See If I Care

by Judi Curtin

  That morning Tara had invited her to an early Christmas party in her house. It was going to be on Friday, straight after school. But how could Elma go? Who’d mind the boys?

  The more she thought about it, the crosser she got. It just wasn’t fair. All the girls in her class were going, even the ones who weren’t one bit friendly with Tara. Even the ones who made fun of her London accent behind her back.

  It just wasn’t fair.

  Soon Elma was stamping along the pavement, viciously kicking stones out of her way.

  She felt a small hand slip into hers. It was Zac. ‘What’s wrong, El?’ he asked.

  Elma gave another big sigh. She didn’t usually confide in the boys, but this time she couldn’t stop herself. ‘I want to go to Tara’s party, and I can’t.’

  Zac squeezed her hand tighter. ‘Poor Elma,’ he said. ‘Didn’t she invite you? That’s very mean. You should tell your teacher on her.’

  Elma stamped her foot so hard it hurt. ‘Of course she invited me! She’s my best friend! But I can’t go, can I?’

  Dylan slid alongside her. ‘It’s because you have to mind us, isn’t it?’

  Zac smiled brightly. ‘But Daddy can mind us.’

  Elma and Dylan looked at each other. Poor Zac, too young to realise that their dad could hardly look after himself, much less take care of anyone else. Dylan stood on his tiptoes and whispered into Elma’s ear. ‘Go to the party. I’ll mind Zac until you get home.’

  Elma shook her head miserably. ‘I couldn’t.’

  Dylan whispered again. ‘Sure you could. Zac and I will be fine. I am nine, you know. We’ll walk home, and play quietly until you get back. Dad won’t notice, and Mum need never know. You can be back before she gets home.’

  Elma looked thoughtfully at her brother. Maybe he was right? It could work. And she deserved to have some fun.

  And so she made up her mind.

  She was going to the party.

  It was the best party she had been to for years. (Actually it was the only party she had been to for years.)

  Tara’s house was decorated with balloons and ribbons and flashing fairy lights. They had a disco, and a Karaoke competition, and lots of fun games. Then they had pizza and a huge gooey chocolate cake and heaps of sweets.

  At seven o’clock, when it was over, and all the other kids had been collected, Tara’s mum offered to drive Elma home. That would have been a disaster – imagine if she saw the neglected front garden – imagine if Elma’s dad was standing near the window with his stubbly chin, and nothing on besides raggy old tracksuit bottoms and a dirty vest.

  So Elma smiled her best smile and said, ‘No, thank you. My mum is doing her shopping, and I’m meeting her at the supermarket.’

  But no matter how she protested, Tara’s mum insisted on driving her to the supermarket, where she had to go in as if she was looking for her mother, hang around until she was sure the coast was clear, and then sneak out and walk all the way home.

  She hummed as she walked home, clutching the piece of chocolate cake she’d saved for Zac and Dylan. It had been a lovely afternoon. Just perfect. Maybe she could do it again soon. Maybe she wouldn’t have to be the class loser who never went anywhere after all.

  She stopped humming as she turned the corner and saw the worst thing ever. She blinked hard, and looked again, but nothing changed – the worst thing ever was still there, parked in the weed-choked driveway. It was her mother’s car, all red and shiny and horrible.

  Elma checked her watch. It was still only quarter past seven – her mother never got home before half past. Something must have happened.

  As she ran up the garden path, Elma had a sick feeling in her stomach that had nothing to do with the three slices of pizza and two pieces of cake she had eaten. She had left the boys with Dad, and gone to Tara’s without permission, and now she was in the hugest trouble ever.

  The front door was half-open, and her mother was waiting in the hall for her. As she stepped into the light of the hallway, Elma could see that her mother’s face was streaked with tears. She had expected shouting and promises of a long grounding, and no treats for about a hundred years. Tears were worse, though. Tears were just too scary.

  ‘What is it, Mum?’ she whispered. ‘What’s going on?’

  Her mother shook her head sadly. ‘It’s not your fault, really it isn’t. And he’s going to be fine. So you don’t have to worry.’

