Riggs Crossing

by Michelle Heeter

  I’m shaking but I come out from where I was hiding and watch as the car races off and turns left onto Canterbury Road. That wasn’t an SUV, this isn’t the Hamptons, I’m not white trash, and that sure as hell wasn’t Lucy Grubb behind the wheel.

  I’m standing there frozen when the second-floor window bangs open and the nasty bleached blonde woman pokes her head out, angry that someone’s making noise. She looks down and sees me in the middle of her wrecked garden.

  ‘YOU LITTLE BITCH!’ she shrieks, her face turning a blotchy purple. She thinks it was me who left her garden looking like Darwin after Cyclone Tracy. She jerks her head back inside and I run without thinking why I’m running.

  I’m still shaking when I get back to the Refuge. I run straight up the stairs to my room without even marking the whiteboard to let Lyyssa know I’m home.

  I sit at my desk and take one chocolate Easter egg from my supply in the top drawer. I let it dissolve slowly in my mouth as my heart pounds.

  Terry saw me in Newtown a couple of weeks ago. Was it him in that car? Or somebody worse? He’s too stupid to know how to find me, but whoever he’s working for would know. Find a mug with a government job, they get paid bugger-all, even less than the coppers. A bit of money will get you any information you’re after.

  My heart won’t slow down and I start crying. I take two more chocolate eggs out of the drawer. I think I’ve got more important things to worry about than my weight. Like where to go if I’m not safe here.

  I’m just unwrapping my fourth chocolate egg when there’s a ruckus downstairs in the entryway that distracts me. Lyyssa’s talking with someone, trying to calm them down. The other voice doesn’t sound familiar. It’s a woman’s voice, harsh and loud.

  ‘I know she’s here, the Department told me!’ the voice shouts. ‘Why can’t I see her?’

  Probably the mother of one of the newbies we got last week. I can’t make out what Lyyssa says, but I hear the front door close and the two of them walking toward Lyyssa’s office. I put it out of my mind. I should start on the algebra homework that I was supposed to have done for Lyyssa today, but instead I take my notebook out and start writing a new Clarissa Hobbs episode. I know some of the episodes I wrote were pretty crap, but I can do better this time.

  I’ve just about finished the episode when Lyyssa comes running down the hall and pounds on my door.

  ‘Len! Len!’ Lyyssa opens my door without waiting for me to answer. She never does this. I’m so astonished that I forget to be angry with her.

  ‘Len, your grandmother’s here!’

  Chapter 48

  Over the next quarter of an hour, Lyyssa gives me the condensed history of my life. Apparently, the police have been talking to Lyyssa all along about leads they’d got on the case.

  Daddy is dead.

  But I have a grandmother.

  ‘Why didn’t anybody tell me?’ I hear myself ask.

  Lyyssa looks uncomfortable. ‘Well, the police wanted to locate any family you had. And I thought it would be therapeutic if you remembered things in your own time.’

  Therapeutic. I want to slap her. Then she starts spouting some crap about how people at the hospital tried to tell me, but I didn’t want to know about it. Nobody told me nobody told me nobody told me I chant in my head, like holding your ears and singing la la la so you don’t hear what someone else is saying.

  Lyyssa’s mouth is moving but I can’t hear the sound of her talking, only a roaring in my ears. That’s when I know either I’m crazy, or she’s telling the truth.

  In the hospital, I screamed and threw something at a social worker and a nurse when they tried to tell me my father might be dead and called me Samantha. Shut up, go away, I screamed at them. My name’s Len!

  I remember now.

  ‘Len,’ Lyyssa says gently, ‘do you understand what I’m telling you?’

  I nod.

  ‘Do you want me to tell you the rest?’

  I nod again.

  Lyyssa tells me that my father, Michael Patterson, was a reclusive marijuana grower who raised me by himself up in the North Coast ranges. Drug traffickers who thought he was encroaching on their territory murdered him. On the night of the accident, my father was trying to get me out of the area and away from the killers. A few weeks ago, police got a tipoff and made two arrests. Talking to the locals, they discovered that Michael Patterson had a daughter who disappeared when he did. They thought that daughter might be me.

  Then someone remembered that I had a mother.

