Act of Grace Page 8

Finally Claire organised for him to go into a home. But the guilt ate away at her. She began to drink, especially after the visits. Once, in his ward, they found a nurse with her hands on Danny’s shoulders, holding him down in bed. She was on her tiptoes, putting all her weight on him as he struggled to get free. ‘It’s quiet time,’ she said sternly, and when she saw them in the doorway, she simply repeated it. ‘It’s quiet time, Daniel.’

  Claire went wild. She yelled at the nurse that Danny was young. He needed to move around. Couldn’t she tell? ‘He’s fucking sprightly in comparison to the others,’ Claire snapped, looking around at the residents, all of them white and skinny like albino stick insects. Otis began to cry and Robbie only watched her little brother. She wanted to hug him but couldn’t. It felt like they’d all turned into islands, where once they were joined.

  Back at home, the smell of boiled vegetables and urine seemed to stay with them, in their clothes and their hair. Robbie had visions of all those purple legs encased in pressure socks and of the woman who always stood next to the window, wrapping and unwrapping herself in the curtain, turning around and around.

  *

  A year into this new order, Claire’s work friend Ruth urged her to start dating and signed her up to eHarmony. They’d sit in the study giggling, wine glasses in their laps, heads together over the computer as Claire scrolled through all the men. ‘Ooh, now there’s a silver fox,’ Ruth would shriek, and reach out, clicking to message him before Claire could stop her.

  Neither Robbie nor Otis liked Ruth – she was bossy, always telling them to help their mother and lecturing Claire to edit her profile so she’d get more matches. ‘Do you want to meet someone or not? If you do,’ she’d say, ‘you need to keep changing your algorithm.’ When Robbie went past the study once, Ruth called out to her. ‘Your mum’s a sucker,’ she said. ‘Always stopping at the ones with cats and dogs in their photos. See, look!’ Robbie came over and peered at the screen, showing a man in a grey T-shirt sitting on a couch with a dog. ‘Borrowed,’ Ruth said knowingly.

  Robbie couldn’t stand it. A couple of times she’d logged in when her mother wasn’t around, looking through the ‘available’ men. There were guys with pot bellies, bald blokes with tattooed chests and peroxided beards, men in military uniforms. None looked like her father. They all seemed to leer. Even those posing with a kid, usually with some sort of disclaimer at the bottom: Not my son – my nephew! Robbie had a sick feeling that maybe their mother had posted photos of her and Otis, so she looked at her profile. She hadn’t. Instead she’d put up two photos Danny had taken of her when they spent the Christmas holidays in Rye a few years ago. She was smiling, a sarong patterned with hibiscus flowers tied over her bathers, a cluster of freckles sprinkled on her shoulders. In one photo she was wearing her straw hat and looking at the camera from under its brim, straight at what Robbie knew was Danny, her eyes shining. Her profile read, I love summer, the beach, fish and chips, men who know how to change a tyre. I’ve got a son obsessed with basketball and a sassy 15-year-old daughter going on 18 (help!)

  Robbie read and reread the paragraph. Then she waited for her mother to get home.

  Claire’s face was drawn when she got in, plastic supermarket bags pinching her wrists. ‘Can you help me with these, Rob?’ she said as she passed the study.

  ‘No.’

  Claire stopped and frowned. ‘Robbie,’ she began curtly, but Robbie cut her off.

  ‘What the fuck is this, Mum?’ she demanded, pointing at the computer.

  Claire’s frown deepened, peering at the screen. ‘That’s private.’

  ‘Private, sure,’ Robbie snapped. ‘It’s on there for the whole world to see. “Going on eighteen”? What the fuck is that?’ Then, prissily, ‘“Help”? What the fuck is that?’

  Claire sighed, easing the bags from her arms and onto the floor. She shrugged off her work blazer, leaving it on top of the printer. ‘Honey,’ she said tiredly, walking towards Robbie.

  ‘Don’t “honey” me!’ Robbie felt a fury building inside her. She snatched the paperweight that had been on the desk forever, a lump of resin encasing a Christmas beetle, and hurled it at her mother.

  Claire reeled as the weight caught the corner of her eyebrow. ‘Ow!’ she screamed, covering her face with her hands. ‘Oh my fucking god, Robbie!’ She moved a hand away, peering at her palm. Blood was spurting from a gash and running down her cheek. She pressed her hand back over the wound, smearing blood into her hair.

