The Slap (63 page)

‘Is this all true? You told all those lies because of some . . . some . . . some sick obsession with Hector?’ He could not look at her. His mother’s voice was scornful.

They must loathe me. All he could do was shrug. ‘Yes,’ he mumbled. Even to his ears it sounded weak, inadequate.

‘I am so ashamed of you.’

He faced his mother. It felt like the first time. He thought she would be crying, but she wasn’t. Her eyes were dry, furious. She raised her hand. He closed his eyes.

When the slap came it struck him like fire, made him stumble back onto the desk. It stung. But it was just. He heard Connie cry out.

It didn’t really hurt, the actual violence was nothing. What hurt was his mother’s words. They would never go away. She was ashamed of him. He deserved it. He fucking fucking deserved it. That’s when he began to run, his feet air as he ran through the waiting room, past the startled animals and clients, out of the door, into the street, out into the world.

 

He ran and ran. He was in his street, he was at his house, he was through the door. He was in the bathroom, searching through the cabinet, jars smashing on the floor. He found a bottle of pills, did not bother to read the label, poured them all out in his hand. He took them all, gulped them down, flushed water from the tap into his mouth, down his throat. He sat on the edge of the cold bathtub and that’s when he found he could stop. He stopped. He let it go, he was in the zone. He’d wait for death now that he was in the zone.

 

There were three things that made him not want to die:

The
dipt-dipt
of drops of water falling from the tap onto the porcelain of the wash basin;

The yellow ray of sunlight refracted into crimson and gold through the stubbled glass of the skylight above;

The thought that he did not want his mother to be alone without him.

 

Richie pulled his mobile from his pocket. He started to dial. 0—0—0. He heard the front door slam open.

‘Mum,’ he cried out. ‘Mum.’ His mother’s footsteps thundered down their narrow corridor. She burst into the bathroom. He held out his arms, the empty jar in one hand, his mobile phone in the other.

 

She made him vomit, bent him over the tub, her fingers forced down his throat. He resisted, gagged, then chucked, thin bile running down his chin and his mother’s fingers. His body convulsed and lumps of half-digested toast, pills, more bile flew onto the enamel, splattering across the bathtub. He was grateful for his mother’s calm. Now that he knew that he did not want to die, he feared the poison he had taken. She drove fast, but she drove carefully, all the way to Epping Hospital, cursing every red light, cursing the politicians who had sold the old hospital he had been born into, the one that had been just around the corner from their house. She stroked his head from time to time, asking him to describe exactly how he was feeling, what he was experiencing, whether he had begun to feel any numbness or pain. What he did feel was an astonishing peace, an awareness of the complex structure of light and of sound. His mother weaved and overtook the traffic on Spring Street.

‘Honey,’ she said to him, as the car turned onto the long stretch of the highway. ‘I am so sorry I slapped you. I will never do that again.’

‘It’s alright.’ And it was.

‘I’ve never hit you before, have I?’

‘Just once or twice.’

‘No.’ She was sure, vehement. ‘I smacked you a few times, when you were a young pup.’ He nodded, he realised this was important to her. ‘I smacked you once when you were about to put your hand into a candle flame. I remember once smacking your bottom when you were rude too your nan. But I never hit you. I never did that.’

It was true. It was important to her and that made it true. He grimaced. He could taste the foul residue of bile on his tongue. He placed his hand over his stomach.

‘We’re nearly there,’ his mother counselled, her eyes straight ahead on the road. ‘Nearly there.’

‘I’m so sorry, Mum.’ He was. He really was.

‘Rich, I love you. I am so proud of who you are.’ Her voice was cracking, her stained yellow fingers gripping the wheel, her pink nail polish chipped. She blew her nose. ‘But what you did to Hector and what you did to Aisha and to Connie, that’s fucked, mate.’ She glanced over at him. ‘You know that?’

‘Yes.’

‘Hector’s a married man, baby. He loves Aisha. He can never love you.’

