Night Beach (38 page)

and
I
remember
it’s
Thursday.
She’s
heading
straight
to
the
airport
after
work,
going
to

Melbourne
for
her
long
weekend
with
Brian.

And
I
know
I
should
get
up
and
say
goodbye
to
her.
But
I
can’t.

Because
I’d
feel
like
I
was
intruding.

I
have
always
felt
like
an
intruder
in
her
house.
I
didn’t
understand
that
before,
but
I
do

now
–
all
those
hopes,
stretching
back
over
all
of
those
years,
and
nothing
has
ever

changed.

The
realisation
changes
the
layout
of
my
life,
even
though
the
landscape
looks
exactly

the
same.
I
will
live
there
and
I
will
be
polite.
I
will
abide
by
their
rules,
do
what
they

want.
Things
will
be
no
different
on
the
surface.
They
won’t
even
know.

But
I’ll
stop
wanting
more.
I’ll
stop
trying.

I
hear
Mum
drag
her
wheelie
case
across
the
carpet,
and
then
the
echo
of
her
heels
on

the
foyer’s
tiles.
She’s
forgotten
to
turn
her
bedroom
light
off.
But
then
I
hear
the
swish-‐

swish
of
her
returning.
She
stops
in
my
doorway,
silhouetted
there.

And
after
a
moment,
she
enters
the
room,
coming
to
stand
by
my
bed.

I
stare
up
at
her,
not
moving,
and
it
must
take
a
moment
for
her
eyes
to
adjust
to
the

dark,
because
then
she
says,
‘Oh,
I’m
sorry,
I
didn’t
mean
to
wake
you.’
She
sounds

startled,
like
she’s
been
caught
out.
‘You
go
back
to
sleep.
I’m
going
now.’

‘Aren’t
you
even
going
to
say
goodbye?’

‘Yes.
I
just
thought
you
–’
Mum
sits
on
the
bed
and
after
a
moment’s
hesitation
touches

my
hair.
It’s
as
though
she
wants
to
stroke
it,
but
she
doesn’t
even
know
how
to
do
that

properly.

‘What’s
wrong,
Abbie?’

And
that’s
when
my
resolution
about
not
trying
anymore
goes
out
the
window,
and

instead
I
have
some
kind
of
emotional
flash
flood.
‘You
were
just
going
to
go
without

saying
goodbye?’

‘Well,
I
thought
you
were
asleep,
so
I
was
doing
it
quietly.’

‘No,
you
weren’t.
You
were
just
standing
there.’

There
is
silence.
She
switches
on
my
bedside
lamp.

‘What
were
you
doing?’
I
ask,
and
there’s
part
of
me
that’s
surprised
I’m
talking
to
my

mother
like
this.
Equally
surprising
is
the
fact
that
she
seems
to
be
taking
it.

‘I
was
looking
at
you.’

‘Why?
You
never
look
at
me.’
There’s
truth
in
those
words;
I
know
I’ve
scored
a
direct

hit.
I
can
see
it
on
her
face.
‘You
don’t
even
talk
to
me.
Ipso
facto
I’m
nothing.’

‘Abbie,
that’s
not
the
case.’
She
says
the
words
quietly,
and
there’s
a
weight
to
them.
But

I
don’t
care.
I
want
to
hurt
her
as
much
as
I
can.

‘Yeah,
well,
I’m
sorry
I’m
taking
up
room
in
your
massive
house,
disturbing
life
for
you

and
Brian.
But,
you
know,
it’s
just
for
this
year,
that’s
all.’

‘Abbie,
I
love
having
you
here.
Don’t
you
know
that?’

‘No,
I
don’t.
I
think
you’re
still
mad
because
I
didn’t
live
with
you
when
I
was
supposed

to.
When
you
went
to
London.
But
I
was
–
You
know
what?
Don’t
worry
about
it.’

Mum’s
silent.
And
it
works,
like
it
always
does,
because
I
start
to
feel
afraid.
I
can
sense

the
threat
behind
that
silence,
the
withdrawing
of
love,
and
I
tell
myself
to
let
it
happen.

Let
it
go.
None
of
it’s
the
way
it
should
be
anyway.

Her
voice
is
cold.
‘I
wasn’t
angry
about
London,
Abbie.
I
just
wanted
my
time.’

‘Look
at
your
choice
of
wording,
Mother.
You
wanted
your
time.
It’s
always
about
you.

You
don’t
care
about
me,
or
Anna.
And
you
know
what?
We
would
have
spent
more
time

with
you,
if
you’d
ever
acted
like
you
really
wanted
us
around.
But
you
only
love
us

when
it
suits
you.
You
play
games.
You
get
cold,
like
you’re
doing
now,
and
you
shut

yourself
off,
and
it
makes
me
worried
sick.
And
you
know
that,
but
you
do
it
anyway.

That’s
cruel
in
my
book.
It’s
a
shitty
thing
to
do
to
someone
when
they’re
away
from

home!
’
I’m
bawling,
my
voice
choked
and
high,
and
I
can
see
the
distaste
on
her
face.

‘Because
that’s
the
way
it
is
with
you,
Mum.
You’ve
never
made
us
feel
at
home.
You
just

tolerate
us
being
in
your
house.’

I’ve
gone
too
far,
but
there’s
a
grim
satisfaction
attached
to
that.
Just
because
these

things
have
never
been
said
before,
doesn’t
mean
they’re
not
true.
‘What’s
it
matter

anyway?
We’re
never
going
to
work.’

She
gets
up
and
walks
out.

