The Whole of My World (10 page)

 

 

I arrive at Thursday night training before everyone else. Dad's been working late a lot the past two weeks, and apart from an Australian History essay that's giving me grief because I can't decide on a topic, I don't have any other homework. There's only so much TV and stats-keeping I can do to pass the day. With the McGuires away for the holidays I don't even have Josh to hang out with.

It must be quiet in the Promotions Office at Fernlee Park, where Mick works, because he's already in the gym in his training gear and it's barely half past three. I'm now an expert on Glenthorn training rules: as long as you arrive in the gym before Geoff the sign-off guy gets there you can hide at the back without anyone bothering you, while the players begin their warm-up exercises. I love to do this because it means I'm on my own for much of the practice until the players go outside, so I can talk to them without the other kids around. The players are a lot friendlier when there aren't heaps of us clinging to their every word, and I often overhear a trainer discuss a player's injury or their performance – sometimes even with the coach, Stretch Davis.

‘You're early,' Mick says when I walk into the gym. Every time I see him, I'm struck by how tall he is. How strong he looks.

‘Better than doing homework,' I say.

‘Just can't get my head into anything at the moment. The boss sent me here to clear out the cobwebs.' It still feels weird having him talk to me like this. Like he trusts me and expects me to have something important to say.

‘Is it working?'

He laughs. ‘Not really. How's the kicking going?'

I want to ask if his family ever showed up after the clinic, but then I think about how lonely he looked standing in the mud and the rain, the car park emptying around him, and I know not to. He looks so different today. It's hard to believe he's the same person. ‘Okay,' I lie. Even if I wanted to deal with the embarrassment of my footy clinic effort, with Josh away there's no one to kick with and it's not like I can ask Tara to go through some drills. Plus, Mrs Hodge asked me to join the school athletics team, so I've been along to some early practices this week to check it out. I guess athletes at St Mary's don't get holidays. I actually enjoyed it – running laps, sprinting in short, fast bursts; the cold morning air fresh in my lungs. If it wasn't for the fact that they're moving training to Thursday nights once the holidays are over, I'd probably have joined by now.

‘Did you try that drill I showed you?' Mick asks, his tone suggesting he knows the answer.

‘I haven't really had time,' I mumble, hoping he'll change the subject.

‘You have time now,' he says, and passes me a ball from the large bin behind him.

The ball seems to find its way into the correct position in my hands, without any help from my brain. ‘Do I have a choice?'

‘Are we talking or are we practising?' he asks with a raised eyebrow.

I line up and send him a hard short pass right at his chest. Or it was
supposed
to be a hard short pass right at his chest. Instead, it hits a good three metres to the left of him. It isn't as ugly – or as public – as my shocker at the footy clinic but it's a long way from good and is made worse because, despite laughing like I don't care, it's pretty obvious to both of us that I was really trying.

‘Not bad,' Mick says generously. He handballs it back. ‘Keep your eyes on the ball this time. Line up the seam with your target.'

I kick again. It's not very different to the last one but at least it's closer to the mark. Straighter. Steadier.

The thing is, I
know
all this. I know how I'm supposed to kick. I could tell him all of this – step by step – like a walking football textbook. In fact, I think I already have. A couple of times.

I just can't
do
it.

He comes over and hands me the ball again. ‘Fingers on the seam, tip the ball forward . . . Good, good. Now, without putting any power into it, follow through as though you're going to kick.' I practise the motion of kicking. He nods, straightens my leg then nods again. ‘Now for real.'

We practise together for half an hour and, incredibly, my kicking shows small signs of improvement. We finish up as the other players begin to arrive. Some of them yell out comments like ‘Is it all right if I go out with your kid sister, Ed?' and ‘Isn't that illegal?' But none of it sounds mean or serious, and Chris Jury even compliments me on my style, telling me to keep my eyes up on the follow-through.

‘All right,' Mick says, eventually, ‘lesson over. I need to warm up. See you after training.'

I go outside into the bright afternoon light to take up my position at the gym entrance, behind Red and Tara. I've been promoted ahead of a number of other kids who have been going to training much longer than me, almost definitely because of my friendship with Mick. I smile at Tara. Neither of us has said a word about her leaving the footy clinic, but I'm beginning to understand the way things work with her. If it doesn't blow up at that single moment of misunderstanding, it won't blow up at all. Or be mentioned. Ever.

‘Where've you been?' she asks, frowning.

‘Inside,' I say.