No. He released his hand from over his stomach. There was no pain, not yet. He’d be fine. He’d be alright.

‘Hector doesn’t even know who I am.’ He closed his eyes, the wind was pushing hard against his face. Warm; no, hot. It was comforting. ‘I think I’m in love with Nick.’

There. He’d said it.

His mother took his hand and squeezed tight. Her hand was wet, oily with sweat.

‘Oh, baby,’ she whispered, lifting his hand and kissing it. ‘Oh, my sweet baby boy.’ The car screeched into the entrance to emergency. ‘You’ll fall in love with other men and many men will fall in love with you.’

She dropped his hand and the car came to a sudden stop. She had illegally parked and a young nurse, smoking a cigarette, tried to wave them away. His mother ignored the woman.

The last thing he said to her before they pumped his stomach was, ‘Mum, I wish you wouldn’t smoke.’

 

He awoke to a too-bright white room. The light hurt; he had to close his eyes, and it seemed to take an eternity to open them again. He did, carefully, taking in the room, the world around him. He felt woozy, and dropped his head to the side. His mother was sitting on a chair, reading
New Idea
. Someone took hold of his hand. With effort he forced his head to turn to the other side. Connie was standing beside his bed.

‘Hi.’ His mouth was dry, tasting awful, of metal and chemicals, and could not seem to make the right movements to allow the sound to escape. The word, when it finally reached his ears, sounded like nonsense, one of the words those weird Christians made up when they were speaking in tongues. But it was a sound. His mother rushed to the bed.

It took a few minutes but he gradually broke through the punishing, sluggish after-effects of the anaesthetic. He gratefully slurped at the glass of water his mother offered him, not minding the liquid sliding down his lips and chin. He took in the room again, this time aware that across from him was an elderly man watching the TV screen above his bed, that there was another bed next to him but whoever was in it had chosen to draw the curtain. He asked his mother if he could be alone with Connie.

‘I’ll go grab myself a coffee. Do you want anything?’

Connie shook her head. He just wanted water. He doubted he would ever feel like eating again.

‘Does it hurt?’

It must hurt, for there was a numbness that seemed to affect the whole of his abdomen, as if his body had been separated in two; like one of those old-fashioned cartoons, where those bumbling coyotes or cats had their torsos flattened to a sheet by a falling boulder or because they had been wrung through a mangle. He winced and nodded.

Connie pulled back the sheet, kicked off her runners and got in next to him in the bed. He realised that he was wearing a white smock, that he was naked underneath it. Connie pulled the sheet back. The old man across from them looked shocked, then, grinning, turned his head back to the TV. Richie’s memory returned, a sudden flood. He thought of Hector and of Rosie and Gary, of Aisha and his mother, the nightmare in the office and he winced again, this hurting much more than any physical pain.

‘I’m so sorry I said anything to Rosie. I shouldn’t have.’

‘He didn’t rape me.’ Connie was whispering, her chin nearly to her chest, contrite. ‘That’s not what happened.’

‘Okay.’ He rolled his tongue on his cracked bottom lip, wanting moisture. But his tongue too was dry.

‘I’m sorry I lied.’

He struggled for recollection. Which lie was she referring to? The truth seemed indecipherable. Maybe one day she would tell him the truth but that was not what mattered. He shifted in his bed, a pain shot through his back. He wanted her to forgive him for betraying her to the adults.

‘How’s Aisha?’

‘She’s so cool.’ Connie’s voice was full of admiration. ‘She’s so fucking cool. She’s not angry at you at all. She’s furious at Gary and Rosie. Particularly Rosie.’ Connie’s tone hardened. ‘And so am I.’

‘It’s not their fault.’

‘Yes it is.’ She was unforgiving. ‘They didn’t give a fuck about me, did they? If they did they would have come to me first. They just wanted to hurt Aish. They’re fucked,’ she spat out. ‘Fucked.’

