named Charlie.) Cat makes light of her romance fails, but it has to wear her down. Just hearing about it is exhausting. But I have to say, it does make me feel better about not being on the dating scene for the moment. I don’t know when I’ll be ready for that.

  Back at school, it always felt like she looked up to me. I can’t think why – if anything, it should have been the other way around. Cat with her logic and practicality, her sensible mind, her no-nonsense attitude. She’s the one who deserves admiration. She’s a real doer, as my aunty would say. And I’m someone who fucks around. I can be lazy. Self-absorbed. But Cat seems to have missed the memo on this. For some unfathomable reason, she’s put me on this pedestal and, no matter what I do, I can’t seem to fall off it.

  So, when I think about it, of course she’d jump at the chance for us to move away together. We’ve been planning it since we were kids. Cat, particularly. Fantasising about running away, leaving everything behind and starting a new life somewhere by the sea. And to think I nearly blew it all. To think I moved out with Mark and left Cat behind.

  I owe that girl so much. But I can imagine why Rachel might not see it that way. Straight-talking and with zero tolerance for bullshit, Cat does have a history of rubbing some people up the wrong way. She can come across as arrogant, inflexible. And, though Rachel doesn’t know it, Cat doesn’t believe me about the worst of Mark’s crimes. That’s okay – I get it. It’s not that she doesn’t trust me. She’s just concerned. I know my memory of things hasn’t proven to be the most reliable source in the past – or of late. But I haven’t lost faith that Cat will come around. Soon she’ll see. Because I’ll have proof. Proof even the cops won’t be able to question.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The lizards will be happy now Rufus has gone. This is the clearest thought in my head as I sit on the back steps of my aunt’s farm house, listening to the rustle of leaves in the bushes that can only mean the skinks are on the move.

  Rufus, our old retriever, had to be put down a month ago when his kidneys failed. It was awful; I’d known him for sixteen of my twenty years and even though I hadn’t been there at the time, I felt the loss like a kick in the spleen. I can’t count the number of times I’d sobbed into his fur, how often I’d told him the secrets I couldn’t share with anyone else.

  But our faithful friend had a tendency to murder unsuspecting lizards, and so as I watch a family of skinks skitter out from behind a shrub, I wonder if they know they’re safer than they were four weeks ago.

  Despite the heatwave, Aunty Anne’s garden is thriving and the country air is fragrant with life. There’s a sense of renewal in coming back here, even though it’s just for a couple of days. It almost makes me forget why I’ve come.

  ‘Here you are,’ Aunty Anne hands me a cup of tea before lowering herself onto the step beside me with a grunt. A gnarled hand shades her face from the intense glare. ‘Sorry, no milk. Not after, well … you know.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ I say, smiling at my aunt’s warm, deeply lined face. It’s a face I know better than any other, a face that reflects decades of toiling on sweltering farmland. So unlike Mum’s, who cared more for image than work. ‘How’s the calf surviving?’

  My aunt winces.

  ‘Sorry.’ I cringe. Often, when a pregnant cow dies, the calf can be saved. But I’ve never forgotten the year I found an orphan at the bottom of the paddock, its body stiff with rigor mortis, its eyes lifeless and milky.

  ‘You didn’t have to visit so soon. Tickets are expensive.’

  ‘Not really,’ I counter. ‘There are some pretty cheap return flights to Melbourne, and the coach out here costs nothing. Besides, I wanted to come.’ My tongue burns as I sip my tea. I want to add, ‘Because I owe you my life,’ but it’s too raw, too real. I don’t want to cry in front of her again.

  Besides, it’s not the main reason I’ve come.

  My aunty’s brown hand covers mine and I look at the contrast in our skin. It’s sobering, beautiful, the way her weathered hand encases my soft one, and I think how old she’s becoming and that I can’t live without her.

  ‘You’re doing it again,’ Aunty Anne tuts, shaking her head, but her lips twitch upwards at the corners. ‘That mind of yours is always working. You’re just like Sylvia that way.’

  I try to smile as I sip my tea, but the mention of my mother always leaves me hollow. ‘How’s Uncle John? He’s been around, hasn’t he? Not stationed off anywhere?’

  ‘Oh, my, yes, I can’t get rid of him.’ Aunty Anne grins and winks.

  Some of the tension leaves my body. ‘Good. I’m glad. And … And Mark …?’

  Aunty Anne meets my gaze. She knows something, I can tell. ‘He wouldn’t dare.’

  I’m always fascinated by the way my body responds when I thin
k of Mark. Now, for example, it’s as though my skin is twitching and my heartbeat speeds up and stutters.

  ‘Don’t open the door to him,’ I say, wiping my clammy palms on my jeans. ‘He’s more dangerous than you think.’

  Aunty Anne pats her crisp silver curls, tilts her head to one side. ‘Well, darling, I won’t if I can help it. We know what he is, don’t we? We’ve both seen it before. We …’ She sucks in a breath through her teeth, slants me a guilty look.

  I turn away, watching a pair of skinks dart in and out of the wild lavender. A clap of thunder sounds in the distance and I look up to see clouds gathering. ‘Really? Now?’

  Aunty Anne groans just as a drop of rain lands on my nose.

  ‘It’s been a tropical spring,’ she tells me, getting to her feet and beckoning me down the front path. ‘Utterly unpredictable.’

  We scurry indoors just as the sky opens and raindrops begin to plummet. It’s darker inside, almost like night, and Aunty Anne lights a few candles and places them around the kitchen and adjoining dining room. ‘Power’s gone out three times this week,’ she explains. ‘Might as well be prepared.’

  The wall clock tells me it’s after five and my eyes wander to the fridge; I wonder if Aunty Anne still keeps it stocked with wine from the family vineyard. I look around at the familiar spaces and objects, bathed in candlelight. Somehow it feels like I’ve been gone longer than a few months.

  A picture frame stands on the bench in the corner of the kitchen, coated in a film of dust. It’s a picture of my parents holding me as a baby. I’m startled to realise they must be around my age, maybe a couple of years older. How strange to think I could have a child of my own, that I could have that kind of inescapable duty, to be responsible for another life. It seems unfathomable.

  There’s a large stone pestle and mortar on the counter; it must be new. I trace its rough surface with my index finger. ‘I’ll make dinner then?’ I offer.