  They told the police my mother’s name. The police looked in their computer databases or searched the internet or did whatever police do when they’re following a trail. The trail led to a Mrs Gibson of Campbelltown.

  Campbelltown. Way past where my MyMulti pass will take me. Way past anywhere I want to go.

  All the information they got from Mrs Gibson matched with what they knew about me. Then they did some DNA testing, matching up her blood with a sample of mine that the hospital still had. The DNA proved that she’s my blood relative.

  ‘So, where’s my mother?’ I say, already knowing. I’m trying to distract myself, trying not to think about my father, who I now know is dead and buried. Or maybe not even properly buried. Maybe the murderers just dumped his body somewhere.

  ‘Your mother’s been dead a long time, Len,’ Lyyssa says, as gently as possible. ‘Her name was Anita Gibson. It’s her mother who’s come to see you today. She’s waiting in my office.’ We sit quietly for a minute. ‘Are you ready?’ Lyyssa asks me.

  I nod, and we start walking down the hall.

  Lyyssa opens the door to her office, and I feel a stab of disappointment. The woman sitting at the table isn’t a tastefully dressed mature-age lady like Clarissa Hobbs. She is skinny and wrinkled, with her hair dyed a canary yellow.

  ‘Mrs Gibson, this is Len.’

  My grandmother doesn’t get up. She sits there eyeballing me while I stand just inside the door, doing the same to her. Finally, my grandmother speaks. ‘Am I allowed to smoke in here?’ she says to Lyyssa, as if daring Lyyssa to say no.

  ‘Well, normally, no, but, um, let me go find an ashtray while you two get acquainted.’

  Lyyssa hurries out, closing the door behind her. Mrs Gibson pulls a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of her purse even though Lyyssa hasn’t come back with an ashtray yet. I’m not even sure we have an ashtray at the Refuge.

  ‘Mrs Gibson –’ I start to say, but I can’t get the rest of the sentence out.

  ‘For Heaven’s sake,’ she says, fidgeting and lighting a cigarette. ‘You don’t have to “Mrs Gibson” me. Call me Gran.’

  Gran and I go back to staring at each other. Finally, I take a seat across from her at the table.

  ‘You don’t look like Anita,’ she says finally. ‘Anita was slim, with dark curly hair.’

  ‘Maybe I take after my father.’

  Mrs Gibson snorts. ‘Let’s hope not.’

  I decide to let this pass. ‘What was my mother like?’ I say, changing the subject.

  Gran takes a deep drag on her cigarette and exhales slowly. ‘Your mother was wild,’ she says. ‘Anita was a handful as a little girl. Not a bad kid, just always up to some mischief. When she got to a certain age, she started drinking, staying out all night, going off with boys on motorcycles. I tried to discipline her, but it always made things worse. If I took away her pocket money, she’d shoplift. If I grounded her, she’d run away. In the end, she just wore me down. I had four other kids to raise.’ Gran looks at the ash on the end of her cigarette, then looks around the room. She sees a Diet Coke can on Lyyssa’s desk. She scrapes back her chair, walks over to the desk, picks up the can and shakes it to make sure it’s empty, then flicks her ash into it and brings the can back to the table with her.

  ‘So what happened to her?’

  ‘I threw her out when she was sixteen,’ Gran says bitterly. ‘I told her she could either follow my rules or leave, so she left. She and a sc
hool friend hitched a ride to some hippie commune up the coast. Your Aunt Cheryl heard from one of the kids at school who had an older brother at the same place. Anita sent letters to Cheryl sometimes, but not to the rest of us. Anita wasn’t that close to her sister Phoebe, and Sean and Bradley were still small.’

  Anita, Cheryl, Phoebe, Bradley, Sean. My mother, my two aunts, my two uncles . . . I can’t put a face to any of them.

  Gran’s hands are shaking and her voice is harsh. ‘I was married at seventeen. Your granddad pissed off after Sean was born. I raised five kids on my own. Five. I made sure Anita and her sisters and brothers had a decent home. So why was it so damn hard for her to stay out of trouble? Why was it always so damn hard?’ Gran smacks the table to emphasise each word. Then she starts to cry.