‘Who with?'

‘Mick.' I can hear the defensiveness creeping into my voice.

‘What were you doing with him?'

I can feel everyone's eyes on me but they all look away when I stare back. Except Red, who has her arms crossed in front of her like she has a right to know.

‘Well?' says Tara, looking at me like I've done something wrong.

‘Nothing. Just hanging around. I got in early.' I shrug, trying to act like it's no big deal when I know that somehow it is. How does she do this? How does she make me feel like I've betrayed her when it has nothing to do with her?

‘What does that mean?' she asks, her tone suggesting she already has an answer.

‘What's your problem?' I ask. I've done nothing wrong. But if that's true, a stubborn voice inside my head says, why haven't I told her the truth? I feel the ground beneath me shifting.

‘You haven't answered my question,' she snaps, moving towards me.

I force myself not to step back but, inside, I'm flinching. ‘He's showing me how to kick.' This sounds weak even to me, although it's the truth.

‘What's the point of that?'

‘He's just being nice.' There is no point, I realise. Which makes her words sting even harder. It's not like I'll ever get to kick for goal again – not in a game, anyway.

‘You think hanging out with him and calling him Mick makes you special?
Everyone
calls him
Eddie
. Even the other players. You're just embarrassing yourself.'

My whole body burns with humiliation. ‘No, I'm not! He likes me!' I protest, hating that I sound like a six-year-old. The other cheersquadders are all acting like they can't hear, looking everywhere but at us. Even Red has decided the arrival of an unknown under 19s player is worthy of a photo. ‘We're friends,' I add lamely. ‘That's what he told me to call him.'

For once Tara doesn't care who's listening or what the world thinks. She's not shouting, nor is she making any effort to keep this between us. ‘He's married, you know.' She spits out the word ‘married' like it's something rotten, and everyone within hearing distance – which is pretty much everyone in total – decides maybe we're worth another look after all.

‘What?' I croak. Why is she saying this? Why is she trying to ruin things? My heart is racing like I've just finished a set of wind sprints – and beaten Josh in every one. ‘I know he's married. What difference does
that
make?' It doesn't make a difference. I'm not doing anything wrong. And yet, when she talks to me like this it feels a lot like I am. I can't look at her – at anyone.

I won't give in to this. I won't. I force myself to meet her gaze, determined to show my innocence. But when I do, the accusation is gone and I see something sad there, in her eyes. Something like loneliness or grief. But bigger, deeper. I soften, my embarrassment forgotten. I suddenly don't care about the other kids. ‘Why don't you come too?' I offer. ‘Maybe next week? Mick won't mind,' I add, clutching at the only thing I have to give her. I have no idea if Mick will mind or even if he'll be there next week, but it's a bit late to think about that.

‘Why would I want to do that?' she snaps, her face flushed. ‘I couldn't give a shit what Edwards wants.'

Just like that, the softness – the loss – I saw in her before is gone. I don't know how to fix this. And for the rest of the night, whenever Tara thinks I'm not looking, I can feel her eyes on me, burning away, like she's trying to peel back the layers to see what's really inside.

Though, honestly, I don't know what she'd find if she could.

 

 

The phone cuts through my sleep, its shrill ring merging with the strange dream I was having. Dad must have picked it up, because the sound cuts off and then the house is silent again.

I take a moment to orientate myself. And then reality strikes with all its might and I remember why today is . . .
special
. It's my birthday. With practice, I've gotten used to saying it like other people do, as though it's the simplest and most normal of things to say. I allow myself a quiet moment of pride that I can say it.
My birthday. My birthday. My birthday
. It's my second since the accident and it already feels a bit different to the last one. I take heart from this for a moment and then, just as quickly, I'm appalled. This day used to feel like the centre of our world, the thing around which my family revolved, year after year for as long as I can remember – right up until it was ruined forever.

My birthday.

I say it again and again in my head, believing that there will be a time when it might even sound normal, and hating the idea at the same time.

I drag myself out of bed and hesitate at my bookshelf. My hand hovers over
My Brilliant Career
, tempted to retrieve it. To draw strength from Sybylla Melvyn's indomitable spirit, her refusal to give up on her dream, even in the face of that bleak and dusty landscape.

There's a knock on my door and I freeze. ‘Come in,' I say, letting my hand fall awkwardly by my side.

‘Hey,' Dad says, opening the door without actually coming inside. He leans in but stays safely in the hallway. The smile he forces looks like it could crack at any moment.

