Forgetting Foster (17 page)

He actually used that word too.
Gall.
Foster remembered that very clearly because he had thought Gall was an ancient Roman province. He had only recently read about it in a picture book.

Aunty immediately interceded, ‘Malcolm, do you remember that dog we had when we were kids? The one that went missing for weeks and we all thought we'd never see it again? Even put up a memorial to it in the back garden. And then it just walked into the yard one day! Do you remember that? You loved that dog so much. Dad let him sleep on your bed after that because you were so worried he'd go missing again. What was that dog's name? Do you remember that dog?'

‘Geraldine?'

‘Geraldine's the dog we have now, Dad.'

‘Oh.' Dad paused, seemed to go away for a bit, and then said, ‘People in Korea eat dogs. In soups and stews. The best meat is from a beaten dog. Makes the meat tender. They say a beaten dog tastes better.'

That's when Mum reacted. She bristled quite noticeably, as if she had a bad taste in her mouth or someone had walked on her grave. She turned slowly to look at them and then filled her cheeks with air. Foster looked again and more closely, just to make
sure, but that's exactly what she was doing. Puffing out her cheeks until they were all mottled, her eyes squeezed shut. He wondered if she would burst. He wondered if her cheeks were full of words, trapped in there behind her teeth. Foster imagined those trapped words milling about, trying to knit themselves into proper meaning things. He suddenly felt nervous. He pressed his lips together to prevent a smile from splitting his face. Then Mum pressed both her hands down onto the kitchen table, palms flat and fingers extended. She leaned forward, simultaneously releasing all the air in her face. The hot rush that was discharged from Mum's pooched lips made a squeaky fart noise and was close enough to Dad to disturb his hair. Then Mum said the only word that had been stuck in there. She said, ‘Woof.'

Dad stood up and released a
yawp
that shuddered through the house. Foster scooted out of his chair and pressed himself against the wall. Safest place to be. He didn't know why but it occurred to him that that was precisely the sort of noise one would make just prior to throwing something. He had never heard Dad make a sound like that before. He didn't know anything that deep and gravelly could come out of a person. Aunty began fussing with dishes and talking loud
and fast at everyone and no one, thrusting plates with uncharacteristic force into the sink. Foster wondered if he should help her tidy up but there was something in her manner that made this look like more than just a tidy-up. Aunty looked like she was preparing to clear out. If she was, Foster decided, he was going with her. Mum uprighted herself, and stepped away from the table leaving two purple handprints dark as bruises. She looked very heavy-lidded and steely angry. Her face made Foster ache in a strange way. It was more than fear making Foster's chest thump and mouth dry out. It was awe. Mum had managed to slap them all down with one hot word.

march hares

Things were weird. All the grown-ups in the house had started looking at each other sideways.

Aunty had moved in, and brought her dog, Archie, which Dad took to with an affection that baffled Foster given Geraldine was still in danger of being pushed into oncoming traffic by the very same man. Mum complained about the dog being in the house all the time. She said it stank. She had a brief and triumphant hissy-fit when she started finding what she thought was dog poo all over the house. Finding out it was Dad collecting his own poo in ice-cream containers seemed only to disappoint her because then she didn't have an excuse to throw the dog out. Other than that Mum seemed to take all these changes in her stride. Foster watched her seeking
out suspicious containers hidden around the house.

Mum worked more hours because Aunty was able to be there in the evenings. Foster felt better with Aunty there. Even though Mum and Aunty still weren't good friends, Aunty was a good buffer between Dad and Mum. Dad didn't get anywhere near as cross at Aunty as he did at Mum.

There had been a meeting after the woofing business. That's what Aunty called it.
The woofing business.
Foster didn't understand why Mum had woofed at Dad, only that something changed that day. Something broke. Like when mountain goats perch their twiggy-legged bodies on rock faces and then suddenly horn each other off. Foster had seen it on a TV show. Dad said they have cloven hooves which help them keep balance on very small ledges. They look impossibly stable on the steepest cliffs. But even the most sure-footed can topple, especially when challenged by another goat. Whenever something went really wrong Dad used to laugh and say ‘Well, she's at the bottom of the mountain now'. Just like a horned-off goat. That's how Foster felt. No more pretending to balance. No more pretending at all.

