Pan’s Whisper

by Sue Lawson

  I brush off his hand, stand on my own and stumble after him.

  Forty-Five

  Hunter slows so I can keep up with him. I pay no attention to where he’s taking me. I’m blinded by the flashing memories.

  Mum dumping clothes and toys onto the nature strip. My Wish Bear and Barbie. My Barbie with no head.

  Mum sprawled facedown across her bed, cigarette smouldering on the carpet.

  “Wait here,” says Hunter, positioning me outside a shop. When he comes out, we continue our journey.

  Mum splattering paint on the lounge room wall.

  Me huddled in the wardrobe, red welts on my arms and legs, cuddling Smocker, longing for Morgan to come home.

  The air around me is crisper. The smell of gum leaves and dirt rip me from my daze. We’re walking down a bush track and somewhere in my foggy brain, I realise Hunter is taking me to his spot, to the creek.

  “Take a seat.”

  I sit facing the creek.

  “Here.” He hands me a bag of raspberry lollies.

  “I’m not a diabetic.”

  “No, but I reckon you’re in shock. I bought chocolate too.”

  I shove a raspberry into my mouth. The sugary taste somehow focuses me.

  Birds twitter on the other side of the creek. A magpie carols high in the gums.

  “She was right, Hunter.”

  “Who?”

  “My sister. Morgan. I hated her, blamed her for everything, but she’s been protecting me my whole life.” I look up at Hunter and say the words I’ve kept locked in that room deep inside me. “Morgan was right – and I knew it all along. I just wouldn’t see it. Mum is … she’s … bipolar.”

  I watch his face, waiting for him to reject me, hate me because my mum has a mental illness, hate me because I’m as crazy as she is, but he just nods.

  “She’s nuts, Hunter. She goes psycho over nothing. She’s deranged.”

  “I know what bipolar is, Pan. It’s an illness. She’s sick, just like my mum was.”

  “When Morgan tried to tell me, I was so mad – I fought her. Ignored her. Called her a liar. Because I wouldn’t listen.”

  Images from that night rush at me.

  Mum, holding a glass of cask wine and swaying, announcing we’re going out for dinner. “Somewhere posh.”

  Morgan arguing, refusing to give her the car keys.

  Screaming, pushing, shoving.

  Morgan stumbles, the keys clatter to the floor.

  I pick them up.

  “Give them to me, Pan.”

  “She’s too drunk to drive, Pan. Don’t.”

  “Give me the keys, Panda Bear, my special girl”

  “Pan, I’m begging you, don’t.”

  Slowly, I stretch out my hand and uncurl my fingers.

  Mum and I pile into the car.

  Morgan stands on the back step, arms folded.

  “Don’t be a spoil sport!” Mum giggles and turns the keys.

  Morgan swears and leaps into the back seat. “You’re not going with her alone.”

  Music thumps against my skin.

  Singing and laughter.

  Shadows. Bright lights.

  Spinning. Screaming. Shattering glass.

  Darkness.

  Music thumping.

  Screaming. My own.

  Her back as she walks away.

  A crow calls behind me. I shudder.

  “I was mad at Mum, at Morgan.” I pick at the ladder in my school stockings. “But now I’m just angry with myself.”

  “Why?”

  “Hunter, if I’d listened to Morgan, if I’d just …” A rushing sound fills my head and my heart flattens in my chest. I press my elbows into my knees. An ant pushes a white blob, twice its size, through the grass jungle. I raise my head. “Mum ran a red light, Hunter. Another car smashed into us – into me and Morgan. There was so much blood.” I shudder. “But Mum just had a cut on her head. She …” I squeeze out the words I haven’t been able to face. “She left us, Hunter. She didn’t check if the people in the other car or Morgan and I were okay. She just picked up her handbag and left. She didn’t even stop when I screamed her name. She left us, me and Morgan. Alone.” I drop my head in my hands and sob.

  Hunter is beside me, arm around my shoulder, while I moan and howl. He doesn’t say a word, just sits there.

