| |
I work on the ball art until stupid o’clock. I should be focused on assignments. Thanks to the sweet graphics program on the graph tab, I’m stoked with the dope banner options I’ve come up with. They’ll look mint on the back wall of the hall. I design moustache and crown cut-outs for the photo booth, the kind that you attach to sticks and hold up to your face. I’ll be gutted if Libby doesn’t like them.
As I flick through the pages of designs, a worry creeps in. What if she doesn’t like my stuff, and regrets asking me?
Before the graph tab runs out of power, three percent left, I open my messages, tap in her email address and attach the files.
Hi Libby,
Here are the designs for the ball. Totally cool if you don’t want to use them. Let me know what you think.
Why are you with Luka? He’s a dick.
I delete the last line.
Dylan
and hit Send.
Outside I hear the chug of the Mitsi. It screeches to a stop, the door opens, then closes and the engine revs as it drives off. I walk the frost-covered path to the carpark where I’m met by Bear and watch the Mitsi drive away until the glow from the headlights disappears. Not one word. Guess he’s got better things to do. I breathe into my hands and jam them in my pockets.
Back in the tent, Bear sits up next to me, one ear pointed up, the other flopped down as she tilts her head to the side. I reckon Libby would think she’s cute. I refresh my emails. It’s three a.m.; she’ll be asleep. I push the graph tab into my bag.
I pat Bear. “I’m not myself, girl.”
In the centre of Garden Square, I lock my bike to a tree. I’m the first to arrive for the SOFA class trip, and I walk the concrete steps to the statue of a dude with a leaf covering his privates. If I was that ripped, why not? I sit on the steps to wait, and glance down the path leading through the square to Libby’s apartment.
The rest of the class starts to arrive. Libby and Luka appear, holding hands. I force my attention to my phone and mindlessly scroll through my Instagram feed, which I’ve paid no attention to for a year.
Libby comes over, hair out, no pencil today. She beams. “I love your designs – they’re perfect! Thanks so much; I’m super excited. The hall is going to look so beautiful thanks to you.” The excitement bubbles out of her; it’s contagious. Her happiness makes me comfortable.
“I’m stoked,” I say, but it’s more that I’m epically relieved – not that I’ll tell her that.
“Mum’s set aside a bunch of paint for us.”
I could get used to that.
Then her mood switches to panic as she lists off all the stuff left to organise. “Ahhh, there’s so much to paint, to create.”
“Give me everything that needs painting, and I’ll do it.”
She sits down next to me. “Are you sure?” She opens out a list on her phone labelled Stuff to paint.
I scroll the list. “Easy.”
She breathes a sigh of relief.
“You’re a lifesaver, thanks so much.” She lets out an excited squeal. Her enthusiasm is cute. Maybe balls aren’t lame after all.
I watch Luka’s eye roll, and as Libby stands, he swings his arm around her shoulder. I dip my focus to the ground. It’s not that I forget he’s her boyfriend, it’s just that when we’re together, the world fades in the background, everything and everyone forgotten, only her and me in focus. And Luka is killing my buzz.
She faces Luka. “Oh my god, you’ve got to check these out. They’re adorable.” She opens her bag, pulls out the moustache and crown already attached to sticks, holds the oversized black sparkly moustache above her lip. She’s adorable. I laugh; she’s too funny, and I can’t contain it.
Luka groans. “They’re lame,” he snaps, and storms off, possibly to have a cry.
I’m having the best time.
Libby passes me the oversized dusky-pink glittery crown. I hold it above my head and she giggles. “You look beautiful,” she says, and a grin sweeps across her dimpled cheeks.
“I really do.” And we’re both in fits of laughter.
I can’t remember the last time something was this funny.
“You know you’re officially part of the ball committee?”
“Sure.” I’m gutted when we see Mr Campbell arriving, snapping us back to reality.
“I’ll text you about the next ball meeting. Any days or times work best for you?”
“Anytime.”
