The Accident (16 page)

It’s like somebody—no, something, like a three-tonne truck—has thumped me in the chest. Still sitting on the floor, toy cars in my hands. Feeling all the wind knocked out of me.

Making soothing noises and rubbing Tash’s back, Rose-Marie steps past me, out of the bedroom. No words, no questions, just leaves.

Still sitting there when Terry comes in. Stands in the doorway and looks at me like he wants to tell me to go ahead and leave, they’ll be better off without me. Quiet and grim. ‘Is there a plan?’

God, I’m tired. I just stare at him. I’ve got nothing. Want to down a bottle of vodka and go to bed and never wake up again.

‘If you’re serious…You need to prove first that you really can look after her. Or else she’s just going to end up back in the system. Do you want that?’

I don’t know if he’s just trying to provoke me or to threaten me. Don’t know if I care. I’ve got no energy to fight anymore.

‘Go to bed. Think about what I said. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.’

before
after
later

Saturday morning I’m up before seven. Mum made me go to bed at nine so I’d get a proper night’s sleep and feel better. When it comes to health stuff there’s no point arguing with Mum. At least I can understand why she feels that way.

Alan’s an early bird, up most mornings at six. Mum, on the other hand, loves her sleep. She won’t appear till at least nine.

He pours me coffee, then pushes the paper towards me. He’s not a huge newspaper reader: he’d rather be reading the latest Tom Clancy. I glance over the page. Ads.

‘What am I looking at?’

‘We’re going to go buy you a car.’

My stomach starts its usual dance. ‘I don’t want a car.’

‘Half the reason your leg is taking so long to heal is because you keep overdoing it. So: drive to and from school, the cafe, wherever else it is you want to go; then you can still go walking, take Iago down into the bush, but you won’t be overdoing it.’

It’s a tempting argument. But it’s a long way from being tempted to actually finding the guts to get behind the wheel.

He sees my hesitation and that’s enough. He downs the rest of his coffee. ‘The auctions start at ten. Go shower and we’ll check them out.’

I don’t quite know what to expect at the auctions. It’s a massive shed full of cars, each with a number and key information painted on the windscreen. There are maybe a hundred or more people wandering through, checking odometers and interiors and scribbling notes.

‘Where do all the cars come from?’

‘A lot are ex-government or fleet vehicles, some are repossessed, and others are being sold because of damage, usually mostly minor.’ We pass a dark green Mirage and Alan points at the small craters that dot the paintwork. ‘Hail damage.’

My heart starts to beat a little bit faster. I move on, running my eyes over the cars, the details on the windscreen without really caring. Alan knows all about cars. I wouldn’t have the first clue.

‘Anything you like?’

‘You tell me.’

He shows me his top three picks, all hatchbacks or small sedans, but more expensive makes and models.

‘Volvo? You buying this car for me or your mother?’

‘Stronger body, better protection,’ is his brief answer. I wish I hadn’t asked.

The auction starts. The crowd has built to maybe two hundred, lining either side of a long driveway painted onto the concrete floor. The cars are driven up one at a time, and the auctioneer starts taking bids. Just like you see on TV, moving at an impossible speed. The first of Alan’s picks comes up and the price rises rapidly. I feel him glance at me, and I say nothing, and he lets it pass. It all moves too fast for me. I don’t know how serious he is about bidding or not, or how much he’d expect to pay. My leg is starting to hurt and I wish we were sitting down.

My eyes move to the back of the queue, watching a car crawl into position at the end, waiting its turn. Dark blue; totally smashed in at the front. It’s a miracle it still runs. My stomach knots. No, not just that, it tightens and rolls and I think I’m going to be sick.

I grab Alan’s sleeve. ‘Did they bring my car here, after the crash? Did somebody buy it?’

He looks at me, eyes widening, as if it never occurred to him that I might ask. He slips his arm around my shoulder, carefully, awkwardly, as if he wants to comfort me but feels responsible.

‘Yours went to the wreckers,’ he says quietly.

Of course it did. There was only half a car left by the time they cut us out. And the blood…there was blood everywhere. You’d never get it clean.

My stomach heaves and I back out of Alan’s arm. I’m going to be sick if I don’t get air. I’m going to throw up right here in the middle of this crowd.

I start to walk, pushing through the crowd, then move faster till I’m almost running. I get to the main doors and push out into the fresh air.

Alan’s right on my heels. He finds me bent over, holding my knees, trying to breathe.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s not your fault.’

‘I should have thought it through better. I forgot they had such badly damaged cars.’

We drive home in silence. I’m not mad at him, I just feel ill. Even the thought of that hail-damaged Mirage…I know the last time it hailed…

We’re ten minutes from home when Alan suddenly pulls over and starts reversing back up the street. I glance behind us, wondering. ‘What?’ Did we hit something? I didn’t feel anything.

A shiny silver Mazda hatchback sitting on a front lawn. With a For Sale sign in its window.

‘No…’

‘Humour me.’

He parks and gets out, strolling over to the Mazda. Obviously it makes a good first impression because he then walks all around it, starts studying the tyres, peering in through the windows. The embarrassment is enough for me to forget my nausea. Doing this at the auctions was one thing, but this is somebody’s front lawn.

I try hissing his name from the car but he doesn’t hear me. Reluctantly, I unbuckle my seatbelt and get out of the car.

‘Come on, let’s go.’

