Beautiful Monster (11 page)

The next few days are full of graphic paintings. Their smell permeates every room in the house. Her mother is in an artistic frenzy. Tess hears her in the early hours of the morning: the swish of boar bristles over the canvas, the patting and scraping of colour with the metal knife. Every day there is a new image to ponder, a veritable gallery growing along the walls of the kitchen and hallway.

Tess imagines future critics reviewing her mother's work. ‘Ah yes,' they'll say, peering over bifocals and sipping their Merlot, ‘Edwards's blue period. A most prolific time in her artistic career.'

How long will it last? Tess thinks, standing before the as yet untitled exhibition. Until she releases so much bad imagery that she escapes her depression and, hey presto, is all fixed? A new woman? A super mum?

She walks slowly along the hallway. The paintings make her angry, although she doesn't like to wonder why. The first canvas is massive, and shows a small boy, dressed in school uniform, blue pants, white shirt, black polished shoes. He runs away from the viewer, along a street that is swallowed up by a massive, towering city. The buildings bend inwards in their middles—like strands of spaghetti—framing the picture. The little boy is being devoured by the buildings. His bright red hair, the colour of fire, is the painting's focal point.

The next one that catches her attention is a close-up of a monster-style truck—maybe a white Valiant—jacked up high on enormous wheels, with gigantic exhausts billowing clouds of smoke. It has destroyed everything in its way. Behind it lies the results of its carnage: flattened trees, buildings, letter boxes, a scruffy black dog. In front of it, running off the confines of the canvas, is the same little boy, his hand reaching out imploringly. His hair dancing like the flames of a fire.

Interspersed between these paintings are the smaller, more furious and less structured ones. Images of swirls colliding. Or black backgrounds streaked with blended colours. Tess skims past these quickly and stops in front of today's offering. A girl, seated at a kitchen bench. A kitchen that looks just like her own—even down to the wooden recipe holder on the counter top. The girl is also dressed in school uniform, her hair neatly pulled back, her long fringe pushed behind one ear, while her black polished shoes swing above the stool's rail. In front of her is an overly large cereal bowl, filled to the brim with razor blades and nails. They twist into each other, sharp and deadly. The girl holds a spoonful near her face. Her eyes are full of tears. Green eyes swimming. But the girl has no mouth. Tess stares at this picture for the longest time, resisting the urge to allow her foot—also encased in a polished black shoe—to rend its surface.

She turns away. She wants to forget the images—how could her mother produce them? The colours and thickness of the paint affect her even more. The paint, impasto style, possesses a life-like quality, the colours reverberating with energy, while the dark colours remind her of clotted blood. She shivers, her back to the canvases, still glistening wetly. Too many images, too many memories.

‘Let's go for a walk,' her dad suggests one evening, poking his head through the door of her study. Tess glances at him, irritated. She's in the middle of a complex physics problem—she can't just get up and go.

‘Not now, Dad, busy,' she says, staring at the page again.

‘No, kitten.' He walks in. ‘I don't like the way you're studying all the time. You need a break. So do I. Come on.'

She groans inwardly, knowing he won't give in. She doesn't want a lecture, but she hasn't spent much time with him lately. Maybe he's right—a break will do her good. She's so damn tired.

She clicks her computer to hibernate and follows him outside.

‘Let's drive down to the beach,' he suggests. ‘We'll walk across the sand. Beautiful night.'

She slips into the car. It's still bright at six and hot, But there's a heaviness in the air. She pulls her sleeves down to cover her hands and shivers against the air-conditioning.

The sky is beginning to turn pink as they walk along the water's edge. Her dad reaches for her hand and they stroll in silence. Wind has blown across the sand, forming shallow pits and furrows like the face of a roughly sawn rock. Tess studies the ground as they walk along. Her dad seems deep in thought, too.

