The Scent of Apples (11 page)

Charlie's face is squashed into her pillow and, like most people at 5 a.m., she's fast asleep. My hands tap the duvet cover looking for my dressing gown. I grab the towelling fabric and wrap it tight around me.

The wooden floorboards are cold beneath my bare feet. My fingers search like a hunting party across my cotton sheets and duvet cover for discarded hairs. I snatch them up and shove them into my dressing gown pocket. I retrieve my toilet bag from beside my bed.

Shadows lurk in the darkness, but I force myself to move without making a sound towards the bathroom.
Eyes straight ahead. Be brave. Keep moving.

The sharp light from the overhead fluorescent tubes ricochets off the porcelain basins and white floor tiles. A mirror stretches the length of one wall, with a shelf below. It's hard for me to recognise the pale face and head of thinning hair as my own. I take a step closer and scan the eyes, shaded with dark rings.
Where are you? Where have you gone?

A shiny patch of skin on my scalp reminds me where I am. I shake myself, hoping this small act might pull me together. When I part my hair, last night's damage glares at me. Two small spots, and a few missing hairs from my eyebrows.

I tip the contents of my toilet bag onto the shelf. My hand closes around the familiar shape of my mascara. I pull the wand from its case and wipe the brown ink onto a small makeup sponge. I dab this onto my scalp, repeating the process three times, until the shiny skin changes to a dull brown.

My hand shakes as I draw on my missing eyebrows. I'm grateful for my long fringe and dark hair as I clip it all into place. I tug hard on my hair to check that the clips will hold.

Footsteps make me scurry into a toilet stall. I crouch onto the toilet lid so whoever it is can't see my feet.
Shit, I left all my stuff on the shelf, including the nut pills with ‘Libby Morgan' written on the label.
My heart pounds.

‘Hi,' a girl calls out from the next stall.

‘Hi,' I mumble. I flush the toilet to stop any more conversation.

The rhythm of my heart returns to normal when the toilet flushes next door and I hear receding footsteps. I race out and grab the pill bottle. The pills aren't making me feel any better and I'm still pulling. In the stall, I wrap the hair from my pocket into toilet paper and throw it into the toilet, and tip the pills in as well. I've got nothing to lose; surely I can't get any more screwed up than I already am.

I watch as it all whirls around the bowl a few times before being washed away. I feel nervous, but there's a rush that comes from disobeying my mother's rules that feels good.

I shove the empty bottle back in my toilet bag and get out my shower cap. I stretch the elastic band as wide as it can go before placing it on my head, and dart into the end shower stall.

Water cascades over me. I face the wall and wash my hairless body. No underarm hair. No pubes. I turn the water off after only two minutes. The water trickles down the plug hole. I wish my shame could go with it.

After taking the shower cap off, I make one final check of my hair in the mirror.

*

Back in my cubicle I climb into bed. I have to sit up so my hair doesn't get messed up.
Pathetic and ridiculous
, my brain screams at me. I'm relieved when daylight finally comes and I can concentrate on sounds rather than my thoughts.

‘Morning, Libby.' Charlie wipes sleep from her eyes but stays snuggled up beneath her covers. ‘You look like you've been up already.'

I must look stupid sitting up in bed with my hair all clipped back. ‘Yeah, I got up early to avoid the rush in the bathroom.'

‘Good idea. I'd join you if I wasn't so lazy.' She slides her feet towards the floor and grabs her toilet bag and towel.

By the time she's back from the showers, I'm fully dressed and adjusting the knot on my tie.

‘What a stupid bloody thing, making girls wear ties.' Charlie tugs her uniform from its hanger, yanking the skirt so hard I think she might rip it. ‘We should protest.' Her eyes sparkle at the thought.

We're in the middle of textile class when I mention to Charlie that year nines don't get to go home this first weekend.

‘That's bullshit. Why would they make that a rule?'

‘I don't know, probably to acclimatise us.'

‘How friggin' ridiculous. It doesn't matter how long you stick a fish in an aviary, it's never going to think it's a bird.'

