by Kathryn Hind
Amelia could barely hear her over the filling of the toilets. She leaned against the brick wall, felt the bite of it against her arms. ‘What is it?’
‘Well, I was just … wondering about you. Wondering if you’re okay.’
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ Amelia said. She pushed off the wall.
‘Wait,’ Brenda said, grabbing her shoulder with a moist hand. Amelia flinched and Brenda let go. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to … I just wonder if there’s something we can do to help.’
‘All good, thanks,’ Amelia said, unable to hold Brenda’s searching, red-rimmed gaze. ‘The lift is great. Very helpful.’
‘Well, okay, but … do your parents know where you are?’
Graffiti patterned the tiles behind Brenda, and Amelia read a section of blue scrawl: Evie P is a slut. ‘Of course.’
Brenda lowered her tone and stepped in closer. Redness spread across her chest. ‘It’s really not safe, travelling around like this.’
Amelia crossed her arms, looked at the shapes of leaves and branches resting on the corrugated perspex roof above.
‘Why don’t you come back to Mildura with us? At least we could keep an eye on you … And you’d have somewhere to go if you needed, even for a night or two. We’ve just repainted the spare room a really lovely turquoise.’
Amelia moved again towards the exit, fought the urge to punch the wall; she wouldn’t add fuel to Brenda’s cause.
‘Look – will you at least take my number?’ Brenda said. ‘So if you do need anything, even just to talk, you can give me a call.’
‘I really don’t need –’
‘I would just feel better knowing you had it,’ Brenda said. ‘Will you take it, for me?’
A woman entered the bathroom holding a young girl’s hand. She started to direct the child through the toileting process.
‘All right.’ Amelia shrugged.
‘Great, thank you, thank you,’ Brenda said, her hand deep in her bag. ‘Gosh, now I’ve got to find something to write it with.’ She dug through her things and eventually pulled out a dark red lipstick. ‘This’ll have to do,’ she said. ‘What should I write it on?’
Amelia dipped into her pockets and, on finding nothing of use, tugged down on a sheet of paper towel. Brenda took it, the paper thinning where her damp hands made contact. ‘Oh,’ she said. She dried her hands, put it in the bin and grabbed a fresh one. ‘Now we’re in business,’ she said, then spoke the number out loud as she wrote ten digits in obtuse curves and dead straight lines. ‘Here,’ she said, handing the paper to Amelia. ‘That’s my number. My personal one.’ Amelia took the paper. ‘Ron’s a good man, he is, but he can be a bit funny about these things …’
‘Right,’ Amelia said. ‘Thanks.’ She folded the paper into a neat square and slipped it into her pocket.
Lucy was playing with two children when Amelia came out of the bathroom, having adopted their ball as her own. Amelia called to her and she left the game.
‘Oh, another thing,’ Brenda said as they walked back to the car. ‘We’ll be stopping in an hour or so in Crystal Brook. We have a room booked there for the night.’
‘Sounds nice,’ Amelia said.
‘We can see about having you there too,’ Brenda said. ‘Thought you might like to take a break.’
‘I’m okay, thanks. I’ll probably keep moving.’
‘Well, we’ll just wait and see.’
The journey was quiet, punctuated by Brenda’s regular rustling in the bag of chocolate raisins. ‘Help yourself,’ she reminded Amelia, but Amelia put her head back on the pillow and closed her eyes.
It was almost 2.30 in the afternoon as they rolled into Crystal Brook, and Brenda murmured about needing to eat something proper. The car bumped over a railway crossing at the entrance to the town. A brown creek ran beside the road, reeds arcing over the water’s edge. Brenda squinted as she looked from side to side. Amelia took a deep breath, preparing herself for the resurrection of the GPS. The car crept along through streets where weatherboard houses popped up from dry lawns. Nestled among these homes, a white-brick archway rose to meet them, pronouncing their arrival at Wattle Lodge. Amelia lifted her head from the pillow. Her limbs were heavy, her mind a thick fog as she took in the green, cream and maroon colour scheme of the motel’s exterior.
The car crunched to a stop on gravel; Amelia unfastened her seatbelt and unlatched her door. Brenda reached across and touched her wrist.
