‘Nothing. Nothing. I just need to … to talk.’
Loren sat up abruptly and the tea swirled and threatened to spill in its mug. She placed it carefully on the coffee table and gave her mother a sheepish look.
Pam had felt calmer folding the laundry, but now that Loren was here she could feel the anxiety bubbling to the surface again. She didn’t worry about preliminaries. ‘Did you know about Scott’s tattoo?’
Loren’s eyes widened. ‘Did he tell you?’
‘Well, he was going to have to some time, wasn’t he?’
‘So he didn’t? Hasn’t?’
‘That’s why I’m talking to you. I want to know what the hell is going on.’
Loren sucked in her bottom lip. Pam knew that gesture, it made her feel guilty about asking, about making Loren the teller of tales. The dobber.
‘He got it last weekend.’
‘There aren’t any places to get tattoos in Northam, are there?’
‘We went over to Shep.’
‘We? Plural?’ Pam’s voice rose.
‘Calm down, Mum.’
‘Don’t tell me to calm down. I am calm, for god’s sake.’
‘I didn’t get one, if that’s what you’re worried about.’
‘Worried? Just the idea that you are hanging out in a tattoo parlour, with god knows who.’ Pam shook her head and sighed loudly.
‘The place was fine. The guy is an artist.’
‘An artist! Oh, really.’
‘Mum.’ Loren stood up. ‘I didn’t do it, don’t blame me.’
Pam put out her hand and clasped Lori’s skirt. ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m just a bit … a bit rattled by this.’
‘You don’t need to freak out. It’s okay. It’s just a little thing and no one will see it and it’s actually pretty cute.’
Pam had to control herself to not let out a small scream. ‘I just don’t understand why he did it, that’s all.’
Loren sat down again. ‘They were drunk.’
‘They? And they drove?’
‘Well, Scott was drunk. Troy drove down. I don’t think he was so drunk.’
‘You are making me feel so much better about all of this. Especially as Troy is still on his Ls.’
‘The boys had been talking about it for ages. Troy had all these cool ideas for designs. He’d sketched out loads of them. But when they got to the place, he kinda chickened out and … well.’
‘Of course he would chicken out. He has a father who would make anyone think twice.’
Loren made a face. ‘Yeah, that’s so true. He’s a bit of a weirdo.’
‘And Scott has parents that let him—and you!—do whatever you like.’
‘Oh Mum. He’s not a kid anymore.’
‘He’s still at school. And you. I’ve let you just tag along with those boys. And you definitely are still a kid.’
‘Mum!’ Loren was halfway between sympathetic and outraged. She was waiting for the next sentence which was going to entail a curb on her activities. ‘Don’t you trust me?’
‘I trust you, but you are still young and sometimes I forget that. I’m sorry. I think I’ve asked too much of you.’
They were silent for a moment, Loren not wanting to make herself the focus of a conversation that was threatening to turn against her.
‘I don’t get why a tattoo is such a big deal.’
‘Tattoos are, well, let’s just say that nice people don’t get tattoos. Rough people get tattoos. People who commit crimes and go to gaol. Those are the people who get tattoos.’
‘Mum. That’s so old-fashioned. Besides, it’s crazy to think that Scott’s one of those people.’
‘When other people see tattoos, they get ideas.’
‘So that’s what you don’t like? You’re worried that people will think Scott’s a loser?’
Pam shook her head vaguely. ‘Was it Troy’s idea?’
‘No. Why would you think that? Both of them were going to do it.’
Pam searched Loren’s face. She wasn’t sure she could be relied on to give a balanced account of anything to do with Troy. She’d seen the looks, the change in her manner whenever he was around. For years Troy had just been her brother’s slightly irritating friend and she’d just been the baby sister. Lately there had been a change, a different dynamic between them.
‘I thought you liked Troy.’
‘I do,’ said Pam, a small smile crossing her face. ‘But I know he can be, well, impulsive.’
‘Troy wanted to get a tattoo too, right? It was strange. He’d been raving on in the car but when we got there, he went quiet then. Sobered up, I guess. He told Scott we should go home. But Scott was kind of pissed off. Said Troy was chicken. Troy went, yeah, he was. Scott said that he, meaning himself, wasn’t. I don’t even think he wanted the tattoo then, but he couldn’t not get it. You know what I mean?’
