by Karen West
‘Maybe Dad should mind his own business,’ I said through gritted teeth. ‘It’s so unfair.’
‘I agree that your mum missing out on the heart is unfair, but I don’t agree that locking yourself away will change anything. Richard’s worried. He doesn’t know how to help you, none of us do.’
‘I just need time, Libby.’
‘I get that, but you can’t stay cooped up here. Go have a shower, and we’ll go for a walk.’
‘Dad said that I had to clean up.’
Libby glanced around the room at the newspapers, empty coffee cups and rugs strewn across the lounge. ‘I can fix this up while you get ready.’
‘You’ll be late for school.’
‘You can write me a late note when we get back.’
The café owner stared at Libby’s uniform. ‘We don’t serve truants,’ he said in a gruff voice.
‘Haven’t you heard of a free period?’ she retorted confidently.
I sat at the table opposite Libby, taking in the smells of fresh coffee and hot doughnuts. ‘So, how’s your mum going?’ she asked, and stared back at the café owner.
‘Dad said that her infection is under control.’
‘That’s great news. So, what’s your plan?’
‘I don’t have a plan,’ I said, watching shoppers bustling around me, wishing that I was home safe in the attic. ‘Libby, I appreciate you trying to help, but sometimes people have to work stuff out for themselves.’
‘Baby steps,’ she said. ‘My mum says that sometimes we need to take small steps and things usually work out.’ Libby’s kindness added to my inadequacies. ‘Do you still have your Gran’s old trunk full of dress-up clothes?’
‘Why?’ I asked, shaking my head.
‘Let’s do it, let’s just spend the whole day dressing up, and we can pull out your box of dolls too.’
‘You’re mad, Libby.’
‘Who cares if we’re mad?’
‘Thanks, maybe another time.’
‘I’m not taking you home until we’ve had fun.’
I sat in the corner of the change-room, watching Libby try on the new season swimwear. Watching her sparked memories of my last day at Palmy. A rush of anxiety flowed through my veins. ‘I have to get back,’ I told her.
Libby pulled on a pair of bikini bottoms over her undies. ‘There’s no rush, Steph,’ she said, glancing over her shoulder, checking out the back view in the mirror. ‘Do you think these make my bum look big?’
‘Yes,’ I lied.
As we were leaving the mall, I saw Ms Benetti pushing a pram. ‘Isn’t that your art teacher?’ asked Libby. ‘Let’s go over and say hi.’ She reached for my hand. I pulled it away.
No,’ I snapped. ‘I want to go home.’
Libby let out a harsh breath. ‘It’ll only take a minute.’
‘You go.’ I turned and started walking.
‘Wait, Steph,’ she squealed, running to catch up.’
Mum arrived home as Libby was leaving. Her colour was back, her hair was shiny, and her eyes sparkled. I threw my arms around her. She smelt like the hospital.
As I opened my bedroom door Mum called out ‘Steph, Mary and Jack from work are coming over later. You might like to come and join us.’
‘Yeah, cool.’ Stop lying, I screamed inside my head.
‘Steph,’ echoed Dad’s voice, ‘get the door.’
‘I’m busy,’ I yelled back.
‘Please,’ he added. I slammed my bedroom door, and cut through the kitchen to see Dad’s large hands in a huge glass bowl, mixing flour with the tips of his fingers, and did a double take. ‘What are you making?’
‘Scones,’ he said, sweeping the back of his hand across his face.
‘There’s a cake shop two blocks away,’ I informed him, and kept walking.
‘It’s not the same.’
I wasn’t expecting to see Richard at the door. ‘Hi, Steph,’ he said, with hesitation in his voice.
‘Come on in,’ urged Dad, waving him through to the kitchen with his flour-covered hand, directing him to take a stool at the bench.
Mum walked into the kitchen. ‘Nice to see you, Richard,’ she said, her eyes focused on me. I was starting to think that Richard, like Libby, had been encouraged to visit.
‘Would you like to stay for scones?’ asked Mum.
‘No thanks, Mrs Conner, I’ve eaten.’
I made my way to the back door and held it open. ‘Are you coming or not?’ I asked, rolling my eyes.