‘Hey.'

‘Happy . . . birthday,' he says, pausing between each word as though they don't usually follow each other, as though they don't completely contradict each other. The birthday bit is right, but how in the world do we make it
happy
? I always had to share my birthday, but it's only been the past two years that I've had to share it with something as enormous as this. ‘Josh called.'

I nod. ‘I'll call him later.'

I can blow Josh off without guilt because it's my birthday. I say it again in my head. I shout it silently. Turn it around in my mind, back to front, round and round. My birthday.
My birthday
.

Except, it's not just my birthday. It never was just that to start with, though I'd wished for it often enough. But it's worse now. The past two June 11ths have been something entirely different as well: an anniversary.
The
anniversary. The accident was two years ago today.

Life. Death. Life. Death. The two have become one for the Brown household. I turned thirteen and my family was destroyed; all in a single unforgettable day. And for the rest of my life I'm supposed to find a way to celebrate it. We both are.

‘Going to the game?' Dad's voice is hopeful. He wants me to go. It will be as difficult for him to look at me all day as it would be for me to stay here with him.

‘Yeah, should be a big one.'

He nods. ‘Big crowd too.'

Normally we'd go together. Falcons versus Carringbush at Valley Park would be a season highlight for us. Normally. But there's nothing about today that's normal.

‘Did you want to come?' I'm supposed to meet Tara at Glenvalley Station at 11.15 to catch the Valley Park bus together. I have no idea how I'd break it to her that Dad's coming, but that doesn't seem so important right now.

Dad shakes his head and looks away, unable to answer. He shakes his head again, then turns to face me. ‘Not for me. You go.'

It's an order and I'm happy to accept. He'll go out to the crematorium, like he did last year, like he does on his wedding anniversary, at Christmas, Mum's birthday, his birthday . . . He'll leave flowers, walk for miles around the grounds, talking to himself. I don't go anymore. I can't connect those cold, brassy plaques with anything that resembles my family. With anything that used to be alive. He doesn't make me, either. I think he prefers to go alone.

The silence settles. Dad has moved forward, coming out from behind the door. I see now that behind his back he's holding a package wrapped up in metallic purple wrapping paper with ‘Happy Birthday' printed all over in bold white font. Dad holds the present out to me. ‘Just a starter,' he apologises. ‘The main one is for later.'

Later – at dinner. My heart lurches at the idea. ‘Thanks!' My voice is as shiny and bright as the wrapping paper. I cross the room quickly, glad to be distracted by the gift, thinking through my possible responses – how to get just the right level of appreciation and pleasure, expectancy and surprise, no matter what it contains.

The softness of the contents suggests clothing of some kind. A lump forms in my throat, knowing what's inside but hoping for something different. I unwrap it at the door so Dad doesn't feel compelled to come further inside my room. The paper falls away and I pull out a Glenthorn beanie and matching socks, almost identical to the ones he gave me last year. ‘These are great, Dad! Thanks. I'll wear them today.' I step towards him. He stands there stiffly, letting me encircle him with my arms, like he used to, except now there's a space between his chest and mine – a careful, polite gap to allow for my breasts and my changed body. To make sure there's no contact. ‘Thanks, Dad,' I say again, stepping back.

‘Pizza tonight?' he asks, the flush in his cheeks a perfect match to mine.

‘Yum-mo!' I say, sounding like an idiot, but he doesn't react or seem to notice.

‘Breakfast is ready,' he says, and leaves without waiting for a reply.

‘I'll be out in a tick,' I say, shutting my door again. I place the socks on my bed, thinking about the three other pairs I have balled up in my sock drawer. I get dressed, pulling on my socks, then black jeans and my footy jumper. I spend a few minutes debating what to do with my hair before deciding to tie it back with a scrunchie. I pick up the beanie and carefully stretch it over my head, hoping my hair won't be completely destroyed in the process, and head to the kitchen for breakfast.

At the train station, I drop two pairs of Glenthorn socks – the two oldest pairs – into the Salvation Army bin in the car park, then slip into the toilet block while I wait for the train. I can barely see in the metallic mirror on the wall for all the rust stains and dirt smeared across it. I take off the beanie and pull the scrunchie out of my hair. I drag a brush through its unsatisfyingly short length and tuck my beanie into my backpack. I'll have to wear it at least for the next few weeks until Dad forgets about it, but there's no way I can wear it to the game or I'd never hear the end of it. Finals time, maybe, but not for a Home and Away match. You can wear anything crazy to a finals match – the daggier the better. But for the rest of the year beanies are for little kids. I just have to remember to put it on again before I get home.

