home noun: the fixed residence of a
person. Built from wood. And brick.
And memory.
You know the way your cat looks at you when you’re late feeding him? Sort of like, give up the goods, baby, or I’m going to dig my claws into your leg, one at a time? Imagine a soccer team of cats. They haven’t been fed for days. That’s how they’re looking at me.
I want to play soccer again more than anything. I’m just not sure if I can win like I used to. It doesn’t seem like the right time to tell them, though, as they stand there sharpening their claws, that I’m pretty sure there’s no Whiskas left in the cupboard.
The hotel makes me feel sick. It’s one of those places where the fluorescent lights flicker in the hallways, lighting up swirls of orange and black carpet. I can see burn marks in it, like the people who have stayed here weren’t allowed to smoke in their rooms so they stood in the corridor, leaning against chipped paint and grinding butts in with their heels. I don’t feel sick because of this. I don’t care that I stand apart from the group. I feel like I’m going to throw up because I catch sight of a payphone down the hallway, and for a second I imagine Dad, pressing the phone to his ear, telling me that he’ll be home soon.
I’m sure Dad never stayed in a place like this. I’m sure he called me from friendly hotels where the owners left towels and chocolates on his pillow. I’d always imagined his trips away as fun, ordering room service late at night and watching videos. Maybe that’s why it was easy to get angry with him for staying away so long. But what if this is what his life has been like for the past five years? What if this has been his home?
I start to cry.
There are three groups of people in the world. There are the cryers – those who can work themselves up into a state just by thinking about something sad. These people can flood towns with their tears. Then there are those who cry sometimes – at funerals and weddings and stuff like that. Then there are the non-cryers, the get-on-with-it people. These people have no idea what to do when faced with a swollen-eyed, cry-till-you-choke person. I fall into the second group, but today in the hall, I am rapidly working my way up to a promotion. I am crying like there is no tomorrow. Martin is definitely in the third group and what he has here is a situation.
‘Gracie, mate, you’ve got to stop it,’ I say. I should have known better. The last time I tried to tell her to be quiet she kicked me in the privates with the soccer ball. She said it was an accident, but something in her eyes told me never tell her what to do again. This was for her own good, though. The team is just waiting for a reason to bench her. I grab the sleeve of her t-shirt and pull her into her room.
‘Faltrain, I’ll help you train. You’ll be okay.’
‘It – it’s n-not the soccer . . .’ She’s working herself up into a state now.
‘Maybe you need to sleep. Things will be better tomorrow.’
‘I – I . . . my – parents are getting divorced.’ And then she starts using my sleeve for a tissue. I let her, because I remembered how I felt when Mum left. I hadn’t seen anyone cry like Faltrain since Karen when I told her that Mum wasn’t coming home. I figure sometimes it’s best to let them get tired.
Eventually Faltrain calms down.
‘Martin, tell me about your mum.’
What should I say? Not that she left us for dead, that wouldn’t be the right story. I tell her about the lunches. ‘On Saturdays Mum would always ask Karen and me what we wanted for lunch. She knew what we’d say, but she asked anyway. ‘What do you feel like eating?’ She knew we’d want a bacon sandwich. She made the best bacon sandwiches you ever tasted, Faltrain. She cooked the bacon till it was all crispy and then put just the right amount of butter on fresh white bread. She’d lay two slices of cheese over the bacon, and then she put the pieces together and cut it into triangles. We’d eat them at the table. I’d get the drinks for us and we’d sit together with the telly on in the background. I’ve never had a sandwich that tasted better.’
Faltrain is asleep by the time I finish the story. Coach comes into the room about ten-thirty and tells me I shouldn’t be there. I pull the sheets up around her chin, catch a whiff of soap and toothpaste. The smell I remember from before Mum left. It’s the smell of home.
I wake up in the morning face down on the pillow, my eyes stuck together, and Martin yelling at me. ‘Get up, Faltrain,’ he’s calling at me from the hallway.
‘What are you yelling from the corridor for, you idiot? Come in and shut the door. I’ll get up in a second.’
‘Nah, I’ll wait for you out here.’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing. Hurry up. We got work to do.’
‘Remember, kick to the centre!’ Martin yells across the field at me.
‘I’ll remember!’ I yell back at the shape that I’m guessing is Martin. The field is so big, and he is so far away from me that it’s hard to tell if it’s him.
‘Move your ass, Faltrain,’ the shape calls. ‘Coach wants to talk to us at nine.’ Yep, it’s Martin all right.
It’s as if I’ve suddenly developed a life-threatening disease and he’s scared to death of catching it. He walks about ten paces in front of me and once we arrive runs as far away as possible. I cup my mouth with my hand and breathe hard into it. Nothing wrong there. I must have freaked him out last night when I wiped my nose on his sleeve. Some guys can break sprinting records if they think someone is about to cry.
Last night I cried rapids and now Martin has his floaties on and he’s paddling so hard in the other direction that I can hardly see him anymore. Who would have thought I could feel lonelier? Take a good look, Faltrain, that shape running in the opposite direction is your last friend on the team. Tomorrow at the game, you’re on your own.
Jane, I thought, I’d give anything to have you there with me tomorrow. I’d give anything to see some friendly faces in the crowd.