This I Would Kill For

by Anne Buist

  Her expression was hard to read—vulnerable yet angry, guilty yet defiant. Then the moment was gone.

  ‘I really wanted a birthday party at the fairy shop, but my mother said I was too old.’ Jenna shook her head. ‘I wasn’t. We went to the Pancake Parlour but it wasn’t the same; my mother thought it was and I let her think that.’ She looked at Natalie. ‘I ask Chelsea. I listen.’

  ‘I know, Jenna, but things get in the way even when both of you try to do the right thing.’

  ‘But…’ Jenna stopped. ‘I don’t know why you can’t hear me. I know, I mean deep down in my gut, Malik is abusing her. This isn’t about me. It’s about me trying to protect her, to be a good mother.’

  ‘I do hear that Jenna,’ said Natalie. ‘And if he is, I promise I will do everything in my power to find out—but you need to work with me. I want the truth.’

  ‘I’ve told you the truth,’ said Jenna. ‘He hasn’t ever hit me or the kids, okay? Like I said. But the court…I don’t trust them, okay?’

  To not make her pay maintenance? Or to not see the world as she did?

  ‘Let me work with Chelsea, Jenna. And if there’s proof I’ll get it.’ Natalie took a breath. ‘But you have to promise me, Jenna, that you will not coach your daughter into saying things.’

  Natalie caught a brief look of guilt. She curbed her irritation. Maybe Jenna truly believed Malik was a threat and that the system wouldn’t deliver a good outcome. Natalie couldn’t really blame her for breaking the rules to achieve what she thought was right.

  ‘Promise me, Jenna. I swear, I’ll find out if you do—and it will harm your relationship with your daughter.’

  ‘I’m not about to tell her to say Malik’s stuck his dick up her,’ said Jenna angrily.

  ‘I didn’t say you were, Jenna.’ Anger was Jenna’s defence against being in the wrong—but Natalie wanted to keep her on side. ‘I know you love Chelsea, and I want to help that connection be as strong as it can be.’

  ‘I will do anything for Chelsea,’ said Jenna. ‘Anything.’

  Chelsea hadn’t moved from the position where they left her. Natalie invited her to come upstairs and at Jenna’s nod, Chelsea followed, looking around cautiously. When Natalie opened the door to her colleague’s office, Chelsea stood in the doorway, eyes widening.

  ‘Is this a doctor’s office?’

  Natalie smiled. ‘A special sort of doctor’s office. Your usual doctor needs to look into your ears and eyes and check the outside—I’m much more interested in finding out how you feel. And playing’—Natalie’s arm indicated the room —‘with interesting things can make that easier.’

  The sand table had its lid fastened, but besides the figures on the shelves, there was a large doll’s house and a small table with pens and paper. Chelsea’s eyes flickered towards the doll’s house.

  ‘We can play with whatever you like,’ said Natalie, wondering what she’d do if Chelsea went back to Jenna.

  Chelsea didn’t move.

  Damn. What the hell did eight-year-olds like?

  ‘Are you worried about your mum?’

  ‘I guess. She’s kind of unhappy.’

  Natalie nodded. ‘It’s tough, isn’t it, when grown-ups have fights and you get stuck in the middle. Bet you feel you need to fix it sometimes.’

  Chelsea didn’t look at her. ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘You know, it’s okay to be unhappy; like it’s normal. Not all the time, but after something bad happens. And then things get better, faster, if you talk about them. Your mum will be able to sort it out for herself, by talking with her grown-up friends.’

  Chelsea sighed and looked at the doll’s house. ‘My nanna and grandpa have a house like that,’ she said, pointing to the two-storey construction. Beneath a red tiled roof, the front section was removable. The front door was also red, the panelled windows had curtains and flower boxes.

  ‘Do you mean the one they live in, or that they have one for you to play with?’

  ‘Live in,’ said Chelsea, coming closer so Natalie could close the door.

  ‘Would you like to play with this one?’

  Chelsea thought about it and shook her head. She stood awkwardly, shifting her weight, looking like she wanted to be anywhere but where she was. Natalie knew the feeling. She was cursing Declan in her mind for getting her into this and then not being there—though it was her fault for not giving him enough notice. He was organised to come to the next session, but right now if she didn’t do something, the kid looked like she’d bolt and there would be no next session. Natalie wondered how long before the bean would feel like that too.