  When I have nothing left but shudders and gasps, I straighten up and fumble in my kilt pocket for a tissue. I have no idea how long I’ve been crying.

  “I need chocolate,” I say, wiping my face and stretching out my aching leg.

  Hunter reaches forwards to grab the family-block and rips it open. “Panna–”

  I cut him off. “What is it about this place? Every time I come here, I cry.” I force myself to sound bright, but the dry sobs keep coming.

  Hunter offers me chocolate, which he’s broken into pieces. I take a bit and nibble, savouring the creaminess as it melts in my mouth.

  Hunter’s voice is a whisper. “Maybe she went for–”

  “Help?” I snort. “Nah. She ran to save herself. She was drunk. And it was my fault.”

  “How was that your fault?”

  “Not her being drunk, but my fault she drove.” I swallow. “I gave her the keys, Hunter.”

  “Oh.” At least he doesn’t say something stupid to make me feel better. “So, did you get that …” With his fingertip, he touches the thick, angry scar where it starts above my eyebrow. The jagged line runs to my temple where it splits in two, one branch spreading to my ear, the other to my chin.

  “Yeah.”

  “And the limp?”

  I nod. “Forty stitches inside and twenty-two outside.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah, shit.”

  “Do you remember it? The crash?”

  “No, well, yeah, a bit – I remember the stuff before it, the car spinning and the noise, the blood. And I can see her back when she walked into the darkness.” I’ve spent the last couple of months ignoring what happened, packing it away in a box deep inside me. Now it’s unwrapped and out there, I feel lighter.

  “How’s your sister?”

  I’m not ready to talk about Morgan. I shrug.

  Hunter’s good at picking up hints. He throws a piece of chocolate in the air, catches it in his mouth and lies back on the grass. I watch the water flow in the creek.

  “Hunter, can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “Welfare Merle – what’s she like?”

  “Apart from the hippy crap she dishes out, she’s pretty good. And she always has chocolate.”

  “Does she help?” I pluck the grass beside me.

  “I guess. She helped me find someone to talk to – a proper counsellor.”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way – I’m not being weird like the other day, but did she tell you about Mum?” My words come out all garbled.

  He sits up. “Nah. She asked me last week how you were, and said something about your father being a horrible, selfish man.”

  “She spoke to him?”

  “I guess.”

  “Bloody hell. I only told her about him to keep her away from me. I even made up his surname. No way did I expect her to find him.”

  “Merle’s part detective, she can track down anything.”

  “Apparently.” I go back to pulling blades of grass. “Do you reckon Merle helped you?”

  “What’s the deal with the Merle interrogation?”

  “I was thinking … maybe, if she’s okay, that I might …”

  “She’s okay, Pan.”

  I watch a brown bird flicking through the dead leaves and twigs on the creek’s bank. “How much trouble do you reckon we’re in at school?”

  “Well, if you go straight to Merle – none.”

  “That’s kind of sneaky.”

  “Yep, but you do whatever it takes, Pan.”

  We sit there for a bit longer before heading back to school. Hunter walks me to Merle�
�s office, then goes to class. I sit on Merle’s sofa, surrounded by her “Believe” and “Courage” stuff and tell her everything. This time it flows from me. And I cry – again.

  Merle rings Rose and asks her to come pick me up, explaining I need time at home to digest. Part of me can’t shake the feeling the woman is a nutter, but I’m going to trust what Hunter said and see how it goes.

  When Rose arrives, I expect Merle to tell her everything I’ve said – that I remember stuff and have finally admitted what Mum did – but she doesn’t. And Rose doesn’t ask questions, which is good, because I can’t face going over it again.

  “Do you feel like cooking tonight?” she asks as she buckles her seatbelt.

  “Sure.”

  “Any preference?”

  “I could do that couscous thing again.”

  “Perfect.” She starts the car. The rattle of the keys makes me think of Mum. And Morgan.

