Pretty Girls

by Pretty Girls (retail) (epub)

  The ticking of the clock and the siren outside.

  “G?” she asked finally.

  He looked at her with those soft dark eyes. “I don’t know Evie. I don’t know. You hurt me a lot. I don’t know if I can go through that again. I don’t know if I want to.”

  She swallowed hard and nodded her head. Yes, she supposed that was what love was about.

  “I just need some time to think about it,” he continued.

  He left the door open, but inside she knew he had closed it. He was just being kind because that’s the type of person he was. She would need to move on – knowing that he was out there and that he was the best person that she knew but she couldn’t be with him. It was like taking a bullet to the chest. It wouldn’t be the first.

  “What will you do tomorrow? Do you need any help with anything?” he asked, always being helpful. It made her want to cry. Now, she would probably have to accept his friendship and nothing more, that was harder than never seeing him again.

  “I’ll have to enrol Tilley again in school — start unpacking I guess. I’m not sure about my job ... I need to find something else. Sitting in these dead end office jobs — it’s just not helping me at all. I need to do something useful, I need an outlet for all of this stuff. Otherwise it will drive me crazy. Oh ... and I need to organise the funeral.” It wasn’t the first funeral she’d organised, she knew the drill.

  “Do you need any help with any of it. I’m around for most of the day. I can help you unpack?” Why did he have to be so fucking kind? Why had she gone and fucked this up?

  She bit her lip hard and tasted blood on the inside.

  “No, it’s all good. I couldn’t possibly ask you to help.” It was her mess, she’d gotten herself into this. It was time for her to take responsibility. She had to own this.

  “Okay then. Well, I’ll go then,” he pressed a soft but firm kiss to her forehead when he went to leave. He smelt like she remembered, and she longed to cling to him. To weave an arm around his waste and pull him close, but she knew she couldn’t do that. He wasn’t hers anymore and he never would be.

  43

  He was my fucking son

  (Dreamspace)

  In the kitchen the next day she unpacked boxes putting pans, plates and glasses away. She hated unpacking. She needed to stop doing this. A constant packing and unpacking of things. It was painful and tiring. She glanced at those boxes, empty now and labelled misc. and decided it was time to turf them. She would cut them up into chunks and put them into the bin. Tilley was right, she’d said this was the last time and this needed to be the last time. The memories came with her everywhere, and now there was no living relic of her past. Just herself, and those thoughts.

  She’d started organising Greg’s funeral that morning. Funerals were expensive, and Greg didn’t have any savings. He didn’t have any funeral cover either. It didn’t surprise her. She’d have to spend the last of her savings burying that prick of a man. It was his parting gift to her. Still she would try to make it special, not cheap. A decent enough headstone and coffin for him to spend the rest of eternity in. She could do that much.

  She’d organised Benny’s too and her mum’s. All in the same way. Dad had paid for those two. She hadn’t been quite sure how he’d found the money, but he had. She’d kept the price low, discrete, to make sure he didn’t complain about it. He hadn’t. Not at all.

  Mum hadn’t gone to Benny’s funeral. It was just her and dad. Kind of ironic really. The man who had virtually killed him had been the only one to turn up at his wake. Mum had been dosed up on drugs. She’d been weeping a lot. She’d been wearing that blue fluffy robe like a uniform. She was a mess – there was no getting her out of the house.

  It had been her and Greg and the caretaker lowering him into the ground at Randwick. The service had been easy enough to take. Just words from a priest who hadn’t known him or them. They’d both declined any opportunity to say their own goodbyes. They weren’t those type of people. They just got on with it. Another death, another person in the ground, a few more memories to add to their ensembles. The lowering into the ground was hard. That’s when she realised it was automated now. There was a little machine that plucked the coffin up and then slowly and mechanically released it into the earth. The hole was deep. So very deep. She hadn’t imagined that. When the first sod hit the wood of the coffin. She thought she might vomit. Her beautiful brother in the ground, beneath all that dirt. He’d suffocate beneath it all. The pressure would compress him. It would be so dark. Then she reminded herself that he was dead, that he couldn’t feel and compute those things anymore. That he was just a corpse.

  And that was worse. Worse than the first thought.

  She bit back the tears, and stood a few metres away. She wouldn’t cry. Not here. Just in case he was around watching her. She had to be strong for him. Now at the end.

  Moments passed, maybe longer and finally it was over.

  Greg was still standing by the grave. Now re-filled. He was her lift home, she’d have to get the old bastard moving. She hated approaching him or saying anything to him. It made her awkward, stilted, afraid.

  She headed over to him, and swallowed the lump in her throat. She wanted to leave, the cemetery gave her the creeps. She needed to leave Benny behind now.

  “Dad,” she said a short distance away from him. “Dad?” She called again, he was immobile as a statue. “Dad?” she tapped him on the shoulder to make sure he hadn’t had a stroke. She’d never seen him like this before.

  “Dad, we have to go,” she said.

