Malaise Read online

  “How about not directing your anger at me? That’d be a start. We all deal with these things differently, you know.” I don’t know how I expected this discussion to go, but this isn’t it.

  Dad’s eyes narrow, his brow pinching as he leans forward with an elbow on the table. “How about you don’t give us a reason to be angry with you? Do you think that your blatant disregard for the rules around here has helped the process at all? Do you think causing more problems has been of any use to your mother when she already doesn’t know how to function after losing Den?”

  “We all lost Den,” I snap. “You’re telling me I’m being selfish, yet she’s the one who’s acting as though the loss is solely hers to bear.”

  “Grief isn’t a competition.”

  “No, but neither should be your love.” I push out from the table and rise. “You two lost your son, and I lost my brother. It should have united us, made us treasure what we have left, but instead it’s highlighted how dysfunctional we always were.”

  He doesn’t respond—simply takes a pull from his bottle.

  “Yeah, as I thought. Just brush the problem under the carpet again, huh?”

  “Cut it out.” The low resonance in his words freezes me to the spot. “Just stop with this bullshit, Meg. Stop it!”

  “I’ll stop it when you accept that the problems with our family aren’t all my fault.” My heart echoes in my ears, the blood in my veins a turbulent rip tide under my skin.

  He takes another deliberately slow draw of his beer and sets it down on the table, turning the bottle with a scrape so it shows the label front and centre. “Exams are next week; we haven’t signed any paperwork, so I assume you’re going ahead with them.”

  I nod. My jaw aches with the pressure I have it under. I won’t cry. I won’t break because he wants me to.

  “School officially ends the week after. Either you change your attitude by then, or I want you to start looking for somewhere else to live.”

  What the fuck? “You can’t do—”

  “Your mother needs a positive environment to come home to if she’s expected to work through her grief. Your childish temper tantrums about how ‘unfair’ we’re being to you are only going to set her recovery back.”

  He’s blaming me for the fact she struggles to move forward. “Are you serious?” It’s only been three days since Den died; I don’t expect her to get over it, I just expect her to let me join in the anguish without passing judgment.

  “I’m serious as a heart attack, Meg. You have two weeks to get your head out of your arse and commit to this family.”

  “Or you simply shut me out.”

  “I do what I have to.” He takes a last mouthful of the beer and turns his head to pin me under his weighty stare. “You’ve left us little choice with your behaviour this past week. You’ve always been trouble, but this drinking, this running off without returning any calls, it’s a new low, even for you.”

  Hot, fat tears spill over. “Jesus, Dad. Go easy on the accolades, huh?”

  “Meg….” He dips his chin, eyes hard as he stares out from under his brow, a gentle warning to cool off.

  The fire rages. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be the perfect child for you, that I’m such a fucking failure and a disappointment to you both.”

  “You have no one to blame but yourself, missy.” He swivels in his seat, an elbow braced on the table as he tenses up.

  “Most of all,” I blubber, wiping my nose with the back of my wrist. “Most of all I’m sorry that it was Den who died, and not me. It’s clear who you would have preferred to have been left with, and it’s sure as fuck not me.”

  He opens his mouth to protest, but the handle rattles as the front door opens. Dad gives me a look that says “Sort your shit out before she walks in here.” I narrow my watery eyes on him, barely able to make out his shape through the blur, and give my best “get fucked” look in return.

  Mum appears in the kitchen doorway, bags in hand. “I could use some help with…. What’s going on in here?”

  I look pointedly at Dad, indicating he can answer.

  “Megan was just saying how she’s been thinking of moving out once school finishes, getting started on being independent.”

  Fucker.

  “Is that true?” Mum asks, shocked.

  Clearly this wasn’t something they’d discussed, then. “Apparently.” I wipe away the residual tears.

  “Why?” She looks between the two of us. “And why are you upset about it?”

  “Dad?” I ask, sickly sweet. “Care to fill her in?”

  He rises from his seat and calmly places his empty beer bottle in the recycling bin. “She’s not upset, Diane. She was getting a little emotional when I was telling her how proud I am of her decision to turn things around and be a little more mature—especially in such hard times for us all.”

  Oooo, you…. “I was telling Dad I didn’t want to be a burden, either.”

  “Meg,” Mum exclaims. “Don’t be so silly. I mean… yes, you’ve been… difficult lately. But….” Her eyes search the room, but it’s no use; she has no words to offset the truth, no white lie to make us all feel better.

  “I’m simply thinking of you, Mum,” I say saccharinely. “And let’s face it.” I pin Dad with my gaze. “I can’t be your little girl forever.”

  “Whatever you want, Meg,” Mum says as she sets the bags of groceries down on the kitchen counter. I want to say she sounds dejected, or resigned, but it’s more… relieved. “We’ll help out where we can to get you set up, I guess.”

  “Don’t go out of your way,” I say as I exit the kitchen and cross through the living room to the front hall. I call back across the space as I pick up my bag, “I’m used to doing things on my own.”