‘Why don’t you just wait here. I’m going to go inside and discuss our situation with the manager,’ Brenda said.
‘Thanks, but –’ Amelia said, and Brenda silenced her with a squeeze, then got out of the car. Through the dusty windscreen, Amelia watched her open a hole-ravaged screen door beneath the RECEPTION sign. Ron moved in the back seat, made the groans and squeaks of waking.
Amelia unfolded herself from the car. She stretched, holding down the edge of her ill-fitting T-shirt to cover the skin of her belly. She opened the back door and Lucy scampered from the car, had a big shake. Wattle Lodge was a drive-in motel with two storeys; the windows of the rooms looked onto the white lines and vehicles of the car park. Room with a view, her mother would have said, as she did any time they stayed somewhere crap. Weeds pushed up through paving stones around Amelia’s feet.
A curtain in a nearby room moved. A girl with two plaits stepped behind the glass and stared out. They looked at each other, unflinching, like dogs in a frozen battle. Amelia surrendered as Brenda exited from reception, watched her close the screen door with long, gentle fingers.
‘Room number seven,’ she said with a proud smile. ‘We need to allow the staff half an hour to arrange the bedding. You can stay, though, Amelia. It’s all sorted.’
There was a huff from Ron, who had got out of the car and now watched Brenda, one hand protecting his eyes from the sun.
‘Oh, um, are you sure?’ Amelia said.
‘Of course. It’s our pleasure.’
Amelia hadn’t been in a room of her own since the white room at the coast. She pictured herself spread out on a bed, imagined the friction of a fresh towel against her skin. Maybe there’d even be those little round hotel soaps, wrapped in puckered paper.
‘Thanks, I really appreciate it,’ she said, and, as she did so, she caught the eye of the girl in the window, still staring.
‘And don’t worry – seven is one of the pet-friendly rooms,’ Brenda said, handing her the key.
Lucy’s tail wagged as if she knew she was the subject of conversation. Amelia slipped the key into her pocket. She crouched, scratched behind Lucy’s ears; Lucy licked the air.
‘I’m gonna take her out for a wander,’ Amelia said.
It was easy, in the end, to get away; by the time Amelia was ready to go, Brenda had an esky out and was making very organised cheese and chutney sandwiches. Ron stood a few metres away in a patch of shade near reception, crunching on a green apple. As Amelia dragged her pack out of the boot, Brenda said, ‘Oh, you can leave that here. We’re not going anywhere.’
‘Thanks, but I’d rather take it,’ Amelia said, hauling the pack on.
Brenda looked hurt, perhaps even panicked. She wiped her forehead with her arm, her hands occupied by crumbs and a butter knife.
The straps of Amelia’s pack found the familiar strips of chafed skin on her shoulders; she was unable to leave her loyal friends behind, her mother’s shopping list, her rocket pen, her favourite T-shirt, however tainted.
‘Well, at least take one of these,’ Brenda said. She cut a soft sandwich in two triangles, then placed them in a perfectly sized Tupperware container. Amelia wanted to decline but Brenda held it out to her, did her three slow blinks.
‘Thanks,’ Amelia said, unbuckling her pack and pushing the container inside.
She walked down the main street and Lucy trotted ahead, stopping to investigate wads of fossilised gum on the ground. It was quiet and muggy. Colourful lights flashed above the entrance to a Video Ezy, and the lull o
f the street was broken by the blare of gunfire and helicopters as she passed. She didn’t like her chances of finding a pharmacy, and, in there, the morning-after pill; the only way to wipe Glendambo off the map completely.
Automatic doors slid open at the supermarket as she walked past, and she lingered in the flow of air conditioning; Lucy stopped for a moment, her snout lifted. A man in a grey singlet walked out, thongs slapping. One thick arm balanced a case of beer on his shoulder, the other held a phone to his cheek. He spoke loudly as he walked away from her, feet pointing out at angles, milk-bottle calves curved and twitching: ‘Yeah mate … No worries … Yeah … Nah … Yep, on me way … See ya.’
She put her hand to her belly, tried to tell if something was forming, and, if it was, whether it was more alive now than it had been a few hours ago.
‘Oi. Where you going?’ The voice came from behind her. It was the staring girl from Wattle Lodge; she held on to a post, arm extended, her weight dangling off it.
