A couple of evenings later there was a knock on the front door. It was bright and breezy (the knock, not the door), so I answered it immediately. I mean I would have answered it anyway, but … never mind.
Dad stood there, bright and breezy, a bunch of flowers in one hand, a bottle of wine in the other. He was such a surprise addition to our front doormat that my mind froze for a few moments.
‘Dad,’ I said.
‘There’s not a lot that gets past you, Cate,’ said Dad.
‘Dad,’ I said, proving it wasn’t just a lucky guess.
Mum’s voice echoed down the hallway from the kitchen.
‘Hi, Mike. Come on in. Be with you in a few minutes. Go straight into the front room.’
I shook my head in an effort to blow out the confusion there. It didn’t work. ‘I’ll show you,’ I said.
‘I think I remember,’ said Dad, squeezing past me and into the hall. ‘It used to be my front room at one time. Well, ours.’ He handed me the flowers and the wine. ‘Better give those to your mother, get her to stick them in the fridge. Well, the wine, not the flowers. Though she can if she wants.’
‘They’re beautiful,’ I said, burying my nose in the bunch.
‘I know,’ said Dad. ‘I stole them from your front garden.’
‘You did not.’
‘You’re right. I stole them from the supermarket.’
‘What are you doing here, Dad?’ I tried for a discreet whisper but I think it came out as a hiss.
‘I accepted your mother’s invitation for dinner.’ Dad plopped himself into a chair in the front room and looked around as if to see what had changed in his seven-year absence. ‘Didn’t you know?’
I opened my mouth, then closed it again.
‘I’ll take these to Mum,’ I said and beat a hasty retreat.
The kitchen was part-filled with smoke from the oven and steam from various pans bubbling away on the stove. Mum rushed around, stirring stuff and looking confused, dishevelled and slightly desperate.
‘What is Dad doing here, Mum?’ I asked.
‘Can you check the pan with the broccoli in it, please, Cate? The nut loaf’s got another half an hour and I want to get the vegetables ready.’
I stuck a fork into the bubbling green mass on the stove and it slid through the first floret with minimal resistance. The broccoli wasn’t just done. It was done, dusted and fit for burial. In half an hour it would be a green puddle you’d have to eat with a soup spoon. Mum has many talents, but cooking isn’t one of them. If Sam left, the pair of us would probably starve to death because I make Mum look like Jamie Oliver. I turned off the heat under the pan.
‘All good,’ I lied. ‘What is Dad doing here?’
‘I told you.’
‘You didn’t.’
‘I did.’
I sighed and put my hands on my hips, but it was a wasted gesture since Mum was still bustling around her cooking disaster. So I put the wine in the fridge and found a vase for the flowers.
‘Remind me,’ I said. Mum hadn’t mentioned it, but I knew there was no point in arguing. Then it hit me. It was so obvious, I should’ve seen it before. But then again, I had no idea he was coming for dinner. ‘You want to talk to him about all of us going to England.’
‘I told you that,’ said Mum. I opened my mouth to say, No, you didn’t, but shut it again. ‘That’s why,’ Mum continued, ‘Sam has gone out with some friends for the evening, so the three of us could have a good chat.’
‘You told Dad about the England idea?’
‘No.’ Mum rinsed her hands in the sink and then relit the flame under the broccoli. I didn’t say anything. There was nothing that could save them anyway. ‘But I assumed you did. You know, him being your father and it being a life-changing decision and all.’
Even I had to admit it was a reasonable assumption. But I hadn’t mentioned it to Dad and when I thought about it now, I reckoned it was for two reasons. Firstly, I believed I had at least a couple of months to mull things over, so there was no point talking it over with anyone (except Elise, of course). Secondly, it was a bit like the reason I didn’t tell Mum and Sam about my weekend visits with Dad. What happened in the home, stayed in the home – theirs as well as Dad’s. I like to keep things in their boxes. Was that my mistake or was that something my parents had nurtured in me? It was too difficult a question to consider.
‘He has no idea why he’s here,’ I said. ‘He’s going to feel like he’s walked into an ambush.’
‘Oh my God, Caitlyn,’ said Mum. ‘I can’t believe he doesn’t know anything about this. Why would he have accepted my dinner invitation, if it wasn’t to discuss you going to England?’
‘I don’t know, Mum,’ I replied. ‘Maybe he thought it was a generous offer, to spend some time as a family again, with no hard feelings. You know. Nothing on the agenda.’
Mum grabbed me by the arm.
‘Go and tell him now, Cate,’ she said. ‘He can’t be given this news over dinner. He needs some time to digest this.’
I had a feeling indigestion was going to be playing a large part in Dad’s life over the next few days. Assuming he actually stayed for dinner, that is.
‘Why don’t you tell him?’ I said. ‘It was your idea.’
Mum put her hands on her hips and that wasn’t a wasted gesture.
‘It’s not fair,’ I said as I backed out of the kitchen.
‘Life rarely is,’ said Mum.