  ‘Let’s draw.’

  Chelsea shrugged and sat down at the table.

  Okay, Child Psychiatry 101.

  ‘Can you draw yourself?’

  ‘No, that’s too hard. I’m not very good at drawing people.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re better than me,’ said Natalie. She did a quick stick figure. ‘This is as far as I got in art and my teacher told me not to come back.’ A slight simplification. Natalie had been fifteen and drawn a picture of two people having sex to get under the art teacher’s skin. She’d succeeded.

  Chelsea looked serious. ‘Mrs Ambrose said I did a really nice picture of our class, but my friend Amy’s was way better.’

  ‘Maybe you can do a picture of you and Amy?’

  Chelsea considered this carefully, and spent time assessing the pens. In the end, she chose the coloured pencils with fine tips, rather than the crayons or paints, and carefully put them out before starting. She spent nearly ten minutes drawing, concentrating hard, before announcing she was done.

  Natalie had no idea if the picture was typical—it seemed good for an eight-year-old, mostly in proportion, and details like the bow in Amy’s hair and buckles on her shoes were not what she would have expected. Both girls had long hair and were wearing dresses. ‘We’re going to Amy’s party,’ Chelsea explained.

  ‘Where is she having it?’ Natalie was right in her assumption that girls’ parties hadn’t changed a lot since she was that age; they were occasions.

  ‘Last year she had one where we dressed up as characters. I was Alice. Ethan went as the Mad Hatter. This time it’s a sleepover.’

  Natalie tried to picture a dozen eight-year-olds sleeping over in her warehouse, but her imagination wasn’t up to it.

  ‘It’s in a week,’ Chelsea said. ‘I’m giving her a makeup set. Mummy said I might be able to get one for my birthday too.’

  It was, apparently, critical what the present was: ‘No one gives dolls, unless it’s the Sylvanian family.’ Whatever they were. What you wore also counted: ‘I got a new dress but I don’t always.’ Then there was who you invited (or didn’t): Matilda hadn’t been invited because no one liked her. Did bitchiness really start this young?

  In the picture Amy was smiling, but Chelsea was not.

  ‘How are these two feeling?’ Natalie asked.

  ‘Amy is happy because it’s her birthday.’

  Natalie nodded. ‘And Chelsea?’

  Chelsea tilted her head and thought for a while. ‘I think she’s tired,’ she finally announced.

  ‘Why’s that?’ Natalie asked casually.

  ‘Because she’s been very busy with homework.’

  No great reveal there.

  ‘Can you draw a house, too?’ asked Natalie.

  Chelsea began then discarded her attempt and started again—after anxiously checking if it was okay to have another piece of paper. Natalie filed the reject for Declan to comment on.

  Chelsea appeared to be struggling to decide what type of house to draw—her mother’s, grandparents’ or Malik’s, perhaps? In the end, she drew a two-storey house like the doll’s house, humming as she did. Natalie vaguely recognised the tune but couldn’t place it.

  ‘What’s the song?’

  Chelsea didn’t look up. ‘What song?’

  ‘The one you’re humming.’

  Chelsea frowned. ‘Oh,
that. Just a kids’ thing. A teddy-bear song.’

  This didn’t help Natalie identify it. Probably one her mother had sung to her.

  ‘Do you have a teddy bear?’

  ‘Nope.’

  Chelsea looked bored. She stood up and wandered over to the shelves of figures and selected one.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Natalie asked.

  ‘Princess Jasmine,’ said Chelsea, in a how could you not know that? tone.

  Chelsea sighed. ‘She is beautiful. And she has Aladdin who has a genie and a magic carpet.’

  ‘If you had a magic lamp like Aladdin,’ asked Natalie, remembering more from her child psychiatry things-to-do list, ‘what would you wish for? Three wishes only, though.’ Chelsea thought hard, looking at the characters in her house. ‘Could I wish for all the Sylvanian family?’

  Natalie smiled. ‘You can wish for anything you’d like.’

  Chelsea nodded. ‘They have a really great caravan.’ She saw Natalie’s look. ‘The Sylvanians are a family of animals but they still live in houses and caravans. There aren’t any there.’ Her head indicated the shelf. ‘I checked.’