  Robbie was instantly regretful. ‘Mum, oh Mum, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’

  Otis ran out from his room and halted when he saw the blood. ‘What happened? Robbie, what happened?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ Robbie kept saying, trying to press her hand to the gash, but Claire pushed her away, hurrying to the bathroom. Robbie followed, standing outside the closed door. ‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ she called, and then in a rush of anger, ‘Fuck, Mum, I apologised!’

  Otis stared at her. ‘What did you do, Robbie? Why did you hit Mum?’

  After that, a silence crept out over the three of them; a distance grew that they couldn’t fix. Even after Robbie and Claire talked it out, there was still something between them, a wall that kept growing.

  *

  ‘IS EVERYBODY READY?’

  The MC’s voice boomed, the enormous wooden shed atop the old shipping pier rattling. Thousands of arms went up, spun with glow bracelets and tattoos, spindly in the flashing lights.

  ‘IS EVERYBODY READY TO GO HARD?’ Pictures kaleido-scoped over the roof, the walls, skin, patterns breaking into shapes and spinning outwards.

  ‘I SAID,’ the MC boomed again, ‘IS EVERYBODY READY?’ People began to cheer and stamp their feet. If you were high, which everyone was, the sound was like a perfect wave, lifting the human hordes up in its crescent.

  ‘ALRIGHT!’

  A single beat whistled over the crowd.

  ‘LET’S GO,’ the MC yelled as the beat dropped, the wave crashing as everyone threw themselves forward, launching into the dance, sweat arcing in the air, and if Robbie’s father was forgetting everything, she had every intention of remembering everything, kicking up talcum powder on the floor, her arms unfolding like wings. She had conversations with her father out here, his voice as clear in her head as her own. We’re made up of winners and losers, she heard him say, our blood, our bones – and she felt it, the blood running in her veins like creeks, her bones beach-bleached sticks. So what do you do? her father’s voice hummed deeply with the bass. She knew what he would say. You back the winners, that’s what you do. But as the shed popped with beats and bursts of light, as people unfurled into the sound, Robbie felt her world realign. No, she always thought, at the peak of the night. No, I’ll back all of me.

  *

  Robbie had been with Nik for almost two years when she learned that things had changed with her mum. School was edging to a finish, but she pretty much only went for art classes anyway, scraping through the other subjects. She and Nik were almost living together: nights were spent at his place, but she’d go back to the townhouse for a few hours alone, usually in the afternoon.

  It was during one of those visits that Claire came home early. There was a guy with her.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Robbie said. ‘I’m going.’

  Claire shook her head, grabbing her daughter’s hand. ‘No, I’m happy to see you.’ She glanced at her backpack. ‘I want to talk to you. Do you think you could stay for a bit?’

  Robbie shrugged. She let her bag slip off her shoulder as Claire motioned to the guy to come closer. He was wearing a denim shirt, buttoned all the way up, brown pants and polished shoes. He was plain-looking, with brown hair, his head slightly too big for the rest of his body. ‘This is Nathan,’ Claire said, smiling at him.

  ‘Hi,’ Robbie said dully, hefting the bag back onto her shoulder, but Claire reached out to stop her.

  ‘No, I’d like to talk to you,’ she said, and then, looking at him, ‘with Nat
han.’

  They sat on the couch. Robbie perched on the edge, looking at her hands.

  ‘So,’ Claire started nervously, ‘I met Nathan . . . at a church.’ Robbie looked up. ‘Sunnyside,’ Claire added.

  Robbie groaned and put her head on her knees.

  ‘Robbie,’ Claire pleaded. ‘Don’t be so judgemental.’

  Nathan started to laugh. It was a deep, bell-like sound. Robbie turned so she could see him, resting her cheek on her thigh. Claire turned to him too. ‘What are you laughing at?’ she said sharply.

  ‘Well, she is funny, you said so yourself.’

  Claire snorted. ‘Yes, but not in a very nice way.’

  At that moment Otis came in, tossing his bag in the doorway. He stopped, surprised to see Robbie. ‘Hey Mum, hey Nathan,’ he said, then looked uneasily at Robbie. ‘Hey Rob.’

  Robbie looked at Otis, then back at Claire. ‘Please don’t tell me you’ve got Otis involved.’

  Claire tossed her head. ‘Look, Robbie, it’s not a cult, I’m not going to make you join. Or Otis,’ she said, and added, ‘Oh god, Robbie, please don’t even think of joining!’ Robbie smiled despite herself and Claire put her hand on Robbie’s hair, stroking it. ‘I just wanted you to know. That I’m happy. Look at me – I haven’t had a drink in eight weeks.’