Dad sat up straight throughout my little speech, only swallowing a couple of times. It was like someone had snuck up behind him and smacked him on the back of the head with a baseball bat. He wasn’t in this world but hadn’t realised it yet.
‘I haven’t made up my mind, Dad,’ I finished, then regretted it. It was like my words were a weapon hanging over him.
‘Ah,’ he said.
‘I mean, there’s lots to consider. Reasons to go, yeah. But reasons to stay as well. It’s tricky. I mean …’ I was talking too much. No, not talking. I was babbling. But Dad’s silence was too big a void. I had to fill it, even with rubbish.
He made it to the end of dinner, though he didn’t eat a great deal. Part of that must’ve been because the food was inedible, but it wasn’t the whole story. He and Mum talked about the whole proposition, how it was a dream job for Sam, how Mum could easily pick up a teaching job in London from all she had heard. But mostly they talked about me and the amazing opportunities that Europe would present. I have to give Dad credit. He must’ve felt like the bottom was falling out of his world, but he was very reasonable, conceding that it would be a fantastic experience that few girls of my age could expect, that maybe they could discuss arrangements about him coming to visit or me flying back to Melbourne occasionally.
‘Cate will be fourteen soon. I think that would be an okay age to travel by yourself,’ said Mum. ‘I mean, obviously Sam and I would see her onto the plane and you would be here to pick her up.’
Dad nodded and swirled some liquefied broccoli around his plate.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That could work.’
There’s reasonable and there’s being so reasonable that it’s unreasonable. I thought we were wading briskly into those waters. Maybe not wading. Plunging. So far, I’d sat opposite Dad and said nothing, mainly because no one had invited me to comment. I guess I could have jumped in, but I wanted to see how long they could talk about decisions that would turn my life upside down without ever asking for my opinion. Turns out that might have been forever.
So I just listened and fanned the flame of anger burning deep inside me.
I saw Dad out not long after the meal was over. Mum had offered him a glass of wine but he’d turned it down, partly because he was driving but mainly, I thought, because that would keep him there longer than necessary. I left the front door ajar and walked him down to the car.
‘Heavy stuff,’ said Dad.
‘None heavier,’ I replied.
Dad jingled his car keys.
‘You’re angry that no one asked what you thought, Cate,’ he said.
‘And you’re a mind-reader now?’
He chuckled.
‘Oh, trust me, Cate. Your thoughts are always written on your face and in language that’s impossible to misinterpret.’
‘So why didn’t you ask?’
‘Sit with me in the car for a bit.’
He turned on the engine and put the heater on full. Within a minute or two it was toasty in the car.
‘Think of the personal dynamics,’ said Dad after a while. ‘Your mum and I have an investment in staying reasonable with each other. It makes life easier for us, but it also makes things easier for you and that’s something we both care passionately about.’
‘Ignoring me is easier for me?’
‘Let me finish.’ Dad sighed. ‘I could’ve argued. I could’ve presented another case where you staying here with me would be so much better. Europe can wait, continuing your education is important, unaccompanied flights across the world work just as well going to London from Melbourne as vice versa. You know that, Cate, because all those things will have occurred to you. Let’s say I had done that. You would be in the middle yet again. Another conflict between parents and you feeling like a pawn in a game.’
Or a token.
‘But …’
‘And asking you your opinion around that dinner table would be forcing you into taking sides. Go or stay. In the end, that’s what will have to be decided by all of us, but especially you. You will speak your mind to your mother. But when it’s just the two of you. And you will speak your mind to me. Tomorrow, I hope, when it’s just the two of us. What’s the point in forcing you to make one of us feel bad back there? Divorced parents shouldn’t witness one another’s pain. We gave up that right when we split.’
I mulled this over, but I couldn’t help thinking that, as always, he was being way too reasonable and fair.
‘Speaking of pain,’ I said finally, ‘sorry about dinner.’
‘It wasn’t that bad.’
‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘It was worse. It was disgusting.’
Dad patted my shoulder. ‘I do not necessarily agree with what you said, but I will defend, to my death, your right to say it.’
I opened the car door and stepped out into the cold of evening. Dad wound down the passenger window.
‘Pick you up from school tomorrow, Cate.’
‘Sure, Dad.’
‘If I’m not in intensive care with food poisoning.’
‘I do not necessarily agree with what you say, but I will defend …’
But Dad had driven off. I hugged myself against the cold and went back up the front path to help Mum with the clearing up. And maybe to exchange a few unreasonable words.
‘Cate, it’s me.’
I resisted the urge to sigh. Even Dad must realise that his contact details would come up on my phone, but there was little point telling him again. Anyway, he sounded stressed.
‘Have you left school yet?’ he continued.
‘Just about to.’
‘Okay. Listen to me carefully because I will only say this once. Don’t ask any questions, just do what I tell you to do. Do you understand?’
‘Dad …’
‘Do you understand?’
I sighed this time. ‘Yes.’