  ‘And wish two?’

  ‘Am I allowed to wish for more wishes?’

  Natalie laughed. ‘No, but it was worth a try.’

  Chelsea thought some more. ‘I’d really, really like to go to Uxor. I guess it’d be okay if Chris came too.’

  Uxor?

  ‘And who else?’

  ‘Mummy and Daddy.’ She had said it before she had thought about it. Shrugged. ‘It’s only a wish, not real. Mummy doesn’t want to go. She says I can’t go to Egypt until I’m grown up.’

  Not Uxor. Luxor. Natalie’s skin prickled.

  ‘Has Daddy said he’d like to take you?’

  Chelsea nodded. ‘I’d see the pyramids and get to ride a camel.’

  And be a long way from her mother and out of reach of an Australian court.

  ‘And the third wish?’

  ‘Anything?’

  Natalie nodded.

  ‘Then,’ said Chelsea, ‘I’d wish for a big house in the country with my own room and a pony.’

  ‘That’s kind of a lot in one wish.’

  ‘Well Mummy says I can’t have a pony in the city so I have to have a house in the country to have the pony.’

  ‘And your own room? Don’t you have your own room at home?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Chelsea. ‘And my own one at Nanna’s too.’

  ‘And at your dad’s?’

  ‘I slept in Uncle Youssef’s bed there, ages ago.’ Fortunately, Chelsea wasn’t looking at Natalie.

  ‘Did you?’ Natalie hoped her tone was neutral.

  ‘Daddy didn’t have a spare one and Uncle Youssef was staying with a girlfriend.’

  Natalie breathed a little easier.

  ‘At Teta’s I’m going to have my own room too, but I’m not allowed to stay there.’ Chelsea looked to the door. ‘Are we finished?’

  28

  Malik and Ama were waiting with Chris in tow when Natalie finished the session. Chelsea smiled cautiously at them both and took a seat next to Malik. Natalie left her there while she spoke to Ama.

  Ama appeared no more pleased to talk to Natalie in person than she had been on the phone. Or rather, she was pleased to have an opportunity to bag her daughter-in-law, as long as she herself didn’t come under scrutiny.

  ‘What do you think is the cause of Chelsea’s changed behaviour?’

  Ama arranged her gold bangles along her arm, lounging back in the chair. ‘Doctor King, this is obvious I think. Chelsea is a normal girl. She wishes to please her mother, but her mother says bad things about my son. What can a child do?’

  ‘Tell me about her. What is she like?’

  ‘She is a good girl. What is there to say? She helps me in the kitchen and we cook together. Not like her mother, who is’—Ama circled her finger next to her head, bangles jangling—‘a bit crazy with food.’

  ‘And with Chris?’

  Ama shrugged. ‘It is normal for some arguments. Chris is much younger, annoys her.’

  ‘What about with Youssef?’ Natalie smiled. ‘How does she get on with him?’

  ‘Youssef is not around so much. He goes out. With friends. But soon he goes to Egypt and maybe finds a girl to marry there.’

  Did Ama know about the Australian girlfriend?

  ‘What sort of issues did you have with Jenna’s parenting? Apart from the food?’

  ‘No issues,’ said Ama whose tense demeanour and angry tone suggested the opposite.

  ‘Did you disagree about things Chelsea or Chris were allowed to do, or not do?’

  ‘No.’

  Natalie squashed her frustration. She had the feeling it wasn’t so much that Ama was lying; more that Natalie wasn’t asking the right question. Eventually, Ama couldn’t contain herself.

  ‘It is not wrong that my son follows her,’ said Ama. ‘I do not trust her, not ever.’

  ‘You think she was playing around?’

  ‘I think the women here…’ Ama stopped herself. ‘She should have been home looking after my son and children, then this would not be a problem.’

  After Ama left, Natalie rang Blake.

  ‘You still working for Easy Tiger?’

  ‘Yep.’

  It must have been a record. ‘Do you know when Youssef is off to Egypt?’

  ‘Next month, I think. They asked me to do a couple of extra runs.’

  It made her think of gun running. She really watched too much television. ‘Can you do me a favour?’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ Blake sounded hesitant.