  She stands in the kitchen doorway, a perplexed frown on her face as she wrings her hands together. Dad shadows her, his hard stare nothing but pure contempt.

  “Where are you going now?” Mum asks tentatively, as though not to spook me.

  “Out.”

  I open the front door and step outside, the air immediately thinner and easier to pull into my lungs. Silence hangs like a death shroud behind me as I click the latch closed and take the few short steps down to our front path. Dark clouds cover the sky, although there isn’t any immediate sign of rain.

  I’ve got no idea where the fuck I’m going—now, or in two weeks when I’m apparently starting the rest of my life more alone than I’ve ever been. Who the hell will rent space to a seventeen-year-old? I don’t turn eighteen for a month, which gives me two weeks after school to fill before any rent officer will even look twice at me.

  What would Den tell me to do? God, he always had the answer. I need him more than ever right now. The sad irony of it all is I wouldn’t need him at all if he hadn’t died. If that bus hadn’t taken him out, we would still be our false family, living a lie; a lie that kept us comfortable and sedate; a lie that ironically held us all together.

  A hollow ache weighs heavy in my chest when I realise that I don’t even have anywhere other than this house to go to feel close to Den. With his funeral yet to happen, there’s no grave, no marker, nothing. Only his belongings upstairs, which may as well be on the opposite side of a river of lava for how safe it feels to re-enter the house right now.

  My home.

  What a fucking farce. I’ve never felt more uncomfortable, more unwelcome to be somewhere I “belong.”

  The weight of my backpack in my left hand draws my attention to the only constant I have through all of this—my ability to lose touch with reality and fly for a few hours. I look down at my right hand, at the bandage that still covers the back of it, and the pink, angry flesh on my fingers. Does my heart look the same? Raw and vulnerable? Or does it look as it feels, like a lifeless lump of rock that’s unable to feel anything but anger and resentment?

  A cool breeze whips my hair around my face as I set off right, toward my second home at the band rotunda, content in the knowl
edge that no matter how cold it might be tonight, I’ve got two bottles of liquid insurance in my backpack that’ll make sure I stay warm.

  ELEVEN

  Carver: How did it go?

  I stare down at the message and snarl. Fuck him and his ideal world of forgiveness.

  Me: Shit.

  The temperature more than halved as soon as the sun went down. Moths flap lazily around the single park light a few metres from the rotunda, providing me some light entertainment. I left the house intent on not returning, but the longer I sit here, the more I realise how ridiculously naïve I’d been about it all.

  I haven’t got a jersey, a blanket, any food left after I’ve eaten the sole apple in my backpack, and I’ve only got twelve dollars left in my account until payday on Friday. I’m screwed. No way I’m touching my hard-earned savings just because my parents want to play hardball. I didn’t scrimp to stash away every free cent for this. It’s my ticket out of here—my only way out.

  Carver: You still at home?

  I let go of a disgruntled sigh and hover my thumb left and right over the screen while I decide if I should let him know where I am or not. I’m still pissed that he had the audacity to get up me about my behaviour and side with Mum and Dad, but he’s also warmth and food, and possibly somewhere to crash until this all blows over.

  Yep—I’ve convinced myself that if I stay away until the funeral, Mum and Dad will change their tune once they realise how empty the house is without either child in it.

  You’re drunk or delusional—maybe both.

  Me: No. I’m at Cedar Park having a celebratory tipple.

  The reply is immediate—not even enough time to bring the bottle to my lips again.

  Carver: Fucks sake. Be there in 5.

  Me: Nup. Stay away.

  God only knows why I wrote that, considering I’ve just decided he’s my ticket to lodgings away from home. Spite? The need to still argue this anger out of my system? I add a quick follow-up before he can reply.

  Me: It’s cold. I’ll come to you.

  If I make it that far before I pass out. I glance over at the first empty vodka bottle laid on its side, and promptly down half of the second bottle in my hand. My stomach roils with unforgiving acid as though to prove the point. No food, and a liquid that never freezes, equals trouble.

  The hydrangea bushes over the rotunda wall receive a free shower as I evict the contents of my stomach. Fuck, I feel terrible. And yet, it’s what I want: something to focus on other than the swirling cesspit of shit my life is right now.

  My phone skitters across the rotunda floor as a new message comes in. I snatch it up with my left hand, feebly holding on to the wall with my right for dear life, and squint at the shouty caps.

  Dad: Come home or the week’s notice is revoked.

  Well hello to you too.

  Me: Fuck off.

  I chuckle to myself, proud as punch with my middle finger to the world, and promptly find a little left in the tank to add to the hydrangeas. Stitching uniforms isn’t such a bad prospect when you’re currently a homeless teen vomiting into public gardens. I make a mental note to apply for a full-time job at the factory after I find a shower and some clean clothes. Fuck going home—if I can even call it that still. No siree. Doing fine on my own, thank you.

  I lose my balance and tumble halfway down the steps.

  Yep. Definitely handling this adulting thing.