‘Charlotte, is that you I can hear talking?' Ms Wilson, our teacher, asks.

‘Yes. It is.'

‘Well, please stop it and get on with your work.'

Charlie puts her foot down hard on the treadle of her machine. Her material all bunches up and gets snagged under the needle.

‘Fuck,' she says as she tugs at it.

‘We're allowed a phone call tonight,' I whisper.

‘Whoop-dee-shit.'

‘Charlotte, take this as your last warning. You will earn five demerit points if I hear your voice again.'

Charlie is unusually quiet for the rest of the period. I know that the threat of five demerit points means nothing to her. When her silence continues into the afternoon and the evening I know something's up.

‘I'm going to the office. Do you want to come and see if they'll let us use the phones yet?' I ask her.

‘Nah. I'm too mad, Libby.'

‘With who?'

‘With everyone. With this stupid school that makes me feel like an inmate, but mostly with myself for agreeing to come here. It was bad enough that they made us hand our cell phones over for the week, but to keep us hostage as well, that's just bullshit.'

‘Maybe if you spoke to someone at home, you wouldn't feel so bad.'

‘No. It would make me feel worse. Everyone would want to talk and ask me a million questions. I'd have to lie to them all so they didn't feel bad for me. I'll leave it 'til I get my head straight.'

As I walk to the office, a cool breeze catches my hair and draws it upwards. I panic and jerk it back down. I'm used to being ruled by fear, but the envy I feel now is new. I'm envious of Charlie. Her big family, her confidence in sorting herself out. Even her ability to worry about other people when she's sad. It's not right that I got nothing.

One of the phones outside the office is free for local calls. I dial home.

‘Hello?'

My heart skips a small beat when I hear his voice.

‘Hi, Dad.'

‘Hi, Libby. I was just thinking about you.'

I imagine him in his office, reclining in his leather chair, surrounded by shelves stacked full of his books. His panelled doors closed, sealing him off from the rest of the house. He probably wasn't thinking about me, but it feels nice to pretend that he was.

‘How've your first days been?'

‘Not bad. How are you and Mum?'

‘Um, good. Yeah. I've been really busy.'

‘How's Toby?'

‘He's doing a great job. He asks every day if we've heard from you.'

Before we get a chance to say anything more, I hear Mum's voice in the background.

‘Is that Elizabeth you're talking to? Why didn't you call me?'

‘I was about to.'

‘You know I've been waiting to hear from her all afternoon.'

‘Actually, I didn't know. You didn't tell me.'

‘Hellooooooo?' I say loud into the mouthpiece.

‘Sorry, Libby. Your Mum can't wait to talk to you. I'll put her on.'

‘Hello Elizabeth.'

‘Hi, Mum.'

I hear a door slam in the background.

‘How's school?'

‘It's good.'

‘Have you made any friends?'

‘Yeah. Charlie my room mate's really nice.'

‘Charlie; that's a funny name for a girl. Surely that's not her real name.'

‘No. It's Charlotte.'

‘That sounds better. Where does her family come from?'

‘She's from Whāingaroa.'

‘Where's Whāingaroa?'

‘Raglan.'

‘Well, why didn't you say that? What does her family do?'

I twist the phone cord around my finger and leave out the bit about Charlie being Māori. ‘Her family are into fishing.'

‘Oh, a fishing business. That must be lucrative.'

‘God, Mum. I forgot to ask how much they make.'

‘Don't be silly, Elizabeth. Anyway, have you met that girl I told you about, Mrs Ashley's granddaughter? I'm sure I read somewhere that she was attending a girls' private boarding school in Hamilton.'

‘There are quite a few schools in Hamilton, Mum.'

‘Yes, but Hunterview's the best.'

‘Well, I haven't bumped into her.'

‘Oh well, keep your eyes peeled. Connections can take you a long way.'

‘Uh huh. How's Nan?'

‘We haven't got there this week. Do you remember Marion and Stan?'

