by Sue Lawson
“Absolutely,” I snarl, hands on my hips.
This time he snorts. “You know what, Pan? You need help. Not everything is about you.” He stomps to the auditorium.
Slow and hypnotic music fills the air. It flattens my heart. Ari returns and looks about him. “What’s going on?”
Everything is balanced on the tip on my tongue. All I have to do is open my mouth and let it tumble out, but it won’t open.
Ari picks up a brush and starts to paint the fire-escape landing. “Pan, has Hunter told you about his mum?”
Here we go. “Yeah, she’s dead.”
“Anything else?”
“She was moody – big deal.”
Ari sighs and nods at the set for Doc’s shop. “How about you work on that one for me?”
I pick up the paintbrush and take out my mood on the set. The sound of the piano is crushing my heart.
“You know, Pan, you should trust him. He’s a good guy.”
I try to steady my shaking hand. If I look up or open my mouth, I’ll lose it and cry like a baby. I can’t do that again.
Morgan,
You know how you said I was too caught up in myself to notice anything else? That I only remember the good stuff? Yeah, well, I’m sorry I went off and threw that mug at you. Because maybe you had a point. I don’t see the obvious stuff and I am too caught up in me to notice what is really going on.
It’s like I’m missing something, but I don’t know what it is.
I wish you and me could go back, Morgan, back to before. How we used to be.
Panda
The air in the lounge room was hot and thick. Morgan and Pan lay on a mattress watching the first series of Gossip Girl on DVD. Kylie had done her garage sale thing again, but hadn’t bought a sofa at the op shop yet.
“It’s boiling in here,” said Morgan, pushing stop on the remote control. “This house is a hotbox. Want to come for a walk and buy a cold drink?”
“Nah. Yeah. But I could go a chocolate ice-cream,” said Pan.
“I’ll tell Mum we’re going.” Morgan padded down the hall and tapped on Kylie’s closed door. “Kylie, you awake?” She eased open the door. The digital clock beside the bed offered the only weak light in the room. The Kylie lump groaned and rolled over. “Pan and I are going to the shop. Want anything?”
“No.” Her voice was like the crackle of paper.
“Won’t be long.” Morgan closed the door. In the kitchen she took Kylie’s purse from her bag and pulled out the solitary ten dollar note.
“Let’s go, Panda.”
A light breeze fought its way through what was left of the day’s heat.
“Hey, Morgs, how did you stop Mum selling the TV and DVD player this time?” asked Pan.
“I didn’t. Op shops don’t sell electrical stuff any more, so she decided to keep it.” Morgan picked a sprig of lavender that poked between wooden pickets. “You never know, this might be our last move.”
Pan snorted. “Yeah right.”
Morgan picked at the flower until there were no petals left, just a silver stem.
“Morgs, do you ever think about him?” asked Pan.
“Who? Grandy?”
Pan shook her head. “Your dad.”
“Not much, any more.”
“I think about mine all the time.” Pan chewed her thumb for a moment. “I wonder where he is, what he does.” Her sigh was heartbreaking. “But most of all I think about how much I hate him.”
“Panda, he mightn’t know you exist. Kylie probably didn’t tell him she was pregnant. You know how she is.”
“She’s not all bad, Morgs. She’s just …” Pan shrugged. “You know.”
“I used to think about my dad heaps. Same sort of stuff as you. But then I realised something and stopped.”
“What?” asked Pan, her eyes pleading.
“I realised if he’d stayed, you wouldn’t be here.”
“Yeah, but if he’d stayed, you’d be my real sister, you know, my whole sister. We’d have the same dad.”
Morgan draped her arm over Pan’s shoulder. “You are my real sister.”
Thirty-One
Production rehearsal is over, so too is my detention. I sit on the school front steps waiting for Rose. In the middle of the driveway, Livia, Beccy and Emma run through the bridal shop scene.
“Hey, Pan, want to learn the steps?” calls Livia.
I raise my hand and flip her the bird.
