The Red Cardigan (8 page)

‘Evie, what are you going to do?' Alex gulps. ‘I mean, this is, like, serious shit.'

‘Let's see the photos again.'

‘The photos?' Alex gasps. ‘God, for a moment I forgot about those.'

As Evie lays the photos out on the desk she is struck by the fundamental difference between herself and Alex. It's so simple: Alex could forget, Evie never will.

The image of a human standing behind her seems almost clearer. She traces her finger around the transparent figure. She's certain this being wants to be seen. Like it masterminded the whole thing so it could show itself.

‘Alex?' Evie must be careful with this request. ‘Can I have these photos?'

‘What? To keep?'

‘Yes, to keep.' Again Evie concentrates on making her voice sound calm.

‘Well, they are mine, you know.'

‘I think it's better if I have them.'

Silence.

‘Okay.'

Evie sees the wounded look on Alex's face, but she cannot risk it. She puts the photos in her school bag, checking the zipper twice.

‘I wouldn't have shown them to anyone, Evie.'

‘I trust you, Alex, you know that. I just think it's safer if I look after them.'

The girls sit in silence. It's already dark outside. The dread Evie felt yesterday starts to settle in her guts. And somewhere deeper than Evie has ever dared go she begins to understand that the dread will sit there until it's dealt with.

‘Have you ever done one of those séances?' asks Alex.

‘What, with a ouija board?'

‘A what board?'

‘A ouija board or some people call it a talking board, I think.'

‘What on earth is that?'

‘You've never heard of them?'

‘Never,' says Alex. ‘You know I've led a sheltered life.'

‘Pull the other one.'

‘So what do they do?'

‘They help you communicate with the spirit world. They have letters and numbers around them and the spirits spell things out.'

‘Is that how a séance works?'

‘I think so,' Evie says. ‘I've never done one before. I know my
grandmother used to have a ouija board. I have a really vague memory of it. It was wooden with Egyptian drawings on it.'

‘What happened to it?'

‘My mum probably burnt it when Grandma died.'

‘Your mum hated her, didn't she?'

 

A memory of Evie's grandma's house flashes through her mind. It's so vivid, almost like she's there. She can smell her grandma's rose perfume.

Evie is with her parents. Her grandma has been dead almost a week. They are going to sort through her belongings. Her father is quiet. Her mother is business-like. Evie wanders into her grandma's bedroom. It's the same as always: the blue bedspread is neat and smooth and the photo frames sit in the same position on her bedside table. Evie picks up her favourite one of her father as a little boy. His cheeks look round and soft. He is in his mother's arms and she is laughing and pressing her face against his.

Her parents go into the spare room. Her grandma called it Evie's room. She slept there when she stayed over. Her grandma made a Snow White bedspread especially for her. She can hear her mother: ‘Well, that bangle's all she's having,' she is saying. Her father mumbles something she doesn't catch. The tension is seeping through the walls.

‘Look, Nick, she's gone and as far as I'm concerned I never want to think of that hocus-pocus crap again.'

‘Robin!' his voice is louder. ‘You're sounding like your father.'

‘I don't care. I want Evie to forget all of this,' her mother hissed. ‘She is not going to turn out like her, Nick. Not if I can help it.'

 

Alex is saying something, but Evie is still in her grandma's bedroom. She looks up shaking her head. ‘Sorry, Al? I wasn't listening.'

‘You looked like you were seriously on another planet,' Alex replies. ‘I said, are you sure you don't want to have a go at drawing me? See what happens?'

‘No. I probably should get home.'

‘Right now?'

‘Hey, Al, when's Poppy back from Surfers?'

‘I think her cousin's wedding is this weekend. I wish I had a grandma who lived on the Gold Coast.'

Evie nods.

‘Poppy says she's going to line up us staying there for schoolies week next year. Pretty good, hey? Our own luxury accommodation while everyone else is cramped into the one motel room. I can live with that.'

Evie says nothing. She is afraid of tomorrow. Another year seems inconceivable.