  “Rose, you know how Zara was in my wardrobe? It made me remember stuff.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Not really.” I lean against the passenger window. “Actually, you know when Gemma came around, the day I bolted, did she say anything about Mum?”

  “What do you mean?”

  I’m scared how she’s going to make a fuss because I’m finally talking about Mum. I can’t do a fuss. “Did Gemma say if Mum had turned up? Or if anyone knew where she was?”

  Rose turns to face me, then overcorrects the car a little. But that’s the only sign of fuss.

  “According to Gemma there’s still no word of her, Pan.”

  “She’s in big trouble, isn’t she?”

  Rose sighs. “Culpable driving. Leaving the scene of an accident, drink-driving causing death.” Her voice softens when she says death.

  “What if she comes back, Rose?”

  “Pan, she could be jailed. You wouldn’t be able to move back.”

  “I don’t want to live with her again. Ever.”

  Rose squeezes my knee. “We’ll look after you, Pan.”

  “Thanks. Rose.” But it’s not me I’m worried about and it’s not me that needs looking after.

  A bit more fuss comes when we arrive at the McMinn’s. As I walk around the back of the car to the front door, Rose swallows me in a bear hug. Without saying a word, she steps back and unlocks the front door.

  Fuss over.

  Forty-Six

  Ari adds my name to the list of support crew involved in the production, so with the entire cast and crew, I spend the rest of week at the performing arts centre running through the musical, again and again. I can just about recite all of Maria’s and Tony’s lines by Thursday.

  My big jobs during the performance are to wheel the rack of dresses on stage for the bridal shop scenes and to carry a table onto the stage for the scenes at Doc’s. In between I hang out in the wings with Ari, ready to run messages for him.

  Hunter’s with the band most of the time, but we hang out during breaks, only it’s never just us. Beccy, Zander and Livia want to check in with Hunter about the music or their singing, the musos want to jam, but most of all people just want to be with him. It’s weird, but not. The not part is that Hunter is easy to be with. The weird thing is I can’t work out why he hangs out with me.

  It’s not like I’m pretty. My face is a wreck with that massive scar running down it, and I’m not exactly good company. I’ve either been a bitch to him or I’ve cried. If I think too hard about it, my head starts to throb.

  Whatever is going on, I need to talk to him about Mum and my tears, only I’m not doing that in front of everyone. And there’s something else I think I need to talk about. A small bud that is starting to open.

  Friday morning the whole cast and crew are sitting in a semicircle on the stage. Today is full-dress rehearsal with kids from local schools as the audience.

  Before the kids arrive, Marcella, Ari and the other teachers involved in the production give us a pep talk about opening night, when to arrive, how to behave backstage, that sort of stuff.

  “We’re proud of all of you. You’ve worked so hard for this. Make the most of it.” Marcella looks around the group, grinning. “So, go dress, do your make-up, do your hair and whatever else you have to do. We’ll meet back here to warm up an hour before curtain call.”

  Everyone cheers and scatters. I sit on the edge of the stage near the band. Hunter and Jackson are beside me. They’re working out the new Train Wreck song on their guitars. The other musicians lounge in the auditorium seats in front of us.

  After a while, Livia and Teagan skip onto the stage, arm in arm, in full make-up.

  “Is that Train Wreck?” asks Livia, standing behind me. “I love that band.” She starts singing along.

  “You two feeling okay about this afternoon?” I ask Livia and Teagan when the song is finished.

  “I’m a tiny okay – huge bit nervous,” says Teagan.

  “Really?” says Livia. “You’re only on the stage for a couple of scenes.”

  I hold in my laugh. Livia and I might be okay now, but that doesn’t mean she’s my best buddy.

  “Let’s go change,” she says, and tugs Teagan’s arm.

  “I’m starved,” says Jackson, patting his stomach and resting his guitar on the stage. “Who’s coming to the canteen?” One by one, the other musicians put down their instruments and go with him.

  Hunter stays. We’re alone on the edge of the stage. He’s strumming his guitar.

  “You okay? About the performance?” I ask.

