Crossing the Line (5 page)

9

F
or weeks now I’ve been dreading today. Marie has come to take me for a case conference review. This is a reminder, in case I ever dare forget it, that, much as I want it, my life isn’t yet my own. The Department will put me under its microscope like I’m an insect as its team of arrogant fools poke and prod me with questions, to check my ‘progress’, or lack of it. The aim of the exercise is for them to decide if I should be allowed to continue living independently. What I want doesn’t matter.

Marie raps on the door, short, crisp and businesslike. That sums her up in every way. If she has any warmth in her, she leaves it at home when she goes to work.

‘Oh.’ It’s obvious from the moment she sees me that she doesn’t approve of what I’m wearing. ‘I thought you’d be in your school clothes.’ She pats her hands on either side of her suit jacket, as though she needs to brush something sticky from them.

‘No,’ I say brightly. ‘This is how I usually dress for school.’ Amy has lent me a long Indian skirt that swishes when I walk and almost touches my sandals. I rattle my mass of bangles, just to annoy Marie, and flash a smile to rub it in.

‘Very well . . . do you think you’ll be all right this morning? I wouldn’t want you to get upset. That does no one any good.’

Once I totally lost it at a case conference. Swore at Marie. Swore at the whole bunch of Department suits. They kept pushing me to live with this couple I hated: it was nothing personal – I hated everyone then.

‘I’m fine,’ I tell her. ‘Let’s just get it over with.’

We drive ten blocks in silence, and then, because it must be Department policy, Marie asks a question.

‘How are your sessions going with Doctor Palmer?’

‘Okay.’

‘And school?’

‘Okay.’

She can waste her words if she wants but I’m not wasting mine. I know that in her briefcase are reports from my school, and from Noel. There’s probably one from Jan, too. She’ll have them all neat and tidy in a folio to hand over at the conference. I hate this.

Marie checks her make-up in the rear-vision mirror, rubs at her bottom lip to smooth some lipstick and pats a stray hair into place. ‘Anything you want to tell me?’ she says. She rarely uses my name when she’s addressing me. Around her colleagues she acts differently. I’m Sophie then, and she has nothing but the utmost concern for my welfare. Makes me sick.

‘No,’ I reply. ‘I’ve got nothing to tell you.’

She persists, as she always does.

‘No problems with your flatmates?’

I beam the cheeriest smile I can muster. ‘No, Miss Jarmine, I couldn’t ask for two nicer people to live with.’

‘You realise we’ve only put you there on a trial basis?’ Marie seems to enjoy telling me this – such power. ‘When you talk to Mr Donovan, I want you to answer him as fully as you possibly can. If you hope to keep living where you are, you’ll need to create a good impression. I have to stress this – if we can’t see that you’re making a genuine effort to co-operate with your psychiatrist, and with your school, then it’s quite possible that you could be placed in fostering again. You understand that, don’t you?’

I want to cut. A vision of a sharp blade on my skin trailing a bloodied line skates through my mind.

‘Yes.’ I force myself to speak. ‘I do understand. I’ve been working hard. Doctor Palmer and I are making real progress.’

She turns and smiles falsely. ‘That’s good, dear. If you’re on your best behaviour this morning I’m sure there won’t be any problems.’

I smile back at her, just as falsely.

Last month I carved my initials into my arm. It was up high where I could hide it with clothing. Over the weeks the wound dried, scabbed, and then the scab came off until all that remained was a faint white scar. The feeling I had when I did it stays with me, bright red and vivid in my mind. I like the pain of cutting. I like too that my body has my own brand of tattoo carved on it, and no matter how much I am documented and dissected, this is a piece of me that no one owns. Marie and the others who control my life know nothing. They can’t manipulate it. They can’t take it away. It’s mine. Just mine.

The car stops in front of an electronic gate. It opens and we drive into the underground car park. ‘You don’t need to be nervous,’ Marie says. She always babbles this before a case conference as if it’s part of a memorised script. We drive into a space marked
Reserved.