  Elma suddenly felt very cold. ‘What’s not my fault? And who’s going to be fine?’

  Her mother didn’t seem to hear her. ‘I won’t let them take you into care. I couldn’t.’

  ‘Mum, please …’

  Her mother’s voice was faint. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll think of something.’

  Zac appeared at her side. ‘Dylan got hurt. He got burned.’

  Elma’s breath caught in her throat. ‘Where … where is he?’

  ‘Upstairs.’ Zac pointed with an ink-stained finger.

  Elma raced up the stairs. Dylan was in bed. All she could see was his pale face, and a huge bandage around his arm.

  He gave a weak smile. ‘I’m fine, Elma. They gave me a big injection in the hospital, and it doesn’t hurt any more.’

  Elma sat on the edge of the bed, carefully avoiding Dylan’s bandaged arm. ‘What happened?’

  A big tear rolled down Dylan’s pale cheek.

  ‘I’m sorry, Elma. I got you into trouble, didn’t I?’ Elma shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter. I’m used to being in trouble. Just tell me what happened.’

  Dylan wiped his eyes. ‘Zac was hungry, and I didn’t want him bothering Dad, so I decided to make him some pasta. I always watch you, so I knew what to do. But when I was straining it, the pot slipped, and the hot water went all over my hand, and it hurt like anything. I–’

  Elma interrupted. ‘Did you call Dad?’

  Dylan shook his head. ‘I think he was asleep. I told Zac to ring Mum, so he did. And when Mum came, she asked where you were, and I told her you were at Tara’s party. I’m sorry, Elma, my hand was hurting and I couldn’t think of any lies. Mum wasn’t cross with you, though, she just said lots of bad things about Dad. And at the hospital, after I got my bandage, a lady came and asked me and Zac lots of questions.’

  ‘Like what?’

  Dylan thought for a minute. ‘Like, where was Dad? And why was I making pasta? And why didn’t Dad bring me to the hospital? And how did Zac hurt his face that time? And what time did Mum come home every day? And who usually makes the tea? Stuff like that. And then she took Mum into another room, and they talked for ages, and then we all came home. I’m sorry, Elma. I was only trying to help.’

  The tears rolled down his face quickly now. ‘The lady kept saying something about “alternative arrangements”. What does that mean? Does it mean we’ll have to go to an orphanage? But we have a mum and dad. We’re not orphans. They couldn’t make us, could they?’

  Elma turned away. How was she supposed to know? What good was a mum who was always at work, and a dad who was always in bed?

  She leaned over and wiped Dylan’s tears with her sleeve. ‘Don’t worry, Dyl. It’ll be fine. You just wait and see. Here, I brought you some cake.’

  Dylan smiled and sat up. Elma felt like crying. If only all their problems could be solved with cake.

  She went downstairs. Zac was sitting in the kitchen eating a bowl of cereal. Elma smiled at him. ‘There’s cake upstairs. Go up and ask Dylan to share with you.’

  Zac grinned at her and ran upstairs. Elma looked through the glass door into the family room. The TV was off, so things must be very bad indeed. Her dad was sitting on the couch, and her mum was standing by the door. Elma started to tidy up the kitchen, straining to hear what was going on next door. Soon she didn’t have to strain any more, as her parents’ voices got louder and louder. After a while she tried not to listen, but she could still hear scraps of sentences.

  ‘… two accidents … bound to ask questions …’

&
nbsp; ‘… not my fault …’

  ‘… they’re sending someone around …’

  ‘… they’re going to find out the truth, and then we’re all in trouble.’

  ‘… my bad back …’

  ‘… get over it!’

  After a while, Elma couldn’t take it any more. She went upstairs. Zac and Dylan were both asleep in Dylan’s bed. She sat on her own bed, and heard the crinkle of Luke Mitchell’s latest letter, which was still in her jeans pocket. She pulled it out. She didn’t even smile when she saw the upside-down stamp with its candle burning the wrong way up. She wished her penfriend was a girl. Maybe she could have told a girl all her problems. But how could she tell a boy? How could she tell Luke Mitchell what was really going on in her life?