  He looks up. “You’re the only person who’s asked. Except for Dad.” He places the guitar beside him. “Kind of nervous, but that’s a good thing – keeps me on my toes.”

  “Hunter, I haven’t had a chance to talk to you about the other day.”

  “It’s cool.” He smiles and my skin tingles. “There’s nothing to say.”

  “Yeah, there is.” My tongue feels swollen and hard to control. “I need to … look, thanks, that’s all. Thanks for listening and stuff.”

  “My pleasure.” He runs his hand back and forth along the stage.

  “Merle’s made an appointment for me to see this guy next week. A psychologist or something.”

  “Cool.”

  “And …” This is so stupid. I’ve cried in front of him, been horrible to him. Why is it so hard to ask him this? “Hunter, would it be okay … I mean, do you reckon you could come with me on the weekend. I need to do this thing …”

  “I’m up for it.”

  “It’ll be a train trip and–”

  “I said yes.”

  “Just like that?” I ask.

  “Why not?”

  “More to the point, why?”

  “You’re not making sense – again.”

  I roll my eyes at him. “Why are you coming? Why do you hang out with me? I’m moody and weird. A freak. A scarred, ugly freak who is a nut job like her mother.”

  “Or not.” He reaches across and holds my hand.

  My whole body tingles.

  The musos rumble back into the room. I expect Hunter to pull his hand away, but he doesn’t. He moves closer to me.

  Forty-Seven

  The grey building looms over me. Ripped flyscreen hangs from metal frames covering grimy windows. Tired bushes droop either side of the dirty sliding doors.

  Hunter squeezes my hand. “You sure you don’t want me to come inside with you?”

  Actually I do, but I have to do this on my own. “No, thanks.”

  “I’ll wait over there.” He nods at a park bench under the oak tree. “I have this to keep me occupied.” He holds up the Rolling Stone magazine he bought at the train station.

  I take another step forwards. When the doors open, I don’t expect the hospital smell that rushes out. My stomach churns. The floor inside the building is covered in grey carpet squares and the walls are a dirty cream. I can’t match this place with Morgan – pushy, bubbly, sensible Morgan. What can be rehabilitating about b
eing in this hellhole?

  “Are you coming in or not?” calls the woman behind the front desk. She’s wearing headphones, a microphone and a white shirt at least two sizes too small. If she takes a deep breath, buttons will pop off and fire, bullet-like, around the foyer. “Well?”

  My legs move to the counter. The door slides shut behind me.

  “Can you …” My throat is dry. I swallow and try again. “I’m looking for Morgan Harper.”

  “This is a large place filled with people.”

  “She’s a patient.”

  The woman purses her lips, types and scans the computer screen. She looks up at me. “Family? Because only family can visit.”

  “Younger sister.”

  “Ward Two West. Check in at the nurses’ desk first. Out that door, and follow the green line on the ground.”

  “Thanks,” I mutter and follow the green line through the building and out another set of sliding doors. Spread out before me are three sets of buildings with pebbled walls. They remind me of the ancient primary school I went to in Bendigo and are just as scary.

  At my feet there are red, yellow, black and green painted lines, shooting off in different directions. I continue following the green one to closed double doors that open to a corridor.

  The lights are dimmed. I walk to the office. Its glass windows are covered in notices about all kinds of therapy – physio, occupational and hydro.

  A guy dressed in white seated at the desk behind the glass lifts his head. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m here to see someone. A patient.”

  He folds his arms. “It’s rest time. Visiting isn’t for another two hours.” His eyes keep flicking to my scar. I brush my hair forwards and he looks away.

  “Can’t I just … she’s my sister.”

  “What’s her name?” He sounds bored.

  “Morgan Harper.”

  His face changes. Morgan has woven her charm on him, I can tell. “Are you Pan?”

  How does he know my name?

  “I read your letters to her.” He smiles and comes out of the office. “Come on, I’ll show you to her room.”

  He leads the way down the gloomy corridor.

  My legs are jelly and my heart pounds against my ribs.