‘Okay. Leave by the back entrance to the school, the one on Griffith Street. Keep your head down and don’t run. Across the road to your right you’ll see a rental car. It’s red and it has A1 Rentals on the passenger door. As quickly as you can, cross the road and get into the back of the car. Behind the passenger seat. Once you’re in, crouch down in the well and I’ll start driving. Whatever happens do not raise your head until I tell you it’s safe. I’ll explain everything when we’ve put some distance between us and them.’
‘Dad. What the hell!’
‘I know, Cate, and I’m sorry. But right now, I need you to follow instructions. I’m hanging up. Remember. Walk quickly but don’t run.’
I tucked the phone into my backpack which I slung over a shoulder. Head down. Walk quickly. Don’t run. Whatever you do, don’t run. I’d seen enough TV crime series. They would notice someone running and we apparently couldn’t afford to attract attention. Whatever story Dad was going to tell me, I knew it would involve people out there watching and waiting. So I had to be just another kid leaving school, blending into the general melee. Dad would explain what was going on once we were moving. (A rental car? Wouldn’t that, in itself, attract attention? Who picks up their kid from school in a rental? I’d ask later – that seemed a design flaw to me.) I had a strong feeling he would be wearing some kind of disguise and my lip curled into an involuntary smile. But I squashed it as soon as it was born. Right at this moment, the situation was not a laughing matter. Yet.
I waited until a knot of kids left by the back gate and mingled in with them. I was in luck. They turned right and after a few steps I glanced up. The red rental car was across the road, lined up with other cars waiting for their children to come out. Ten metres of open road lay between me and the back door. Don’t run. Don’t attract attention. Make it seem like you are heading to the car behind and then jump in at the last moment. Should I wave? Would that seem normal, or would it attract the attention of someone scanning the mass of kids on the lookout for … well, for me? Too risky. It was important to keep the disbelief suspended.
It seemed to take forever but I finally had my hand on the door’s handle. I opened it, slung my backpack in and then slid onto the seat and straight down into the well. At least it was clean down there and there wasn’t any nasty smell. A decent rental company, then. I was grateful. But it was strange not wearing a seatbelt. That was so automatic I felt myself reaching for one before I remembered I was down on the floor.
Even before I’d settled, Dad had swung the car out onto the road and we were away. I could tell that he wasn’t driving very fast, probably just below the forty-kilometre speed limit that marked out school zones.
‘What kind of boring escape is this?’ I said. ‘I was expecting a roar of engine and the smell of burning rubber.’
‘Not funny, Cate.’ Dad’s voice drifted down to me. ‘Rule number one. Don’t attract attention.’ I couldn’t help it. This time I snorted with laughter. ‘Speaking of attracting attention,’ he continued, ‘you’ll find a plastic bag on the floor next to you. There’s a wig in there. Put it on and I’ll pull over in a minute or two. Once I’m confident you won’t be recognised, you can get into the passenger seat.’
I rummaged around and found the wig. It was blonde and would come down past my shoulders. This was fun. I couldn’t wait to see what Dad was wearing. Given that he is someone with patches of hair just around and above his ears, with a skull that dazzles when the sun hits it, my money was on another wig. And if I was really lucky, a bushy moustache that curled down at the ends.
‘What’s the story, Dad?’ I pulled my own hair back from my face, and pinned it at the nape of my neck.
‘I’m so sorry to involve you in this,’ he said, ‘but there was no choice. I have a couple of rooms booked in a motel outside of town. Not in our names obviously, and I’ll be paying cash. If it seems like we’ve thrown off the people chasing me, then we can go to a fast-food restaurant. Somewhere crowded where I can sit so I can see who’s coming and going. We can talk through all of this then.’
‘Yeah. Cool,’ I said. The wig was a little scratchy and it had a strange, dusty smell, but it was a fairly decent fit and I couldn’t wait to check myself out in the passenger mirror. ‘But at least you can tell me who’s after you. The mob? The police? Have you forgotten to take back your library books again?’
‘Ha ha,’ said Dad. ‘But this is deadly serious. This …’
He never got to finish the sentence. Tucked up on the floor in the back of the car, I had no idea what was happening. Light filtered down from the windows but it only illuminated a patch of carpet. For all intents and purposes I was blind. But my other senses spoke. Loud and clear.
I’m not sure which was first, the sound of screeching tyres or the violent twisting of the car. There were all kinds of sensory inputs, though I couldn’t make sense of them. The explosion of shattering glass, the wail of rending metal, the tumbling of fragmented light, someone screaming, though that might have been me, the smash of my head against something, the taste, bitter and metallic, of blood in my mouth, the smell of petrol, oh God, the smell of petrol and the realisation somewhere at the back of my aching head that petrol and fire were two sides of the same coin, the world turning over and over and the absurd image of me in a washing machine being spun into oblivion.
Full darkness did come. Eventually. When the world had stopped turning and the noise had changed to a sinister ticking. Then my body gave up. My last thought was that at least my wig was still on.