  She ripped open the envelope, barely noticing the snowman Luke had drawn on the flap. She read through the letter quickly. All of a sudden, Luke Mitchell sounded like a nicer person – or maybe after what had happened that evening, anyone who wasn’t totally horrible would have sounded nice. She wondered why he was so caught up with The Beatles. She really didn’t care how many were dead, and what they’d died of. But she wished she hadn’t told him so much made-up stuff. She was tired of writing lies about vegetables and cookery books and non-existent sisters and a cuddly cat that was really a vicious dog. It would have been nice to tell Luke all about Dylan’s arm, and her mum’s three jobs, and how she was so worried about the future. But there were so many lies that she didn’t know how to go about setting them right.

  Then she had a thought. She reached under her bed and took out the Christmas card she’d made for her mother. She rubbed her finger along the glittery pink and purple star. She looked at the swirly Happy Christmas that she’d carefully written on the inside. She decided that her mum didn’t deserve such a nice card. Her dad was sick; he couldn’t help it that he was useless. But her mum wasn’t sick, and she was the adult. She should sort things out. She should be there so Elma could go to parties without leaving her brothers to mind themselves. She started to cry at how unfair it all was. Tears dripped down her face and onto the glittery star, making it slightly soggy. Then Elma picked up her pen and wrote inside the card:

  To dear Luke,

  Have a happy Christmas, from Elma.

  She shoved the card into its envelope, addressed it, and stuck on her stamp (upside down of course). Then she tore a page from an old copy, and watched as yet more lies flowed from her pen.

  Dear Luke,

  Thanks for your letter. I’ve kind of got used to the upside-down stamps by now. Maybe we’ll start a new fashion.

  I was just kidding about The Beatles. Of course I knew they weren’t all dead.

  I don’t like soccer all that much. Lots of days I play basketball after school, though. (That’s when I’m not playing the violin or going to ballet lessons or just hanging out with Tara.)

  I’m really looking forward to Christmas. Jessica is too young to understand, but I’ve bought her lots of lovely presents already. My favourite is the life-sized doll who cries real tears. I’ve bought a lovely new cat bed for Snowball. It’s made of soft, pink furry stuff and I know she’s going to love it.

  Have you bought nice presents for your mum and dad and your sisters and your granny? At least you’ll have lots of money from your car-washing job.

  Tara had a great party today. I was going to sleep over, but then I decided to go home instead because Mum and Dad promised to take me bowling. Actually Mum’s calling me now, so gotta go.

  Have a Coooool Christmas.

  Hope you like the card,

  Elma

  LUKE

  He lifted the custard tin down from the shelf in the wardrobe and eased off the metal lid. When he held it upside down over his bed, a shower of coins and notes tumbled out. He made separate bundles of the five and ten euro notes, and arranged the coins in neat towers on top of his chest of drawers.

  Then, pretending he didn’t know exactly how much he had, he counted it all carefully.

  Four hundred and ten euro. One euro more than the washing machine cost – and tomorrow, Monday, was Christmas Eve. Luke was going in first thing in the morning to buy it. He wondered if they’d be able to deliver it tomorrow, or if he’d have to wait till after Christmas.

  Not that it mattered really. The main thing was that he’d made it. He’d saved enough to buy the washing machine that was going to make his mother happy. He couldn’t wait to see her face when she saw it.

  Pity he wouldn’t be able to buy anyone else anything, though. He’d just have to tell them that their presents would be a bit late this year, that’s all.

  Not that they’d gone in for making much of a fuss at Christmas, since the accident. The first year, when Dad was still in the hospital, they hadn’t even got a tree. Uncle Jack and Aunt Maureen had invited them all out to the farm for Christmas dinner, but Mam said no, they’d be better off at home.

  So she cooked a turkey like she always did, and Granny, who had been coming to them at Christmas for years anyway, made mince pies like she always did. And they pulled crackers and watched the same films they always watched, and Luke wondered if he was the only one who missed Dad desperately.

  In the afternoon, Mam and Helen and Granny went to the hospital with presents. Helen’s eyes were red when she came home.

