More Than Us

by Dawn Barker

  Tilly turned and looked over her shoulder. She nodded. ‘Yep.’

  I nodded too. ‘You hungry?’

  ‘Not really,’ she sighed. She hadn’t touched the beef.

  I bit at my nail. My leg was jiggling up and down. What was he doing now? I had looked up all the flights to Scotland. Only a few airlines, either via Dubai or Doha, flew tonight. I guessed they’d fly to Glasgow or Edinburgh, like we usually did. Or maybe they’d fly through London and go straight to Aberdeen. Most of the flights left about 10pm, so they’d have checked in and be waiting to board.

  ‘We should have gone to the airport.’ Tilly spoke quietly.

  I looked at her; she was staring at her glass of water. I looked down at the table and rubbed my eyes. Of course, she was right: we should have gone to the airport. Why hadn’t I gone to the airport? I almost jumped out of my chair, already calculating how long it would take to drive out there, park, and then find them. But they’d be through security already, hidden away in the lounge. I didn’t have a ticket, our passports. And that would mean admitting that something was wrong, when Paul was just taking him on a holiday, wasn’t he?

  ‘There’s no need for us to go chasing them through the airport, darling. They’re just… going to have some bonding time. A boys’ trip.’ I tried to grin; it felt like a grimace.

  She looked up at me briefly, then shook her head.

  I reached over and placed my hand on hers. ‘Don’t worry, sweetie. There’s nothing to worry about. It’s just Dad, they’ve just gone on a holiday.’ The more I said, the more I believed it. How could it be anything else when we were in our usual café for an early dinner surrounded by our usual friends?

  I couldn’t sleep that night. I had managed to get Tilly to have a bath and get into bed, and she was finally asleep. I had reached into the cupboard above the oven where we kept the spirits, back in the days when Paul enjoyed a drink, and found a bottle of Hendricks, quarter full. There was a plastic bottle of tonic in the beer fridge out on the back patio, and lemons on the tree, so I made myself a large G&T.

  As I drank it, I thought about them on the plane, what they’d be eating, watching, thinking, doing. I wondered how Paul’s no TV rule would go when he was stuck on a plane half way around the world with nothing to do. I imagined he’d have had to break his no alcohol, no caffeine rule too. And what about the plane food? It almost made me smile; I imagined teasing him about it later. When they landed, they would call me. By the time I had finished my third G&T, my fear had faded. They’d just gone camping. They’d call me tomorrow when they landed.

  Thirty-Three

  Emily

  I could hear my phone ringing through the pounding in my head. I opened my eyes then closed them again at the morning light shining in the room. I’d forgotten to close the blinds. Paul usually did that.

  Paul. Paul must be calling.

  I grabbed the phone from the bedside table, and almost knocked over my glass of water with the cord that attached it to the charger. I deflated when I saw it was Ceecee. I thought briefly about ignoring it, that maybe if I didn’t answer it, I could pretend that this hadn’t happened.

  ‘Emily,’ she said slowly, though she didn’t sound upset. ‘Have you seen it?’

  ‘Seen what?’

  ‘Okay,’ she sighed. ‘So, you haven’t seen it. You might want to sit down.’

  ‘I’m in bed, Ceecee, I’m barely sitting up.’

  ‘God, sorry, I thought you’d be up getting Tilly ready for morning hockey practice by now.’ I glanced at the time. Shit.

  Ceecee continued. ‘Well, I woke up and as usual, the first thing I did was check the news online, and I was scrolling down, and it’s not the head story, not by any means, but there’s a story.’

  ‘A story?’

  ‘Emily. It’s not all bad. It’s a tiny story, the lead is some other political gaff which will take up everyone’s attention this morning and then it’ll drop off the page and no one will care.’

  ‘What kind of story?’ What was she talking about?

  ‘Do not read it, Emily, just ignore it.’

  I shook my head and sat up properly. ‘Ceecee, you can’t call me and make some cryptic comments about a story that I shouldn’t read. You’re scaring me. Now I have to read it. I need to go—’ I hated feeling annoyed with Ceecee, as she was the only one who knew what had been going on with Paul and I needed her support. It wasn’t her fault; she didn’t know that Cameron and Paul had gone to Scotland.