  She did look good: her eyes were clear. But she seemed older. Her hair had silver in it. Along her eyebrow there was a scar, notched like the starred head of a screwdriver, from the paperweight.

  ‘What about Dad?’ Robbie said defensively. It had been months since she’d been to the home, just letting the time between visits drag out until it was no longer time between but since. ‘Does he know about Dad?’ She nodded in Nathan’s direction.

  ‘Oh, honey, he’s met Dad. Nathan’s been coming with me twice a week to help.’

  Tears shot into Robbie’s eyes. She looked away. ‘That’s nice,’ she said, shifting her gaze to the wall. She stood up, bag in hand. ‘I’ve got to go.’

  Claire put her hand out, held Robbie’s wrist. ‘Can’t you stay? Have dinner with us?’

  Robbie shook her head, avoiding her mother’s concern. She glanced over at Nathan instead. ‘Nice to meet you.’

  He nodded. ‘Same.’

  ‘See ya, Otis.’

  ‘Bye, Rob.’

  On the bus to Nik’s, Robbie plugged in her headphones. She tried to catch the beats, swim into them, letting one wave go, riding the next. But the repetitiveness annoyed her. Scrolling through her albums, she settled on The Church, one of her father’s favourite bands. She thought about how he used to say the lyrics, not sing them. He’d look at her and Otis in the rear-view mirror, his eyes intense. Fingers furious on the wheel. ‘Our documents are useless,’ and he’d practically spit the words out, ‘Page forty-seven is unsigned, I need it by this evening.’ Did he miss them? In the nursing home, did he ever remember them? Robbie’s heart hurt. She missed him so fucking much.

  It was raining when she got off the bus. Cars streaked past, slurries of water coming from their tyres, their headlights bleeding into the night. At Nik’s, the Babushka opened the door. She was wearing those fleece slippers they sell at the supermarket, with the sticky grip on the soles. Robbie could hear them squeak as they peeled off the lino when she walked back into her kitchen.

  Nik was on the phone when she entered. He nodded at her, pushing the mix her way, and she packed a cone, sucked it down and packed another. When he ended the call, Robbie sat on his lap, straddling him. Nik looked up at Robbie, bringing his lips close to kiss her.

  Suddenly, she wanted to hurt him. She pushed his face away, forcing him flat on the bed, and tugged his tracksuit pants down, keeping her other hand on his neck so he couldn’t get up. Then she wriggled out of her jeans and undies. She could feel something turning in her, a dark shape, about to reveal itself.

  Nik tried to kiss her again but she wouldn’t let him, instead working his penis into semi-hardness with her mouth, viciously nipping at the edges of his skin. Nik flinched. ‘Ow, Robbie,’ he said, attempting to shift away. She sat up, straddling him again. She forced Nik’s chin away, the heel of her hand on his throat so he couldn’t see her. ‘Robbie,’ he said again, trying to push her hand off. She ignored him, putting her weight on him, hand still on his throat, grinding with her pelvis.

  ‘Robbie,’ Nik said in a strained voice, ‘I can’t fucking breathe.’ Dully, she released her hand a little. She closed her eyes, concentrating. It was there, a small flare in the dark, a weak pulse of heat. She chased it down.

  A jagged snarl caught in her throat when she came. The heat throbbed and bloomed all the way up to her neck.

  She rolled off Nik and he sat up, rubbing his neck, looking at her strangely. Then there was a knock on the bedroom door and he sprang up, pulling his pants on. Robbie slid under the doona and faced the wall. ‘Hey, bro,’ she heard a voice say. Pete. Awesome, man, Robbie mimicked in her head.

  It was the regular Thursday-night boom for Nik. Robbie put a pillow over her head but could still hear people coming in and out, slapping palms like they were all ghetto. She could feel Nik shifting bags of stuff from under the bed, others unwrapping their foils, adding to the mix bowl; she heard the warm-up of scissors, the sucking, bubbling, exhaling. There was the nervous laughter of new girls, girls who smelt of sweet musk and probably took itsy-bitsy tokes. ‘Pure THC,’ Nik said to one of them, and the girl asked a question and Nik laughed. ‘Nah, no bad trips, I promise.’

  Robbie sat up, and a few people jumped. ‘Shit, Robbie,’ Pete said. ‘I didn’t even know you were there.’

  ‘Well, it’s the fucking room of surprises then, isn’t it?’ she snapped, and the doorbell rang again. Robbie looked at Nik. ‘Why don’t you answer the door for a change?’

