The Whole of My World

by Nicole Hayes

  My heart pounds in my chest. It’s quite possible that I have officially destroyed the only friendship I have at St Mary’s. And it occurs to me that I don’t want this. For all her cold and difficult ways, her distant and unforgiving manner, Tara Lester matters to me. I like her. She’s my friend.

  I consider my chances of waking up tomorrow and pretending I don’t remember. Maybe if I don’t say anything else and never mention it again, she can convince herself I was drunk or half asleep. That whatever this is – grief ? – is still hers and hers alone.

  ‘I hate her,’ Tara hisses into the darkness.

  I sit up, knocking my knee on the edge of the trundle in my rush. I assume she means her mum.

  Tara turns towards me, her face lit by the streetlight through the crack in the drapes. I see her tear-streaked cheeks, pink nose and hard, moist eyes. Then she moves away from the window and the drapes fall together, enveloping us again in a blanket of darkness. And I think I know what Ginnie Perkins said to Tara that pissed her off, or I can imagine anyway.

  ‘What about your dad?’ I ask quietly, rubbing my knee discreetly. I’m both unsettled by Tara’s admission and, strangely, warmed by it too. I don’t know how long it’s been since anyone has said anything as important as this to me. Thinking this, I’m seized with a momentary panic: What if I say the wrong thing? What if I mess this up? Dad says that sometimes you have to just play the ball that comes to you and let your instincts decide. And my instincts are telling me right now that if I’m gentle and careful, Tara might begin to trust me.

  ‘He’s never here. He hates her as much as I do. It’s better anyway, without him.’

  I peer into the darkness, wishing I could see more, wishing I could watch Tara’s face for all the signs I need to gauge how far to push this. ‘You have sisters, though, don’t you?’

  Tara laughs, but it’s a hard, grating sound. ‘They moved out the first chance they could. Lissie’s in Sydney and Olivia’s in London, married with two little kids. There’s twelve years’ difference between Lissie and me.’ Another bitter laugh. ‘Mum was done with raising kids when I came along. Still is.’

  Tara’s mattress shifts against my back as she slips back under her doona, the creaking of the springs filling the room. ‘It’s good when they come back,’ she says quietly. ‘But after they go . . .’

  I imagine the clatter and clamour of her sisters’ return, noisy toddlers scampering through the wood-floored halls, filling this enormous house with the chaos of family life. Vibrant and unruly and alive. And then the silence. The sudden, heartbreaking stillness after they’ve gone. I know too well what that feels like. ‘Is she always . . .?’ How do I end that question? Drunk? Blotto? Off her head?

  ‘It depends.’ She turns to face me. ‘What about your mum? Your family? You never mention them.’

  The familiar weight of this moment threatens to crush me. What do I say? How can I say it? I can’t – not all of it anyway. ‘It’s just Dad and me now. There was an accident . . .’

  Tara’s sharp intake of breath strengthens me somehow.

  ‘It’s just Dad and me now,’ I say again.

  ‘Your mum died?’ she whispers with something like reverence.

  I nod. ‘Car accident. Two years ago.’ The lump rises to my throat as though bidden, and I feel the hot sting of tears prick the back of my eyes. That’s all I can manage now. For one night, that’s enough. ‘It’s late,’ I say.

  After a long silence I hear Tara roll over. ‘Yeah,’ she says quietly. ‘It is.’

  ‘Huddo wins. No contest,’ Dad says, pushing leaves of iceberg lettuce around the salad bowl, trying to get the French dressing to run evenly through it.

  Josh offers an exaggerated eye roll in response, which Dad ignores.

  I’m forcing down a Straz and tomato sauce sandwich, but the dough sticks in my throat. All I can think about is how much I want to get out of here. Dad’s been watching me too closely, frowning at my long silences and crabby mood. He doesn’t ask me what’s wrong – that’s not how things work in the Brown household. Though I couldn’t tell him even if he did. My head is spinning with everything it has to hold – the way Mick looked at me at the social club, Tara’s tear-streaked face, her mum’s unsteady gaze, her absent father, and Mick’s wife seeing right through me before she drove away – all these things I don’t want to know or think about.