‘Catch you later,’ said Richard and I caught him giving my mum a pathetic grin before following me out the door to the backyard. I stopped at the old fig tree, dropped the rope swing from the overhead branch, and sat on a piece of old black rubber that replaced the rotted-out seat. ‘I thought you might be working,’ he said, which I knew was a lie.
‘So why did you come over?’ I asked, pushing off the ground with my feet.
‘On the chance that you hadn’t gone back.’
‘I’m not ready to go back yet,’ I informed him, and he sent the swing higher with each push. I pulled back on the ropes, stretching my legs to build momentum.
‘It’s been a week, Steph,’ he called.
‘I’m not stupid,’ I spat, lying back in the swing. ‘I’ll go back when I’m ready. For the moment, I just want to paint.’
‘If you don’t go back to school, you’ll end up repeating.’
‘That’s my problem, not yours.’
Richard yanked on the ropes, stopping the swing. ‘Steph, I’m serious. I’m concerned.’
‘Don’t be. I know what I’m doing.’
‘When do you find out if your work made it into the art competition?’
I shrugged. ‘Maybe the gallery has already made their choice, and mine wasn’t selected. I haven’t spoken with Willow for a while.’
‘Do you want to come for a walk around the zoo?’ His words reduced the fire burning in my chest. I missed the animals. ‘I’d like that,’ I said, leaving the swing, and started walking. I stopped at the gate. ‘Are you coming or not?’
Richard eagerly picked up his pace.
The manager, Rachel, stepped out of the Zoo shop. I wasn’t up to talking. I dropped my head and picked up my pace.
Richard walked beside me with his hands in his pockets. ‘It’s busy,’ he said, but I just kept walking, immersed in the familiar smells.
The noise coming from Friendship Farm was deafening. We arrived at the gate to find two boys and a girl screaming as they chased my chooks, stressing them out, and saw their feathers scattered around the yard. ‘Hey,’ I called. A couple of women, the parents of the out-of-control children, flashed their made-up eyes at me, and one had the audacity to tut.
‘Can I help you?’ she huffed.
I swooped, snatching a boy by the arm, stopping him in his tracks. The woman moved forward, opened her mouth to speak, but I got in first. ‘I hope that if there’s such a thing as reincarnation, you both come back as chooks.’ The boy pulled free of my grip and ran to his mother, placed his face in her lap and started crying. Richard gripped my arm, but I wasn’t finished. ‘Just because you pay entry to the zoo, it doesn’t give you the right to use it as day care.’
‘Come on, Steph,’ urged Richard.
I yanked my arm from his hold. ‘I’m not going anywhere until I see Boris,’ I told him and marched across the yard to his stall.
When Richard walked in, I was sitting on the feed bin with Boris’s head in my lap, massaging behind his ears.
‘Steph, I’m sorry that your mum missed out.’
‘Thanks, but please, don’t bring it up again.’
‘Let’s grab a coffee,’ he suggested, holding out his hand, and I took it.
As we approached the restaurant, I spotted Libby and Willow sitting at an outside table, waving us over. They never go to the zoo after school.
‘Tell Steph what Grant said, Willow,’ begged Libby.
‘No,’ she said, turning her eyes to
Richard.
Richard put up his hands. ‘Hey, leave me out of this.’
Libby moved closer and whispered in my ear. ‘I love you, Willow,’ she said, and stared at me through seductive eyes, threw back her head and laughed.
Willow reached out and pushed her for telling. Richard’s fast action saved Libby from tumbling backwards.
The attention went from Willow and Libby to me. ‘What?’ I queried.
‘It’s good to see you smiling,’ said Richard.
Willow slipped an envelope from her bag and waved it at me. ‘My painting was accepted,’ she beamed. ‘The letter came yesterday.’ Seeing Willow’s excitement sparked a rush of jealousy.
‘Congratulations,’ I said, trying not to show my disappointment.
‘Did yours come?’ I didn’t answer. Her happiness faded. ‘Oh, Steph, I’m sorry.’
