Finding Audrey (12 page)

Tonight he’s sitting at supper, eating his enchiladas without looking at anyone, staring ahead like a zombie. When Mum or Dad ask him anything, like, ‘Have you got much homework?’ or ‘What happened today at school?’ he just answers with a ‘Phrrrmph’ noise, or rolls his eyes, or ignores them.

I’m not feeling Ms Chatty either tonight, so it’s not the liveliest dinner table. In fact, we all look up in relief when Felix comes in from the playroom in his tractor pyjamas.

‘I didn’t do my homework,’ he says, looking worried. ‘My
homework
, Mummy.’ He’s holding out some kind of transparent folder with a sheet in it.

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ says Mum.

‘Homework?’ says Dad. ‘For a four-year-old?’

‘I know.’ Mum sighs. ‘It’s nuts.’ She pulls out the sheet, and it’s a big photocopied page entitled
Why We Love Each Other
. Under the heading, Felix has drawn what I assume is a picture of us. At least, there are five figures. Mum looks pregnant and Dad looks like a gnome. I have a head the size of a pin and twenty very large circular fingers. But, you know, apart from that it’s pretty accurate.

‘“Fill in the box with help from your family”,’ Mum reads. ‘For example, “We love each other because we give each other cuddles”.’ She reaches for a pen. ‘OK. What shall I put? Felix, what do you love about our family?’

‘Pizza,’ says Felix promptly.

‘We can’t put pizza.’

‘Pizza!’ wails Felix. ‘I love pizza!’

‘I can’t put, “We love each other because of pizza”.’

‘I think that’s a pretty good answer,’ says Dad, shrugging.

‘I’ll do it,’ says Frank, grabbing the page, and we all look up in shock. Frank spoke! He takes a black Sharpie from his pocket and reads aloud as he writes: ‘“We love each other because we respect each other’s choices and understand when a person has a hobby that they love, and would never deliberately damage their property—” Oh, wait.’

‘Frank, you can’t write that!’ says Mum sharply.

It’s a bit late to say that, since he’s already written it. In permanent ink.

‘Great!’ Mum glares at Frank. ‘So now you’ve ruined your brother’s homework sheet.’

‘I’ve spoken the truth.’ Frank glowers back at her. ‘You can’t handle the truth.’

‘
A Few Good Men
,’ says Dad promptly. ‘I didn’t know you’d seen that.’

‘YouTube.’ Frank gets to his feet and heads over to the dishwasher.

‘Well, marvellous,’ says Mum, looking totally pissed off. ‘Now we can’t send this in. I’ll have to write a note in his link book. “Dear Mrs Lacy, Unfortunately Felix’s homework was . . .” what?’

‘Chewed by rats,’ I suggest.

‘“Inapplicable to the Turner family as they do not understand the concept of love beyond their own self-serving version”,’ comes Frank’s sonorous voice from the sink.

As he slouches out of the kitchen, Mum and Dad exchange glances.

‘That boy needs a hobby,’ mutters Mum. ‘We should never have let him give up the cello.’

‘Please, not the cello again,’ says Dad, looking alarmed. ‘I think he’s beyond the cello.’

‘I’m not saying the cello!’ snaps Mum. ‘But something. What do teenagers do these days?’

‘All sorts of things.’ Dad shrugs. ‘Win Olympic medals, get into Harvard, create internet companies, star in blockbuster films . . .’ As he trails off, he looks a bit depressed.

‘He doesn’t need to win a medal,’ says Mum firmly. ‘He just needs an interest. What about the guitar?’ Her face brightens. ‘Can he still play that? Why don’t you two jam together in the garage?’

‘We tried that once,’ says Dad, pulling a face. ‘Remember? It wasn’t a success . . . but we can try again!’ he amends quickly, at Mum’s expression. ‘Good idea! We’ll have a bit of a jamming session. Father and son. We’ll play some tracks, get in the beers—I mean, not the beers,’ he adds hastily as Mum opens her mouth. ‘No beers.’

‘And he should volunteer,’ says Mum with sudden determination. ‘Yes!
That’s
what Frank can do. Volunteer.’

I’m sitting in the kitchen later that evening, fiddling with the playback on my camera, when Frank shuffles in.

‘Oh, hi.’ I raise my head, remembering something. ‘Listen, I haven’t interviewed you yet. Can we do it?’

‘I don’t want to be interviewed.’

Frank looks like he hates everyone and everything. His face is pale. His eyes are bloodshot. He looks
less
healthy than when he was gaming all the time.

‘OK.’ I shrug. I reach for a Dorito from the bowl still sitting on the table. We had Tex-Mex for supper tonight, which is the only time Mum buys crisps. It’s, like, if they’re Doritos and scooping up guacamole then they don’t count as junk food. ‘So . . .’ I try to speak casually. ‘I was wondering . . .’

My voice is letting me down. It doesn’t sound casual, it sounds over-alert. On the other hand, I don’t think Frank is in a noticing mood.

‘Is Linus coming over?’ It comes out in a hurry and I sound the opposite of casual, but there you go. I’ve asked.

Frank turns his head to give me a murderous glare. ‘Why would Linus come over?’

