How the Light Gets In

by Hyland, M. J.

James and Bridget come home in a taxi and James sits down on the couch next to me.

  ‘Hi,’ he says.

  ‘Hi.’

  Bridget looks at us and frowns, narrowing her eyes, like Henry does.

  Bridget is wearing a long white coat, high black boots and pink lipstick. I smile at her. I want to tell her she looks good. But I don’t. I’m worried about blushing again. I haven’t blushed since I left their house.

  ‘Hi,’ she says. ‘What time did you get up? We thought you were dead or something.’

  She is smiling at me.

  ‘I was really tired. I can’t sleep very well in a dormitory with three other people and it’s really cold there.’

  James reaches for the remote control, even though the sound is turned down and he won’t be watching the TV. He changes from a black and white movie to a sports channel. His arm brushes my leg.

  ‘I hate those corny movies,’ he says. ‘All that love crap makes me puke.’

  Henry and Margaret come into the room and sit in armchairs opposite the couch. Margaret is holding an envelope, which she smooths with her hand.

  Bridget stays standing. ‘What’s it like in that place?’ she asks.

  There is nowhere for her to sit.

  ‘It’s awful,’ I say. ‘Do you want to sit here?’

  She strokes her coat, which she doesn’t want to remove, in spite of the heat from the fire.

  ‘Okay. Scoot over,’ she says. Before I can move to the other end of the couch, so that she can sit in the middle, James moves closer to me.

  Bridget sits on the other side of James and now that we are squashed together, he wastes no time making sure his knee knocks mine. He swings his legs open and closed, open and closed, in pretence of coldness or nerves. I look at Henry and Margaret to see if, this time, they will choose to notice what their son is doing.

  Henry stands.

  ‘I’ll make some coffee. James, turn that off.’

  ‘I’ll have root beer,’ says James.

  ‘I’ll have Diet Coke,’ says Bridget.

  When Henry is in the kitchen, Margaret asks Bridget and James about their day in the city. They tell her that she should have come. It was awesome. The movie was great. The shops were awesome and the cab ride was awesome. They wish they could live here. I wish the word awesome didn’t exist.

  ‘I felt like a quiet day,’ says Margaret, ‘and I wanted to do some reading this morning.’

  Bridget sighs. ‘God, Mom. You never take a break!’

  Margaret chews her lip.

  ‘Where did you eat lunch?’

  They ate lunch at an Italian restaurant. It cost more than James’ shoes. James pulls his new hi-tops out of a plastic bag.

  ‘Cool, huh?’

  He seems to have regressed about six years since I last saw him but when his leg rubs up against mine, I still like the feeling it conjures, as though his body has nothing to do with the rest of him.

  I want a cigarette and hope that we’ll go out somewhere for dinner.

  When Henry returns, the talking – the meeting – begins.

  ‘Well, Lou,’ says Margaret, ‘you must already know how disappointed we are in you. You betrayed us and all the trust and faith we put in you.’

  She is staring hard at me and so is Henry; two sets of sad eyes and two pairs of knees and two armchairs aimed straight at me. I feel like laughing.

  ‘I know,’ I say.

  Henry has a runny nose. He uses a handkerchief to wipe it and nobody speaks; we all stare at him until he finishes.

  ‘We just want to know why you did it. If it had anything to do with anything we did, we would like to know.’

  The truth is too complicated.

  ‘It had nothing to do with you or anything you did. You were all perfect. Like I said in my letters. It was just me. Mainly it was my insomnia. That’s why I drank. But that’s fixed now. It wasn’t anything you did wrong. You were perfect. I’ve been having counselling and it’s really helping.’

  Henry looks at Margaret and she hands me the envelope.

  ‘We want you to read this and if you think you can agree to what’s there, you can come back and live with us on a trial basis. But it’s a two-way street and you’ve got to keep your end of the bargain this time.’

  Bridget stands and storms out of the room.

  I turn red and feel very hot.

  ‘And you might be able to finish your senior year and go home with your head held high,’ says Henry. ‘We’ve told your mum and she’s happy for you to come back with us.’