  ‘It’s fine. It doesn’t even mention names.’

  My bottom lip began to quiver and my face burned. ‘Names?’

  ‘Look, it’s obviously about Cameron but it doesn’t say that. It just mentions him going to hospital, and his medication and all this rubbish about side effects.’

  ‘Oh my God! Are you serious? Jesus. Why the hell is that in the papers? I need to go. It must have been Paul.’

  ‘Of course it wasn’t Paul, Emily. He wouldn’t want to expose you or the kids to this.’

  ‘But who else knows about this apart from you and me? You have no idea what Paul is capable of.’

  ‘What do you mean? Emily, are you okay? Is he there?’

  The fear flared up inside me again, starting deep inside me and burning every nerve to my fingertips. ‘No. They’ve…’ how could I explain this? I didn’t want to lie to Ceecee but I had to believe that there was only one explanation. ‘Paul’s taken him on a trip to Scotland. Just to get some rest.’

  ‘Are you serious? He was just in hospital. That was quick.’

  I didn’t know how to explain it; I didn’t want her to judge me. ‘I have to go.’

  I ended the call and immediately opened my news app on my phone. My stomach was churning, still hoping that Ceecee was wrong. The news site flashed up. The top story was about the finance minister and some taxi vouchers. Then a horrific refugee story. Then a story about the airport being evacuated because of a sprinkler going off, and then there it was:

  Boy, 15, hospitalised with life threatening side effects to psychiatric medication.

  The 15-year-old son of a prominent Sydney sportsman was critically ill with a life-threatening reaction to psychiatric medication after collapsing at a school sports game. A source told The Daily Mail that the teenager was being treated for severe side effects to psychiatric medication which had been administered by the child’s mother, without the consent of the child or his father.

  The prescription of psychotropic medication to children has rapidly increased over the past 4 years, despite being unlicensed for use in children, with little evidence of efficacy, and potentially severe side effects including permanent neurological disorders, diabetes, tics, suicidal thoughts and sudden death. The diagnosis of mental illness in children has reached epidemic proportions…

  I put the phone down. I didn’t need to read any more. I lay back on the bed, blinking away tears, then picked up my phone again and checked the other local news sites, but it wasn’t on there yet. Yet. My chin quivered. Who the hell did this? I bet that one of the nurses or doctors or cleaners got a bit loose after a glass of wine and couldn’t resist blurting out the gossip to their partner, who was mates with a journalist who had some space to fill. I wiped my eyes and gritted my teeth. They’d pay for this; they would lose their job once I find out who it was.

  But the phrases in the article sounded familiar. Could it have been Paul? No, he wouldn’t want this in the papers either; he was so wary of journalists and their inflammatory headlines. He wouldn’t want his name in the papers, and besides, Ceecee was right: he wouldn’t expose the children to this. I shook my head, sniffing and trying to compose myself before Tilly woke up. I knew exactly where this had come from: the phrases sounded exactly like something that Phoenix would spout. Damian. This was exactly like something he and his cronies would do.

  I wished I had some way of hacking in to the site and deleting the story. I just had to ignore it, like Ceecee said, and hope that no one notic
ed until something else more outrageous hit the news and it was bumped further down the page. For now, all I could do was get up and pretend that everything was normal, and hope that one of Tilly’s friends hadn’t heard their mother and fathers gossip about it over breakfast.

  But it was like trying to ignore a mosquito bite on your ankle that begins to itch and you know that scratching it won’t work, not for more than a moment, it’ll just inflame your ankle until it’s red and swollen and the bite is weeping, and the cycle will repeat. I had to stop looking. I put my phone down and went to have my shower, hoping the noise of the running water would start to rouse Tilly. She could just miss hockey practice today.