“Cool.” She opens her bag, drops the crown and moustache in and goes back to standing next to Luka.
Mr Campbell, ready to start the class trip, hands out a map, worksheet, and assignment questions. “Find all the public art and answer the questions.”
My phone rings. Mr Campbell stops talking and throws me a death stare. I grab my phone from my pocket, fumbling to silence the unknown number. I stick my phone back in my pocket and Mr Campbell resumes his conversation.
“Write the essay and hand in –”
My phone rings again. Mr Campbell’s hands fly to his hips; his eyes bore into me. “Mr Marshall, silence your phone or hand it over.”
I glance at the screen, at the same unknown number. Pushy, much? I look around; everyone’s eyes are on me, including Libby’s.
Luka groans. “Turn it off.”
I hang up the call. No one ever wants to get hold of me enough to ring twice. My worry turns to Dad.
“Finally,” Mr Campbell says, and resumes speaking. “All of this is due Monday, nine a.m., no exceptions. You can stay in groups or go solo; it’s up to you.”
My phone rings again, and agitated sighs erupt from a few still waiting for Mr Campbell to tell them they can leave. Worry gets the better of me. Who calls three times?
I walk away from the group. Mr Campbell raises his voice. “Late assignments or an inability to meet the rules will result in a fail. It’s that simple.”
I pace the sidewalk and answer the call. “Hello?”
Libby and Luka walk off; Libby glances back as someone says, “Is this Dylan?”
“Yes.”
“This is Ginge, your dad’s friend. You need to come to the hospital. It’s your dad.”
I don’t wait for him to fill me in with details. He doesn’t need to. I drop my phone in my bag, letting go of the assignment sheets in my hand, which float across the ground.
It’s as if the world hits Fast Forward with no way to hit Pause. What if I get there and it’s too late? All I can process is getting to the hospital. You never get used to the adrenaline; it’s the same every time.
I don’t care that the class is staring or that Mr Campbell is talking to me. I can’t process his words, my hands shaking as I unlock my bike, the shivers setting in as I speed down the path, past Libby and Luka. I pound it towards the hospital as fast as I can.
As the hospital comes into view, sirens scream past. As hard as I pedal, it never feels fast enough.
I make it to the emergency department, a stitch in my side, drop my bike, heave air and run through the double doors. I stand in line to talk to the administration person. An elderly lady takes a lifetime to describe the exact location of her headache symptoms. I lean side to side to see past her, like I’m in another dimension.
To the left of the administration desk, the door swings open as a doctor enters. I burst past on autopilot. Someone yells, “Stop!” I don’t care.
I reach the ICU receptionist. “Gary Marshall,” I puff.
“Room five. But you can’t –”
I speed down the hall, scan the numbers on the doors. I find his room and stand outside, frozen. The last time I walked into a room in this ward, Mum lay dead. I can’t do that twice.
A nurse taps my shoulder. “Would you like me to go in first?”
“Is he alive?” I fight tears, not sure how long I can hold them back, like I’m trying to hold up the universe with one finger. It’s only a matter of time before it falls and breaks.
The nurse nods and says, “Yes,” as she opens the door.
A respirator puffs. Tubes run into Dad’s nose, his chest rises and falls, and relief washes over me. Beyond my control, the floodgate opens. I bat away a few tears, swallow the rest.
Dad’s skinny frame sinks into the mattress; his collarbones and cheekbones jut out, his skin has a grey, yellow tinge. I know he’s seriously unwell. The adrenaline that got me here vanishes. It’s like my insides have been emptied, the electricity cut, and what remains is devoid of life, black and empty, nothing inside left to give.
I sit on the seat next to Dad. “He’s alive,” I huff out.
The nurse pats me on the back and rests two trays of food on the side table. “He’s going to be okay. Lunch if you want it.”
It’s kind of her, but I’m in no mood to eat.
I jolt awake, unaware I had fallen asleep. A doctor comes in and states the obvious – if Dad doesn’t stop drinking, and whatever else he’s on, his heart will give out. I listen, nod in all the right places, the gravity of the words too deep and painful to fully comprehend.
