What Does Blue Feel Like? (6 page)

I'm remembering a story of a girl who got raped and

remembered her attacker's details so well that

they caught him.

Her revenge.

I don't want to look at this guy, but I force myself to,

force myself to look at his face, memorise his face.

Jim!

Her whole body

sags

with relief

that it was Jim

not an axe-murderer,

or worse.

He steps forward,

holds out his arms.

He's done it every other time he's seen her cry.

But she's still standing there,

whimpering,

shivering.

She doesn't want to touch him.

 

Jim's eyes rove over Char.

She's got eyeliner and mascara streaked across her face.

Red eyes and nose.

Her teeth are chattering.

And her arms are wrapped around herself, seeking warmth.

Poor thing.

 

Jim takes another step forward, holds out his arms again,

and beckons.

But Char takes another step back.

He takes off his jumper,

recoiling against the cold,

and holds it out to her.

She forces herself to take a step forward, puts the jumper on.

Jim watches her, with the distinct and uncomfortable

feeling that this is somehow partly his fault.

They sit on the picnic table in the park,

huddling for warmth.

It's getting colder,

and Jim wants to be somewhere warmer

but he doesn't want to push Char,

this child-woman on the edge.

He takes her hair in his hands,

and begins to plait.

It's the only thing that he can do,

the only thing right now that
feels
right.

She begins to talk,

as if the fingers in her hair, gently putting

something
in order,

unlock her mouth.

She tells Jim

about the last few weeks

about the girls in Maths

about the fight with her mother.

She tells Jim, ‘I can't go home tonight.'

Jim knows he has to take her back to his house

for the night.

He prepares himself for the objections,

but there aren't any.

He guesses that, tonight, it's the lesser of two evils.

Jim's parents

are a godsend.

They leave us be.

Don't give me funny looks.

Just say, ‘Hello Char,'

and leave it at that.

I feel funny

about taking off Jim's jumper, my pants.

I always slept in my undies at Jim's place.

As I'm undressing, Jim pretends not to watch

but I know he's seeing everything.

I feel naked

and cold

as I climb into bed.

We talk

about what's happened between us.

About the cheating.

About the baby.

About the rift between us even now.

We talk

about what's been going on in my head.

About how I felt when my mother was screaming at me.

About how scared I was in the park tonight.

About how I don't know whether or not I can go home

tomorrow.

Jim smiles, pats my hair, kisses my forehead,

rubs my arms and back that are still goosepimply.

He brings his lips to my ear and murmurs,

‘At least you still smell great, beautiful thing.'

He holds out his arms

and I lie in them.

He traces my tattoo with his index finger,

still disbelieving that I went through with it.

I snuggle in

but turn my cheek at his kiss.

He's not that forgiven.

In the morning

we're both shy.

A lot has happened since we've woken up together

and we're not quite ready for each other in

morning sunlight.

Jim pulls a school dress of mine out of his cupboard.

It's the one I was wearing the night we drank all that rum.

I spewed on it, and since then it's been washed.

Jim points to his desk. ‘That was in the pockets.'

There, sitting on his desk, are hair ties, ribbons and

lip gloss.

Turns out I'd also left a change of undies here.

I get dressed for school.

As we walk to school,

I wonder if my mother looked for me last night.

Wonder if she cared.

Wonder why I can't talk to her.

Jim has his arm around my shoulders.

We march into school like that.

I can see the questions in everyone's eyes

but Jim wards them off,

keeps me

protected.

I wonder

how he can be so good to me

how things can have gotten so bad between us.

I wonder

why I can't just be normal.

During Japanese, the school secretary comes to find me.

‘Your mum's coming to pick you up. She'll be here in

ten minutes.'

I mutter, ‘Excuse me' in Japanese,

stuff my books into my bag,

and head towards the office.

I'm not entirely sure I'm ready to face Mum.

 

Mum signs me out.

We walk into the carpark, get into the car, drive off.

She takes me home, makes me coffee and a sandwich.

I'm not hungry, but I take a bite of the sandwich,

a sip of the coffee,

trying to please her, placate her.

We still haven't spoken

and I wonder why.

 

Mum sits me down in a chair.

Asks me what's wrong.

 

I take another sip of coffee, trying to unlock my mouth.

Mum looks so tired, so worried,

I know I have to say something.

 

I can't tell her about Jim.

She'd kill him.

 

I can't tell her about the abortion.

She'd kill me.

I can't tell her about me drinking every chance I get.

She'd kill both of us.

why I haven't been eating.

Asks me if I'm scared of getting fat, if I think I'm fat.

Not really, I tell her.

Wish it was as simple as that.

I just don't feel like it, that's all.

 

Mum asks me why some nights I don't come home.

Asks me if there's some reason for that, something that's

stopping me coming home.

Not really, I say.

Wish it was as easy as that.

Some nights I just forget.

 

Mum asks me why we fight so much.

Asks me if I think she's a bad parent,

if she's done something wrong.