Pam exhaled sharply. She knew exactly.
Loren’s voice softened, like she was telling her mother a secret. ‘So he ended up getting this little bird with blue wings. So pretty. Honestly, Mum it’s okay. You won’t freak out when you see it.’
‘Dad might,’ said Pam. ‘Your dad, I mean. God, mine too.’
‘Are you going to tell Dad?’
‘No, I don’t think so. Not for now. You know what he can be like. Give me time to get over it first. At least it’s not summer. Scott’ll have a bit of time before he has to own up.’
Mick came home from work before Scott got back from school. Pam realised then that Scott had come home late on Monday as well. It occurred to her that he had been avoiding her. But perhaps not. He certainly hadn’t bothered to cover any of his other tracks. He might not have thought there were tracks to cover. He was so oblivious to the outside world sometimes, to how he might be seen. There was that innocence about him that she loved in many ways, but it was something that she feared would make him vulnerable too. By dinnertime he must have guessed that she knew. Either he’d noticed she’d changed his sheets and tidied his room (perhaps) or he’d spoken to Lori (more likely). There was a look on his face, a failure to meet her eyes. He was so quiet at the table that even Mick frowned and made a comment about him being under the weather.
‘I’m fine,’ he’d said somewhat defensively, and soon got up and took his plate to the kitchen sink. Mick looked at Pam and she shrugged vaguely, feeling a tinge of guilt about not talking to Mick, pretending she had no idea. Then again, maybe she didn’t. Maybe he was troubled by something else entirely. She hadn’t spoken to him so there was no way of really knowing.
Once the dishes were done and Mick was ensconced in front of the TV, she went down the hall to Scott’s room and knocked on the door. There were no sounds from inside, but he didn’t reply and she thought that he was listening to his Discman, earphones in. She didn’t want to knock again louder and alert the house to her visitation, so she turned the handle of the bedroom door, hoping she wouldn’t catch him in the middle of something that might embarrass them both.
Scott was on his bed, earphones in as she had imagined. His head jolted up as hers peered around the door. ‘Sorry,’ she mouthed, pointing to her ears, indicating, really, his. He quickly pulled one earphone out and looked at her without a smile. Unusual for Scott. Lack of expression was more of a Loren thing. But, then, Pam didn’t tend to invade Scott’s privacy as much as she did her daughter’s. This thought went through her head in the second she pushed open the door and slid into the room. What was that about? Did she feel more ownership of her daughter? Was it because she was still young? Perhaps she’d been pushier, more present, with the boys when they were smaller, too? She couldn’t quite remember. Not that she’d ever completely articulated it to herself, but she didn’t want to put it down to the kind of attitude that said boys were okay by themselves, but girls needed guidance. She wanted all her children to be caring and self-reliant in equal measure. She wanted her boys to be better than her generation of boys, Mick included. She wanted them to be more lovi
ng, more demonstrative, more involved. Times were changing. Had changed since she was young. Surely these weren’t unreasonable hopes.
‘Can I have a word?’ she asked.
Scott was under his quilt. The bedrooms were cold at night now and he hadn’t bothered to turn on his heater, but instead had pulled the bedding up to his chin. He removed the other earphone and looked at her, his mouth twisted into a small smile that suggested he thought he was going to get a talking to, but maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, because it never really was. This was Mum after all.
Pam perched on the edge of the bed. A book slipped to the floor and she picked it up. ‘You’ve been studying,’ she said.
‘You sound surprised.’
‘Was that surprise in my voice? I don’t think so. Gratitude maybe.’
He laughed.
She flicked through the pages. ‘Further Maths. I never got past grade ten.’
‘In Maths?’
‘Yeah. I could never get Maths. All these numbers.’
‘You can add up. That’s all you need.’
She made a face. ‘Only just.’
‘So.’ He looked at her appealingly, as if she might offer him something.
‘So,’ she echoed, ‘let’s have a squizz at that arm.’
‘What? What for?’ He seemed slightly taken aback. But surely he’d been expecting this.
‘I found the evidence this morning when I cleaned up.’
‘I told you that you don’t need to do that, Ma.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t if you did it, but you don’t. I don’t want a major infestation in this house.’