The doctor leaves. I force my focus on the class trip I missed today and the compulsory assignment I still have to get in.
I pull out my phone to text Libby, and there’s already a message from her: You okay?
I ignore her question and text back: Do you mind sending me a picture of the assignment?
Libby replies with three images: the assessment sheet, map, and a photo of Libby outside the school van, SOFA behind her. Along the wall next to the van, a bomb I did ages ago, a line of hearts, one with a sad face, one happy, another angry, the last empty. The caption: The Street Has Feelings. Xavier in the corner. I expand the photo. Someone has coloured in the empty heart with intricate details of a healthy-looking heart, lifelike with chambers and valves.
Thanks! I wait for a reply, dying to know if it was her who coloured in my heart. Too impatient, I send another text: I like what ya did with the heart with an eye-wink-smiley emoji.
I’ve made an enormous assumption it was her, but as I zoom in, the style is definitely hers.
Haha! Hope ya don’t mind, couldn’t handle the heart feeling empty when there’s so much love around!
It’s like we’re dancing to the same heartbeat, like a perfect symphony. She gets me.
Not at all, it’s perfect! And I’m tempted to send a perfect line of hearts, one in each colour, but I delete them and choose a plain smiley-face emoji instead. I can’t let myself get carried away. Something tugs at my insides, warning me to pull back, not go in too deep.
The mornings become a routine. I block the door of Dad’s room, as he makes it half out of bed.
Dad yells, “You can’t stop me.”
“You’re not leaving. You have to stay to get better.”
And he launches for the door like I’m not there.
“You won’t control me. The last time I looked, this was a free country, and this isn’t no prison.”
He rips the IV line from his hand; blood pools. The tantrums are normal, expected; it’s part of the withdrawal process. I’ve seen Dad in two modes: drunk or in withdrawal. To get into the rehab programme, he has to go two weeks sober. He’s never made it more than a few days, and after the free food and warmth, he gets strong enough to fight back and eventually escapes.
“Don’t you want to get better?”
He doesn’t listen; he never does. He rams into me and before I can regain my balance, escapes past me and runs down the corridor. But he’s easy to catch. I push him back to his bed as he nuts off at me, and drop him on it. I hold him down with a firm grip and all my weight leaning into him; he flails his arms, bats at me, which sets him on a full-on meltdown.
“Get the fuck out of my way before I hurt you,” he screams.
I strengthen my grip. “No.”
Dad fights back, but I know he can’t move. The power feels better than it should. I’m not proud; I can see my weight and grip hurt him, but I can’t stop myself.
A nurse rushes towards me. I release him, immediately filled will guilt.
“I don’t need you,” he snaps. “I’m getting out of here! You can’t make me stay.”
My neck stiffens, teeth grit, and I know I’m at a point of no return, all control lost, no longer able to contain all I’ve kept buried. I know I shouldn’t say what I’m about to say, but the words shoot out: “You killed Mum; it was your fault.”
Years of wanting to say those lines.
I watch his face drop. I know I’ve hurt him. But I can’t stop myself digging it in further, the years of pent-up rage I can no longer bury.
“Mum would still be here if you hadn’t been off your face drunk and slammed the car into a power pole.”
I storm out, too red hot, not proud of how it felt good to let it out, to be heard.
I ride back to the tent and feed Bear, replaying the conversation over and over, yet numb to what I said. I try to sleep and lie awake for hours before guilt consumes me and I ride back to the hospital to say sorry.
I sulk back to Dad’s room. And when I open the door, the room is empty. I check the drawers, but Dad’s stuff is gone.
The nurse making the bed says, “Sorry, he checked himself out.”
For the next week, Dad doesn’t show at the tent or answer any of my messages. And I know I was wrong – I shouldn’t have said those things. I’d do anything to say sorry, to make things okay so he’ll come back to the tent.