‘No.' I wonder what they've got to do with Nan, as Mum prattles on.

‘Yes, you must remember them. They bought the old Baker place. You know, it's about five kilometres up from us. The ugly brick house right by the road.'

‘I don't. But anyway –'

‘Well, Stan electrocuted himself. It appears that he was installing some fancy electric fence system and he wired himself into the mains.'

‘That's awful.'

‘Yes, and I think they're in a bit of financial strife as well. Your dad's taken it upon himself to help out on the farm so she can make some funeral arrangements.'

‘That's nice of him.'

‘Yes. Very noble.' I detect a note of sarcasm, but I don't want to go there with her.

‘Do they have any kids?'

‘No. I can't put my finger on it, but they both were a bit odd. Even when Meryl tried to get them to join the neighbourhood watch group, they wouldn't let her in the house.'

‘Mum, the poor guy's not even buried yet.'

‘I just said they're a little odd. It's not just me, Meryl and Jenny found her strange too.'

Jenny was another neighbour, three houses up from us. I could just imagine Mum and her two friends tripping over themselves to be the first one to visit Marion. They would have dropped off their baking and insincere wishes and half an hour later been clustered around our dining room table trading gossip.

‘So what's this got to do with Nan?'

‘Oh, we haven't been to see her because we've been so busy. Next week.'

‘Tell her I said hi.'

Mum makes some sort of snorting noise.

‘Sorry, Mum. I have to go. Someone wants to use the phone.'

‘Oh, OK.'

‘Can I just say bye to Dad?' I let out a long and slow breath, which until now I hadn't known I was holding.

‘I think he must have gone out. I heard the front door close. I'll tell him you said goodbye. Are you still taking your pills?'

‘Yep.' I'm tempted to tell her that I threw them out and so far haven't got any loopier than I was before, but I say nothing.

‘Good. I'll see you next weekend. Bye.'

She didn't hear my goodbye; all I got was a long beep in my ear. After talking to Mum I feel like I've been robbed, like a blood transfusion in reverse.

On my way back to the dorm I pass by a group of girls leaning on a wall by the office. I recognise one from my science class. Stella.

‘Hi,' I mumble, but she's too busy laughing at something to reply.

We were assigned our science lab partners on the first day, and Stella is mine. We've sat together all week. The only time she's spoken to me was to mention the fact that her father is the CEO of some big appliance company.

‘Sorry, what's your name again?' She asked me this every day, making me feel as insignificant as the Bunsen burner on our table.

Charlie has kept me entertained all week with her theories about the girls we share the dorm with. Last night at dinner she finally sorted them all out: ‘Look over there.'

I followed her gaze to a group of six girls as they came into the dining hall.

‘They've selected their Queen.'

‘What?'

‘The Queen! Every group has to have one. I've been watching them all week. It was between her,' Charlie nodded to an attractive girl with long blonde hair that is so straight it can't be natural, ‘and the brunette.'

The group were all tanned and groomed, and reminded me of dressage ponies.

‘How do they pick? Who's the most beautiful?'

‘Nah, it's about who's the most manipulative. Whoever can con the most people into wanting to hang out with them gets to be the winner. You just have to be pretty to be in the running.'

‘You're making this up.'

Charlie shook her head as she spooned more macaroni cheese into her mouth.

‘Nope, it's just all part of the social hierarchy bullshit. Where've you been, Libby?'

My old school was so small that everyone played together. Now I get why Lucy was such a bitch. She was obviously used to being the Queen Bee, and I mucked it up by not bowing down to her.

I looked at Charlie. She's both smart and beautiful. ‘You could have been the leader, Charlie.'

‘Of that lot? God, no! It matters to them what you wear, what you say, who you talk to. I'd have to have a lobotomy just to cope. I prefer their sneers.'

I wonder how you get to be as confident as Charlie. She's like a self-contained island, governed by her own rules. For some reason she's chosen to let me be in her world. I feel sick in my stomach. I'm such an imposter.