 

By the time Evie gets home she feels completely drained. All she can think about is going to bed. Switching off, time out.

‘Dinner'll be ready in about half an hour,' her mum says.

‘I'm not hungry,' replies Evie.

‘Have it your own way.'

Evie stomps upstairs, chucks her bag in the doorway of her room and goes into the bathroom. She looks in the mirror. Her face is the younger version of her mother's. Their shells the same, their innards vastly different.

Her left eye looks worse. She covers her right eye and tries to focus but everything is fuzzy. She puts the bath on and undresses. Her skin is pale, not a winter pale; this has always been her complexion. She unties her hair. It spills onto her back and shoulders. She knows there are girls who envy her looks, who watch the movement of her svelte limbs and how she twirls her long ponytail around her fingers. If only they knew how quickly she would trade them in.

She flinches as she pulls her hair into a bun. There's a lump on the back of her head. She runs her hand over it, catching her fingers in a knot.

‘Ouch,' she says, trying to untangle the hairs.

The bath is warm. The water swirls around her neck. She closes her eyes, trying to ignore the dread that nags.

 

It's not even light when she wakes. Evie gets up and starts the homework that is piling up on her desk. She opens up
Macbeth
, but William Shakespeare has trouble capturing her attention.

She looks at the poem they're studying,
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
, by Samuel Taylor Coleridge. It's eerie but
she likes it. The words in Part VI move her. It's when the mariner wakes up from a trance and the curse is finally broken. Evie wonders what it'd be like if her curse were lifted. Would she know? Would she feel it? ‘Like one, that on a lonesome road,' she starts to recite. ‘Doth walk in fear and dread.'

For a while she doesn't notice she is drawing on the page. It's not until a shape emerges over the words that she realises. Her hand works quickly, sketching and shading. It's as if the pencil is controlling her arm. It directs which way the lines and curves join. The only noise is the scratching of lead on paper. The pencil draws faster and darker, its path running over the words onto the next page. Her hand is beginning to hurt. She can feel sweat between her fingers. She tries to stop. The pencil is piercing a hole in the page.

Evie lurches forward as though she is falling. The pencil flies out of her hand and she sits back panting. Her hand covers the page. She counts the thumps in her chest, ‘One, two, three.' Slowly she slides her hand away, hoping to smudge what is under there – ‘Four, five.' She sneaks a look. ‘Six.'

It's not what she expects. The face she fears isn't there. Covering her left eye she tries to make out the shapes the pencil drew. Three cylinders sitting above four triangles. That's all.

Evie puts the book in a drawer and flops back into bed pulling the doona over her head. A strange smell sits on her hands. She sniffs them again. It's not the familiar lead-like
smell. It's like grass clippings from a lawnmower. Evie tucks her hands under the pillow and tries to sleep.

 

‘Your eye looks terrible,' her mother says to her at breakfast. ‘Have you been using those eye drops?'

‘Sort of,' shrugs Evie. ‘Has Dad gone already?'

‘He and Theo had some work breakfast.'

Evie stares into the fridge.

‘Don't just leave the fridge door open. What are you looking for?'

‘I'm not sure. I'm not really hungry.'

‘Evie, you didn't have any dinner last night. What's going on?'

‘Nothing, Mum. I'm just not hungry.'

‘Did you find out the date of the next parent teacher meeting?'

‘Oops, I forgot. Sorry.' She watches her mother behead a carrot, hack it into little pieces, and throw it into a saucepan on the stove.

‘I'm going to take you to school this morning,' she announces.

Evie looks up from the bowl of cereal she is playing with.

‘We'll stop by the chemist to get something for your eye and then I'll personally go and find out when the next parent teacher meeting is.' She glances at her watch. ‘I want to leave in fifteen minutes.'

Evie stares into her cereal seeing the clay figures in the art room.

 

At the chemist her mother pulls her eyelid in every possible direction. The pharmacist leans against her, umming and aahing, trying to get a good look.

‘Hmm. It's very inflamed,' she states.

Derr, thinks Evie.

‘It might be worth going to the GP,' the pharmacist continues. ‘I can't actually see anything in it.'