She looks out over the ocean. The sunlight is a wide silver stripe through the iridescent green that peaks into black tips and troughs into murky greyness. Light glints off the sides of the swell like jagged pieces of mirror. A storm is building. The water is hypnotic—rhythmically running in and out. She remembers another time, long ago, at the beach.
She had on a blue and pink one-piece swimsuit, with a pink frill over each leg. Her dad was running ahead of her, his long legs stretching out, the black hairs glistening. She tried to match his stride, fitting her left foot into the long and deep print his foot had already made, but her right foot couldn't cover the same distance.

‘Wait for me, Dad,' her squeaky voice called above the roar of the waves. He was already waist deep.

‘C'mon, Tess.' He splashed sea water at her. Then his hands were around her waist and he was lifting her into the air. She felt like a seagull, high above the surf and other bathers. ‘You ready?' he called up to her and she nodded, beads of water flicking from the ends of her hair. And then she was flying. She went head first into the waves, her eyes squeezed shut, holding her breath as she tumbled through the water. There was a momentary feeling of panic and then she was shooting upwards again, bursting through the water's surface like King Triton, powerful and excited.

‘That was fun,' she squealed. ‘Do it again, do it again.'

And later they walked along the edge of the beach, her small hand in his, looking behind to watch the water run up and fill the imprint his large feet left behind and to see the funny footprints she was leaving as she walked with her feet turned in, or hopped to make it seem like she had only one leg. Her dad squeezed her hand. ‘Time to go, kitten?' She nodded contentedly and they turned back to where her mother sat, under the shade of a striped umbrella, nursing Brodie.

The wind picks up suddenly, flinging grains of sand into her face, hard and sharp like bee stings. She squints against the onslaught. Across the peninsula the storm is moving in, covering the ocean in a thick haze, the sea spray flying up, the low scrub waving like fingertips. Tess shivers.

Her dad tightens his grip. ‘Time to go, kitten?'

‘What?' she asks, startled.

‘The storm.' He points to the rolling blackness. ‘Fifteen minutes.' They turn back towards the car.

‘Everything okay? You seem flat,' he asks finally. Flat is his code name for depressed—and he's finetuned to detect it.

‘Yeah, why?' she says cautiously.

‘The pressure, these exams. Food. I'm worried.' He's stopped walking and has turned to face her, holding both her hands. ‘You've gone secretive, Tess. Like you did before. I'm worried you're moving away from me—back into that blackness. I think you're losing weight again. You feel thin. I'm wondering if...' He glances towards the storm; sky and ocean have both darkened. ‘Is Ned back?'

His question jolts her and there is a moment when the confession is on her lips. Tell him the truth. Tell him Ned's come back. But things are different this time and she knows he won't understand. He looks so scared and she desperately wants to alleviate his worry. But she's frightened of his reaction, of hurting him. So she doesn't tell him. She has to be more careful—act more normal, seem less stressed. Eat better.

‘No,' she says, ‘it's the exams. I'm frightened of failing.'

He squeezes her hard. ‘You'll never fail, Tess. You're too smart. You work too hard.'

The pressure feels enormous. ‘I know, Dad, but it scares me. That's all. That's why I'm working so hard. It'll all be over soon.'

‘Okay.' The wind has lifted around them, harder now, and drops of water begin to hit them from an angle. ‘But you know I'm here, Tess. You can tell your old dad anything.'

She squeezes his hand as the rain pelts down ferociously and they run for the car.

Time. It's like the digital display on a bomb, slowly clicking down to an explosion, or the lines a prisoner chalks on their wall as they count the days to release. Time has never been her friend, she thinks, as she stares blankly at the computer screen. But it's always been her companion.

She remembers back to the days after Brodie died. When a week had passed, Tess couldn't believe it. Seven days, each one as long as a year. How had time slowed down so much?

She knew that the older she got, the quicker time passed. When she was one, a year was the sum total of her life—her entire existence; then of course when she was two, it became half. That was why, she reasoned, her birthday seemed to come sooner each year, why she never had to wait so long for Easter, or Christmas. The older she got, the faster her life passed by. That made sense. So what of the inversion?