  He stared back, trying to work her out. Then he laughed, returning to mixing.

  ‘No, I’m serious, Ni-kit-a. Why don’t you answer the door?’

  ‘Shut the fuck up, Robbie,’ he said quietly.

  Robbie looked at Pete. ‘What about you? You’re pretty much always here these days. Why don’t you go answer the door?’

  Pete blushed, looking to Nik for help.

  ‘Why don’t you, Robbie?’ Nik said, louder this time. ‘Why don’t you fucking open the door, if you care so much?’

  ‘Great idea,’ she said, swinging her legs out from under the doona, still naked from the waist down. A couple of the girls sniggered as Robbie stepped around them, finding her jeans. ‘I’ll give your slave, sorry, your mother, your regards,’ Robbie called to Nik as she shut the bedroom door, getting dressed in the corridor.

  On her way down the stairs, she recognised a couple of girls from her English class coming up. ‘Hey, Robbie,’ one said, as they stopped to let her pass. Robbie didn’t answer. She saw the back of the Babushka as the woman shuffled down the hallway to the kitchen.

  Through the yellow glass beside the front door, a shape came up the footpath and the doorbell rang again. Robbie answered it. A guy whose name she could never remember was standing on the doormat with his arm around his girlfriend in her midriff top, showing off her pierced belly button. Robbie rolled her eyes, stepping back so they could come in, then slammed the door, making the girl jump.

  When Robbie turned around, the Babushka was staring at her. A low lamp on a side table gave her the look of someone holding a torch under their chin, the underside of her lips, her nostrils, her eyelashes and the protruding centre of her forehead lit up in the dark. ‘I thought I’d give you a break,’ Robbie said, as the couple went up the stairs.

  The Babushka didn’t say anything.

  ‘I mean, you must get sick of it?’

  The woman shrugged, then slowly turned to walk back to the kitchen. Her slippers squeaked. Robbie decided to follow her and the woman’s back stiffened, sensing this.

  It was bright in the kitchen, with its blond timber cupboards and fluorescent light. A Big W catalogue was open on the shiny pine table,
a mug of tea beside it. The Babushka went to the far side of the room, as if putting the table between them. Robbie had never really seen her in the light before, and it was like seeing a ghost inside a ghost. She could see Nik’s eyes and lips. But she couldn’t imagine this woman being his mother and doing motherly things, like reading to a young Nik in bed, kissing his head, tickling him. Not like she and Otis had with their mum and dad.

  Robbie’s eyes blurred. She looked around the kitchen for a way to halt the tears. ‘I was wondering if, maybe, I could make a cup of tea?’ she asked awkwardly.

  The Babushka hurried to the sink to fill the kettle.

  ‘No, don’t you do it!’ Robbie said, too loudly. The Babushka jumped and moved quickly back to where she had been standing. Robbie went over and picked up the kettle, filling it and clicking it back on its stand. Then she opened the cupboards, looking for mugs. ‘Would you like one too?’ Robbie said when she found them, choosing a mug featuring a Jack Russell. The Babushka shook her head and glanced out to the hallway.

  ‘I’ve only been in here a few times before, isn’t that crazy?’ Robbie said. She was feeling funny, a rising nausea in her throat. ‘I’ve been going out with Nik for two years’ – the Babushka was staring at her – ‘and I haven’t been in here more than a couple times, isn’t that crazy?’ She kept talking, trying to keep the sick feeling at bay. The Babushka said nothing and Robbie opened the cupboards again, looking for teabags. ‘Do you and Nik ever have dinner together? I mean,’ she continued, ‘does Nik even eat?’ She saw a jar of loose tea and reached up to grab it. She was starting to panic. What was she doing in here? She put the jar on the bench. The leaves were moving, like it was filled with bugs. Fuck. She was wasted. Fuck.

  Then, as Robbie was trying to open the jar, it slipped and fell, shattering on the floor. Next thing the Babushka was on her knees with a brush and dustpan, moving around Robbie. Robbie lifted her feet and stepped back, leaving two imprints in the leaves. Glass shards had scattered far across the floor. Robbie looked down at the Babushka, bent over on her knees. Her hands were shaking as she swept. Another feeling came over Robbie then, same as she’d felt upstairs with Nik, of wanting to hurt him. She felt a twitch in her foot, an impulse to kick. The want was so strong, the woman just kneeling there, that Robbie’s mind went dark.