Charlie's rucksack perches on the end of her bed. A sweatshirt's red sleeve pokes out the top.

‘I can't believe they're finally letting us out for the weekend.'

‘You make it sound like we're in prison.' I unzip my suitcase.

Charlie looks at me like I'm mad. ‘And the difference is?'

Charlie's quiet spell only lasted one night. She woke up early the next morning, climbed over the school pool fence and went for an illegal morning swim. She came back glowing.

‘So what's the first thing you're going to do when you get home, Libby?'

I shrug my shoulders.

‘I'm going to catch my horse, Zorro, and canter him down the beach.' She looks at me. ‘You must want to do something?'

‘I'll go visit my nan, even though she doesn't remember who I am.'

‘Does she have Alzheimer's?'

‘No one's really sure what the problem is. She went funny when my poppa died.'

‘That's sad. It's amazing what the brain can do though. I had a cousin who had a motorbike accident and ended up in a coma. Mum took me to see him a few times. He had tubes coming out of all sorts of places. Some taking stuff away and others giving him life.'

‘Didn't that freak you out?'

‘No, I found it fascinating. His body was lying there on the hospital bed and yet it was like it was empty.' She grins. ‘I remember looking around the ceiling, thinking I might catch him floating around up there.'

‘What happened to him?'

‘He woke up after two weeks. I was so disappointed – not that he woke up, but that he didn't remember a thing about where he had been.'

‘That's cool that he woke up. I don't think my nan's going to, though.'

‘Sorry, that must be really hard. But if she's breathing there's hope.'

‘Yeah.'

‘And at least you still get to see her.'

I nod.

‘OK Libby, time to brighten things up. Let's go find Matron and torment her.' She has a wicked grin on her face.

You don't need to be a rocket scientist to work out that Matron and Charlie have drawn swords. I'm not sure who drew the battle line first, but neither one looks like backing down. Matron will ping Charlie for the smallest thing, like a sock not pulled up properly, and Charlie returns the favour by breaking every rule she can find.

*

I spot Mum in the auditorium before she sees me. She has a way of holding herself that's unique and that makes her taller than she really is. Her grey woollen pencil skirt and matching jacket is too hot for this time of year, but it does make her look elegant.

I must have been such a disappointment to her when I didn't pop out all long-limbed and blonde. I took after Dad's side of the family with my tree-trunk legs and frizzy hair. It's amazing, really, that someone so beautiful could produce me.

Watching her from a distance makes me realise how much I've missed home. I don't know what gets into me, but I run up and throw my arms around her. She's more surprised than me, and pulls back immediately. The look she gives me catapults me back to when I was five.

I remember being excited about school, but somehow it hadn't registered that I had to stay there on my own. I was fine as we walked through the playground, but clung to her hand when she went to leave. She managed to pry my fingers loose, so I grabbed hold of her skirt. She leaned down and took my face between her hands. She whispered, ‘Elizabeth. You're a big girl now. People like us don't act like this.' I had no idea what she was on about, but it did make me pause long enough for her to escape my clutches.

That feeling must have lodged somewhere inside me. I recognise the look she's given me now, and it makes me feel stupid and small again.

‘Hello, Elizabeth,' she says, cementing her lips into a half-smile.

Next to us a girl called Doris, who has been nicknamed Baby because she cries herself to sleep every night, is sobbing so hard that watery stuff is dribbling out of her nose. Her mother has her arms wrapped tightly around her, pulling her into her chest. The snot runs like a slithery trail down her mother's blouse.

Mum looks them up and down. I know she's doing a quick inventory. She turns back to me and raises one eyebrow. I recognise the look of scorn.

‘Come on, Libby. Where's your suitcase? We better get going.'

I point to the foyer, where it's piled up with the others. Charlie, her rucksack slung over one shoulder, waves out to me before disappearing in the crowd.

‘Who's that?'

‘That's my friend Charlie.'

‘Oh. You didn't tell me she was Māori.'

‘Well, she's Māori.'