‘Oh, I forgot to tell you, Rosemary Stewart asked me to give you this letter.’ She hands me a white envelope with my name written on the front in a familiar script. ‘It’d be nice if you replied to her.’

I drop the letter into my bag. First chance I get I’ll throw it, unopened and unread, into the nearest rubbish bin. The Stewarts gave me away. Like all the others.

We walk to the meeting, Marie leading, and, like Shakespeare’s schoolboy, I follow
creeping like snail, unwillingly.

The conference room. A big table. Chairs all around it. Open blinds on the windows. Light in my eyes. Nothing on the walls to check out.

I wait alone while Marie meets outside with her colleagues, their voices too indistinct to make out what they’re saying about me. I’ve been at case conferences more times than I care to remember. They are always the same – as awful as it gets.

Hurry up, you morons.

The door swings open. In troop the heavies, sombre-faced. Marie follows them. There’s been a Departmental shuffle and except for Marie these are new people sitting opposite. They look at me like I’m some zoo animal that’s expected to perform on cue.

‘This is Sophie.’ My case worker wears a smile like tacky wallpaper. ‘Sophie, this is Mr Donovan. He’s in charge of proceedings.’

Big boss. Big baboon.

‘And Mr Alexander is a new housing outworker here, taking over from Miss Jones. You don’t mind if he sits in?’

As if I have any option.

‘And this is Ms Matherson who’s going to take minutes of our little meeting.’

I feel like asking what their Christian names are. After all, I’ve only been introduced as Sophie. But that’s just one of the many rebellious feelings I have. Like the others, I have to nail this feeling down while I nod respectfully as each suit is introduced. They nod back in turn, inspecting me briefly before referring to papers in front of them.

The secretary hands me a typed agenda and I bury my face in it.

‘As you know,’ Marie drones, ‘Sophie was placed in a share accommodation situation some time ago. She lives with two other young people. The details are on page one of your folders.’

All eyes go down to the report and the meeting crawls through more red tape, until Marie flips through a thick folder – my case notes.

Putting on her glasses, she says, ‘I’ll just give a quick briefing of Sophie’s history, leading up to the present day.’

I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry.

Eight minutes later. ‘So, as you see, it hasn’t always been easy for our girl; she’s been through a lot of fostering.’

Our girl?
That makes me cringe.

They trot out the usual questions: ‘How are you?’

‘Have you settled in well?’

‘How are you coping at school?’

‘Would you say your current situation is preferable to being fostered with a family?’

Nobody’s listening to my answers, not really. I know how to fix that.

We have wild parties. Orgies. You should come and join us.

I flirt with saying it for a second, until Marie’s glare cuts me down.

‘So what do you think are the benefits of shared accommodation for you?’

‘There are so many good things about it,’ I say. I can play their game, know all the right buttons to press. ‘I’m learning how to budget, how to get on with guys my own age, and I can study in peace . . .’

They’re flipping through reports, looking at watches – must be time for a coffee break soon.

‘I hope I can stay where I am.’ I finish there and glance hopefully around the table. That’s as close to begging as I intend to go.

They don’t respond, of course.

Marie passes a folder to each of them.

‘This is a report from the therapist, Doctor Palmer.’

I’m put on hold as they flick through the pages. They couldn’t possibly be reading them. Probably looking for some part that’s underlined or in capitals. Maybe they’re searching for the word PSYCHO.

They won’t get much from Noel’s report. I haven’t said anything to him that’s even the tiniest bit incriminating. I look at the carpet as they read, but I feel their eyes every time they move from the report to me, as if they’re searching for some dark secret that Noel has missed.

‘I see,’ murmurs Donovan when he finishes reading.

That’s all the feedback I get. I drum my fingers on the table. I’d like to punch a wall, but I adjust my face and continue to sit there, looking as demure as I possibly can.

Next is Marie’s report. It’s mercifully brief because she has no idea who I am. After that, Donovan and Alexander put their heads together to compare dates in diaries and then all the folders around the table are closed.

‘That’s it, young lady.’ Donovan smiles at me. It’s the kind of expression a walrus has when overseeing its harem. ‘Didn’t hurt, did it?’