‘I think it's really important that we're all honest with one another here,' James said. Aunty had organised
the meeting because she thought Mum was ‘losing her shit'. That's what she said on the phone anyway. So James, Sophie, Skinny Lady, Mum and Aunty all sat in the lounge room with no tea tray and no sausage rolls. Mum couldn't be bothered, apparently, to which Aunty had said, ‘Thank God!' Dad was in day care. Foster sat in the kitchen with his soldiers.

‘She's at the bottom of the mountain now,' Foster said loudly.

‘Fossie, what are you doing in there?' Mum asked.

‘Eavesdropping.'

‘How do you know a word like that?' Sophie asked.

‘From Dad.'

‘What did you mean, Foster? What did you mean when you said she's at the bottom of the mountain now?' James asked.

‘It's something Dad would say when someone lost their shit.'

There was a brief silence before Aunty started to laugh, something she attempted to swallow in a discreet snigger but which eventually cracked the air in a great barking guffaw. Soon she was gulp-sighing on the exhale, and snot-sniffing on the inhale.

‘That's so true!' she said.

‘What else did your dad say?' Sophie asked.

‘He said that stories are the most important thing. He said people don't tell stories or listen to other people's stories enough. He said people are mad as March hares but to love them anyway. He said battles are won or lost before the first shot is fired. He said babies need to get the finger of God on them. He said if God is real then so are dragons. He said the brain is a superhero and he said Mum is a princess. Oh, and he said an unkind word can clear a room quicker than a fart.'

All of this was delivered while Foster moved his soldiers around the spill-stained placemat in front of him. He used cutlery to make a shining river through the brown wasteland and contemplated a full-frontal desperado assault over the benefits of a guerillapincer move. It was a few moments before he realised everyone had gone silent. He wondered if they'd all snuck out of the house like Dad sometimes did. He looked over and could see heads above the top of the couch. He waited a bit longer then slid from his chair and walked over.

‘Why are you crying, Mum?'

‘Tired, Fossie. Just tired.'

‘Do you want some wine then?'

‘Just come sit with me.'

Mum scooched over in Dad's armchair so Foster had enough room to squeeze in. He liked that.

‘Well. Now that we're all at the bottom of the mountain together,' Sophie said, ‘let's get a plan in place that suits everyone and make sure everyone gets the support they need. Carer burnout is a serious and devastating issue and we are on the cusp of that here. So let's just open the floor and . . .'

Foster unfurled his fingers and wiped his palm sweat off the General with the bottom of his shirt. Mum's hand rested on the small of his back, making circular motions like she used to do to coax him to sleep when he was little. The General was looking rough. His sword was gone now, snapped off when Foster accidentally stepped on him. The small disc of plastic grass he was rooted to was cracked. Still solid enough to keep him on his feet but something needed to be done about it. Foster wasn't allowed to use the smelly glue because it could stick your fingers together so bad you'd need a blowtorch to get them apart again. At least that's what Dad said. But some sticky tape would work in a pinch. One of the General's eyebrows had rubbed off too. Foster thought he should stop picking him up by the head.

the general

It took a while to get used to the door alarms. In the beginning everyone other than Dad started setting them off. They weren't scary alarms. They played songs, or chimed, depending upon which door it was and whether it was being opened or closed. Foster would just call out ‘Sorry, that was me!' and Mum or Aunty would come and reset it. When Aunty set one off she would usually mutter ‘Shit!' and reset it herself. Eventually they got used to them. They didn't frighten Dad, which was the main thing.

