journey noun: a distance travelled
I go through Gracie’s going-away checklist, trying to sound like nothing is wrong.
‘Toiletries?’
‘Check,’ she says.
‘Pyjamas?’
‘Check.’
‘Soccer boots and gear?’
‘Check.’
‘Spare clothes and money?’
‘Check.’
‘You know that we love you, Gracie? Gracie?’
If I’d said ‘Check’ to Mum then, it’d be like I’d said it was okay that she and Dad were getting a divorce, and it’s not. They’re ruining my life. I’ve got a fist in my stomach; whenever I open my mouth it punches out at anyone who gets in my way.
I put my bag in the hold underneath the bus. Coach ticks off my name and hands me a soccer top. ‘They’re our new colours. You’re still midfield, Faltrain.’
And that’s it. No one else says a word except for Martin. He sits next to me. ‘Good to see you, Faltrain. We’ve got some plays to go over.’ His forgiveness is as easy as that. I’m on my way. The bus pulls out and turns down a street I’ve never been on before, even though I’ve lived in this suburb all my life.
‘Bill?’
‘Helen? I’m glad you called. We need to talk.’
‘Forget talking. I’ll pick you up in half an hour. Pack some clothes.’
‘Clothes? Where are we going?’
‘New South Wales.’
I asked Dad to come to New South Wales but he just sat there, quiet and staring past me. I wanted him to notice me, just once.
‘Dad?’ I said, getting in the way of the TV.
‘Yeah, mate?’
‘I want you to come to New South Wales. Watch me play.’
‘I can’t afford it, Marty.’
‘I asked Coach. He reckons you and Karen can come on the bus with us.’
‘I don’t think so, Marty.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m tired, mate.’
‘You’re tired? You’d only have to sit on the bus. That’s it.’
‘I just don’t feel like going, Marty. You can tell me about it when you get back.’
‘I don’t want to tell you about it. I want you to see me. You sit on the couch all night waiting for her to come back. She isn’t coming back. You’re tired? Well, I’m tired too. I’m tired of looking after Karen. I’m tired of making us lunch and dinner. I’m tired of cleaning the house. Most of all I’m tired of you and this place.’
He didn’t say anything and it made me angrier. ‘What do you see,’ I yelled, ‘when you think about next year, about all the years that are coming?’
‘I don’t think anything. I don’t let myself. I think about today and tomorrow and that’s it.’
I was scared then. If he didn’t think about those things then they weren’t real for Karen and me either. ‘Don’t you think about us, grown up? Don’t you care?’
‘Of course I care. Of course I love you. It’s just not that easy.’
‘You’ve got to try, Dad.’
‘I try every day, Marty. Every bit of trying I do is for you two.’
That’s when we heard a sound in the doorway. We turned and saw Karen, looking at us with these dead eyes. Neither of us knew what to say when she asked us if we were tired of her too. I still feel sick, because part of me knows I am.
It’s getting dark outside, that winter dark when it’s only late afternoon but it feels like night. Everyone else is sleeping to pass the time. I’m wide-awake.
‘Martin?’
‘Mmm?’
‘Martin, are you asleep?’
‘Well I’m not now, Faltrain. What’s up?’
‘Have you ever done something that you were really ashamed of? I mean something so bad you felt sick just thinking about it?’
‘Everyone has. Why, what’d you do?’
‘I didn’t say goodbye to Mum.’
‘That’s not so bad.’
‘Did you say goodbye to your mum before she left?’ I’d never asked Martin about this before. I didn’t want to hear his answer.
‘She left before I had a chance.’
‘Oh.’
‘That’s what I like about you, Faltrain. You always know just what to say.’
Good on you, Faltrain. Wake me up and remind me of Mum and then go back to sleep. Look at her, sleeping like the dead. I wish I’d had a chance to say goodbye. I want to say more than that. I’d want to know why she left in such a hurry. Was it the socks under the couch that no one cleaned up? Was it cooking the dinner every night? I’d understand that.
I reckon it was because she just didn’t love us enough to stay. It wouldn’t have done us any good, hearing that though. I want to look her in the face and say, ‘Because of you it feels like Dad’s left us too. He wouldn’t even get off the couch to come see his son play in the most important game of his life. Your daughter’s twelve and she still wets the bed. And your son? He’s not going back.’ He’s going to catch a bus somewhere after the Championships. He wants to follow in your footsteps.
I like watching Helen drive. It reminds me of summer holidays we took with Gracie. We’d take off up the coast to a little part of the ocean that was blue and crisp and clean. We’d bury our sandwiches in the sand to keep them cool and then swim until we were hungry. Gracie was always hungry. How could I have forgotten all this?
‘Do you remember our afternoons at the beach?’ I ask her at the petrol station just outside of Melbourne. For a minute I see her smile.
Of course I remember.