Thursday 18 August
I haven’t spoken to my mother alone since my father got picked up. Even though I feel sick every time I think of that scene in the driveway, I need more information.
She’s packing some of his clothes into a suitcase.
‘How long’s he gone for?’
‘It’s a six-month program.’
‘He didn’t even say goodbye.’
‘I’m sorry we haven’t talked properly. I was trying to sort things out with your school, and trying to get your dad into this clinic.’
‘Yeah, so don’t worry, Clare already told me I have to leave.’ I’m angry even though I’ve done my share of avoiding her. My adrenaline doesn’t seem to know whether it’s flight or fight time.
‘Sorry, Ady, the last few days have been a nightmare of forms and consent, and – you don’t want to know . . .’
‘No, it’s fine. I get it. You protect Charlie and you talk to Clare, but you don’t give a shit about me. I can go to hell and get yanked out of my school and lose all my friends.’
‘You know that’s not true, Ady. I am sorry about St Hilda’s, but to be perfectly fair, you’ve done nothing but complain about it for the last couple of years.’
‘Everyone complains about school. It’s still where all my friends are.’
‘I’m sorry it’s happening like this.’
‘I feel so embarrassed.’ That sounds childish as it tumbles out of my mouth, and I wish I hadn’t said it.
‘Addiction is a sickness – it’s no more embarrassing than . . . having cancer.’
She wouldn’t have done so much venting lately if she really believed that. She thought he should just get his shit together. She said it often enough. At least cancer is something people understand.
‘Everyone’s going to think we’re such losers.’
She smiles, which is infuriating. ‘Real friends won’t think that. Your dad’s going to get better. I’m going to get a job. And we’re going to live within our means, for a change.’ Now she’s sounding evangelistic. Come back, sole remaining parent.
‘Why is he even like this? Why couldn’t you help him?’
‘Sometimes people need things to get . . . really bad . . . before they can even admit they have a problem.’
‘Will we be able to see him?’
‘Not much for the first month or so, and then, yes, of course.’
‘I don’t even want to see him.’
‘Well, that’s up to you.’
‘Are you getting divorced?’
A pause. ‘Not at this stage.’
‘Is this what happened in Year 7, when he had to go away to “work in Sydney”?’
‘Yes.’
‘Will he have his own room?’
She does the reassuring smile. ‘Yes.’
She opens her arms and offers a hug. Crossing my arms, I turn to leave the room. I won’t be able to hold my tears in if she starts hugging.
‘We still need to go through your wardrobe. We’ll get some Figgy’s apple cake for energy and do it this weekend?’
‘I’ve got detention, remember?’ Obviously not.
She sighs as she zips the suitcase closed. ‘Okay. We’ll do it another time. The hug’s here when you’re ready.’
A suitcase should be on its way to somewhere good, greeting you at a funny angle on an airport carousel, not heading for rehab.
Ady Rosenthal likes it up the arse, courtesy of ruckman Rupert
Go, Basildon!
Don’t forget to share that sweet arse around, Rupe
rateme: good take down for a StH stuckup bitch
h0RnyT0bi@s: Id tap that one just to teach her a lesson
noBs: chix like the ruffstuff true
Hilarian: Loving the advanced spelling skills of you PSST pea-brains. It meshes well with your understanding of the world and the size of your dicks, no doubt.
rateme: you want to be raped
Hilarian: No, rateme, I don’t. And I’m sure you don’t want to be raped either. But I hope you enjoyed typing all the bad words, you fool. Biggest thrill you’ll ever get, I imagine.
rateme: yur prob 2 ugly to rape anyway, just die
noBs: u wouldnt waste a load on ugly sluts
sufferingsuffragette: It is a comfort to me knowing that you strange little fossils will never attract partners and reproduce
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