She screws up her nose at me and mouths “loser”.
“Bitch,” I mutter to the steps I’m now staring at.
“Livia’s all right, Pan.” Hunter is standing beside me.
“Like you’d know.” I regret it the moment it’s out. “Look, Hunter …”
But he’s walking away.
Morgan,
The weather’s changing. Feels like spring is finally on its way. It’s wilder, stormier, but the sun’s definitely warmer. Today, on the way home from school, I saw a magpie with long stringy bits of grass and stuff in its beak.
I loved how you’d find nests for me to look at. Remember that time at the park – I can’t remember where we lived – how we watched that bird feed its chicks. What kind of bird was it again? A wren? Finch? Maybe a sparrow. Whatever, it was amazing until those fat crows turned up and ate the chicks. I hate crows.
Panda
x
“Stand here.” Morgan guided Pan in front of her on the playground bridge. “Now follow my finger. See where I’m pointing. At the trunk. Go up three branches and follow it out to–”
“I see it,” squealed Pan.
“Shhhh!”
“How many are there?” whispered Pan.
“Three. They only hatched yesterday.”
“What are they, Morgs?”
“The science teacher at school told me they were European goldfinches.”
The mother bird landed on the branch above the nest and checked her surroundings. The chicks’ open mouths thrust into the air. A chorus of chirps floated across the playground.
“They’re kind of ugly,” whispered Pan.
“They won’t be when their feathers grow. They’ll be all fluffy and cute.” Morgan watched the mother feed the chicks, one at a time. The moment she flew away, the chicks’ heads dipped back inside the nest.
“I’m going to have a swing,” said Pan.
“Bet I can go higher.”
Both girls raced down the chain ladder, pushing each other out of the way in a race to the swings. Morgan reached them first, settling on the one closest. She leaned back and with her feet pointing to the sky, dragged the swing higher and higher. Beside her Pan grunted with the effort of trying to swing as high.
Morgan heard the crows before she saw them. Their caws split the clear air. One landed on the bridge rail, then another.
“I hate crows,” Pan yelled into the clear air. “Revolting things.”
The first crow studied them with one black eye, then hopped around and watched them with the other.
Morgan shivered and closed her eyes, lost in the sensation of flying.
The crows continued to caw, but Morgan could tell by the sound that they’d moved. The further away the better.
“How come you go so high?” asked Pan.
“I don’t know. I’m bigger than–” The change in the crows’ caws stopped Morgan. Their calls were shorter with garbled noises in between. Something about the sound made her shiver. The tree with the chicks shook.
Morgan slowed the swing and jumped to the ground. Beneath it a crow high-stepped, beating what it held in its beak on the dirt.
Morgan crept forward. She froze for a second as she realised what was going on. She ran towards the crow, arms flapping and screaming. “Piss off!”
The crow cawed and flew into a gum tree. The nest tree shook and the second crow followed the first.
What was left of a goldfinch chick lay on the dirt beneath the tree.
Morgan shimmied up the tree trunk.
Hope plummeted to her toes. The nest was empty.
Thirty-Two
The doorbell chimes just when I’m on a roll with my Romeo and Juliet essay. I grit my teeth and read the question again. What role does fate play in the Shakespeare tragedy, Romeo and Juliet?
The doorbell buzzes again.
“Someone’s at the door,” I bellow, even though I know Ian and Rose are working in the vegetable garden out the back, Livia is at her new job at some burger place and Nate is at a friend’s house. I swear and push back from the computer. “So I’ll get it then.”
Rose and Ian bustle through the back door. “Would you, Pan? Thank you.”
“She’s early,” says Ian.
“Who’s early?” I ask.
Rose pulls off her muddy windcheater and rushes down the hall with me. “Gemma. Be a love and tell her I’ll just be a sec.”
Heat rushes up my throat to my scalp. She is here to check up on me. Bloody social worker.
When I open the door, Gemma is standing on the verandah, huddled in her coat. She looks surprised to see me. “Pan. How are you? Isn’t it cold out here?” she chirps in her budgie voice.
