The train station hummed around me. I was so lost in my thoughts that I hardly noticed the pungent smell of urine wafting from the public toilets or the plodding, tapping and striding of hundreds of pairs of feet on the concrete. With no Harry-Potter-style invisibility cloak at my disposal, I’d settled for pulling my hoodie over my head and hunching over a table to hide away. As far as anyone could see I was just another nobody in the city. Another sucker trying to make a living then get home without being spat on or pestered for spare change.
I couldn’t believe how my so-boring-I’d-almost-fall-asleep-thinking-about-it life had changed in the last couple of months. I’d had years of working hard to get good grades, attending dull family events and spending Saturday nights watching Mum unpack the dishwasher. Then … bam! I’d written two features for a national magazine’s website, accidentally hooked up with a celebrity, been harassed by online bullies, been rejected by a gorgeous guy, been booted out of Sash by its infamous editor-in-chief, and seen someone’s life fall apart in front of me. I didn’t know what to think about anything any more.
How could I have been so wrong about Ava? I felt awful for her. Dumped, depressed, not eating, making herself sick … and I’d thought she was the confidence queen. She should have been. Not only was she beautiful, but she was smart and talented — I’d seen her as a triple threat for the internship prize. But beneath all those layers of expensive make-up and designer clothes, she was as scared, alone and anxious about her place in the world as the rest of us. Maybe even more so. If seemingly have-it-all girls like Ava felt like insignificant ants scuttling around trying not to get stamped on, then what chance did we, the non-glamazons, have?
And then, like a glorious sign from above, the idea for my Weekly Mail opinion piece came to me. It didn’t tap me on the shoulder or whisper in my ear. No, it whacked me over the head with an almighty wallop. ‘Write me,’ it pleaded. ‘Write me now.’ I could feel the words rattling around inside me, forming sentences and wanting to spill onto the page. They didn’t care that I’d got the flick from Rae and from James, or give a rat’s that I was kilometres away from the comforts of home. They were ready to be written and I wasn’t going to argue with them, lest they explode into specks of dust, never to be found again. I was a writer. Okay, a wannabe writer, but I needed words on my team.
A booming voice plagued with static came across the loudspeaker, shouting that my train wasn’t far away — but I couldn’t wait any longer. I needed to get the words out now before I lost them.
I raced toward the ticket counter and bustled my way to the front of the line, past two gum-chewing kids, three guys in faux-leather jackets and a dazed-looking businessman. I pleaded with the attendant to swap my ticket for a later train, bribing him with a half-eaten packet of lollies and a chocolate bar. Finally he handed me a new ticket for the next train, which gave me a good two and a half hours to write in the station’s cafe — hello wi-fi and food.
Stomach clenched, I sat down at a table, turned on James’s laptop and waited for it to load. I hoped his desktop background wasn’t a photo of him and Summer kissing. The Polaroids had been bad enough. Luckily, the computer’s welcome page only revealed a black and white photo of Jimi Hendrix carving it up on his guitar. Phew.
Tracing my fingers over the keyboard, I felt connected to James; he was probably the last person to have touched these keys. But my tough-love side didn’t let me sink into that thought for long; it’s a laptop, Josie, not a diamond ring, I told myself. Summer was still James’s girlfriend. I was just the dorky writer chick who inherited the old computer and I had to be okay with that.
I opened up a new Word document and forced myself to focus on the Big Idea. My mind brimmed over with Ava’s body-image struggles, the awful attacks on my appearance by the online trolls, feeling inadequate alongside picture-perfect magazine babes and something as simple — and crushing — as being dumped and left broken-hearted. Oh yeah, that emotion was universal. When you’re single, it can seem like everyone else comes in pairs. Steph had Tim, Kara had Billy, Summer had James. Me? Well, I had a deadline.
It was time to get writing.
When I was done, I saved and closed the piece, then started on a longwinded email to Filly. I told him about the failed internship at Sash, the lessons I’d learned and the ones I hadn’t, the embarrassment of being sacked and my secret fears for my future. Despite how nonchalant I’d been to Steph and Tim, I’d convinced myself that the only career option left for me was shovelling animal poo at the local zoo. But most of all, I told him about the importance of what I’d attached to the email. I’d met my deadline for the Weekly Mail and wanted him to read every word.
The next step was getting it accepted by the paper. I didn’t care about the glory, or the by-line or my portfolio. Sure, I wanted to see my words in print, but my name or face didn’t need to be in golden lights next to them. I’d seen enough of myself in the media to last a lifetime. The story was the important part. After all, I wasn’t just speaking for me — I’d written this piece for every mother, daughter, friend or sister who’d ever beaten herself up for the way she looked or felt about her body.
I hovered over the ‘send’ button. Unsure, I reopened the article for a final look. I skim-read it, soaking up every word until I felt ready. Well, ready enough. The words were unlike any I’d poured onto a page before; they were deeply personal. I knew Kat would tease me for being ‘soft’ or for ‘wearing my heart on my sleeve’. It felt like reading over an old diary, only this piece was going to be published in black and white next to ads for second-hand lawnmowers and escort services.