Yuck.

I respond with a wan smile and a shake of my head.

‘Good girl,’ Marie says. ‘You did very well.’

One day, I tell myself, one day it won’t be like this.

10

‘
W
ell, here we are!’ Marie exclaims, as if we have suddenly materialised out of thin air. We’re parked in front of my school.

‘Thanks.’ I gather my things.

She can’t resist one last lecture. ‘They’ll review again, as you know, so living with your young friends is still subject to change. It’s all in your hands. If you do the right thing . . .’

‘Yep. Got it.’ I step out of the car.

‘No, I don’t think you do have. You should appreciate how lucky you are to be in your present situation.’

‘I appreciate it. Okay? What more do you want me to say?’

Marie leans across and closes the door on me, ending the conversation, and then infuriates me by smiling. ‘Take care, dear,’ she says through the open window.

All pretence stops then, on my part anyway. She waves at me as she drives off. I stare after her. As soon as she is around the corner, I make a decision. No way can I face school. At home I change into my bathers and T-shirt. I wrap a bandage around my still raw wounds and when I’m done, wheel Matt’s bike onto the road.

It’s an overcast day and the pool is occupied by only three people, all swimming laps in the grey, chilled water. I take up the far lane. The water really stings the cuts on my arms and I feel like getting out. But I’ve come to swim. It’s the best way I know to calm my churning mind. However, almost as soon as I launch off and get into my stride, thoughts jostle for attention. Jerky and fragmented. Nightmarish thoughts. Cutting my skin, slicing off the flesh, making mounds of it, throwing what remains of myself off a cliff.

I try to focus on being here in the water. Watch as my arms propel past my face and bubbles rise. Count my breaths. In. Out. In. Out. The pastel blue wall, blotched with vast tracts of mould-coloured lichen, passes by. Up, down, in, out, so many thoughts, the razor, the cliff, cutting, cutting . . .

I burst out of the water gasping, but so relieved to see the blue sky, the tranquil blue sky.

When I arrive back at the house and wheel the bike into the hallway, I have no thought other than to crawl into bed and sleep.

‘You seem preoccupied today,’ Noel observes later that week in our Wednesday afternoon session. ‘Where is your mind?’

‘In my brain. You should know that, Mister Doctor.’

‘Are you tired?’ Noel is in his usual pose, leaning slightly forward, elbows on the arms of his chair, making a bridge with his interlocking fingers.

‘I am a bit.’ I don’t tell him that every molecule of blood in my body feels like sludge.

‘Have you been sleeping well?’

‘Not really.’

‘Dreams?’

‘Always.’

He doesn’t push me. He waits. Unless I volunteer the information, it ends here. And it does.

‘Just stupid dreams. Nothing you’d be interested in.’

I don’t trust myself to say anything. I don’t want him to see what’s inside this riotous mind. I relax back into my chair, aware from time to time of his soothing voice, but it’s far off. I feel like I’m almost in a hypnotic state. And then he’s standing and showing me his kind smile.

‘It’s time to go, Sophie.’

Already? It went by so quickly . . . I must have been wandering again. I have no idea where I got to.

At home I fall into bed and sleep, so deeply. I wake at the sound of Matt moving around in another room. There’s a scary person in the mirror so I try not to look at her as I straighten my hair. Then, my happy face fixed in position, I re-enter the world.

Amy’s off somewhere; said she’d be away for a few days.

‘Hi, Matt.’

‘Hey, Soph. Glad I caught you. Thought you might like to come out with me tonight. I’m going with Tracey and Boyd. We’re checking out a new band. You up for it?’

I hesitate. A noisy band, having to make conversation – these are the last things I want right now.

‘Come on, Soph. You can bring some friends along if you want.’

Have to try, I tell myself.

‘Sure,’ I say. ‘I’d love to.’

I SMS Greta and she is back to me within moments.

I’m in, meet u there

The air is sticky-hot, stifling even. I feel so stupid throwing on a jacket in this weather, but I have things to hide. Matt looks as though he’s going to comment, but thankfully keeps his thoughts to himself.