“Yeah, freezing.” I step back to let her pass and follow her to the family room.
“How are things going?”
Yeah, great. I’m blundering from one major stuff-up to another.
“Okay. Thanks.” I force a smile.
“T’riffic. Enjoying school?”
I bow my head. “Yeah, great.”
“Coffee, Gemma? Cold drink?” asks Rose. She pops out of the hall, now wearing clean jeans and a jumper. There’s a splodge of mud on her cheek.
“I’m fine, thanks, Rose.”
“Well, if you’ll excuse Ian’s gardening gear, we can start.”
I suck in a deep breath, readying myself for an attack – a three-way attack. Instead, Rose guides Gemma to the retreat opposite her bedroom.
“Pan, would you mind answering the phone if it rings, please?” calls Ian, from outside the door.
“Sure.”
He winks and closes the door behind him.
I fight the panic rising in my throat. Whatever they have to say is so bad, they don’t want me in there. They’ve had enough of the detentions at school, the bickering and tension between me and Livia, not to mention me ignoring Nate most of the time. Fair to say, I’m on my way out of here.
Isn’t that what I wanted? To get out of Legoland and go home? Yet I don’t feel excited or happy.
Sure, I’ve been a pain in the arse, but that doesn’t give them the right to lock me out of a discussion about my future. I’d rather go through the whole stress ball and notebook discussion again than be left out like this. My arms ache. I realise the muscles are tensed and roll my shoulders.
One tiny cell in my brain whispers that I’m overreacting. I try to focus on that and go back to the computer to work on my essay.
My fingers hover over the keys. Romeo and Juliet. Fate.
The silence whispering to me from the front of the house is heavy.
Fate.
What role does fate play in the tragedy that is Pan Harper’s life?
Stuff that. I’m making my own fate.
Cat-like, I ease off the chair and pad down the hall until I’m outside the closed door. Voices rumble, the words hard to work out above the thudding of my heart. I lean closer and Gemma’s words become clearer.
“… no one else will take her.”
The air pressing against my skin is a crushing weight.
“Doesn’t that say it all?” asks Ian. It sounds like he’s pacing.
“She’s a troubled kid. She just needs stability.”
“Yeah, but at what cost to us and the kids?”
A chill creeps through my body. Ian doesn’t want me. Other foster parents don’t want me. Nobody wants me.
“You are the girl’s last chance. Her mother has bipolar, her father …”
“Look, Gemma.” Rose sounds more practical than Ian. Hope surges through me. “We’re flattered you think we can make a difference, but–”
“Look at what you’ve done with Nate. And Livia.”
“Don’t pull that one, Gemma.”
A sound starts at the base of my skull, like the drone of distant traffic. It increases until it drowns out the discussion behind the door. The drone morphs into a word that repeats in a steady rhythm, pushing its way to the front of my head.
Go. Go. Go. Go.
Next thing I’m in my room, shoving stuff into my duffel bag and backpack. Deodorant. T-shirts. Windcheaters. Money. Where’s my wallet? My brain is a jumble. The last thing I pack is Smocker, pushing him into the duffel bag. I leave anything Rose and Ian have bought me – shoes, school stuff, shampoo, mascara, what’s left of the writing paper – in a pile on the floor.
Bag on my shoulder and backpack in my hand, I stop in the kitchen where Rose’s handbag sits on the bench. Her purple wallet pokes out the open zip. I take the $140 I watched her hide in the coin section and shove it in my pocket. It’s supposed to be for Nate’s soccer registration and membership.
I’m going back.
Thirty-Three
The train slows as it nears the station. The guy opposite me, who’s been tapping away on his laptop for the past hour, slips his computer into its bag. At the other end of the carriage a group of laughing guys about my age, stumble towards the door. I stretch and wait for all the other passengers to pass my seat before I step into the aisle.
The panic that has been bubbling through my veins since the train pulled away from Southern Cross Station has eased, but my clothes are still damp and cold.