He grunted. ‘God.’
‘Come on,’ she said, her eyes fixing on his left shoulder.
He pulled the bedding down and yanked off the jumper he was wearing, then flipped the edge of his t-shirt up. She remembered how thin his arms were when he was a small boy, sticks of bone with knobbly elbows. Now they were covered in if not muscular then sinewy flesh. She could see the definition of them, the rounded deltoid, the narrower biceps, with the image of the small bird, a scroll flowing from its beak, engraved at the intersection of the two. It was pretty, well executed, small and tasteful. She had to admit all that. While it had a slight redness to it, it didn’t look to be infected.
‘I went to the chemist and got some cream,’ he said, angling his arm outwards and looking down at the image. ‘I think it’s okay. The tattoo guy said that it might weep and be a bit gross for a day or so, but I think it’s already dried up.’
She wanted to touch it, but somehow she didn’t dare. She just gazed at it for a while, observing how it had changed the contours of his arm, made what she had always known look so different, so foreign somehow.
‘Are there meant to be words on that scroll?’
Scott laughed sheepishly. ‘Yeah, I guess.’
‘They didn’t have a line already set to go you could have used? Death before dishonour? Carpe diem? Wind beneath my wings?’
‘Are you taking the piss?’
Her lips twisted into a half smile. ‘You know, I’ve had all day to get used to the idea that my child has a tattoo. I’ve been through the seven—or is it five?—stages of grief. Some stages anyway. I read about them somewhere. Anger, denial, what have you. Now I am at the abandonment of all principles stage. Perhaps that’s acceptance?’ Scott was staring at her, still frowning, with clearly no idea what she was talking about. She sighed. ‘What’s done is done.’ She snorted. ‘That might have worked on your scroll too.’
‘Look, I didn’t say anything because I knew you and Dad wouldn’t like it, but I like it. It wasn’t just because I was drunk. I mean, I wasn’t really drunk. I wanted it.’ He put his hand to the tattoo and gingerly touched the empty scroll with his middle finger. ‘I didn’t get anything put in here because, I don’t know. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to say. I didn’t have the right words. I’ll fill it out sometime. When I do.’
Pam looked at Scott and thought how young he still was, in many ways still her little boy. She thought of him as a toddler, the sweet round earnest face, not so round now, but still remarkably earnest. She wanted to put her arms around him and hold him close, but they didn’t have a relationship like that anymore. ‘So does it mean something without words, this tattoo? Apart from bugger off, parents and society.’
He glanced up at her quickly before passing his finger over the image. ‘The bird, it’s a swallow. The guy at the tattoo parlour said swallows stand for peace and safe journeys. You know, like a guardian angel.’
She wished it could be so. Of her three children, Scott was definitely the one who needed someone to watch over him. ‘And Troy?’
Scott looked at her, his eyes narrowed slightly. ‘What about Troy?’
‘He didn’t get a tattoo?’
‘You’ve been talking to Loz?’ There was a hint of accusation in his voice.
‘I asked her about it. She just mentioned that the three of you went together. No state secrets.’
‘Yeah, well, he wants to get one too. He had a rad drawing of a dragon he’d done. But it was going to cost too much.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Really? I don’t imagine his father would like it, either.’
Scott snorted. ‘Funny that, ’cos he’s got a few.’
‘He has?’
‘Yeah. He was a bit bad when he was younger. Well, that’s what Troy and Kyle say. Now he’s a hard arse. Everything by the book. “Do as I say, because I know what’s best.”’
‘Maybe he made some mistakes he doesn’t want Troy to repeat.’
Scott shrugged.
‘There is a stigma attached to tattoos, in case you haven’t noticed.’
Scott looked heavenwards. ‘Mum. I promise I will not show off my tattoo in front of your friends. Or your enemies. No one will see this unless I’m wearing a singlet. I’ll even be safe for job interviews. Believe me, it’s not going to be a problem.’
Pam sighed. Believe her teenage son? Really, who did he think he was kidding? ‘It’s cold in here,’ she said, standing up. ‘Do you want me to turn your heater on?’