Not really, I reply.

Wish parents wouldn't ask those kinds of questions.

We're supposed to fight anyway.

 

Mum asks me if I'm having trouble at school.

Asks me if I'm having issues with friends,

issues with schoolwork.

Not really, I mumble.

Wish it was something so fixable, so easily labelled.

But I'm surviving school.

 

Mum's given up on the questions. She looks the way she did

when I snuck out and got a nose ring, years ago. Like she

doesn't know what to do. I want to tell her that neither do I.

I tell her that I don't know what's wrong.

That sometimes I just feel down.

Sometimes that's become a lot more lately.

 

I tell her that I don't feel much like sleeping.

Much like eating.

Much like doing anything.

 

I tell her that I can't seem to handle it any more,

I don't even know what I mean by that,

and I can't clarify my words, I'm crying instead.

 

Mum gently takes my hand, a determined look on her face.

Grimly she tells me, ‘We'll fix it, Char. We'll fix it.'

She's so sure, so resolute, that I don't have a

glimmer of doubt.

She says it like it's the best option,

the only option.

The only option we've got.

That night, as usual, I can't sleep.

I pull myself out of bed,

stretch,

yawn,

turn on the lamp.

I pace

around my room

looking

for something to do.

My head is throbbing.

Bleary-eyed and groggy,

I open my cupboard,

grab a jacket,

and sneak out my window.

I walk past the park where I ran to that night.

Boys are drinking under one of the trees,

boys I know,

friends of Jim's from footy.

One of them calls me over,

puts a bottle into my hands.

The glass shines eerily in the moonlight and,

as I watch it,

I'm nudged.

‘Well it ain't gonna drink itself. Cheers.'

He drinks from another bottle as I put the one in my hand

to my lips.

Straight alcohol

tastes

like poison

and drinking it down

is oddly ritualistic.

 

You literally have to force it down your throat

and hold it down,

ignoring the fire spreading from bottle to mouth

to stomach.

 

I cough

and the boys laugh.

And yet I keep swallowing the bitter burning fluid.

After a while I begin to laugh as well.

 

Straight alcohol

tastes

like poison

and drinking it down

numbs your brain

your senses

your sense.

Jim's friend puts his arm around me,

takes the bottle.

‘Hey, that's mine,' I say.

‘I think you've just about had your fill,' he teases.

I pout,

sit on the picnic bench,

pout some more.

He takes a scull,

and hands me back the bottle.

Eventually, when the wind is too icy

and our bones are feeling brittle,

people start leaving the park.

Jim's friend wraps his arm around me and walks me away

with him.

I stumble

sway

curse

while he laughs

and holds me up

holds me tighter.

I lean on a street lamp

while he puts the bottles in the bin.

He comes back

his

hands on my hands

lips on my lips.

It's been so long since I've been

touched like that

touched so gently

I yearn for more.

It's like a hunger

that needs to be satiated.

In the morning

Char's mum is feeling optimistic.

Surely,

after the talk with her daughter yesterday,

things should be looking up.

She makes pancakes with blueberries in them,

Char's favourite.

She

takes them up to Char's room.

Breakfast in bed.

She knocks, twice,

then opens the door.

Char isn't in the room

and

although the sheets are rumpled,

they are cold to the touch.

having returned to the kitchen,

sans pancakes.

She has made herself a pot of tea

and sits at the table in the early morning light,

talking to herself.

‘It was just the beginning yesterday, the tip of the iceberg,'

she tells herself grimly.

‘It'll take time to get her back to normal, you know that. Be

gentle, calm, easygoing. Don't go nuts. DON'T go nuts.'

At that moment, Char walks in the door, bleary-eyed

and ruffled.

it's all yelling from then and

defences go up and

arms are folded and

lumps in throats are swallowed back as both try

desperately not to cry and people get frustrated and

say even more things they don't mean and

Char storms out of the room, a bleary-eyed, ruffled demon

and when she's thrown herself on the floor and sobbed and

sniffled and gulped and scrubbed at her face with her

fingers and managed to quieten a little,

she opens her eyes and

notices a plate of cold blueberry pancakes sitting very

demurely on the floor.

 

It is dinnertime at Jim's house.

They're sitting down to mashed potatoes, steak, peas, and

corn (except for his little sister, who's gone vegetarian

and is self-righteously tucking into lentils in place of the

steak and giving the occasional pitiful ‘moo' to get her

point across).

‘James,' says his mum

(he knows he's in trouble because she's using his real name),

‘James, what's happening with you and Char? Haven't

seen her about lately.'

He stares at his peas,

and his sister stops making cow faces and looks up,

interested.

‘We're having a break, Mum,' he mutters,

wishing she wasn't so nosey.

How does he explain?

How can he tell his mum?

She'd be gutted.

Just like the steak on his plate.

When I'm in bed, later on, trying to sleep, Jim's friend from

the park sends me a text message.

I'm surprised he even remembers who I am.