‘Oh.'

She looks around, and I'm thankful for all the other people around us. If they weren't here I'd be getting a lecture about keeping my circle of friends wide. She won't come straight out and say that she doesn't like Māoris, but I'm sure that's the truth, though I doubt that she has ever taken the time to speak to one.

‘Where's Dad?'

‘Actually, he didn't come.'

‘Doesn't he want to see where you've exiled me to?'

She ignores my comment, but strides a little faster towards our car. My suitcase keeps banging into my heel as I drag it across the car park. She takes it from me and throws it into the boot, and slams it shut.

I breathe in the smell of the leather upholstery. Mum slides in beside me and clips on her seatbelt.

‘Buckle up, Elizabeth.'

I do as I'm told, and watch in the rear-view mirror as the brick and stone buildings of the school disappear. A crushing sense of loss envelops me, but I'm not sure why.

*

The box hedging around the front of our house tells me something's wrong. It looks like it's been decapitated rather than trimmed. I've seen Mum out in the garden when she's in a mood, and nothing escapes the blades of her secateurs.

She opens up the front door. The kauri panels and railings on the staircase glow from beeswax polish. The sight and smells are so familiar to me that I forget for a moment about the missing pieces. I half expect Nan to come shuffling out smelling of violets, and Poppa to sneak up behind and hug the breath from me.

‘Come on, Elizabeth.' Mum gives me a nudge from behind. ‘Let's put your things in your room.'

I traipse up the stairs. The faded pink roses on the carpet and the creak on the fourth stair up remind me how much some things have stayed the same, and yet the silence in the house whispers to me that nothing is how it used to be. In my room I open up one of the dormer windows to invite the sweet smell of the orchard air inside, and sit down on my bed.

‘So when will Dad be back?'

She sits down opposite me and a look I can't quite make out – is it sympathy? – rests in her eyes. Alarm bells start ringing.

‘Elizabeth.' She stops, swallows and starts again, ‘Elizabeth, your father and I are having a little break.'

‘What do you mean – a break?' My voice squeaks.

She picks at some lint on her skirt. ‘Dad's decided to move into town for a while until we can sort some stuff out.'

‘So are you getting a divorce?'

‘We'll work things out. This is just temporary. Your dad will come around.'

‘So Dad wants a divorce?' I stand up and pace around the room. Mum's words feel like they're being fired at me from a slingshot. I hope some movement might help me absorb them a little better.

‘He thinks he does at the moment, but he's been under a lot of pressure. Playing the knight in shining armour up the road didn't help. I told him it was Marion and Stan's own fault for not having things sorted.'

I was used to Mum's lack of compassion, but sometimes she could still surprise me.

‘Once your dad gets things straight in his head, and he remembers the commitments he made to you and me, he'll be back.'

For a brief second our eyes lock. For a moment there is something that looks like helplessness in her eyes, then she shakes her head and gets up abruptly. My mum was brought up by strict Catholic parents. Asking her for a divorce would be like asking a Muslim if they'd like to try pig.

‘I promise, nothing will change for you. In fact, I think it's best if we keep this to ourselves. You stay at school, and by the time this term is over everything will have gone back to normal.' She smoothes down her skirt. I think her words are as much to reassure herself as they are for me.

‘How come Dad isn't here to tell me all of this?'

‘I thought it was best coming from me. At the moment he's not thinking right. He might make things scarier for you. I was against telling you at all, but your father insisted.'

I sink back down onto the bed, my legs no longer willing to support me.

‘This just isn't fair,' I whine.

‘Try and put it out of your mind. It's a nice day.'

Out the window, heavy grey clouds are being bossed around by a strong wind.

‘We could do a little shopping at the mall and have lunch out somewhere,' Mum says.

For one hopeful moment, I think that I may have gone completely mad and imagined the last few minutes.

‘You did just tell me that you and Dad are breaking up?'

She turns away from me and gazes out the window.

‘We're having a break and then we'll all go back to how we were.'