But what about Hugo? He didn’t want Hugo to think that any of this had anything to do with him. That would be what Hugo would be thinking. Richie was sure of it. He was sure of it because Hugo was a lot like him.

‘How’s Hector?’ He said it in a tiny, scared voice. Does he hate me?

Connie smiled at him, tickled him under his nipple where he was sensitive, raising a laugh.

‘Your boyfriend?’

‘Shut up.’

‘He doesn’t know.’

‘Oh.’ His body seemed to sink back into the bed, finally released, finally free.

‘Aish isn’t going to say a word to him. She doesn’t think he needs to know.’ Connie looked dazed, a little perplexed. ‘You know, I don’t think she would have believed it was true even if I wasn’t there. I don’t think it would have mattered what you said.’ His friend’s eyes widened, they looked enormous. ‘She just loves him. She just knows he wouldn’t do those awful things.’ Her bottom lip quivered. ‘And she trusts me. She wouldn’t believe it of me.’

Lucky, lucky, Hector. Richie thought with sadness, and with relief. Some people walked away clean. That was a lesson he was learning. He was exhausted, confused. So what was the truth of what happened between Hector and Connie? Truth was this supposedly sacred thing, this thing that everyone—teachers, his mum, everyone—seemed to believe was important, that must be respected above all else. But the truth did not seem to matter here, not to Connie. Maybe not to anyone. Certainly, at this moment, not to himself.

‘I’m tired,’ he whispered. Let’s not talk, let’s just lay here together.

Connie wriggled and dug out something from her back jean pocket. It was a small envelope. She handed it to Richie, who opened it. A ticket to the Big Day Out slipped out.

‘It’s from me and Ali. It’s an early birthday present.’

‘Wow.’

‘Wow,’ mimicked Connie. ‘Wow.’

‘Get out of that bed!’

A fat, mean-looking nurse, her arms full of bedding, had popped her head through the door. Connie obediently jumped straight off the bed. The nurse shook her head and walked back down the corridor.

The two teenagers started giggling, which turned into laughter. Richie had to force himself to stop. It hurt too much to laugh.

 

He had to see the hospital psychologist before he could be discharged. The man, in his early forties with a thick Ned Kelly beard, had sparkling eyes that reminded Richie of Nate in
Six Feet Under
. The man was forthright. He wanted to know why Richie had wanted to kill himself. The boy struggled to find words. It all seemed too hard to explain. Maybe this was what Connie understood, that the truth did not always have words. What was important was that feeling that had been so potent straight after he had taken the pills. He had not wanted to die. That was important, maybe the only thing that mattered. The man was waiting expectantly. He was sincere, warm, a nice guy. Richie didn’t want to disappoint him. He told him that he had wanted to die because he was having trouble coming to terms with his sexuality. It wasn’t true but it was exactly the right thing to say. The man eagerly leaned forward and began to talk about the rich diversity of sexuality, how being gay was normal, that human culture was a broad church. Richie nodded, trying to look interested. He was a nice guy. He talked exactly like one of the good teachers. A little too earnestly. The man wrote down a few numbers for him, the emergency counselling number at the hospital, the number for the gay and lesbian switchboard. Richie pocketed the numbers, thanking the guy, and meaning it. He was only trying to help. But Richie was glad when the session was over. The psychologist signed a form and Richie joined his mother in the waiting room. He was free to go home.

 

On Tuesday afternoon they all got their results. His ENTER score was 75.3. He was not going to Melbourne Uni. He could probably get into Deakin, maybe RMIT, on second-round offers. Connie got 98.7. She’d get into Vet Science. Nick got 93.2. It was a brilliant score but not good enough for Medicine. Richie had rung his mum with the news, who had cried, said she was proud of him, and then he had walked around with his results to Nick. His friend’s parents had both left their jobs to come home and celebrate with their son. Mr Cercic had poured his son and Richie a whisky, shouting out repeatedly that Nick was the first Cercic to get to university. But Nick was morose, disappointed with himself.