  ‘On a trial basis,’ says Margaret, her lips pulled into a tight, anti-smile.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, ‘thank you so much.’

  Henry wipes his nose. ‘You’d better read that first. There are a few new rules.’

  A door slams upstairs.

  ‘Is Bridget mad with me?’ I ask.

  ‘She wants a personal apology,’ says James, ‘because you stole money. She says she can understand why you drank because you felt depressed and all that, but she hates that you stole after all the things Mom and Dad bought you.’

  I agree that this is the worst thing I did and I cannot speak. I’ve never stolen before and it makes me sick to remember that I did. I don’t want to sob, not with James beside me. I look at the floor.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ is all I can get out. Sorry is short, less likely to make me cry. It’s a good thing sorry is such a short word and so easy to say. If it was a long word, like recalcitrance, I think I’d be in a lot more trouble.

  Nobody speaks. Henry wipes his nose. Margaret crosses and uncrosses her legs. James stays sitting close even though there’s plenty of room. I think of Gertie. I look at Margaret and see her sad face, and I look at her eyes the way I looked at Gertie’s eyes, and suddenly she is real. I look at Henry’s eyes and he seems more real too.

  ‘I’m really, really sorry,’ I say.

  They stand. James stays seated. I hug them both; it’s awkward, but it’s right.

  ‘I’ll go upstairs and read this letter now,’ I say.

  James stands.

  ‘Let’s have dinner out,’ he says. ‘I’m starving.’

  I remember Bridget.

  ‘I’ll go and talk to Bridget,’ I say.

  ‘Okay,’ says Margaret. ‘Then we’ll go get something to eat. You can read the letter later if you like.’

  Now she seems happy.

  Bridget is lying face down on her bed.

  ‘Hi,’ I say. ‘I just wanted to talk to you for a second.’

  ‘Sure,’ she says.

  I sit on the floor, to avoid being too close.

  ‘I wanted to apologise to you in person about borrowing money from Margaret.’

  ‘Stealing more like it!’

  I feel more embarrassed each time I think about the theft, as though it is suddenly real and before it was part of a peculiar dream. I am stunned at what I have done and what I have been.

  Bridget sits up and takes a clip out of her hair.

  ‘What about James?’ she asks. ‘Are you still going to fool around with him?’

  This knocks me out.

  ‘What?’ I can barely breathe. I need to hold something, reach for something: a glass, a cigarette, the light switch.

  ‘I know all about it,’ she says. ‘He told some of his friends and, you know, that kind of news travels pretty fast.’

  ‘What news?’ I am hoping she doesn’t know a thing.

  ‘You know what! It’s pretty obvious. Anyway, I could hear you doing it.’

  There was never any noise. She’s lying.

  ‘That’s crap,’ I say. ‘That’s total crap.’

  ‘No it’s not,’ she says.

  I stand up. I fold my arms. I look down at her.

  ‘James knows the truth,’ I say. ‘Talk to him. This is stupid.’

  She shrugs.

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘I wanted to say I’m sorry,’ I say, ‘but now you hate me again and this ti
me for something I haven’t done.’

  I sit on the bed. She’s playing with her hairclip.

  ‘Look,’ I say, ‘I’m really, really sorry.’

  I reach out for her hand and hope she takes it. Instead she hugs me.

  ‘I don’t blame you,’ she says, ‘I just wanted you to like us. I didn’t think you liked us.’

  Is this true?

  ‘I liked you heaps,’ I say, ‘I liked you all so much. Right from the start.’

  She pulls away, tears on her face.

  We make eye contact.

  ‘I knew James was lying,’ she says. ‘I knew he’d lied to his friends.’

  She wants to talk about him too much. Bridget has always wanted to talk about James too much. He gets under everybody’s skin.

  I look at her.

  ‘Forget James,’ I say. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yep,’ she says.

  ‘I think we’re going out for dinner.’

  ‘Oh, cool,’ she says. ‘Hey, where’s my hairclip?’