After Brodie died she would read a book, and look at the clock—ten past ten. She'd read another three chapters—thirteen minutes past ten. She'd walk down the garden, water Mum's fading roses, stop and check the letter box—a wad of condolence cards—collect the paper. Look at the clock—twenty-three minutes past ten. What was there to do but stare off into space?

Now, time is playing a new trick. With the exams looming, it has sped up.

Tess gets up from her desk and moves slowly through the rooms, flicking on lights, touching things. Ned's backed off, but God, she misses him. She'd warned him after the day at the beach with Dad. If they weren't careful, they'd get caught. And then what? Ned would never be allowed near her again. She had to keep the situation contained. After exams, when the pressure was off, they could really be together, properly. It was that promise that had made him concede.

‘You swear?' he'd whispered into her hair as they huddled together on the bed, the storm banging on the windows, the tree branches scratching against the glass. ‘You swear we'll be together always?'

‘Yes,' she said, relaxing in his embrace, the safest place in the world. ‘I promise. But Dad is suspicious right now. So I have to do this. For both of us.'

‘Okay, babe.' He untangled himself from her. ‘I don't like it. But I'll do it. I'll do anything to make you happy.'

‘Thank you,' she whispered as he retreated. ‘It won't be for long. I promise.'

She's grateful, she thinks as she moves through the house, but so horribly, horribly lonely. She flicks a switch, stops at the doorway. The kitchen. It might as well be an abattoir for the feelings it creates in her. She feels overwhelmed by the power in this room, and almost suffocated by the smell. Her stomach howls loudly; she puts her hand against it to silence it. She walks in slowly. The worst room in the house. No one has any idea what it's like for her to face this room day after day, even now. Slowly she opens the fridge and stares at the contents. She doesn't need to read any of the labels; she knows exactly what each food contains, from its saturated to trans fats, its carbohydrate content to its sugars. It makes her feel like heaving. But she's hungry. And she can't let Dad see she's losing weight. She has to look at the food, has to eat.

Half an hour later she's finally decided on cottage cheese, celery and carrot. After that she can suck a Chupa Chup. She grabs the food quickly and runs back to her study. After an hour of struggling to focus, she decides to go for a jog. To give herself a break, clear her head. When she walks back through the front door her dad is home, talking on the phone. He signals her to stop.

‘Yes, sorry, wait a minute,' he says into the receiver. He covers the mouthpiece. ‘Some guy—wants to speak to you,' he says, offering it to her.

She shakes her head, holds her hand up and mouths, ‘Who?'

‘Tom,' he mouths back.

She shakes her head again—she has no idea who Tom is.

As Dad turns and walks into the kitchen, she hears him say, ‘Sorry, no. Yes, I'll tell her.'

Tess walks up the stairs to her room, sits on the bed to unlace her sneakers. Dad appears in the doorway—without the phone this time.

‘Tom sounded nice,' he says, far too casually.

She pretends to be immersed in her shoelaces. ‘Mmmmmm,' she mutters.

‘Yeah, I liked the sound of him. Where did you meet?' her dad continues transparently.

‘Look, Dad, I have no idea who he is,' Tess says, irritated. The last thing she needs right now is another relationship. She's struggling with the ones she already has.

But her dad won't give up. ‘Asked me to ask you if you were keeping your promise.'

‘What?' She stares at her father.

‘Said he was your knight in shining armour. So what was that all about, hey? I think you need to tell your old dad about this secret.'

She sees how much he wishes she'd have a normal relationship—with a ‘nice' boy.

Tom. The cyclist. Of course. ‘No secret, Dad. Just a guy who saved my life.'

Her dad frowns but she can't tell him how she was nearly run over.

She sits for a while, staring at her screen saver. She badly wants to study but her mind drifts. And every time she considers that tomorrow is her last chance before the exams begin the following day, she panics.

The screen saver goes into slide show mode and photos slip across the surface of her monitor. The picture of her on her first day of high school. How short she was. Her mother's arm around her shoulders, looking wistful about her daughter starting secondary education—before wistful became the leading face in her repertoire.