  As I dried myself, I could only think of that news story and how many people would be reading it right now. I quickly dressed then went into the kitchen, clattering cutlery as I emptied the clean dishes from the dishwasher, bashing plates down. I heard Tilly stir and head for her bathroom as I clasped my hand to my mouth. Would it be in the print newspapers? I rushed to the front door and flung it open. I was in my bare feet but ignored the pain as I hobbled down the garden path over loose twigs and gumnuts that had fallen from our gumtree, through the gate and onto the front verge. I picked up our two newspapers, curled up and wrapped in plastic: my paper – the local – and Paul’s Financial Review. I opened the recycling bin and threw his in. The story wouldn’t be in there; it was hardly of national significance.

  I hurried back inside and unrolled the newspaper, flattened it on the breakfast bar, then licked my index finger and flicked through the pages. I knew it was hardly front-page news but maybe there would be a little article further in. I sighed and put my hands flat on the bench top for a moment as I realised that there was nothing in there.

  Tilly walked in, wearing her pyjamas, yawning.

  I closed the pantry door then leaned against it with my back. My hands were shaking like I’d been caught stealing. She looked at me for a moment, then walked to the fridge and opened it.

  ‘What do you want for breakfast?’ I said, trying to sound normal. I could tell she hadn’t heard anything about the story; she was her usual morning self. The itch subsided for a moment. Maybe no one else in her class would have looked either, after all, all the kids and parents were too busy making lunches, packing bags and driving through rush hour traffic. ‘Do you want a lunch order today?’

  ‘It’s not Friday.’

  ‘Well, I thought you might like a treat. I can order you some sushi? A sausage roll?’

  ‘Can you just give me the money and I’ll see what they have in the canteen?’

  She braced herself for my usual answer, my usual explanation that I want to make sure she’s having something healthy and not just spending the money on hot chocolate and chips or ice cream, but I just nodded. ‘Okay.’

  As I was waiting for her toast to pop, I walked back to the bedroom and looked at my phone from the doorway. Then I quickly walked over to it and swiped it to turn it on. No messages or calls – that was good, wasn’t it? Then I quickly opened the newspaper app again. The story was still there. It was too early to relax about it. What if someone shared it on Facebook or Twitter? My heart began to speed up again and my eyes filled with tears and I threw it back down on the bed just as I heard Tilly shouting at me that she couldn’t find a clean shirt, and I was so relieved to have something else to think about that I wanted to run to her and give her the kind of hugs I did when she was four and all she wanted to do was be by my side all day long. Maybe she should stay home today. No: that would look suspicious. I had to keep things normal while I figured out what to do. My mind went around and around and she shouted again, ‘Mum!’ and I closed my bedroom door as if somehow, I could shut the phone and all it contained in that room.

  Half an hour later, we were in the car. ‘I’ve got a surprise for you,’ I said as I reversed out of the driveway.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You can choose the music today.’

  I smiled and looked at her, but she was biting her lip. ‘It’s okay, the radio’s fine.’

  ‘No, go on, connect your Bluetooth or whatever it’s called and we’ll listen to what you want.’

  She was silent but didn’t move. I crossed a roundabout then glanced at her. She was looking out the window but her shoulders were slumped.

  ‘What is it, darling? I don’t mind—’

  ‘You don’t have to do this, Mum.’

  I felt sick. ‘I’m not doing anything, I’m—’

  ‘Lunch order today, my music in the car. You don’t have to try and be extra nice just because of Cameron and Dad. I’m not going anywhere.’

  I heard myself gasp as I sucked in the air and I started to shake my head. We were stuck on the highway now, two lanes of barely moving SUVs on the morning school run. ‘That’s not why. I’m not trying to—’

  ‘Leave it, Mum. I just want everything to be normal.’

  I blinked hard. ‘Me too, I’m sorry,’ I managed in a small voice. ‘Me too.’

  So, we listened to the radio and as the 8am news came on we were already in the school slipway and I stopped the car, and Tilly got out as always and walked towards the school gates. And as I watched her I pleaded with someone, anyone, that today would just be normal for her and that no one would say anything to her. None of this was her fault; none of it had anything to do with her, and everything to do with Paul and me.

  I called in sick to work. I parked around the corner from school, annoyed at myself for feeling so anxious about the next call I needed to make. I tried Paul and Cameron, of course, but there was no answer. I would call Paul’s mum as soon as it was a decent hour in the UK. I left a message with Alasdair, and with Dr Davidson. And then, I called Damian.