‘My friend Greta’s coming too,’ I tell him.

‘Excellent!’

The band is in full swing when we get there, the pub loud and crowded with smelly bodies. Tracey and Boyd arrive almost at the same time. The boys head off for beers while Tracey and I find a table and scrounge some chairs. Tracey’s full of stories. She tells them with great excitement but I’m unable to focus on anything she says. The thoughts in my head are screaming – so much turmoil.

‘Sophie!’ It’s Greta. She’s dressed in a textured silver mini-skirt, skyscraper-high party shoes, and her boobs are almost hanging out of her low-cut top. ‘Well, I’m here,’ she says. ‘What now?’

Matt turns up at that moment with drinks, takes one look at Greta and gulps. Obviously he likes what he sees. Is it my imagination, or is she leaning slightly forward so he can get a better view of what she’s offering? No, it’s definitely not my imagination. I’m forgotten as she and Matt slip into an animated conversation, like long-lost friends reunited.

‘You want to watch that girl,’ Tracey says. ‘She’s moving fast.’

I laugh it off. ‘Doesn’t bother me. Good luck to her.’

The music is pounding, drumming loudly in my head to compete with the confusion there.

‘Drink up, girls.’ Boyd delivers the remaining drinks to our table.

I gulp down my beer. I’m not used to drinking and I don’t know what it might do to me. But I intend to find out. I make for the bar and order a shot of tequila – the barman doesn’t question my age – put it away fast and order another. The warm, fuzzy feeling that descends upon me settles my mind. I tap my foot and sway with the beat of the music. It’s a wild band. A guy comes up, invites me to dance. I go with him but I’m unsteady on my feet. He holds me. ‘Take it easy, sweetheart.’ Then I’m dancing, losing myself, forgetting that my new best friend is not far away. With Matt. My Matt.

‘Hey.’ My dance partner’s lips are hot against my ear. ‘You want to come to my place? I’ve got much better music there.’

‘No!’ I jerk away from him.

‘Okay. Jesus.’ He shoulders past me and disappears into the crowd.

Back at the bar I order a vodka, lime and soda.

‘You okay, love?’ Tracey asks when I return to my seat.

‘Sure.’

Greta’s at the table too, sipping some sort of cocktail. I give her a look. She’s lucky that’s all I give her.

‘Matt bought it for me.’ She grins. ‘You didn’t tell me what a spunk he is.’

Spunk. Sunk. Dunk. Drunk.
The words swirl around my head. I can see them bobbing up and down like ducks in water. They make me grin.

‘You’re drunk, girl.’ Greta stands, grabs me by my elbow and manoeuvres me towards the Ladies. Once inside, she heads into a cubicle, talking the whole time. ‘If Matt’s already taken, if you and he have something going, then I’ll back off. You just give me the word. But if you don’t want him . . .’ She prattles on and on.

All I can think is how odd I feel. The ground seems to be moving under my feet, as though I’m on an escalator, going down, down, down. I clutch the hand basin but my legs slip from under me and I land on my bum, find myself sitting on the cold tiles. Cold bum, warm head. It’s so funny!

‘What are you laughing about?’

Greta comes out of the cubicle, sees me on the floor and bends over, offering me a hand.

‘God, Sophie. How much have you had to drink?’

‘Just enough!’

For once my teeming fevered brain is full of nothing but bubbles. I feel woozy and suddenly wonderful.

‘Come on. Let’s get you home.’ Greta yanks at me, trying to pull me upright, but I want to stay forever on the cool floor.

Now she’s splashing tap water over me.

‘Stop it. Leave me alone.’

She ignores me.

‘You must be blazing hot in that jacket.’

She kneels down and starts to take it off me.

My words are slurred but still she must be able to understand a ‘No!’ – a yelled ‘No!’ It doesn’t stop her. She pulls the jacket clear of me and through bleary eyes I see her staring at the cuts and scars on my arms.

‘You stupid idiot,’ she says. ‘You stupid, stupid idiot!’

Her disgusted face is the last thing I remember.