  We find the clip, we smile a bit, I borrow one of her coats, and we walk downstairs laughing at something she has said about the coat being too big for me.

  It’s Sunday. Henry has set the table with bowls, plates, coffee, cold toast – which has been cooked only on one side under the grill – and four kinds of cereal. I want to try a little cereal from each box, like a sampler of cereal and I decide to do it, because it’s the kind of mildly eccentric thing that makes Henry happy.

  James and Bridget are in good moods; they joke and make fun of Margaret. She’s been out this morning getting a haircut. Her hair’s short now and an unfortunate bowl-shape. Still, it makes her look younger.

  ‘Like a Lego-man,’ says James, and Margaret clips him across the ear and laughs.

  Henry offers me some more toast and Margaret starts to clear away the bowls.

  When we have finished eating, Henry stands by the kitchen sink and pretends to look out the window.

  ‘This cereal reminds me of travel,’ I say. ‘My dad used to always buy tiny boxes of cereal in travel packs of six or twelve. I’ve always liked them. They make me think of cars on open roads and caravan parks with table-tennis tables.’

  We all spend the next hour or so talking about our memories of childhood holidays.

  I didn’t sleep well last night, so I take another sleeping pill and fall asleep on the couch. I want to be relaxed. James wakes me by putting a can of soft drink on my forehead.

  ‘Fuck off,’ I say.

  ‘I love you too,’ he says.

  After lunch, Margaret tells Bridget and James to go upstairs so she and I can be alone.

  I drink my coffee and she asks me what I think of what’s in the letter.

  ‘It’s all fine,’ I say. ‘I completely agree to everything you say.’

  ‘That’s great,’ says Margaret.

  I don’t mention how ridiculous the no-boyfriend rule is, or the rule about keeping my room spotless. But fair’s fair, and it occurs to me that I haven’t said one properly affectionate thing to any of them; that I haven’t lifted a finger to help Margaret and Henry around the apartment and that without realising it, I have spent most of the weekend asleep, or watching TV.

  I don’t even know their middle names. I don’t know what makes them feel happy or what they do, exactly, at work. I hadn’t even thought of asking.

  ‘What are we doing today?’ I ask, disgusted with myself but keen to make this day my first real day of being kinder, more interested in their lives, more helpful.

  ‘Oh,’ says Margaret, ‘Flo Bapes is coming to collect you at three o’clock and we’re leaving at five.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘I didn’t realise.’

  We talk about what will happen next. Margaret tells me she wants me to come home after Christmas. She wants me to get some more counselling and to see my doctor a few more times. I agree with this and she seems happy.

  I get up as soon as we’ve settled on the plan, go into the kitchen, and start washing the dishes. Then I ask if there’s anything else I can do to help around the apartment and when Margaret says no, I go to my room.

  While I wait for Flo, I look out the bedroom window, my hands warm in the pair of mittens Margaret gave me to wear last night.

  I put the mittens next to my cheeks. I want to cry but nothing happens. I feel like I’ve been kicked in the gut. Waiting for Flo feels like rejection. It might be the prospect of spending Christmas in the accommodation. I wonder if Lishny will be there. But even this doesn’t seem like much consolation. I feel a premonition of something much darker than I’ve known before; of something very bad about to happen and soon.

  I go back downstairs. Margaret and Henry are sitting in silence at the kitchen table, which has been cleared and scrubbed. I notice a small vase of flowers in the centre of the table. Without the fire going in the next room, this apartment is cold and sad.

  Bridget and James come in and sit at the table. We make small talk and James puts his foot on top of mine. I kick him on the shin. He sulks.

  We sit and wait, listening to the snow creak on a nearby roof. I want to get into Bridget’s silk pyjamas (she told me last night I could borrow them), and lie on the couch in front of the open fire and pretend to be unwell. But the day has been packed away. Now is the time for me to say it.

  ‘I just want you to know that I really like you all and I’m really happy that you’re going to take me back. I just want you to know that.’

  Margaret looks like she wants to cry. She stands up, grabs my head and squashes it against her belly.