‘Mum, nothing can ever go back to how it was.'

She turns back and smiles at me, but it looks more like a grimace. ‘We'll see. Now, how about that shopping trip?'

‘I just got home.' I slump down on my bed.

‘I'll see you downstairs then.' Mum hesitates, but then closes the door behind her.

*

Images of Dad play through my mind all afternoon, almost like he's dead. I remember my sixth birthday party, when he dressed up as a clown. I was sitting on a barstool at the breakfast bar, sprinkling hundreds and thousands onto some buttered bread, when he came into the kitchen looking for his red nose. He had a curly wig on and a big painted red mouth. The nose was on an elastic band on top of his head, like sunglasses. Mum pulled it down and flicked it on his nose. I don't recall their faces, but I remember the laughter. I haven't heard that sound from either one of them in ages.

*

I tuck my dirty washing under my arm and take it downstairs to the laundry. I dump it in the basket, and as I pass by the kitchen I see Mum at the table. I watch from the doorway as she sorts buttons from an old biscuit tin into colour piles along our family dining table.

She looks up and sees me.

‘What are you doing standing there?'

‘Nothing.'

‘Well, do it somewhere else.'

‘Where are our photo albums?'

‘They're locked away in a chest of drawers in the spare room. Why?'

‘I was going to put some photos up in my room.'

‘I'll sort some out for you later; I'm busy right now.'

I look at the buttons, stacked up neatly in their rows. ‘Yeah, you look really busy.'

My words hit their target. Her whole face seems to screw up on itself. First her lips and then her eyes. I wanted to be mean, but now that I have I don't feel any better.

I flick the kettle on. ‘I was going to make a cup of tea; do you want one?'

She stops sorting her buttons.

‘Since when do you drink tea?'

‘That's what they teach us at that posh school you sent me to. Oh, and how to cross your ankles.'

‘Rubbish.' The button-sorting gets faster, and she frowns like there's a lot more to this tea-drinking than I'm letting on.

‘It's just a cup of tea, Mum. The orange juice tasted bitter so I started drinking tea instead.' I take Nan's teapot down from the shelf. The multi-coloured pansies have started to fade, but it's still my favourite thing in the kitchen.

I pour the boiling water over the tea leaves and bring the pot and two cups to the table.

‘It's a long time since I've seen that pot on the table.' Mum says.

It has never occurred to me that Mum might miss Nan as well.

‘We should take it to her,' I say on impulse.

‘She can't remember people. I don't think she'll remember a silly old teapot.'

‘She might.'
Don't be such a retard
, I tell myself. Mum doesn't miss anyone. ‘You know what, Mum, even if she doesn't recognise the teapot, it might trigger something so she remembers us.'

Mum's heavy sigh makes me feel stupid, and then mad.

‘It doesn't matter what you think, Mum. I know that Nan still loves me. She just can't tell me.'

‘Of course she loves you. I'm not trying to make you mad, I'm just being realistic.'

I want to push her and her realism off her chair. Luckily for her, she pauses. But then she starts up again.

‘It's tragic that you lost Poppa, but it's time to move on now, Libby.'

Her words cut straight through me. Since Poppa died it was rare to hear his name mentioned in our house. No one had said not to talk about him, but you could feel the tension when anyone did, so we all just stopped.

‘I lost my best friend, Mum. What's the right amount of time to “move on”?'

‘I don't know, but people do move on. They pull themselves together and get on with life. Not you, though. His death swept you away from us. You forgot that there was more than Poppa in your life. Your dad and I are still here, you know.'

A small
huh
escapes my lips before I get a chance to clamp them shut.

Mum gulps her mouthful of tea and glares at me. ‘What's that supposed to mean?'

‘Well, it looks like Dad wants out.'

Mum picks up the teapot and the cups and takes them to the bench. The cups clatter against one another as she puts them in the sink.

I'm in it now, so I keep going. ‘And I'm sorry, Mum, but just because you're physically there doesn't mean you are. Especially when Poppa died.'