  ‘Keep your ears open for any hint that Youssef is taking anyone other than just himself.’

  There was silence.

  ‘And let me know, okay?’

  ‘Sure.’ Blake sounded like he had already dismissed the request.

  ‘And Blake? Really, really, do not say I asked you this.’

  29

  Katlego Okeke had wasted no time in responding to La Brooy’s column.

  Mark La Brooy doesn’t like being called a racist—he’s threatened to sue more than once— yet could there be a starker example of racism than his column last week, commenting on a child custody decision he didn’t like?

  Natalie scanned it. A few references to the vilification of refugees…bromides about quality of parenting not being dependent on gender or ethnicity…the obligation of the judicial system to ‘ignore stereotypes or even statistics’ about race or religion…then back to Mark La Brooy’s racism.

  We know he’s carrying a banner for ‘men’s rights’. The no-surprise surprise is that it turns out that he means ‘white men’s rights’. Because, for the first time, Mark La Brooy came out swinging for the woman to have sole custody—no access at all for the man.

  Why? Mother—white, religion not stated. Father—Egyptian, assumed Muslim. If the father had been white, Mark La Brooy’s column would never have been written.

  ‘Has this hit Twitter yet?’ Natalie asked Beverley.

  ‘It will have been on Twitter before the ink was dry,’ said Beverley.

  ‘Why do I just know that @MyBitchinRules will miss every one of the good points here and just focus on being negative?’

  ‘Okeke gets a lot of Twitter grief.’

  ‘So does hashtag PsychBitch.’ Natalie felt she was taking the grief for all of the female members of her profession. The others were probably smart enough not to be on Twitter.

  ‘I’m keeping an eye on it for you.’

  On Natalie’s next day off—most of which was spent writing reports while ignoring the mess around her, including Bob—she organised to meet with Mrs Ambrose, Chelsea’s teacher. The school was only a couple of kilometres away and the spring weather was encouraging, so she set out on foot. The public primary school was presumably one the bean might end up attending.

  She tried not to scope the place, but it was hard not to wonder how the bean and her would fit in. Better
hopefully than Jan and Craig had with Natalie—she hadn’t done well in the private system where their rules-and-results mindset, which her parents thought she should adopt, was at odds with her need to speak her mind.

  School had finished and there were only a few stragglers left in the concrete playground. One mother was leading her impossibly small child in an impossibly oversized shirt and shorts out the gate as she entered; the mother looked transfixed by a conversation that appeared to be about dinosaurs. Was this compulsory learning for future mothers or could she delegate that to the father? Had Liam ever talked to James about Tyrannosaurus Rex? It was easier to imagine Damian in that role.

  Dismissing thoughts about the impending blood test results, Natalie headed for the main office where she was directed to classroom 3A. A woman in her late thirties whose features suggested an Indigenous heritage was pinning a picture on the wall. She introduced herself as Gaylene Ambrose and greeted Natalie with a broad smile. ‘What do you think about this?’ she asked, nodding to the picture.

  Natalie took the opportunity to compare it to Chelsea’s. The figures were not as advanced in details or form, but the subject was one she couldn’t imagine herself thinking about at primary school. As far as she could tell it was the Refugee Olympic team being adopted by Australia. In this depiction, it looked like they had had to swim all the way.

  ‘Does politics really start this young?’ Natalie asked.

  ‘We’re not meant to encourage it,’ said Gaylene, ‘but they get it at home.’ She shrugged and smiled mischievously. ‘Only fair to let them air it here.’

  The joys of an inner-city electorate with a Greens member, Natalie suspected. Her own electorate. Housing prices had escalated in the last thirty years and though there were refugees in the public housing, most of the households were middle-class professionals.

  ‘I came to talk about Chelsea Essa,’ said Natalie, taking a tiny seat that pushed her knees up against the desk. She pulled out a permission form signed by Jenna and Malik.

  Gaylene gave it a perfunctory glance. ‘Chelsea’s doing her second year with me, so I know her well.’ The teacher pointed to a front-row seat. ‘That’s hers. Amy Walker, her best friend, sits one side and Matilda Highton the other.’ Seemed like the personal politics from Chelsea’s pictures were played out on a daily basis.