I arrived home to find that Mary and Jack were gone. I found Mum doing a crossword puzzle in the lounge room in front of the fire. ‘Starting with B,’ said Mum, ‘ending with Y, five letters in total. And no, it’s not bunny. Oh, before I forget, there’s a letter for you in the kitchen. They put it in next door’s letterbox along with our power bill.’
‘Here,’ said Dad as he walked in, passing me the letter. ‘It’s from the gallery.’
Mum put her head back and rolled her eyes at Dad. ‘Glenn, do you have to give everything away?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Dad and started walking.
‘Wait.’ Mum called him back.
‘You two are exhausting,’ I said, ripping the envelope open, and began reading the letter.
‘Well?’ asked Mum.
The word, congratulations stood out. ‘They accepted my painting,’ I breathed.
‘See?’ said Mum, turning her gaze to Dad, ‘Cass was right.’
‘You seem surprised,’ said Dad.
‘Yeah, I am,’ I admitted. ‘I’m going over to Willow’s.’
‘It’s getting dark,’ said Mum turning to the window.
‘I won’t be too long.’
‘I’m making a roast for dinner,’ said Dad.
‘I’ll stroll.’
‘Very funny,’ he called.
I was halfway up the hill when the street lights came on. I ran a further hundred metres and stopped to rest in front of a well-lit house with occupants clearly visible, their voices escaping onto the footpath. A massive Great Dane appeared on the other side of the fence. Peeling back its lips, it let out a menacing growl, displaying the length of its canines.
‘Good boy,’ I lied, and it started barking.
I began to run. I didn’t stop until I got to Willow’s gate. I stopped to catch my breath before going in, and heard Willow break into laughter. My eyes were guided to the living room window, to Richard, Grant and Libby. They were all there without me. As I backed away, Willow’s black Shih Tzu, Grace, came flying out of her doggy door onto their balcony and started yapping. I ducked below the hedge and heard the balcony glass door slide open. ‘No barking,’ called Willow. ‘Bad dog, inside.’
Instead of going home, I circled the block around our house a few times, selfishly thinking how much my life had changed.
I was almost at our gate when I received a text from Willow.
My dad said he passed you on our street. Why didn’t you pop in?
Dad’s making a roast. My painting was accepted.
Wow, that’s brilliant.
I sat in the attic, staring at the painting. Part of me wanted to share it, but another part wanted to keep it to myself. My phone rang.
‘Richard, hi,’ I said, trying to sound up.
‘Your painting was accepted, that’s such good news, Steph!’
‘Thanks. Where are you?’ I asked to test his honesty.
‘I’m at Willow’s with Grant and Libby. Why don’t you come over?’
‘I’m trying to digest Dad’s roast. I’ll give it a miss, but thanks. I’ll call you.’
‘When?’ he asked eagerly.
‘Maybe tomorrow.’
Chapter Fifteen
I WAS SITTING up in bed when I heard a knock on my door. ‘It’s open.’
Mum walked in and sat on the end of my bed. ‘Not going to school again today?’
‘I just can’t.’
‘Would you like to explain why?’
I chose my words carefully for fear of upsetting her. ‘Some mornings I wake up and think that I’m up to it, but the thought of sitting cooped up in the classroom all day makes me sick.’ I leaned forward, clasping my hands in my lap. ‘I don’t think I can go back.’
Mum’s eyes filled with concern. ‘Is it because of me?’
I gripped my bottom lip between my teeth, searching for the words to express the emptiness that haunted me day and night, but couldn’t bring myself to share, afraid of hurting her. ‘I don’t know, Mum, I can’t put it into words.’
The smile lines around Mum’s eyes deepened, but she wasn’t smiling. ‘You’re not quitting school.’ Mum moved a little closer. ‘Steph, maybe you need help.’
I stared back at her. ‘Help?’
‘Someone you can talk with.’
‘I can speak to you and Dad, and Aunt Cass calls me like every second day. And if you’re suggesting that I start seeing Janice again, you can forget it.’
‘I’m not asking you to see Janice.’
‘If not Janice, who?’
‘I’d like you to see Dr Ferguson. He’s a psychologist.’
‘A shrink?’
‘He’s not a shrink, he’s a clinical psychologist, and he does a lot of work with teenagers. He runs a group, or you can see him in private. He might be able to help you.’