‘No, neither can I.' Robin has almost turned Evie's eye inside out. ‘We're in a rush to get to school. Could you show me what other drops we could try?'

They walk away, leaving Evie at the counter. Her eye bounces back into its socket.

‘Agh!' She blinks, trying to get it back to its rightful position. ‘Maybe you'd like to take my eyeball with you.'

Robin spins around. ‘Beg your pardon, Evie?'

She's quick, thinks Evie. She never misses a thing.

 

As they walk through the school playground, Evie feels eyes on them. She knows her mother does, too. She virtually has to jog to keep up with her long, fast strides.

‘Where's your first class?'

Evie points up the stairs to the library.

‘Well, I'm going to the school office. I'll see you tonight.' Her mother is talking quickly. ‘By the way, I'll be late home. I forgot to tell your father. There's a casserole in the crockpot.'

Evie's stomach pops with panic.

‘Bye, Mum.'

 

Evie and Alex sit together in the library's video room, watching a documentary on China.

‘God, your eye looks bad,' whispers Alex.

‘I had the full-on humiliating experience at the chemist this morning.'

‘Don't you love them.'

‘My mother just about took my eyeball out.'

‘Was it the chemist in Darley Parade?'

‘Yep.'

‘I love the old girl there with the white, squeaky shoes. She always asks, “Dear, do you want your feminine hygiene products in a bag?” “No, lady,” I'm going to say one of these days. “I'm going to hang the tampons on my ears.”'

They start laughing.

‘Sshhh,' a girl says behind them.

They pull a face and pretend to watch the video.

Last period of the day is art theory. Tomorrow, Evie's major work proposition and portraits are due. Her sore eye could not have come at a better time. She is going to bat her red eye in Powell's face and explain how impossible it has been to do any drawing. In fact, she'll use it as the excuse for all her overdue work.

Evie gets to class early. Powell is already there, going through a sheet of slides. The way he leans over the desk allows Evie a good perve at the bald patch on top of his head. She coughs. He looks up, and she can tell by the jerk of his body that she has given him a fright. She presses her lips together to hide the smile.

‘Yes, Evie?' he says.

She stares into his face. Her left-sided vision is hazy, making him look like he has only half a nose.

‘Yes, Evie?' he repeats.

‘Sir, my eye has been very sore this week,' she speaks in a soft voice. ‘I can't really see out of it.'

She watches him nod and fold his arms. Now she can see the smirk that sits inside his lips.

‘Um, I haven't been able to do much work on my portraits.'

‘Well, you'll just have to bring in what you have done. I haven't seen anything yet,' he replies. ‘I've spoken to your mother, as you know, and of course she's very – concerned.'

‘I know, sir. Just a couple of days, please? It is my first attempt after, well after …' She swallows and jumps in. ‘After, you know, and I'm, I'm …'

His eyes have not left hers. He rolls back on his heels and puts his hands in the pockets of his black jeans. ‘I'll think about it,' he says.

 

On the way home, Evie stares out the window of the school bus. She wonders how many times in the past twelve weeks she has done exactly this, never noticing anything, just staring, trying to digest the disasters of the day. When she first returned to school she hoped things would improve. She knows better now.

‘Hi, Evie.'

Seb is wrestling himself and his double bass into the seat next to her.

‘Is Poppy still away?'

‘Yep,' Evie says, turning around to face him.

‘Shit!' Seb shouts. ‘Your eye!'

Evie's cheeks flush.

‘Sorry,' he says. ‘It's just really red.'

‘Don't worry about it.'

It's only then that Evie realises Seb has got on the bus a few stops early.

‘Hey, where have you come from?' she asks.

‘We had orchestra practice with Saint Martha's.'

‘Oh.'

Some boys down the back of the bus start yelling at each other. Kids turn around and stand up to watch the fight erupting. Evie and Seb stay in their seats and Evie wonders why Seb doesn't want to watch the testosterone show. He seems more intent on watching her.

‘Do you know them?' She gestures behind her.