  Nothing. “Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled. His voice was thick. He turned quickly and marched past her, but she saw his face briefly. He’d been crying. She couldn’t believe it. She stood stock still. Why had he been crying?

  “You coming?” he glared at her from a distance. Hunched over, challenging her. His face was a mask of grief. She was glued to the spot.

  “He was my fucking son,” he yelled. He turned and walked away from her, leaving her in the cemetery.

  He drove away without her, and she had to catch the bus back to Redfern. He was gone by the time she got home. Probably at the pub.

  Back in her kitchen today, she continued to cut the boxes with a blade. The sound it made as it sliced through the cardboard was cathartic.

  Had that been the memory she was looking for? Was that the one? Did it even exist, or had she fabricated it after his death to make her believe that everything was okay? That he had loved Ben ... and her?

  She didn’t think so – she was quite sure it was real.

  44

  Here. Now

  (2017, Redfern)

  Later that week, she was alone in the house, still working through the mess she’d created. She had been fighting with the real estate about re-instating the lease. Somehow, they wanted to put the rent up, a smallish amount – but still an increase. She wasn’t sure if it was supposed to act as some sort of guarantee that she wouldn’t take off again. She wanted to stay here though, she had to comply. How strange that she wanted to stay in this place after everything that had transpired.

  There was a knock at the door. Probably something to do with the funeral, which was later this week. She padded down the corridor bare-footed holding a mug of coffee. She pulled the door open and there was G, backlit by the extraordinary sun of that day. She hadn’t been expecting him, not now, maybe not ever.

  He smiled at her, that familiar smile which made her weak at the knees.

  “You’re here,” she said. The words stumbling out of her mouth unintended.

  “Yeah, it would appear that way. Can I come in?” he asked.

  “Of course,” she breathed, standing aside to let him through. Her heart skipped a beat as he shuffled inside that small space.

  He still had that effect on her. He certainly gave her butterflies. She would need to stop with that. But it was so hard – like a reflex. Something she couldn’t control.

  It was hot outside.
Humid. The house was warm and unpleasant.

  “Did you want a cuppa?” she asked him in the kitchen. Trying to move about the place like he was an ordinary person, like she didn’t care.

  “Just some water,” he said.

  Awkward silences. There had never been any awkward pauses between the two of them. Now there were. She would need to get used to that too.

  Glass. Water. Focus on the task at hand. She could feel his eyes resting on her as she went through the motions. Warm and calm. Brightening her and the space. Don’t think about that, Evie.

  She handed him the glass and found her voice.

  “How have you been?” she asked, hand resting nervously on the chair at the table. Steadying her.

  “Yeah okay. How have you been?” he asked, taking a sip of the water. Like that was the more pressing issue. Like she was the basket case. Maybe he was right. Her father had just passed and she’d just tried to do a runner. Who was she joking, she was most definitely the basket case.

  She sighed. “I’ve been okay. Organising the funeral. It’s on Friday. Trying to get everything else back into order. The realtor wants to put the rent up another $10 a week,” she said, like that was the most pressing issue on her agenda. It gave her something real to focus on. Tangible.

  “Do you want me to come to the funeral?” he asked, ignoring the rest of the fluff.

  “Yeah ... yeah ... that’d be nice.”

  What a strange statement. That’d be nice – that he come to the funeral. Like it was some sort of social event that she might enjoy. What she wanted to say was that she needed his support, and she appreciated the offer.

  “It’s at 1pm,” she said instead.

  He nodded, and stared down at the floor. Oh, Christ! It was going to be like this then. They’d gone from all to nothing. To virtual strangers. How was that possible?

  “Oh,” he startled suddenly. “I brought you something,” he plucked out a white box from the plastic bag he’d been carrying and handed it to her. She took it with trembling hands. She recognised the packaging. Sleek white box, with a steel grey apple symbol on it. A MacBook Air? Why? Seemed like an expensive gift.

  “What’s this for?” she asked, furrowed brow.

  “You know when you wrote the list of questions, you said it was really helpful. It cleared your mind ... and you said you had all of these memories, but you couldn’t remember them exactly – what was real versus what was fake. So I thought maybe you could write them down. Put them in order.” He pointed towards the laptop, because she was just staring at him, like she couldn’t quite get the gist of it.

  She smiled, she like the idea a lot.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I like it. It’s a great idea. But I don’t know if I can accept this gift. It’s too expensive,” she said, holding it away from her, like if she held it too close she might become connected to it. Feel ownership.

  “Don’t be silly. I want you to have it" he continued.

  “Are you sure?” still furrowed brow. She’d never received anything like this before ... and something so thoughtful. She couldn’t wait to get stuck into it. To start putting the memories down, to start ordering them, making sense of them. It gave her a reason, a purpose.

  “Of course. I wouldn’t have bought it otherwise. You always struck me as a bit ofa storyteller. Where I’m from, that’s important. Someone has to keep the stories and tell them. Otherwise they disappear.”