James said it was important to keep Dad and everyone else in the house safe. Special clips were put on the cupboard doors. Foster could still open the cupboards. It was just fiddly work. You had to slide your fingers inside a gap and push on a plastic spring.
There was nothing in those cupboards Foster needed, but he couldn't help but try out the little clips to see how difficult they really were. Dad never attempted snaking his fingers inside the small opening. He seemed happily resigned to a drawer not opening when he pulled on it. Mum left two cupboards unclipped and filled them with plastic bowls and lids so Dad could pull everything out and put everything back in if he felt like it. Sometimes Foster would help him sort out the right lid for each container.

Mum removed the door locks on the bathroom and bedroom doors too. Just in case. Foster didn't like that so much. He couldn't reach the bathroom door while he was sitting on the toilet and Dad kept walking in on him. That meant Foster had to call out for Mum or Aunty to come and get Dad. That meant even more people fussing about in the bathroom while he sat there with his whitey-tighteys around his ankles. Foster started holding on and only pooing at school.

They went for walks in the late afternoon. When the sun was going down in both the day and Dad. That restless time of day when Dad became unsettled and sometimes even angry. Foster liked the walks best if it had been raining. If there were puddles reflecting the last of the light, making even the smallest water
slick on the path look like an entire world. Dad said there were worlds everywhere if you looked for them. They'd take Archie on the walks. Dad liked to hold the leash. As they walked Dad's face would begin to settle, his fingers begin to rest, and he would start to talk. Mum would link arms with him on the leash side and Foster would hold his other hand. When they got home Dad seemed more rested and Aunty would use the opportunity to take Geraldine for a walk. Sometimes Foster would go with her because he felt sorry for Geraldine. They couldn't walk both dogs together. It made Dad cross.

The walks weren't always a good thing. Sometimes they'd get to the end of the garden path and have to grapple with Dad to get him turned around and right back inside again. Aunty would say ‘Never mind' and put some music on instead. Aunty said if you can get used to the idea that the routine isn't always routine then you'll never be kicked in the arse by your own expectations. Foster wasn't sure exactly what that meant because a routine was routine, but it made Mum laugh so he did too.

They went for drives. They didn't necessarily get out of the car when they got to where they were going. It was always dependent upon Dad. Foster liked the
drives because Dad would hum. Dad used to hum a lot when he drove the car. Foster would close his eyes and imagine it was Dad driving with Mum in the passenger seat like it always had been. And maybe they would stop for ice-cream.

Dad usually enjoyed the car ride to collect Foster from school but this particular afternoon when Foster climbed into the back seat he could tell that Dad was cross and Mum was clearly close to losing her shit again. Aunty must have been at work because Mum wouldn't usually make Dad get in the car in this mood if there was someone she could leave him with at home.

‘Let me out,' Dad said. ‘Let me out now. I know what you're doing. Let me out!' Dad pulled on the doorhandle and slapped the car window.

‘It's all right, Malcolm. We're going home now.'

‘Why are you doing this to me?' Dad said. Mum pulled onto the street and put her foot down. She was in a hurry. Foster had told her he could walk home. It wasn't far at all. But she said it wasn't safe. Foster wasn't feeling particularly safe right now, especially when Dad swung his arm wide and slapped a stinging blow on Mum's upper arm. She pulled the car so suddenly into the kerb that the front tyre skidded
against the concrete and Dad hit his head on the side window. They just sat there then. Engine running, Mum breathing hard, Dad still doing battle with the car door. Foster could see his hands through the little gap between the front passenger seat and the door. Dad's fingers were grasping, scratching, prying, as if he were being covered in dirt and was trying to punch a hole through to the sky. It frightened Foster terribly.

‘Foster, how are you doing back there?' Mum asked, her head resting on the steering wheel. ‘I didn't bring anything for his hands. I'm sorry.'

They were supposed to do that. They were supposed to always have a distraction ready. That's when Foster remembered he had one.

He quickly unzipped his backpack and pulled it out. He had been carrying it around with him since the birthday party. His hands were shaking. The wrapping had taken a bit of a beating. The corners were worn and the shiny red paper was scuffed and scratched. He removed his seatbelt and leaned forward, poking it through that little gap until it rested on the back of one of Dad's shimmying hands.

‘Dad, I have a present for you,' Foster said.