‘Chemist, hopefully,’ Amelia said.
‘What for?’ The girl had a row of freckles across her face, decorating a small, elegant nose. Her skin was summer brown, her eyebrows almost too white-blonde to see. Wisps of wavy hair had escaped her plaits and stuck out at her temples.
‘Because I need something,’ Amelia said.
The girl’s white dress had diamond shapes stamped out across the hem, and it crept up her thighs as she swung from the post. ‘Like what?’ the girl said. The orange strings of a bikini top were tied around her neck.
‘Something to make me feel better,’ Amelia said. It was difficult to tell how old the girl was. Perhaps nine, but possibly a skinny, small twelve-year-old.
‘Can I pat your dog?’
‘Yep.’
‘He doesn’t bite?’
‘Nope. And she’s a she.’
The girl let go of her post and stepped off the kerb. Sunlight brightened her eyes; the left one had a patch of copper amid its clear blue. Lucy’s tail wagged slightly as she inspected the girl’s extended hand. She scratched the dog’s head and ears, then ran her hand down her neck. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Lucy.’
‘Where’d you get her?’
‘My friend and I found her.’
‘And you got to keep her? I never get to keep anything.’ She crouched down next to Lucy, who sniffed her face, then licked at her chin, setting the girl giggling.
When the girl had had enough, she stood up and said, ‘So what are you gonna buy?’
Amelia squinted at a shop up ahead. ‘Is that a chemist? I can’t tell.’
‘Yeah – I’ve been there before. Got some bandaids. See?’ She held up a small, delicate hand, where a bandaid formed a shoddy thimble around her index finger.
‘Ouch. How’d you do that?’
‘Jammed it in the door. We come here every year, you know.’ She looked at Amelia as if making certain that the information was clear and understood; when Amelia nodded, the girl said, ‘I’ll show you the chemist. It’s easy.’ She skipped ahead onto the road, not bothering to check for cars.
The chemist was shiny and new, and belonged to a chain that was all over the cities too.
‘I’ll take care of Lu-Lu,’ the girl said. As they walked up the ramp to the entrance, she dragged her hand up the metal railing so that it screeched.
‘If you want. Won’t be long.’ Amelia leaned her pack up against the red brick of the building, found her envelope of money, and ordered Lucy to stay. A doorbell sounded throughout the store as she stepped inside the automatic doors.
A cardboard garden gnome was propped up at the entrance, promising a sneeze-free existence with antihistamines. Amelia remembered the gnome from the chemist at home; he’d had the same smile after her mother’s initial diagnosis, after the surgery, and even four years later when it came back. It was her first lesson in the carrying on of things despite the way her mother’s sickness had skewed her world. They lopped off both of her mother’s breasts. Amelia adored the way her mother continued to cross the hallway from bathroom to bedroom naked, the lumps of flesh and scar tissue on her chest bare, glistening with vitamin E cream in the morning sunlight through the window.
Amelia turned her back on the gnome and tried to chase the image of her mother away. She couldn’t be here now, watching each of Amelia’s shameful steps past the eczema treatments towards the counter.
‘Can I help you?’
A white-haired woman approached, a well-prepared, lipsticked smile beaming down the aisle.
‘Hi,’ Amelia said. Her knees softened as she imagined melting into this woman’s arms, letting herself be held, putting her cheek against the rough material of the woman’s pastel pink polo shirt.
The woman’s eyes narrowed and she tilted her head. Her name badge said ‘Sandra’; brooches and pins flourished around it in proud chaos. ‘Can I help you find something?’
The entrance doors slid open; outside, the girl hung upside down from the ramp railing, plaits touching the cement. Her dress hung down, revealing orange swimming bottoms and a lean, straight torso. The doors closed, but the girl swung, her movement sending them open again.
Sandra gave another warm, crinkled smile.
Amelia spoke as quietly as possible without whispering. ‘Ah, I need the morning-after pill, please.’
Sandra sucked air in through her teeth, but quickly regathered herself. ‘Oh, okay, I see. Come with me.’