  Luke didn’t think Helen would be buying anyone any presents this year. She still wasn’t really talking to anyone in the house, except her grandmother when nobody else was there. If Luke walked into the room, she’d stop straightaway.

  She still wasn’t allowed out during the week, and she had to be in by ten on Friday and Saturday, and nine on Sunday. She told nobody where she was going, or who she’d be with. When she was at home, she still spent most of the time in her room.

  She never talked to her father these days, or sat with him like she used to when he came home first. The only time she saw him now was at tea, and then she ignored him like she ignored everyone else, staying just long enough to pick at what was on her plate before disappearing upstairs again.

  Anne would hardly be getting presents for anyone either – as soon as she got the five euro that Granny gave her every Friday, she spent it on comics that kept her busy till Monday, and then she traded them at school for more comics that looked exactly the same to Luke, with a picture of some teenage pop star on the cover, and headlines like ‘Make Your Own Bracelets’ or ‘Ten Signs of a True Friend’ and sometimes a free packet of stickers or a lip gloss attached to the front.

  Anne read each comic from cover to cover, and filled in all the puzzle pages, and read everybody’s horoscope out loud at teatime, even Helen’s.

  Anne was still a bit wary of Dad. She didn’t like being left in a room alone with him, even if he was only sitting in his armchair looking out the window, or gazing at the television. She’d shoot quick glances at him across the table at tea when she thought nobody was looking, when he was opening his mouth to let Mam’s fork in, or chewing noisily, or lifting his water glass with a hand that shook so much you were waiting for it to come tumbling down.

  Of course Granny would buy Christmas presents – or make them. Last year Luke got a blue scarf and gloves, and Helen and Anne both got hats with pompoms. Mam got perfume and Dad got a scarf like Luke’s, but in green.

  And Mam would make sure everyone had something, even if it was a much smaller something than they’d got in the past, when Dad was working. Last year she gave each of the three children a selection box and €20. She gave Granny three scratchcards and a box of fudge. Granny won ten euro on one of the cards and bought five more, but won nothing the second time.

  Nobody really knew what to get Dad for Christmas now. He didn’t read any more, except for bits of the daily paper when he was in the mood, so the book tokens he’d always loved were no good.

  He never listened to music any more either, and didn’t seem to notice if Luke put on a Beatles or Supertramp CD. He rarely went out, apart from when his
brother Jack collected him and took him to the farm for the afternoon, or when Mam drove him to the doctor or the hospital for a check-up, so any kind of shopping voucher was useless.

  He didn’t really do anything any more – and he could eat only so many of his favourite fruit pastilles. Last year he ended up with three boxes of them.

  Luke hadn’t given him pastilles – he’d given him a 100-piece jigsaw, which was still sitting on a shelf in the sitting room, unopened. Mam explained to Luke that his father’s concentration was gone, that he wouldn’t be able to keep his attention on the jigsaw, but Luke felt he could at least have tried.

  Before he went upstairs to bed that evening, he asked his mother to call him when she was leaving for work in the morning.

  She looked surprised. ‘You don’t want a lie-in, on Christmas Eve?’

  ‘Nah – I’ve stuff to do.’

  She gave a tiny smile and turned back to the TV screen. ‘About half eight so?’

  ‘Yeah, thanks. Night.’

  ‘Goodnight, love. Sleep tight.’

  Luke left the sitting room and tiptoed into his father’s room next door. There was a faint glow from the nightlight in the corner, enough for Luke to make out the hump of his father’s body under the bedclothes. The room was hot, and smelt of toothpaste.

  Luke sat in the chair beside the bed. His father’s eyes were closed, and his breathing was quick and shallow, like a small child’s, with a little wheeze at the end of every in-breath. One of his hands lay palm up on the pillow beside his head. From next door Luke could still hear the muffled sound of the TV.

  He reached over and laid his hand gently, palm to palm, on his father’s. He felt the warm breath coming from his father’s mouth. He watched the tiny lift and fall of the bedclothes. He stroked his father’s cheek lightly, felt the roughness of the stubble.

  He whispered ‘Dad’, too softly to be heard.