‘Well . . . because . . .’ I’m confused. ‘Have you had a fight?’

‘No, I haven’t had a fight.’ His eyes are so bleak and full of anger, I flinch. ‘I’ve been dropped from the team.’

‘Dropped from the team?’ I stare at him in shock. ‘But it was your team.’

‘Well, I can hardly play now, can I?’

His voice is all muffled and low. I have a horrible feeling he wants to cry. I haven’t seen Frank cry since he was about ten.

‘Frank.’ I feel a huge wave of sorrow for him. In fact I think I might cry for him instead. ‘Have you told Mum?’

‘Told Mum?’ he lashes out. ‘What, so she can stand there and cheer?’

‘She wouldn’t!’ I say. But actually I’m not sure.

The thing about Mum is, she doesn’t know what she’s talking about. I don’t mean that in a bad way. It’s just, no adults do. They’re totally ignorant, but they’re in control. It’s nuts. The parents are in charge of all the stuff like
technology in the house
and
time on screens
and
hours on social media
, but then their computer goes wrong and they’re like a baby, going, ‘What happened to my document?’ ‘I can’t get Facebook.’ ‘How do I load a picture? Double-click what? What does that mean?’

And we have to sort it out for them.

So Mum probably
would
cheer if she heard Frank wasn’t on the team any more. And then in the next breath she’d say, ‘Darling, why don’t you take up a hobby and join a team?’

‘I’m really sorry, Frank,’ I say, but he doesn’t react. The next minute he’s shuffled out of the kitchen and I’m left alone with the Doritos.

‘So things haven’t been good.’ Dr Sarah sounds as unruffled as ever.

‘They’re OK. But everyone’s stressy. I’ve been in bed a lot. It’s like I’m so
tired
all the time.’

‘When you’re tired, just rest. Don’t fight it. Your body’s mending itself.’

‘I know.’ I sigh, my legs hunched up on the chair. ‘But I don’t want to be tired. I don’t want to be overwhelmed. I want to kick this.’

The words come out before I’ve thought them and I feel a sudden little jab of adrenalin.

When I say things to Dr Sarah, it’s as if I’m hearing them for the first time and suddenly they become real. She’s a bit magic, I think. She’s like a fortune teller – only in the present, not the future. Things change in her room. I don’t know how, they just do.

‘Good!’ she says. ‘That’s good. But, Audrey, what you don’t seem to realize is, you
are
kicking it.’

‘No I’m not.’ I look at her resentfully. How can she say that?

‘You are.’

‘I’ve been in bed for, like, the last three days.’

‘No one said getting better would be a straightforward journey. Remember our graph?’

She gets up and heads for her whiteboard. She draws two axes and a jagged red line heading up.

‘You’ll go up and you’ll go down. But your progress will be in the right direction. It
is
in the right direction. You’ve come a long way, Audrey. Remember our first meeting?’

I shrug. Some of our sessions are a bit of a blur, to be honest.

‘Well, I do. And believe me, I’m pleased with what I see before me today.’

‘Oh.’ I feel a tiny glow of pride, which is pathetic. I mean, I didn’t
do
anything.

‘How’s the film going?’

‘It’s OK.’ I nod.

‘Have you interviewed anyone from out of the house?’

‘Well.’ I hesitate. ‘Not yet. Not exactly.’

Dr Sarah waits. This is what she does, like a cop waiting to catch out a criminal. And every time I say I won’t crack first, but I always do.

‘OK, there’s this boy, Linus,’ I hear myself saying.

‘Yes, you’ve mentioned him.’ She nods.

‘He used to come round to see Frank, and I was going to interview him. Only now he doesn’t come round any more. So I thought . . . I mean . . .’ I trail off, not sure what I do mean.

‘Maybe you should ask him,’ says Dr Sarah, like it’s no big deal.

‘I can’t,’ I say automatically.

‘Why not?’

‘Because . . .’ I lapse into silence. She knows why not. It doesn’t need saying.

‘Let’s visualize the worst that can happen,’ says Dr Sarah cheerfully. ‘You ask Linus to come over and he says no. How does that make you feel?’

Trickles of anxiety are running down my back. I don’t like this conversation any more. I should never have mentioned Linus.

‘How does that make you feel?’ persists Dr Sarah. ‘Audrey, work with me. Linus has just said, “No, I won’t come over.” What are you feeling?’

‘I’m totally embarrassed,’ I say miserably. ‘I’m dying. I’m, like, oh my God. Like, I’m so
stupid
 . . .’ I screw up my face in agony.

‘Why stupid?’

‘Because –
because
!’ I look at her almost angrily. Sometimes Dr Sarah is deliberately obtuse.

‘Linus won’t come over.’ She gets up and writes it on the board:

Then she draws an arrow from it and writes
Linus’s thoughts
in a circle.

‘Why should these thoughts’ – she taps the board – ‘make you feel stupid?’

‘Because . . .’ I struggle with my own thought process. ‘Because I shouldn’t have asked him.’

‘Why not?’ she counters. ‘So he says no. All that means is, he didn’t feel like being interviewed, or he was busy, or he’s intending to say yes another time. Or any number of things. It doesn’t mean anything about you.’