  I’m praying that Lyyssa doesn’t walk in. This is the sort of messy emotional outburst she’d love. Gran’s mascara is running down her face and her bleached hair looks like a bird’s nest. A horrible, sinking feeling comes over me: people who come from families like mine don’t end up living in Los Angeles and working for people like Clarissa Hobbs. In my mind’s eye, I see Clarissa tossing her ash-blonde hair, slipping into her Mercedes and driving away from me without so much as a glance in the rear-view mirror.

  Gran pulls a crumpled tissue from her purse, blows her nose and wipes her eyes.

  ‘I never saw Anita again. We knew there was a baby girl born the first week of July two years after Anita left, but Anita never brought her to see us.’

  I’m wondering why Gran is saying ‘her’ rather than ‘you’, then something else hits me. My birthday is the first week of July? That means I’m not a Leo, after all! I search my memory for astrological tables. First week of July is – Cancer! Placid, affectionate, home-loving, boring, boring, boring! I’m so stunned I barely notice that Gran has started talking again.

  ‘Then we heard she’d had a fight with Mick, left the baby with him and run off. Four years later, the police show up on the doorstep and say they’ve found a body in a nature reserve. They wouldn’t let me see it. Said there wasn’t anything left to see. Asked for her dental records. It was Anita. They said that backpacker murderer did it, like he did all those other girls who hitched a ride with him.’ Gran stares into the distance and takes another drag of her cigarette. ‘I always knew something bad happened to her. Even Anita wouldn’t have left a tiny baby with that loser.’

  Somehow I don’t think Gran is connecting Anita’s tiny baby with me, the girl who is sitting there right in front of her.

  After a minute Gran remembers that I exist. Her eyes focus on me and narrow a bit. ‘Anyway, what’s with this calling you “Len”? That’s a boy’s name.’

  ‘When they found me, I was wearing an old jumper with “Len” stitched on it.’

  Gran looks unimpressed. ‘Yeah? Well, that’s not your name. Your name is Samantha.’

  I let this sink in. ‘Any middle name?’

  ‘Rose,’ Gran says. ‘My name.’

  Samantha Rose Patterson. It sounds elegant, yet sensible. There is a world of possibility in that name. I don’t have to be Len Russell for the rest of my life. Len Russell sounds like a grill cook or a petrol station attendant. But Samantha Rose Patterson could be a horse trainer, or a veterinary surgeon, or a fashion designer, or even a barrister at a top law firm.

  Lyyssa opens the door without knocking. ‘Len? Mrs Gibson? How’s everything going?’

  ‘Everything’s going just fine,’ I say coldly. And my name’s not Len. It’s Samantha Rose. I don’t ever want to be called Len again in my whole life.’

  Lyyssa smiles nervously, then speaks to me the way you would address a four-year-old who wants to be called Princess Leia. ‘Well, Samantha, would you mind leaving your grandmother and me alone to discuss a few things for a little while? We’ll come find you when we’re done.’

  Gran narrows her eyes, and I realise that she doesn’t like Lyyssa any more than I do. ‘I gotta go,’ she said, shoving her cigarettes and lighter into her handbag. ‘If Samantha needs me, you know where I am.’ With that, Gran heaves her handbag over her shoulder and walks out.

  Lyyssa watches in astonishment as Gran leaves without even hugging me or saying goodbye or asking when she can see me again. ‘Right. Okay,’ Lyyssa says, taking a moment to reassemble her social worker’s mask. ‘So Len, I mean, Samantha, what do you think of your grandmother?’

  Just once, I decide to tell Lyyssa the truth. ‘I think she shouldn’t wear white socks with black leggings.’

  For a moment, Lyyssa looks stunned. Then something changes in her eyes and I see myself in them. Someone mean and ugly. Someone who refuses to love her own grandmother.

  ‘Len,’ she says quietly, ‘you need to learn some compassion. You’re not the only person in the world who’s had it rough.’

  I feel the blood rush to my face in a burst of humiliation. Lyyssa’s right and I don’t know what to say, so I turn away and run through the door that my grandmother just passed through, catching a whiff of her cheap perfume. But I go in the opposite direction she went, back towards my room. I go straight to my scarred wooden desk, pull out my algebra book, and study until dark. I concentrate on the equations, trying not to think about Gran and trying to forget that I’m not a Leo, after all.