  I know this much, though: the sooner I can get out from under Dad’s prying eyes, the better. The only problem is that Josh is here and he’s determined I make good on my promise to watch the Raiders.

  ‘Come on, Mr Brown. Coleman was a superstar!’ Josh counters. He’s taking his sweet time over lunch. I shoot him my best ‘Hurry up!’ filthy, and nudge him under the table.

  He blows me off with that wicked grin, deliberately slowing his chewing rate. I should know better – no one rushes Josh McGuire.

  You’d think he’d be in a hurry too, now that I’ve finally agreed to watch him play. Dad even offered to pack our lunch. But Josh plonked himself down at our kitchen table like somebody’s king. Sometimes I wonder what goes on in Josh McGuire’s head. If anything.

  ‘Coleman was spectacular to watch,’ Dad says, refusing to let his favourite subject slip. ‘That’s why so many people say he’s the best full forward in history.’ I feel a small pang in my chest as I watch Dad, his face as animated as it gets nowadays. I used to be able to do that to him – make him light up. ‘But Huddo did what no one else could – be ahead of the ball, like he knew where it was going before the ball did.’

  Josh leans forward, his eyes dancing. They’ve had this conversation many times before, and I know Josh starts it deliberately to see Dad come alive like this. I feel my stomach slowly unclench itself, and I can taste my sandwich again.

  ‘He was so far ahead of the ball – and his opponent – they didn’t have a chance. Nobody did.’ Dad spears a slice of Straz and makes another sandwich for us both. I’ve finished mine and have unexpectedly regained my appetite. I take the sandwich he offers me and slather it with tomato sauce.

  ‘But Coleman could fly like no one else,’ Josh argues.

  ‘You’re right,’ Dad agrees. ‘Huddo rarely took speccies.’

  ‘Right, and a full forward needs to dominate overhead. That’s how they win the ball – how they set up shots at goal.’

  Dad shakes his head gravely. ‘It’s not that he couldn’t take a big mark, Joshua. He just didn’t have to.’

  I grin at Josh, who grins at me. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

  ‘He knew what was going to happen before it did and would barely break a sweat. He could get into position and force his opponent out of position, while the ball seemed almost to hang in the air. And he’d mark it on his chest. You always want to do that if you can. Safest way to take the ball. Whether you like how it looks or not.’

  ‘Still,’ Josh persists, ‘Coleman kicked so many goals. Took so many marks. He must have been incredible to watch!’

  Dad sets down his sandwich, looks us both evenly in the eye and nods slowly. ‘Coleman was spectacular, no doubt about it. But Hudson . . .?’ Dad leans forward. ‘Hudson made it look easy.’

  I sit back and smile. I’m stuffed, but I feel better than I have all day.

  I think about Mick, carefully replacing the memory of the night at the social club with the image of him on the football field – the moment he kicked the last of seven goals, right before we slaughtered the Gorillas. ‘Mick Edwards is doing all right,’ I say.

  ‘Not in the same league,’ Dad says, dismissively.

  A part of me knows he’s right, but not the part that controls my mouth. ‘Give him time. He’s got a way to go still.’

  Josh lets out a dry laugh. ‘Yeah, a long way. Like to Antarctica.’

  I frown at him. He’s supposed to be on my side. ‘Give him a couple more years.’

  ‘If his leg holds up. Be lucky to get through one,’ Josh says, oblivious to my irri
tation.

  ‘He kicked an almost-perfect game against the Gorillas,’ I argue, my voice rising in frustration. ‘Seven goals.’

  Dad shakes his head, his brow furrowing. ‘He could kick ten and he still wouldn’t be a patch on Hudson.’

  Josh is too caught up in teasing me to notice my shift in tone. ‘You just like him ’cause you’re mates,’ Josh says, nodding at Dad as though he’s in on the whole thing.

  Dad’s face freezes. Josh has no idea, chomping away on the crust of his sandwich like nothing’s happened. Slowly, Dad returns to his chewing, carefully, deliberately. Twenty-one times. He swallows. ‘How do you mean?’ he says to Josh, as though I’m not there.

  Josh offers a brittle laugh, finally noticing the mood. He does the only thing he can do in the face of Dad’s question. He stalls. ‘You know . . . her favourite player.’