The automatic door slid open and closed, open and closed as Amelia walked to the counter. The woman fossicked through shelves behind the prescriptions desk. Amelia sneaked a look outside. Lucy was lying down, her chin resting on her front paws; the girl continued to swing from the railing, her face red from the rush of blood.
Sandra mumbled to herself, shifting boxes, and Amelia drummed her fingers on the counter. She tried to avoid looking at the packets of jelly beans her mother had loved – tried not to think of her popping them into her mouth, the sweet smell that was released as she chewed – but the unmistakable colours blared on the shelf in her peripheral vision.
A man in a white coat pushed open a door behind the counter. He had a dark beard and thin-rimmed glasses; a sheen of sweat on sallow skin made him look ill.
‘Everything okay, Sandra?’ A waft of curry accompanied the man, and he looked between Amelia and Sandra while he finished a mouthful of food.
‘Everything’s fine. I was just finding the emergency contraception for this young woman,’ Sandra said. She seemed to have shrunk, her warmth doused.
‘I see. Do you know that this drug has to be administered by me?’
‘Yes, I know, but I didn’t want to disturb you if it wasn’t in stock.’
‘It should absolutely be in stock.’ The man leaned over Sandra, plucked a box from a shelf above her head. Sweat patches made the underarm of his white shirt transparent.
Sandra was red-faced and flustered; her crease lines now defined the wince of someone who’d spent a lifetime being put in her place. Amelia smiled at her; Sandra smiled back, kneaded her hands.
‘Come with me,’ the man said, looking at Amelia over his glasses. He walked out from behind the counter and Amelia followed him to a blue curtain; he yanked it across, revealing a white desk and two chairs squished into a cubicle. They stepped inside, but when he pulled the curtain across a large gap remained so that Amelia could see out to the store beyond. He sat down and Amelia squeezed into the seat across from him.
‘Now, there are a few questions we have to go through,’ the man said, opening a folder and extracting a piece of paper. A selection of pens with the names of different drugs were lined up on the desk. He selected a green and pink one and filled in the date at the top of the page.
‘I’m the pharmacist here.’ He gestured to a certificate hanging on the wall above his head, but Amelia couldn’t make out the name. She nodded. That information earned a tick in one of the boxes on the page.
‘Right, have you taken emergency contr
aception before?’
‘No,’ she said. She took a deep breath, and as she did so, the girl passed the gap in the curtain.
‘When’s the last time you had unprotected sexual intercourse?’ The pharmacist sniffed, and Amelia concentrated on the dark tufts of hair creeping out of his nostrils.
‘Last night. It was an accident.’
He marked the questionnaire again. ‘An accident?’
‘Yeah. The condom broke.’
‘And you’re not on the contraceptive pill?’
‘No.’
‘Well, the pill is recommended, particularly if you’re going to continue to have unprotected intercourse.’
‘It wasn’t unprotected on purpose. It was an accident.’ Amelia’s face was hot. She looked through the gap in the curtain but there was no sign of the girl.
The pharmacist stretched his legs out so his feet were on either side of her, hemming her in. His suit pants exposed socks decorated with watermelon slices. ‘Are you in a relationship?’
‘No.’ Amelia moved her chair back a couple of centimetres, until she hit the wall. The pharmacist raised an eyebrow, made no mark on the form. A mole above his lip twitched.
‘How long have you been sexually active?’
Coldness gripped her chest. The zigzag pattern of the curtain seemed to move across her vision until she was seeing instead the dark hair that ran downwards from Zach’s bellybutton, the bolts of his spine as he moved in the sun.
‘I had a boyfriend when I was nineteen,’ Amelia lied, forcing herself to meet the pharmacist’s dark eyes.
‘Right.’ He held her eye, tapped the pen. Made no mark on the paper. The girl appeared at the gap in the curtain, then ducked away as Amelia saw her.
The pharmacist spoke for a few minutes, outlining the potential side effects of the drug, the instructions for its use, and stressed again the need for people like her to be on the contraceptive pill.
‘Do you have any questions?’ he said, turning the box from edge to edge.
‘No,’ she said, watching his hairy knuckles.
He signed the form with a loopy signature, then slid the box towards her. Amelia grabbed it and stepped out of the cubicle, breathless. She leaned on a display holding pedometers, tried to calm herself.