‘A girl at our school started seeing a counsellor, not that he helped her much – they found her dead in the bath after she cut herself.’ The life drained from Mum’s face. ‘I don’t know how or if what’s happening to me can be fixed by a shrink.’
‘He might be able to help you put things into perspective.’
‘I don’t need help to put things into perspective,’ I said, knowing that Mum was right. ‘It’s complicated.’
‘Complicated or not, seeing you like this is distressing.’ Mum placed Dr Ferguson’s card beside my pillow. ‘The sooner you get back to your routine, the better you’ll start to feel. If you don’t want to do it for yourself, please, Steph, do it for me.’
When Mum went to get up, I reached for her hand. ‘Why aren’t you angry? You take everything in your stride. That heart was yours, it should have gone to you.’
‘I had an infection, and the operation couldn’t go ahead. It wasn’t my time.’
My chest tightened. ‘It should have been your time.’
‘Will you promise that you’ll consider seeing Dr Ferguson? I’ll come with you.’
‘I promise, but if I decide to go, I’m going alone,’ I said, releasing my hold on her hand, I reached for the card and slid it into my pocket.
When Mum closed my door behind her, I made my way over to the window, opened it and stood blankly gazing out over the zoo to the water beyond.
‘Tell her that she doesn’t have a choice,’ I heard Dad yell. The thought of Mum and Dad fighting because of me sent me fleeing to the attic. I sat rocking back and forth, hugging my tin full of clippings close to my chest. If you hadn’t visited Katie, God might have intervened, and the waiting would be over. I hate you, Stephanie Conner.
I took Dr Ferguson’s card from my pocket and entered the number in my phone, and deleted it. I added the number again, and promptly deleted it again. I added the number a third time and rubbed the phone against my forehead. Since Mum missed out on the heart, I hadn’t slept more than a couple of hours a night. Maybe one visit wouldn’t hurt. I could say I tried, and get Dad off Mum’s back.
When I dialled the number, a voice said: ‘For appointments, please leave your name and number or send a text.’
I threw the phone on the mattress, fell back and glanced across the room at
my painting. I cringed. ‘Steph, admit it,’ I said out loud, ‘you need help.’ I picked up the phone and sent Dr Ferguson a text.
While I was dressing, I heard a text come through.
I didn’t answer it straight away. I needed to think. I went to head downstairs, doubled back and snatched the phone off the mattress. ‘
Hi Stephanie, we have an appointment tomorrow at 2 pm. Please text ‘yes’ if that suits.
Yes.
I sat on a bench opposite Dr Freguson’s address, building up the courage to go in, and checked the time on my phone. I was already ten minutes late.
I made my way across the road towards an old brick house with a white picket fence. It was cold and uninviting. I stood at the door and read the brass plaque:
Dr Justin Ferguson
Clinical Psychologist
PhD (MED) [UNSW], MClin Psych [UWA], MBA [Macq U].
He needed a longer plaque.
A receptionist sat behind a large desk. Her eyes peered at me over the rims of her glasses as she continued typing.
‘Stephanie Conner. I got held up,’ I lied.
‘Not a problem, Stephanie, the doctor’s running late.’
I glanced beyond the window to a hot guy leaving the house via a side entrance. He was dressed like a model that you see in magazines. Why was someone like him seeing a shrink?
Anger started building in my chest. I realised that I didn’t want to do this. As I went to stand, I heard a door on the opposite side of the room open and a man, Dad’s age, popped his head around the door.
‘Stephanie?’ he asked. ‘I’m Dr Ferguson, please come in.’ I was trapped in his cage.
Dr Ferguson’s office had a weird smell, a cross between Dad’s cheap aftershave and Mum’s expensive perfume. There was a brown leather lounge under the window, but I opted to sit on the floral fabric chair with worn fabric on the end of the arms.
‘So, how do we do this?’ I asked. ‘Do you ask the questions, I answer, and you work out if I’m crazy?’
Dr Ferguson grinned. ‘Stephanie, you called me.’
I analysed his reply and wriggled into his chair. ‘I prefer Steph. Dad calls me Stephanie when he’s angry.’