  Chapter 49

  Incident Report

  Patient: Samantha Rose Patterson (aka Len Russell)

  Caseworker: Lyyssa Morgan

  Samantha’s maternal grandmother, Rose Gibson, arrived unannounced at IWYR despite an agreement that she would let the Department arrange a meeting when Samantha appeared psychologically ready. As Samantha has recently shown markedly fewer symptoms of Attachment Disorder, exhibiting less hostility toward others and establishing bonds with mentors, the planned meeting would have occurred within the next month. This was explained to Rose Gibson, but she demanded immediate access to Samantha, threatening legal action if I did not comply. To avoid further escalating the situation, I escorted Mrs Gibson to my office and established some ground rules for her meeting with Samantha.

  Samantha was understandably surprised at Rose Gibson’s sudden appearance, and demanded to know why she had not been told about her grandmother, or about the ongoing investigation into her father’s death. When I informed Samantha that hospital staff had tried to do so, she reacted with shock, anger, and a return to the passive-aggressive silence she demonstrated in her early days at IWYR.

  I left Samantha and Rose Gibson alone in my office for a short time, as per my agreement with Mrs Gibson. Neither Samantha nor Mrs Gibson was forthcoming as to the content or tenor of their meeting. Rose Gibson left contact details and said Samantha was welcome to call or visit, but behaved in an abrasive manner.

  Samantha made a derogatory comment about Rose Gibson’s appearance after she left the Refuge, and has since said that she will no longer participate in weekly psychotherapy sessions.

  Samantha has been at the Inner West Youth Refuge for nearly one year. Her psychological trauma may be irreparable, but she possesses considerable intelligence and determination. She is old enough to choose to live with any of her biological family, or to move to a less-structured living situation, such as a halfway house. Samantha may continue to stay at IWYR if she agrees to comply with the weekly psychotherapy sessions that are part of IWYR’s charter. I recommend that a panel including myself, representatives from the Department, and a Child Advocate explain Samantha’s options to her and allow her to make her own decision.

  Chapter 50

  I’ve done a fortnight’s worth of algebra homework. I can’t concentrate on it anymore. I keep thinking that I’m not a Leo, I’m a Cancer. As if that matters.

  I remember the book of Chinese astrology that I tea-leafed from the Refuge library but could never get into. I flip through the book and find the table that lists all of the years. Year of the Snake, Horse, Rat, Monkey. The year I was born is the year of the Ox. I look in the index and find the chapter. Key attributes
of the Ox: steadfast, solid, plodding, methodical. Great, I’ve struck out with Chinese astrology, too.

  I go back and find the chapter devoted to the Dragon. Passionate, confident and independent, the description reads. Gifted with an extraordinarily intense personality, Dragons often have ambitious plans and are usually strong enough to accomplish them. This Sign’s strong temper can be hard to stand against, yet Dragons are also quick to forgive. Dragons are lovers of nature and animals, and often prefer extended journeys to quick tourist jaunts. The pages show photographs of Chinese artwork featuring dragons embroidered on tapestries and painted on to porcelain vases. I close the book. Is all astrology a crock of shit? Or was I born in the wrong month and wrong year by mistake?

  I’m tired but I’m afraid to go to sleep. I light a candle, turn out the overhead light, sit on my bed and stare into the candle flame.

  When I close my eyes, I see a parade of painted Chinese dragons against the purple-red background of my closed eyelids. A dragon flies through the air, soaring above the clouds, then lands on a misty mountaintop and waits in silence.

  I’m supposed to sleep over with Megan Wilson, but Megan has an asthma attack and has to go to the doctor, so Daddy comes to take me home. When Daddy and I get back from town, something is wrong. Reggie isn’t barking like he always does when he hears us come back, and the phone is ringing.

  Daddy picks up the phone. I start to go outside to see where Reggie is, but Daddy tells me sharply to go to my room.

  ‘Mate, I’ve been ringing you every five minutes for the past three hours!’ Ernie’s voice is loud enough that I can hear it.

  I don’t go to my room. I quietly walk into Daddy’s room and very carefully pick up the phone.

  ‘You’ll probably find your dog’s dead.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Daddy whispers.