Almost satisfied, I added one final sentence to the email: I hate to ask, but based on the magazine internship incident, does this mean I have failed the subject? I signed off. Then, without letting myself question anything else, I pressed ‘send’.
I shut the laptop down and bundled it into its bag. I wasn’t ready to hear Filly’s response yet. But as I wheeled my suitcase to the platform, a little part of my brain wondered what I would do if his answer was ‘Yes, you have failed the subject’.
I glanced at my watch again. Only a few minutes had passed since I’d last checked. The train ride dragged on, as though the universe had conspired to make me suffer one final time. The punishment? Torture by boredom — and it was working. All I could hear was a man snoring across the aisle, while the two young girls with him squabbled over a grubby ragdoll. There was nothing to do and no one interesting to make polite chitchat with to pass the time. The darkness of night was creeping in, so there weren’t even paddocks to stare at while I gazed out the window and dreamed of home. Desperate for something — anything — to do, I turned on my phone. My jaw dropped. Twenty-one missed calls. All from Kat.
I called her number, but it rang out. I tried again; this time it went straight to voicemail.
‘Crap,’ I muttered.
I tried once more. Still no answer. Next, I tried Mum. No answer from her either. My eyes welled up as worst-case scenarios planted themselves deep into my brain, growing darker by the second. I tried Mum again, redialling once, twice, three times, until I lost count.
Just when I was about to cry onto the shoulder of the man sitting near me, my phone burst to life and Kat’s name appeared on the screen.
‘Josie, where are you?’ she said. ‘I’ve been trying to call you for hours.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said. ‘My phone was on silent. What’s going on? Are you okay? Kat?’ My questions fired so fast that she didn’t have time to answer.
Instead, she sighed. ‘Jose, Mum’s in hospital. There was an accident.’
‘What? What happened?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it on the phone.’
‘Freaking hell. Is she okay?’
‘Yeah, I think so. She had a fall … and there’s some other stuff. Just come home, Jose. Please.’
I told her I’d be home as soon as I could. At least, I thought that’s what I said, because by then it felt as though I’d floated out of my body and was watching this happen to someone else. I let the shock sweep me up and push me through the train ride, spilling me out onto the familiar platform of home. Except even that looked different now.
All I could hear in Mum’s hospital room was the soft hum of electronic medical equipment and my own fast nervous breaths. Mum was asleep. Earlier, a nurse had pulled her hair into a low bun and I could see every wrinkle and freckle on her face. It was unsettling at first — Mum’s face was usually surrounded by her wild hair — but gradually I could see her beauty. Mum looked at peace while she slept, maybe lost in a dream of a time when everything was okay.
‘Well, that took about an hour,’ Kat said, walking into the room holding two teas. ‘They can save people’s lives but they can’t get the kettle to work. Want one?’
I didn’t, but I took it anyway. ‘Thanks.’
She crashed onto the seat next to me. ‘So … Mum’s right arm’s broken in five places. It’ll be in a cast for a while.’
‘Far out. I can’t believe she was up that ladder. She’s lucky she didn’t break her neck! What was she doing?’
‘Getting Dad’s golf gear from the attic, apparently, so she could try to sell it. Her mood’s been pretty weird lately.’
‘Weird?’
‘Yeah. Laughing. Crying. Snapping. Apologising. She broke her phone this morning and I’d never seen her so upset. It was though she’d been told her left ear had to be cut off or something.’
‘Geez.’
Mum’s odd behaviour the other day with the rest of Dad’s stuff and her reaction to the cutlery on the floor came to mind. ‘Do you think she’ll be alright?’
‘Eventually.’
Kat and I sat in silence, watching her rest. I knew Mum had been struggling since Dad left — we both knew — but I had no idea it would ever come to this. An accident. An ambulance. A trip to Emergency. In a way, it was a relief that there were nurses and doctors to fuss, and take her temperature, and tell us what to do. But mainly it felt awful, like I hadn’t done enough to help. Like I should have prevented this somehow. Like I’d been so caught up in my own drama that I’d failed her as a daughter.
I also felt terrible for Kat. When I’d arrived at the hospital, I’d found her teary and wringing her hands in the waiting room, so it was good to see she’d calmed down.
To think I’d been so stressed about a stupid internship and an off-the-market cute guy while my little sister tried to cope with a sick, worn-out mum with broken bones.
‘I’m so sorry I wasn’t here, Kat.’
‘Don’t be. You’re here now.’
I glanced at Mum, but there was no difference. Part of me had hoped our voices would have woken her up and had her springing out of bed to shower us with kisses and hugs.
But she didn’t move.
For the first time in a while, I wished Dad was here. I wanted to scream at him, hit him; I wanted to yell, ‘Mum’s falling apart and it’s all because you had a midlife crisis and ran away.’ I knew where my anger was coming from. It was guilt for not being there when Mum needed someone. It wasn’t up to Kat to watch over her. I was the older sister, it was my job, my responsibility.
A little moan escaped Mum’s lips. Kat and I sat up straight, waiting for more. We needed more. And then, as though she could read our minds, she gave a small cough.
She opened her eyes, saw us and smiled. ‘My darling girls, you’re here,’ she murmured.
Her eyes closed again. I squeezed her hand, and Kat and I went back to watching her in silence.