Muppet, the straggly looking black mongrel Brodie had found in the vacant lot at the end of their street and begged and pleaded to keep.

A picture of her in denim shorts and a singlet, holding Nero's lead. She freezes the slide show and studies the image again. She remembers when Dad took it, how he'd caught her unawares, her face to the camera. It was a few days before the school dance, that night when everyone gasped and said, ‘Tessa Edwards has an eating disorder!'

She stares at her face in the photograph. She doesn't look that thin. Actually, she looks pretty good. Confusing, because on the night of the dance they'd admitted her to hospital dehydrated, malnourished and in starvation mode. She'd been tube fed—she remembers the ghastly feel of it—and the threat hung over her in the months that followed that if she didn't eat they'd ‘tube her'. The monitoring, the weighing, the feeling of loss. They'd taken away her control, forced her to eat their disgusting food. And the attempt at counselling. Even then, when it seemed at times that she couldn't think clearly—and they were medicating her, too, for anxiety and depression—she would sometimes think how funny it all was. Her mum was some crazy loon at home, and she was the one in hospital under twenty-four/seven watch.

She clicks the photos forward again. And there he is. Brodie. The morning of his tenth birthday. His reddish-blonde hair—‘Ranga', she used to tease him—glinting in the morning light. Holding high his electric car, a present from Mum and Dad, one they said he categorically could not take to school with him. His big, front teeth. Those freckles on his nose that made him look like a cartoon character. And that grin. Wide enough to split his face. She touches the screen. ‘I miss you so much, mate,' she whispers to his image. ‘I wish you were here.'

How is life fair? Why did Brodie deserve that? And every time she thinks of him, she remembers every nasty word she ever said to him. Every mean thing she ever did. If only she had the chance again to be his sister. She would do it so much better.

She'd be perfect.

She gets up from the computer, looks at the clock. Still alone. Nero worriedly pushes his nose against her legs and she bends down, burying her face for a moment in his coarse black hair. She pats him and he follows her down the hall, his nails clicking on the floorboards.

She flicks on the bathroom light and washes her face. The window is open. She turns around expectantly. ‘Ned?' she whispers. Nothing. He's doing as she asked—staying away. As grateful as she is, she misses him, feels resentful that he finds it so easy to keep away from her. All she can think of is him.

She stops in the kitchen, hungry. Physics revision has triggered it. All that talk about calories has made her start obsessing. She feels condemned as she pulls the fridge door open and sees the brightly illuminated cavity engorged with calories. She feels sick, yet is compelled to look. There are three slices of her dad's cheese and onion flan—it's always so good, even better cold. She shakes her head.
Don't do it,
she warns herself as she watches her hand peel back the cling wrap and break off a bit. It's cold and sweet in her mouth.
Just a tiny bit,
she tells herself and breaks off another piece.
Walk away,
she orders, but her hand doesn't obey her mind. Suddenly the whole slice is gone. Horrified, she slams the fridge door shut.

There's a piece of crust on the floor. ‘Disgusting,' she mutters. She drops the crust in the bin, washes her greasy, greedy fingers. Avoiding her reflection in the hallstand mirror, she moves heavily back to her study, deliberately ignoring her mother's garish offerings in the hallway.

Sitting in front of her black computer screen, she feels Ned behind her before she sees him in the darkness of the monitor.

‘Hey, babe. What's up?'

‘Everything.'

She spins around in her chair. She talks about the exams, the pressure, the expectations, her mum's overwhelming interest in her art class, relieved to be talking and not thinking about the flan.

‘Why are you so angry at her still?' Ned asks.

‘Because she never gets any better. Nothing makes any difference, and now she's gone off on this full visualisation therapy. Painting every image that crosses her warped brain. Even down to that day, the road—the fucking car. And she never...' Tess trails off, weak with emotion. Full of loathing—for herself. She's so cold.

‘Pays that much attention to you?'

Though he sounds compassionate, she wishes she could feel him touch her.