‘It’s five years old but it’s got low k’s, brand new tyres. They’re asking fifteen. Pristine condition. We could probably knock them down to fourteen.’

He takes off for the front door before I get a chance to stop him. Ten minutes later we’re climbing inside for a test drive.

Mum’s at the kitchen table putting together a concept board when we get home. She looks up, swatches in hand.

‘Where have you been?’

‘We just bought a car.’

Me answering, not Alan. Somehow it hasn’t shaken me as much as I thought it would. It probably helps that I haven’t had to sit in the driver’s seat yet, that the car itself is still sitting out on its owner’s lawn. But despite myself, I feel excitement stirring—at the prospect of owning it, if not actually driving it.

Alan reels off the details—make, model, k’s and service history. ‘We won’t be able to get a bank cheque until Monday, but we’ve put a deposit down and done the REVS check.’

Mum nods. ‘Well.’ She puts the fabric swatches down, looks at us both, but doesn’t say anything else. Annoyed? For once I can’t tell. I duck out of the room before I get caught in the middle of something.

The orchid painting is still on my workbench. I pick it up, studying it critically. Okay colour mixing, nice line work; otherwise pretty average. I could hand in a bunch of similar paintings for my major work but Shepherd would probably kill me. Frankly, I wouldn’t blame her. She was spot on about my architectural photos. Technically excellent. Completely soulless.

I lie the canvas back down and it knocks the film cassette, sending it rolling across the desk. I catch it before it can tumble off the edge and I hold it in my palm, wrapping my fingers over it. Such a familiar weight in my hand. And a familiar flutter, excitement and trepidation, wondering how the photos will turn out.

Today I bought a car. A new car. Not new new, but new to me. A new chapter. Fresh energy. Or something.

I find Alan out in the backyard. He’s got his mowing clothes on, old ratty t-shirt and boardies. I dress more like him than I do Mum, who’s into the designer labels and everything. I think she gets annoyed about that, wishes I was more interested in being trendy or cared about what suburb I live in. Mum’s the reason we moved—the rest of us were happy in the daggy western suburbs, but once her business took off and we had enough money, she just
had
to live on the North Shore. Alan doesn’t care about postcodes or appearances, but he’s too easygoing to argue. I like that he doesn’t sweat the unimportant stuff. I like knowing he loves me the way I am, cut-off trackies and all.

I suck in a deep breath, and try to act like it’s the most natural thing in the world. ‘Can I borrow your car?’

before
after
later

Monday. Kayla’s just getting home when I head out for my jog. She got her P’s a few months ago and now she’s getting around in an old white station wagon. I haven’t even got my L’s yet. I know I should, but what then? Hour upon hour in the car with Mum, if I can even drag her away from her computer for that long. Lauren paid a fortune to get private lessons, but for her it was probably worth every cent. She and Mum wouldn’t have lasted an hour.

Kayla pops the boot of the car and I pause, curious, to watch her unload. She wrangles a large sheet of wooden board—plywood, maybe, I don’t know much about that stuff—out of the car and carries it towards their garage door. Repeats with a second sheet.

‘Need a hand?’ I don’t want to sound too keen but my curiosity’s piqued.

‘Nah, all done.’ She slams the boot closed.

‘What’s that for?’

‘Just making stuff.’

Making what stuff? A siege engine? A medieval torture device? I wouldn’t put it past her.

I think about the times I’ve heard the whine of power tools from her garage and assumed it was her dad at work. Maybe I was wrong.

She looks me up and down, taking in the running clothes. ‘You heading out?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Can you hold on for a minute, and I’ll come?’

It’s been a few days since we hung out on the step, and I’ve spent it in painful internal debate, caught between the self-evident logic that there’s nothing there and a sort of pathetic hope that I’m wrong. I’ve been craving her company but not sure what I would do once I got it. Guess I’m about to find out. I think I’m going to be sick.

She emerges from her house in the same black leggings as before, and sneakers. ‘Race you to the railway bridge.’

It’s a good eight hundred metres, so we set off at a jog, not a sprint. The jogging helps with the tightness in my stomach. I focus on the steady rhythm of my feet, and my breathing, and I tell myself I imagined it all. She doesn’t like me. Maybe she’s just trying to be funny, or just messing with me for the sake of it. Girls do that sort of thing.

‘Sorted out your uni preferences?’ I ask, for something to say.

‘Psychology.’

‘Really?’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know, I just figured you’d be doing something more…’ I don’t even know what I was thinking, let alone how I’d put it into words without getting hit.

‘Physical?’ She laughs. ‘No. The arse-kicking is just a hobby.’ Glances at me. ‘You decided yet?’

‘Law at Sydney.’

She grins, but looking straight ahead, and doesn’t say anything.

‘What?’ I think she’s teasing me. I’m not sure.

‘You’ve gone for the snobbiest thing you could find, haven’t you?’

‘That’s what my dad studied.’ It’s never been a case of wanting to look smart or be academic. When I was only four or five I decided I wanted to be a lawyer like Dad. Even his disappearing from our lives didn’t change that. I’ve never really considered doing anything else.

‘I guess it’ll involve plenty of books…’ Now she’s definitely teasing.

I reach out and punch her on the arm. I guess I probably used to chase her when we were kids, and maybe we used to push and shove each other, but if we did it’s been more than ten years. Still, somehow, it surprises me how natural the instinct was. She sticks her tongue out at me, then takes off. I thought she was more mature.