The moment I stepped out of the McMinn’s back door, the rain had bucketed down. By the time I reached the bus stop I was drenched. The bus seemed to take forever to arrive, though I suppose I only waited for five minutes. The whole time I expected Rose, Ian or Gemma to turn up and drag me back. They didn’t. I squelched down the aisle and sat in the back seat shivering and swivelling to look out the window for them.
At Southern Cross Station I bought my ticket and spent the fifteen minutes until the train attempting to dry my clothes under the hand dryer in the toilet. Sure I could have changed, I mean I had all my stuff with me, but I couldn’t face seeing it all crammed into a bag. Again.
When I boarded the train, I chose a seat away from the window, and pulled my windcheater hood over my head to hide my face. Rain battered the train window for the entire trip, the droplets clinging to the glass and pushed along by the wind reminded me of tears.
The train stops. As I walk down the aisle, I bend to look out the window. The passengers who have already left the train scurry out of the cold. On the platform, a girl not much older than me hugs a lady, who I guess is her mum. The wind whips their hair and coats into a frenzy.
There’s no one waiting for me.
On the platform I brace against the wind. It tears at my hair and clothes as if it wants to rip me into pieces. Hunched into my windcheater, I make the long trek to the last place I called home. With each block I pass, I play out a scenario that could be awaiting me.
Gemma.
Mum’s new friend – Geraldine.
Worse – Geraldine’s German Shepherd.
If only it could be Morgan.
By the time I reach the corner of Shelton Grove, my blood is fizzing and I still haven’t considered the reality of what could be waiting. I count my steps until I’m standing on the footpath opposite twenty-nine Shelton Grove.
The nature strip is covered in long grass and thistles, matted together like unbrushed hair. The hedge, water-laden after the rain, hangs over the footpath. Sodden, faded catalogues poke out of the letterbox like a child’s poking-out tongue.
I clench my fists and cross the bitumen separating me from my last home. Inside the gate, I stop again. An abandoned shopping trolley lies in the middle of the front yard, which is as overgrown as the nature strip. Sheets of wet newspaper sprawl against the hedge and ar
e wrapped around a lone rose’s stem.
The house itself isn’t all that different – paint still curls off weatherboards and cracks still craze the concrete verandah.
But today there are letters shoved between the screen door and front door and the curtains are drawn. The first thing Morgan does every morning is throw back the curtains and open the front door, no matter the weather.
A deep breath and I’m ready to walk down the driveway to the backyard. It’s a jungle of grass and weeds out here too. Instead of a shopping trolley, empty stubbies and bottles litter the yard. Coals, ash and black marks stain the garage. The remains of a party held since I left.
The black trousers, which I wore to Deakin Bay, hang on the line, dripping. Beside them a blue towel droops from a corner. I try to remember if they were on the line when I left.
Something scurries and scrapes from the garage to the back step. When I look up, a flash of what happened the last time I was here flickers across the windows either side of the door.
Angry faces. Pointed fingers. Yelling. Grabbing hands. Running. Wrestling. Screaming. Wailing. The wailing.
The memory of the noise hits me, knocking the air from my lungs.
The duffel bag and backpack land on the ground with a dull thud. I cover my eyes with my hands. I can’t live it again, I can’t. I need it to stop.
But it won’t. The flickering flashes run together and play like a horror movie.
Panic floods me. I scoop up my bags and stumble to the front yard. Huddled against the brick letterbox, I try to slow my breathing.
Thunder splits the heavy clouds open. Drenching rain falls. I don’t move. I can’t move. My arms and legs are blocks of stone. Something hot and prickly lodges in my throat. I lower my head and cry.
After a while I realise I’m shivering so I stand and stamp my feet. I am on the footpath before I realise. I walk up one side of the street and down the other, ripping daisies, lavender and strong-smelling pink and cream flowers from the bushes poking through fences. When I reach our place again, I head straight for the garage and search in the gloom for string to tie the flowers into a bunch. Then I lie the bunch on the back step.