Girl Next Door - Alyssa Brugman [29]
'Poor thing.'
Declan glares at me. 'I don't think you realise that I have to deal with this for the rest of my life, Jenna-Belle.'
'Yeah, well, I menstruate. Get over yourself.'
When I go back into the house Bryce Cole is squatting on the floor next to the lounge where Mum is lying. She's talking to him and her words are bursting out in stuttering staccato like typewriter keystrokes. I stand in the gloomy kitchen eavesdropping.
'I . . . I didn't want to do nappies again. The kids are old enough. To look after themselves. And the idea of starting all over. Again with. Broken sleep for years. Twenty-four-hour care. Again. And birth! God! From the beginning. Again.'
I peek around the corner. They don't see me.
Mum grimaces. 'It's like I wished it,' she whispers. 'It's as if I wished it to death.'
Bryce Cole rubs the tears from Mum's face with his thumb. They sit still for a long time, and then he says, 'You've got to keep running. Even though your heart is going to burst, you've got to get up and keep running.'
'Like Phar Lap,' she says.
'Like Phar Lap,' he repeats.
And after a few minutes Mum gets up.
13
THE OTHER
C-WORD
When I open the front door I recognise the figure standing on the step with his back to me as my father, and I think, Yes! All our problems are over. He's returned with the answer. We're saved! But when he turns around it's all wrong, because he's not supposed to knock on the door and wait. He's supposed to walk straight in, because he lives here, right? He's supposed to burst in, filthy from the gold mine or the oil well he's discovered, and sweep Mum up in his arms. Eureka!
It doesn't even look like him. He has a silly beard. He's wearing a spotty shirt that I've never seen before. He has a jumper draped over his shoulders as though he's in an ad for the pants he's wearing.
It's like when you return to a house that you haven't been to since you were little and it's not nearly as big and grand as you remember. I'm wondering how he could change so much in three months, or whether he's always looked like this and I never noticed because I saw him every day.
He has his hands on his hips, sunglasses on the top of his head and he's looking casual, as if he's been yachting in the Mediterranean. He's got a grin on his face as though he's trying to sell me a timeshare apartment.
'Er, hello, sweetheart.'
He's sweating. It's not hot. He's nervous. Why is he nervous?
'How was your holiday in the country?' I ask.
A slight frown crosses his brow. He decides not to go there. 'Is Willem at home? I thought the three of us might grab a burger.'
The three of us? So, Mum isn't invited? That's it? He's been gone for all this time and now he's going to buy us a burger? What the hell is going on here?
. . . Except I'm hungry, and I'm hopeful, so I find myself saying, 'Okay.'
'Dad!' Will yells. He pushes past me and throws his arms around Dad. 'Hey, man!' He's slapping Dad on the back.
Dad's wearing this weird expression. It's the look you have when you're trying to be pleased about a birthday present you hate. That look makes me feel bad all the way down in my guts, because this is wrong.
Standing in the doorway watching them hug in an awkward man way, all I can think about are the little good things about Dad. That time I was in the concert band and we were on last at the eisteddfod, after this tiny primary school from the bush whose bus broke down, so we didn't end up going on until after midnight, and most of the other parents went home. He didn't just stay; he also drove two other kids home afterwards. How when my karate group had a fundraiser, I was going to quit because I'd forgotten to sell my raffle tickets, and he took the whole book to work and said he sold them all, but I think he bought them all himself, and then he didn't complain when I quit anyway. And how whenever we shared a chocolate he would take the smaller half, and he always let me play my CDs in the car even though it was music he hated because he said it all sounded the same. But it's too late. I can feel