I'm halfway to Valley Park with Tara before I realise I didn't call Josh back. What would I say anyway?

 

The crowd was huge and the game fantastic. We won by thirty-two points; the gap in percentage between us and the Warriors now looking smaller with every week. I just wish they'd lose again so we can move ahead.

But I refuse to let the Warriors' ridiculously good run these past weeks ruin the day. I haven't told Tara it's my birthday. She could probably work it out if she really wanted to, but Danny sat with us all game, stealing her rapt attention and allowing me to drift in and out of her awareness, free to focus on the footy.

I love Valley Park games because it means there's no rush for me to get home before the replay starts, and since we've won, that's about the only thing I'm looking forward to. Dad will let me watch it while we eat, taking some of the sting out of the heavy silence that my birthday brings. ‘The elephant in the room', Mum would have called it. It makes me think about the scene from
The Great Gatsby
– in the Buchanans' parlour with the open French doors and the billowing white curtains, and Jordan and Daisy's dresses blowing up like balloons. Like white elephants. I think I'm mixing up my metaphors – are the elephants in the room white elephants or is that something else? But the image of those enormous balloon-like women, all light and airy and ghost-like, reminds me of the space Dad and I have put between us, a space loaded with silence and the unspoken. The unspeakable.

When I open the front door, I hear a woman's voice and I recognise it instantly.

I note the pizza on the kitchen table, the box unopened and propped on a platter like some steaming centrepiece – too much for two people, too small for four – and arrange my expression into the best smiling welcome I can manage. My lips are dry against my teeth, my mouth stiff with the effort to smile. I'm sure I look like a clown – the creepy kind, like in
Poltergeist
.

‘Happy birthday, Shelley,' Mrs McGuire says gently, all kinds of emotions bundled up in the two simple syllables that comprise my name.

‘Hi, Mrs McGuire,' I reply, my heart in my throat. It feels like something heavy is pressing against my chest. I don't have the energy to fight the blush that rises to my cheeks. Mrs McGuire. Here. In our house. Tonight of all nights.

‘Josh wanted to come,' she says, her eyes trapping me in their warm and kind depths. ‘But I told him that wasn't polite. It's your birthday. If you wanted visitors, you'd have asked.' Which apparently doesn't apply to his mother.

I think about her invitation, care of Josh, all those weeks ago and how I'd killed it off so hard and fast. Now I wish Josh was here to at least act as buffer so I don't have to face that endlessly forgiving and knowing look in her eyes.

‘Thanks.'

No one moves for a long time. The TV is off despite the fact the replay is due to start, and the only sound is the suddenly stark ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

‘Mrs McGuire has invited you to Josh's hundred-and-fiftieth game,' Dad says finally, his voice rasping and thin. He's standing uncomfortably by the TV set, his hand resting heavily against it as though preparing to leap into the screen if the situation demands.

I hate seeing him like this. So awkward and unnatural, so . . .
small
. When Mum was alive, Dad was tall and strong, certain and smart. Now all I see is this shrinking shadow of a man who can't even face his wife's best friend because . . .

Because.

Who am I to criticise? I can't face her either. I am my father's daughter, after all.

‘It's just been too long,' Mrs McGuire says, stating the obvious and yet somehow conveying her surprise and hurt. Her eyes are damp and her face is soft and mushy like it was at the funeral. Every moment of hurt and pain is etched into that pretty face, so kind and welcoming but also so terrible. She knows everything.
Everything
. Mrs McGuire. Dad. And me. That's it. An entire circle of knowledge. Conspirators. Protectors.

Liars.

The truth has never been safer than it is with the three of us.

‘I have homework,' I say weakly.

‘You don't know when it is,' she says, smiling so gently I feel something break off my heart.

It shouldn't be this hard. This isn't the first time I've seen her since the accident. We saw her a lot those first long and empty days. Days that stretched into weeks, months, years – two years. As time went on, the pain of her knowing and seeing all that she saw became something so enormous and unspeakable that Dad and I seemed to come to the same silent realisation – that we had to avoid her at all costs. We couldn't face her, eye to eye, because Mrs McGuire had become the last thing that connected us to my mother that wasn't, quite simply, each other. Everything we couldn't say to each other somehow shifted onto her. She stopped being a person and became Death. Our family's death. And also, most terribly, the witness.