  Dad isn’t buying it, and suddenly I don’t care. ‘At training,’ I say. ‘We hang out.’

  ‘You hang out?’

  ‘Yeah.’ My voice is more confident than I feel. I jut my chin and level my gaze, but my fingers are trembling. I fold my hands in my lap so no one notices.

  Dad stops eating. ‘What does that mean, exactly?’ He looks like a coiled spring, holding everything in as tightly as he can.

  I shrug, forcing a lightness neither of us feels. What does that mean, exactly? When I’m with Mick it’s so perfect and clear, but then I see how it looks in other people’s eyes, see what they’re thinking or hear what they’re saying – Tara, Mick’s wife and now Dad – and it changes in ways I don’t understand. ‘He’s my friend, Dad. We talk at training and he gives me a lift to Stonnington sometimes.’

  ‘He drives you . . . In his car?’

  ‘Just to the station.’ Like the fact it’s only a short distance will make a difference.

  ‘You’re alone, when this happens?’

  ‘Well, kind of. I mean . . . we’re in public. He waits while I catch the train – when it’s dark. To make sure I get on okay.’

  ‘He’s a grown man! What can he possibly want from you?’

  He sounds like Tara. Why wouldn’t Mick want to be my friend? It’s so obvious to me what we have. Why can’t anyone else see it? ‘He’s new,’ I start, knowing it’s more than this. ‘And lonely . . .’ My throat tightens and a lump like a fist restricts my breathing. ‘Like me,’ I rasp. Words I’ve been avoiding for two years, and now they’re out there and can’t be taken back.

  ‘Jesus,’ Dad whispers.

  I’ve never heard Dad swear before. He’s making it sound ugly and wrong. He’s making it sound like Mick’s face looked at the social club – like a secret, a lie. Something a man doesn’t want his wife to see. The queasiness in my gut has returned. I get up, my whole body clenched in frustration and something that feels a lot like fear.

  ‘He’s my friend!’ I yell, hot tears stinging my eyes. ‘He understands me – better than you do, that’s for sure!’ I suck in air, hold in my fury, and stare him down. I refuse to cry.

  Josh has turned pale, his face trying to gesture apology, while Dad won’t even meet my eyes.

  ‘This is what you do at the football club? You hang out – alone – with sweaty footballers?’

  I breathe deeper now, my lungs struggling for air. ‘You make it sound horrible!’ I choke, cringing at the whine in my voice. I clear my throat and fight back tears, but still my voice croaks and simpers. ‘He’s my friend, and the best thing that’s happened all year!’

  Josh stands up. ‘Mr Brown? Are you okay?’

  For a terrible second I think Dad might have a heart attack. His chest is heaving, his face granite.

  I shake my head. ‘Dad? Please, it’s no big deal. Are you okay?’

  He takes an excruciating minute to find his voice, and it’s so soft when he speaks that I wonder if I’ve heard right. ‘You’re grounded,’ he says, his eyes glazed over like a blind man’s, his hands spread out between us, as though reaching for something that makes sense.

  I stand there, stunned. I want to move, to get away, but a horrible paralysis pins me in place.

  ‘No more football. No more Fernlee Park. No more Mick Edwards.’ He spits out Mick’s name like it’s something foul.

  ‘No! Please! I promise I won’t let him drive me anymore. Tara can come too. And there are others . . .’ But it’s clear I’ve lost him. Dad’s mind is made up and there’s no going back. ‘Please,’ I whisper, the hurt huge in my throat, my voice weak and trembling.

  ‘Wait outside, Joshua,’ Dad says briskly, managing to seem something nearer to reasonable. But his eyes are cold.

  I steal a glimpse of Josh. He can’t look at me or at my dad. ‘Mr Brown . . .’ he starts nervously. Josh is always so confident but right now he looks like a child. ‘Shelley would never . . .’

  Dad’s gaze swivels hard onto Josh.

  Never what? I want to scream at Josh. At Dad. That’s what they think of me?

  Josh can’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to. Somehow, to them, I’ve become a person who could do this thing they can’t even say.

  ‘I’m not a kid anymore!’ I cry.

  Dad snorts in disgust or disbelief.

  ‘I’m not a kid,’ I say again, quieter now. Fighting the panic in my chest, I turn away from him.