‘Okay.’ Scott looked up at her. He had that expression that he used to have when he was tiny, something that always melted her heart. He was never going to tell her voluntarily that he loved her. If she said it first he’d say, ‘Yeah, me too’ back. This look though was the closest she’d ever get, a silent message of adoration. She took the plunge and leaned down and put her arms around his shoulders. His own arms remained under the covers, but his head leaned into her neck and she moved her hand up to the back of his head and ruffled his hair. Her boy, her darling boy. ‘Just concentrate on your studies,’ she whispered. ‘Let’s get through this year. Then the world is your oyster.’
April 2016
Melbourne
Lori slid open the glass doors and stepped out onto the deck. A sharp, salty breeze had whipped up. Reflexively she pulled her cardigan close around her. In front of her lay the expanse of the bay; blue-grey sky and sea framed by the dusky green of tea-tree and she-oak that grew up alongside the house. Only the container ships sailing in and out of the bay gave a sense of perspective, offered an idea of where air ended and water began. She wasn’t used to the openness and it took her a moment to get over a sense of vertigo, a feeling that there was nothing much to anchor her here at the edge of the land, at the edge of the world. If she didn’t know better she would have thought she was somewhere wild and remote, but in truth, here, not more than a hundred kilometres from the city, there were neighbours all around, other similar weathered houses nestled in among the bushy growth dotted across the side of the incline that looked out over the water.
The rest of her family were somewhere down below, past the vegetation and the road, most probably on the beach by now. She imagined Jason and his father walking shoulder to shoulder, that soft intimacy they had, deep in conversation. The kids running ahead, zigzagging across the glossy sand to play chasey with the waves, screaming a
s the frothy water threatened to douse their shoes. She had told them to go ahead without her. Go out for a walk. She had a slight headache. Once she’d conquered that she’d organise dinner.
‘No, no,’ Niels had protested. ‘You don’t come down here to do that.’
‘I want to. I like cooking,’ she’d countered. ‘We did some shopping. I have food.’
He’d given her a quizzical smile before throwing his hands in the air in a gesture of capitulation.
‘Don’t worry, I plan to get out a bit later.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ he said, laughing now. ‘I know you.’
The words caught her unawares, and she felt a tiny sting of emotion. A sensation of shame that made her look away.
When they left she lay down for a few minutes on the couch and waited for the tablets to kick in. The whole morning had been a rush, everything decided at the last minute, all pivoting around the kids. Cody being ferried to and from a party. An outing to the supermarket with a whining Sophie in tow. She’d had broken sleep for two nights in a row and had seen virtually nothing of Jason, who had been on some ridiculous overtime regime and stressed about something at work which he’d fleetingly explained and she’d barely taken in when he had spoken. And then there had been the hospital visits. Twice in two days, the trip across town, which felt to her now to have never happened. Or perhaps had happened to someone else, as though she had watched a movie of it and the import was already starting to fade.
Outside she felt an unexpected sense of calm. The clear air, the lack of visual clutter, a sense of everything having been stripped back. She hadn’t been sure she’d wanted to come down. It was Jason who’d insisted, who’d said he had to get out of town, and she was glad in the end to be away. It felt like she could get some perspective here, work something out. But standing on the deck, the fresh breeze on her face, headache lifting, it seemed rather that she could simply forget.
She sat down on the timber bench, the hard slab of wooden railing at her back. It offered a different perspective, sitting. She was enclosed here, the trees tall against the railing, the sky receding from view unless she looked up. Her eye followed the pattern of the wooden decking into the house through the glass. She’d been surprised when she first came here, over ten years ago now. The house was more stylish than she’d envisioned. A modernist vibe of open spaces and unfussy furniture. Inside, a sleek blond dining table, a stone chimney in the American rustic style. Lots of glass. She soon found out that Niels had put the place together himself, for himself. He was not an architect, not a designer, but he had a natural feel for spaces, was mindful of the kind of space he lived in, and the creating of it came easily. Jason said that when they’d all lived together—he, his mother, father and brother—it was his father who defined the place, chosen furniture, painted walls. Not that his mother hadn’t had a say herself, but she’d ceded a deal of the usual territory to her husband, understanding his affinity, perhaps grateful not to have full responsibility. Who would know now that she was no longer around to give her side of the story. Lori just had to take Jason’s word. But Niels, although at times single-minded, wasn’t a bully. She could imagine it could have been that way.
Life Before Page 9