‘Oh
God.’
I
punch
my
pillow,
and
then
I
bury
my
face
in
it.

I’m
crying
so
hard
I
don’t
hear
her
come
back
into
the
room.

‘Abbie.’

I
roll
over
so
I
can
see
her,
wiping
my
face
with
my
hand.

She
sits
on
the
side
of
my
bed,
and
when
she
speaks,
it’s
to
a
point
somewhere
over
my

head.
But
she’s
hurting,
too.
It’s
all
over
her
face.

‘You
said
I
don’t
look
at
you.
In
some
ways
that’s
true.’
Her
voice
sounds
like
it’s
been

scraped
out
of
her
throat.
‘Anna’s
a
real
woman
of
the
world
these
days.
And
she’s

always
been
a
bit
like
that.
Independent.
But
you
.
.
.
In
so
many
ways,
you’re
still
the

child
you
were.’
She
gives
me
a
funny
smile.
‘It’s
why
I
come
in
here
when
you’re
asleep.

You
look
a
lot
younger
when
you’re
sleeping.
I
watch
you.
And
I
can
see
that
child.
I

think
I’ll
always
see
her.
And
I
love
that,
but
sometimes
it’s
hard.
I’m
talking
about
the

day
I
left,
Abbie.
Do
you
remember?’

I
sit
up,
frowning.
‘No.’

‘We
were
in
a
house
then
–’

‘I
remember
the
house.’
Actually,
I
don’t
remember
the
house
very
well.
What
I

remember
are
their
arguments
about
selling
it.
Then
I
wish
I
hadn’t
interrupted
because

I’m
worried
she’ll
stop
talking,
and
I
desperately
want
her
to
keep
talking.
‘Sorry.’

She
takes
my
hand.
‘I
took
the
day
off.
We’d
discussed
it,
your
father
and
I.
And
I
had
the

car
all
loaded
up
by
the
time
you
and
Anna
came
home
from
school.
But
you
two
didn’t

notice,
you
were
just
excited
that
I
was
home.
You
came
inside
for
your
afternoon
tea,

like
normal,
and
Grandad
was
there
like
normal
–
he
was
always
so
good
to
me.
When
I

came
in
to
talk,
the
two
of
you
were
sitting
in
front
of
the
TV,
drinking
Milo
–
as
usual,

he’d
let
you
have
too
much
Milo
–’

She
breaks
off
to
press
her
forefingers
to
the
inner
corners
of
her
eyes,
and
I
hear
her

swallow.
After
a
moment,
she
continues.

‘I
was
supposed
to
explain
what
was
going
on
to
you
both.
And
I
couldn’t.
I
just
couldn’t.

It
was
too
hard.
I
thought
Graham
and
I
should
do
it
together.
But
I
should
have.

Because
I
lied.
I
told
you
I
was
going
out
for
a
while.
That
I’d
be
back
later.
And
you

looked
up
at
me,
with
this
look
of
absolute
trust
on
your
little
face.
And
you
said,
“Okay,

Mum,”
in
your
happy
little
voice,
and
it
–
God,
it
broke
my
heart,
Abbie.’

She
stops
there,
because
it’s
all
welling
up.
I
put
my
arms
around
her
and
for
the
first

time
I
can
ever
remember,
she
doesn’t
hold
herself
away
from
me.

We
stay
like
that
for
a
long
time.

Then
she
pulls
back
to
look
at
me.
‘I
listened
to
what
you
said.
I
need
you
to
know
that.

And
I’m
not
up
to
responding
very
well
right
now,
but
let
me
say
this.
I
think
sometimes

that
because
what
I
wanted
for
us
is
so,
so
far
away
from
where
we
are,
I
have
trouble

reconciling
the
two
things.
Maybe
my
expectations
–’
She
makes
a
funny
noise,
which
I

realise
is
a
laugh.
‘Maybe
my
failed
expectations,
get
in
the
way.’

‘Expectations
of
me?’

She
sighs.
‘Of
you.
Of
Anna.
Of
me.
Of
this.
This
situation.
Our.
.
.
family.
Such
as
it
is.’

I
take
a
deep
shuddering
breath.
‘Such
as
it
isn’t.’

‘That,
too.’
Then
she
surprises
me,
suddenly
sounding
very
fierce.
‘But
Abbie,
at
least

we’re
here
now.’

I
rub
my
hands
over
my
face.
‘But
what’s
the
point?
It’s
just
pain.
All
the
time.
Because

it’s
never
been
what
we
wanted.
It
never
will
be.
There’s
no
hope.’

She
pulls
my
hands
away,
and
holds
them,
squeezing
them
too
tightly.
‘Well,
then
there’s

acceptance.
And
we
build
on
that
instead.’

My
mother’s
blue
eyes
are
red,
her
mascara
is
ruined,
and
she
has
never
looked
so

vulnerable
to
me.

29

Old
wounds

After
that,
mum
takes
her
time
about
going
to
work.
But
it’s
not
like
a
movie
where

everything
is
solved
and
the
two
of
us
make
breakfast
together,
all
of
a
sudden
having

lots
to
talk
about
–
none
of
which
you
can
actually
hear
over
the
soundtrack.
Instead,

she
goes
to
wash
her
face
and
reapply
her
make-‐up,
and
I
get
up
and
head
into
the

kitchen,
where
I
make
myself
toast
and
tea.
And
we’re
both
emotionally
limping,

because
having
old
wounds
re-‐opened
is
never
fun,
no
matter
how
beneficial
it
might