‘I know, babe, but it's like I've always told you. You don't need them. You don't need anyone. Just me. I'm it for you, kiddo. Come on, let's go out. I feel like having fun.'

They walk along the bank of the river. Tess wants to hold on to Ned for support but can't look vulnerable. She's so drunk. She never usually drinks much—can't stand the feeling the next day. Not the hangover; more the feeling she's lost control. But tonight she doesn't care, sitting with Ned at The Library skolling one shooter after another until being cut off at the bar. Now she staggers along the water's edge. It's been a night of nostalgia—remembering the things they used to do.

‘It's cold,' she says, shivering.

‘It is.' Ned draws her close. ‘You're warm, though, Tess. Must be the extra padding.'

She feels suddenly ashamed. She knew the day he reappeared in her life that he was shocked by her physical appearance.

‘I'm sorry,' she says, ‘for being such a lazy cow. But I'm trying hard now. I promise.'

He tightens his grip on her. ‘I know, babe. Just listen to me. You know I can make you happy. Come on.' Up ahead is the bridge. ‘Let's have that fun.'

She follows him to the bridge and they walk against the guardrail as the traffic tears by. The wind is piercing and she huddles into her thick woollen coat. ‘Up here,' he calls as they climb up the metal struts and stop on a railing high above.

The traffic streams by below them. Her head is woozy. She holds the taut cables for support. They are a long way up. Ten metres above the traffic. And then how much further into the water below?

‘This is great.' Ned's not holding on to anything. ‘This is high, so high,' he sings.

‘Be careful, Ned,' Tess warns. He looks perilously close to falling.

‘No, Tess, this is the point.' The wind whips his black hair from his face; his green eyes glitter in the moonlight. ‘Aren't you sick of careful? Little Miss Perfect. Doing everything right? Boring, I tell you. Come on, Tess. Live a little. Let go.'

She shakes her head. She's a coward. Always has been.

‘Let go,' he says again.

She releases the cable and wobbles unsteadily in the wind. One step and she would fly through the air. Freedom.

She looks down at the traffic. The sight makes her head swim. Suddenly she feels the vastness behind her. She loses her balance.

‘Ned!' she screams, scrabbling frantically for the cable. Her foot slips off the beam. She grabs the cable and hangs on tight. Hears the traffic whiz by beneath her. Swings above the beam. Her hands are sweaty; they're slipping. Her foot madly searches for support, but she can't find any. Above her, she's sure she hears Ned laugh.

‘Ned,' she screams again, ‘help me!'

She can't see him. She doesn't want to look down; the streaming colours make her nauseous, the ribbons of light intertwining beneath her like intestines and arteries.

‘Ned?' She's frantic. The iron cable is biting into her palm, making it bleed. ‘Ned?'

Where has he gone? Her grip is weakening. She can't hold on. She squints through her tears at the beam below. If she can move her foot backwards and drop it down half an inch ... But that means releasing her grip on the cable.

‘Ned?' she howls. Why won't he save her? Why isn't he here, guiding her foot onto the beam? Her hands slip, the cable slicing through her skin. ‘Ned?'

Terrified, she loosens her grip on the cable a little, feels the void beneath her. Moves her foot. It touches the solid beam. Exhausted, she drops and grasps the steel support. Hugging it tightly. Panting and whimpering.

She searches the steel beams. But above her, the wind whistles through the metal structure.

Nothing.

There is no Ned. There never has been. Just lies to herself again.

Finally, cautiously, she moves downwards, easing herself lower and lower until her feet touch firm ground. Her heart clatters madly. She wants to vomit. She huddles on the footpath, watching the traffic tear past. The wind washes over her in waves. Her bleeding hands shake uncontrollably. What had she been thinking? What was she doing? For the first time in a long time, she feels completely empty.

And free.

A car slows next to her. She looks up, blinking into the headlights.

‘Hey,' the uniformed officer says, ‘are you okay?'

She nods, then shakes her head, pushing her long black fringe out of her eyes.

‘Get in,' he says. ‘We'll give you a lift home.'