  It rang out. I hated that part of me was relieved. Why did he intimidate me so much? Perhaps he could manipulate Paul, but I owed him nothing. I called again, and again it rang out. This time I left a message.

  ‘Damian. It’s Emily. Paul’s wife. Can you please call me?’

  Why was I being so nice? Did I really doubt that he was responsible? I took a deep breath in and spoke quickly. ‘I know your part in this. I know they were with you yesterday and I know what you’re trying to do with your newspaper stories. It won’t work. If you’ve got something to say to me, then pick up the phone and stop being such a coward.’ I hung up, hands shaking. I waited in the car with the engine running. Sure enough, within moments, my phone rang.

  ‘Emily,’ his voice purred, ‘I’m sorry I missed your calls, I was just driving to work.’

  ‘I left you a message.’

  ‘Oh, I haven’t listened. How can I help?’

  The hell he hadn’t listened. I must remain calm, in control. ‘Damian. I know they were at your place yesterday. Cameron told me.’

  He sighed. ‘Look Emily, I don’t want to get in the middle of your family issues.’

  ‘My family issues? The only issue in my family is you, and all that crap that you tell Paul. And the news story today? I suppose you’re going to tell me that was nothing to do with you?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Emily. Listen, you sound upset—’

  My eyes widened with rage. ‘Upset? Upset? Oh my God. Am I meant to believe that my husband and teenage son have taken off to Scotland behind my back after being at your house, and there’s an article in the paper all about how evil medications are, and that you had nothing to do with it? You’re an idiot if you think I’m that stupid.’

  His voice was smooth, patronising. ‘Emily, these are issues between you and your husband. All I have done is support my friend.’

  ‘You’re not his friend,’ I spat.

  ‘Paul’s a grown man, Emily.’

  ‘He wouldn’t do anything to hurt his children.’

  ‘No, he wouldn’t.’

  If he was standing in front of me, I’d have slapped him. ‘Oh, but I would. Is that what you’re saying? Do you know what, Damian? You’re a disgrace. A disgrace of a
man.’

  I couldn’t bear to talk to him anymore. I felt dizzy, I couldn’t catch my breath. I hung up the phone, furious at him, and at myself for letting him get to me. I had no doubt any more that he was the one who had fed the journalists. I gripped the steering wheel and closed my eyes, willing myself to calm down so I could drive back home again.

  It took me hours to calm down. I made it back home, then went for a walk but I imagined that everyone was looking at me and could see my swollen eyes beneath my sunglasses or know that it was me who had tricked my son into taking medications that the papers say threatened his life. It wasn’t true, any of it.

  * * *

  Later that morning, I made myself a coffee, then sat down at the computer. I had to think clearly. I splayed my fingers out, the muscles on the back of my forearms tightening as they pulled back my wrists. I looked at the ridges of tendons fanning out from my wrist, over the fine wrinkles and the sunspots. I let my fingers relax and curl down back towards the keyboard. I stared for a moment at the black keys, each with a white letter shining on it, the silver casing of my laptop grubby in between them, and I rested my fingers down on them. Thumbs on the space bar, my pinkie ready to reach out for the delete key, wishing that I could press it and delete Damian and Phoenix out of our story.

  For a moment, I stilled with the amazement of the power of words, whether they’re accurate or not. The story of everything that has happened to our family could be written by a simple combination of those twenty-six letters, just like every person’s body and mind is built from the unique combination of just four basic building blocks of DNA. And, just as Cameron is made from a combination of DNA from me, and from Paul, his story has been cleaved in two. My version and his father’s version.

  I must speak for Cameron; I can’t allow these people to shout over the top of me anymore.

  I clicked on the story again. The text was the same. How could they publish lies like this? They had it all wrong – weren’t there journalism laws about that? I scrolled to the bottom. There was a generic stock photo of a teenage boy holding his head in his hands, with a little by-line with the phone number of Lifeline at the bottom. Beneath that was a section saying ‘34 comments’. I clicked on the comments link.