  ‘Come back here, Michelle.’ Dad’s voice is like gravel. ‘Come back now.’

  I continue to walk, each step taking me further from something that I’m not sure I can ever come back to.

  I lie on my bed, counting the Falcons posters that line my walls, to soothe my racing heart. I look at the photos I’ve begun to collect around my mirror – Mick with his sheepish grin, outside the gym entrance; Mick and Chris Jury passing short kicks between each other in the grey twilight of a training session a few weeks ago; Mick with a footy thrust in front of him, his face a little weary with having to pose yet again for the camera.

  I turn away, unable to look another moment. I reach up to take My Brilliant Career off the bookshelf and carefully, reverently, open it. I can’t always face this story. But I’m desperate now and I can’t think of a single other thing that will make me feel better, short of a trip to Fernlee Park – now forbidden and impossible. For the first time since I made that trek down Leafy Crescent, I’m not sure it would help anyway.

  The first page is a handwritten inscription from Mum, with a picture of her when she was young sandwiched between the pages. She’s staring straight at the camera. I trace her mouth with my finger, then her chin. Her beautiful dark eyes smile up at me and her rich black hair is curled into soft ringlets that look like they’ve come out of a hairdresser’s salon, except they haven’t. I don’t know how I managed to miss out on Mum’s beautiful curls or even her silky raven-black hair. Dad used to say I looked like her when I smiled but I don’t see it.

  I pull myself up from my bed and stand in front of the mirror. I draw back the black felt and force a smile at my reflection to see if I can uncover those dimples that used to mimic Mum’s. I study the image, twisting and turning my head to catch the right angle, to find her. But it doesn’t work. The face in the mirror is all Shelley.

  Disappointed, I shove the mirror back in place and return to my book. I read the inscription for the thousandth time, still able to extract from it the small thrill it gave me that very first time.

  To my darling Shelley,

  May this story of strength, love and hope inspire

  you like it did me when I was a girl.

  Always, your loving Mum.

  She put two kisses and two hugs after her name and, underneath, in that perfect script, the date: 11 June, 1979. My tenth birthday.

  I think long and hard about turning the page, taking a minute to consider the idea of the next page and whether I’m ready to see it. Breathing slowly, I take the thin paper between my fingers. One. Two. Three . . .

  A harsh knock at the door startles me and I stop. I think I’m relieved. I look at the time: 1.45. It’ll
be Josh wanting to leave. ‘Come in,’ I croak.

  Dad is standing there, his jaw set firm and hard.

  I slam the book shut and push it under my doona, burying the evidence of my weakness. But not before Dad sees it. A flicker of something unidentifiable flashes in his eyes, and then it’s gone. ‘Josh is waiting.’

  I lift my chin, preparing for battle. ‘Tell him to go without me.’

  ‘Go with your friend to the game.’

  I shake my head, take a deep breath and force my gaze to meet his. Defiant.

  ‘Now.’ His eyes are two shiny stones.

  I shake my head again. ‘I’m not going,’ I manage through gritted teeth. ‘I’ll tell Josh.’ I get up, the strength returning to my legs with a rush, and push past Dad on my way to find Josh.

  I feel his hand before I realise what’s happening. He grabs my arm and pulls me towards him. ‘You are going, and you’re going now.’ Anger is cut deep into the lines on his face. The heat of his fury radiates across the small space between us. ‘Someone has to represent the family. You’ve made a promise – I’ve made a promise . . . Do the right thing for us all.’

  ‘The family! What family?’ My heart is in my throat. Blood pounds in my head – outrage and fury and that overwhelming feeling of loss. ‘We haven’t been a family since –’

  ‘Stop!’ he yells, a kind of terror in his eyes. I haven’t seen that look for two years, and it shook me then too. My chest heaves. My face burns. Panic rises in my chest. I twist out of his grip and push him away. ‘You can’t stop me!’ I yell as he reaches for me again. This time his grip is so fierce that I can feel a bruise forming. ‘If Mum was here, she’d understand!’ I’m screaming now. I’m not even making sense, but I don’t care. I haven’t let loose like this since the funeral, since those first days – the beginning of the end. Not since Dad told me we were drawing a line. ‘And Angus.’

  Dad flinches.