  She nodded her head, and hugged it to her chest. She could take ownership of it now. She liked the idea of being a storyteller. Less of a basket case and a more a keeper of memories. A conduit. From her mind and heart to someone else.

  “Thank you. It’s a lovely gift.”

  Did this mean something more? She hardly wanted to hope. But she did anyway, because she was only human, and that’s what we do – hope. Even in the darkest of moments.

  “Did you think about what we talked about the other night?” she asked tentatively, laptop still clutched to her chest. Giving her oxygen, strength, courage.

  He breathed in and nodded.

  “Yeah, I did.”

  A pregnant pause, which made her weak at the knees.

  “And?”

  He smiled. “And I want to be with you too,” he said simply. Was there a but, she hoped there wasn’t a but. She wanted to reach out and hold him right now.

  “But ...”

  There it was, her heart plummeted.

  “I want us to start again. Being honest, which means you tell me your story – the whole story. And I tell you mine. I don’t want any secrets anymore,” he said. She didn’t know how she felt about that. Telling her story was a lot. She hadn’t told it to anyone, not the full thing. Not all the details. She didn’t know if she had it in her. It was different putting it down on paper. Impersonal, almost. To tell another soul was brutal. But she had to. She wanted to be with him. She had to be with him.

  “Okay, how would that work?” she gulped and asked.

  “You just need to speak to me, yeah? Tell me the truth. And I have to do the same. I thought ... I thought,” he stuttered for a moment, like it was hard for him to say this final part. “You write a page a day. One page of your story, that’s it ... and read it to me.”

  It was a lot to ask. A page of her story a day. His eyes searched her face, looking for an answer.

  She was tired of being a question mark. She wanted to be an answer.

  A full-stop, maybe even an exclamation point. Was that possible? She hoped so.

  She nodded her head. “I’d like that," she said.

  His face brightened, and he smiled luminously. Purely. There was something so authentic about him. Something she adored.

  “Okay then.”

  He snapped forward, large hands engulfing her small face. How she loved those hands. Their lines. Their stories.

  “Can I kiss you again, then?”

  She nodded.

  His dark eyes melted into her own. His lips were smooth and sweet and reminded her of home. Wherever that was. With him. The thing was she couldn’t guarantee that life would be perfect. That she wouldn’t fuck this up again. That he wouldn’t fuck this up. That the memories wouldn’t come back. That she wouldn’t self-destruct. She couldn’t ensure any of that.

  All she could do was try. She had to be in the game. She couldn’t keep removing herself from the situation. By doing that she was remaining in some terrible limbo, a purgatory of sorts. She was still afraid that discovering those memories and living a full life might plunge her into the darkness of hell ... but she also had hope that reliving it all would take her somewhere else.

  Somewhere like heaven. Somewhere where she existed, completely, as a whole person.

  Yeah, that would be nice.

  45

  The List

  Questions that she never got to ask Greg. The list.

  1. Why were you violent?

  2. Why didn’t you love us?

  3. When did you start hitting Mum?

  4. Did you ever love her?

  5. Why did you hate Ben more than the rest of us?

  6. Couldn’t you see that he just wanted you to love him?

  7. Why did you drive him away?

  8. Why did you make our home so unsafe?

  9. Did someone hurt you?

  10. Why didn’t you just leave?

  11. Why did you just keep causing so much pain?

  12. Why did you make Ben sell those drugs? And why did you blame him when the cops turned up?

  13. What did you really think of us under all that hate and violence?

  14. Was there something else that you wanted to do with your life?

  15. Did you feel like we held you back?

  16. I loved you Dad, even when it was bad, even now. Why did you never love me in return?

  Postscript

  I’m Sam McDonald and this is my story. Some of the elements and characters have been changed to keep identities conce
aled and to keep some of the darkness out.

  Writing this book with my beautiful friend, Lisa Portolan, was a process of discovering my story, and owning it.

  I was a pretty girl. I was told to sit down, shut up and let them take everything they needed.

  He changed things for me, and brought me back to life.

  I wanted to set this story in Redfern. Because it’s a place where everything meets and explodes, a place that is terrifyingly beautiful. That gets under your skin, and tells your whole story.

  It’s where my heart lies.

  You need to tell your story too – otherwise it will own you.

  Don’t let that be the case.

  About the Authors

  Lisa Portolan is a journalist and author from Sydney. She has previously published two books, including best-seller, Happy As (Echo, Melbourne). She has written for publications like the Australian Financial Review, The Guardian, 9 Honey and 10 Daily, and appeared on the Today Show and The Drum.

  Sam McDonald is an Australian director and producer. She has a degree in Law and Communications from the University of Canberra. She has spent the majority of her career working in the fitness and communications space, as a trainer and later as a production expect. She grew up in Canberra and Sydney as a “pretty girl” and it took her years to shed that skin and reach a place of acceptance, joy and love.

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