  ‘We all love you, you know,’ she says and before I know what to do it feels like I’m sobbing and the whole room is flooded with sunlight and happiness.

  A car horn blares and I know it is Flo. I dread the goodbye at the front door, the fidgeting and the grasping for words.

  I stand on the doorstep and wonder if I could find something funny to say about the smell of sulphur in the shower (which everybody has noticed), something about me being a bad egg. But when it’s time to get into Flo’s black car, I change my mind.

  Besides, Flo digs her claws into my arm and introduces me to another man from the Organisation, who stares blankly at me through the passenger-side window.

  ‘Hello, Louise. My name’s Roger Franson.’

  ‘Hi. It’s awesome to meet you.’

  Now my voice is sarcastic like James’ but Roger doesn’t seem to have noticed.

  I want to say goodbye to Margaret and Henry, and tell them how much I am looking forward to coming home.

  ‘Can you wait for just one second?’ I ask.

  I take a piece of paper out of my notebook and write a note. I hand it to Henry and then we hug, a short and clumsy hug, but it feels good. Then I hug Margaret and she kisses my eyebrows. Nobody has ever done this before.

  Flo starts the engine and I climb into the back seat.

  Mr Franson tells me he’s a surgeon and that he’s taken a whole day out of his work at the hospital to take me back to the hostel.

  He strokes the lapel of his expensive coat as he tells me how sorry he is that ‘things haven’t been going so well’.

  I am struggling with my seatbelt when he turns to me, ‘We’d better stop and help you with that.’

  ‘I can do it myself,’ I say.

  ‘I’m sure you could do just about anything but that doesn’t mean that people can’t help you sometimes.’

  I stare at the road. ‘You should write that down. It’s very inspirational.’

  Nobody, not even Flo, could fail to detect the sarcasm in my voice. But Roger turns in his seat, looks at me, then looks away, his mealy mouth clamping shut over the second pair of imperfect teeth I’ve seen in almost six months and says, ‘Thank you.’

  20

  Gertie tells me that although the Hardings have agreed to take me back, they want me to spend some more time in counselling. I don’t tell her I already know this.

  �
��You’ll be going back after Christmas. In the New Year. It’ll be a new beginning.’

  Beginnings are always new, I want to say.

  ‘That’s fine,’ I say.

  ‘And you’ll be spending Christmas with a host-family who already have a host-daughter from Sydney.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Don’t you think it’ll be nice to spend Christmas with a family?’

  ‘Maybe, but why would anybody want to take in a stranger just for a few days? It seems like a lot of trouble for nothing. I don’t mind staying here with you and Phillip and …’

  ‘Well, that’s just it. We’ll be with our own families.’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ I say. ‘Of course.’

  Three long and boring days have passed. I’ve only been on one excursion and am never left alone. I’ve been visited by students of sociology, criminology, penology, ethics, anthropology, biology, ethology, psychology, psychiatry and statistics.

  I know by the way they look at me that they would like to measure the size of my cranium but are too polite to ask. The question they want to ask is an inane one: how could somebody with a good brain have been so relentlessly stupid? The only other inmate who gets as much attention from the students is Lishny.

  Because it is so close to Christmas, we have eaten a special treat of pizza for dinner and we’ve each been given twenty dollars so that when we next go on an excursion we can buy ourselves a present.

  At seven o’clock the police will be here to interrogate Lishny again, perhaps for the final time. I sit with him in the common-room on the straw-mat floor behind the couch, under blankets. The other inmates sit on couches and stare numbly at the flickering television screen. They have copied us and are also cloaked in grey blankets pulled from their dormitory beds.

  I pull the blanket up to cover my neck, but the wool is so cold it feels wet.

  Lishny looks at his watch again. It is half-past six. He smiles at me, ducks under the blanket and rests his head on my lap.

  Lily comes over and sits down. She wants to distract Lishny with endless prattle about the cold.

  ‘Lishny,’ she says, ‘take that blanket off so I can see you.’

  Lishny takes his hand from my thigh and lifts the heavy grey blanket from our bodies.