  My phone sings at me from its safe spot back up on the rotunda. I crawl the short distance to it, not so trusting of my legs anymore, and slap my hand around until I locate it.

  Carver: I’m on my way.

  Shit. Carver. Doesn’t the guy know how to follow instructions? I tap my thumb in heavy, misplaced strikes on the screen and send a reply. He responds with two question marks, and I scroll up after a few attempts to see what I sent. My face is pressed against the floor of the rotunda to stop my head wobbling, and I have one eye shut in order to semi-focus on the letters.

  Me: I dne nfs hlpp.

  Hmm—not your finest work there, Meg. A single tap on the tin roof is followed by two more in close succession. By the time I’ve managed to coordinate my legs enough to drag the limp fuckers into the rotunda properly, the rain pours down in an unrelenting heavy summer storm.

  I curl up in a ball around my half bottle of drink, determined not to lose it, and close my eyes, phone clasped in my bandaged hand. The rain becomes a steady drumming, lulling my echoing mind as I even my breathing and focus on not vomiting again. I’m too fucked to move if I needed to, and too proud to have any yunder on me if I don’t.

  Thunder rumbles in the distance, and I suck in a deep breath. My arms dimple with the cold, and my stomach burns a hole through the surrounding organs. Yet all I can think of doing is working out how to keep steady enough to have one more drink.

  One more and you can slip over into the nothingness.

  Sleep lurks on the edge of my consciousness, and I doze off a couple of times, waking with a start when the thunder cracks closer than before. A deep disappointment sets in when I remember what I’d been dreaming of, who had been there when I closed my eyes and let my mind go.

  Den. He’d been as clear as though it were last week, and he was standing over my bed like he used to, nudging me to wake up. “Get up, Meg. Nothing gets done by giving up before the day’s started.” I wave my arm around in my semi-sleep state and try to push him away.

  My hand strikes something very solid and very real.

  “Fuck, Meg. What have you done to yourself?”

  The ground gives out, and my body twists and folds as I’m jostled against another hard surface. I emit a garbled noise that doesn’t even make sense in my mind, and will my roiling stomach to settle for at least a full minute.

  “That’s it, babe. Talk to me, huh? Tell me what you’ve been doing.”

  The creak of metal precedes warm air washing over me, and the soft familiar vinyl of a car seat cradling me as a sweet vanilla scent seeps into my nostrils.

  “Keep her on her side, huh?”

  A thud echoes around me, yet I can’t bring myself to open my eyes. Gentle hands reposition my arm and tilt my head back so my chin is clear of my chest. Fingers comb through my hair as the chill of the night washes over me and the surface beneath me tilts momentarily.

  “What are we going to do with you, honey?”

  Tanya? If she’s here then that hard presence before was Carver… which means… my head hurts too much. I settle against the warmth beside me and sigh as her fingers gently stroke my scalp, sweeping my matted hair out of my face.

  The car starts away from where we’d been stopped and I return to Den, content with the knowledge that I’m safe and warm while I drift away to chat a while with the guy I miss the most, even if only in my dreams.

  TWELVE

  There’s nothing quite as undignified as the sound you make when you’re heaving the acid from your stomach into somebody’s toilet bowl. Unless of course you’re the only one in that state while everyone around you looks on with sober pity. That’s kind of worse.

  I hazard a glance at Tanya as she perches on the side of the bathtub, a wet facecloth in her hand, ready to clean me up when I’m finished… again. I’d say something, apologise for the hundredth time, but my stomach is currently trying to invert itself before it lodges in my chest.

  Carver rubs slow circles on my back, a quiet rumbling hum coming from somewhere deep in his chest. It’s a disappointed sound, a murmuring of all the things he wants to say but presumably withholds until a more appropriate time.

  “Would you like me to call your parents?” Tanya asks. “I know you guys aren’t exactly talking, from what Brett tells me, but they might still be worried.”

  I shake my head before lunging over the bowl again to bring up nothing but the agonised groan of my empty stomach. “No,” I grind out as soon as my breathing allows. “Don’t call them.”

  I’d passed out in the car on the short drive bac
k to Carver’s place, waking up when the Falcon came to a stop outside the formidable fence that surrounds the property. Kind of amazing how fast two people can get you out of a car when you utter the words “I’m going to vomit.”

  “What was the grand plan then?” Carver’s deep voice echoes off the tiled walls of the bathroom, wrapping me in its velvety tones.

  “I hadn’t thought it through.” My knuckles turn white as I grip the bowl hard, pacing my breathing to stop my stomach from trying to ghost vomit.

  “Clearly.”

  “Lay off,” Tanya gently admonishes. “You were just as impulsive once too.”

  “Yeah, but I never needed anyone to pick up the pieces when I self-destructed,” he bites back.

  “Neither did I,” I protest. “I didn’t need anyone to ride in and save me. I was doing fine.”

  Rough hands jam under my arms, lifting me from my koala-hold on the toilet. Carver hustles me across to the large mirror over the vanity and faces me to it, brushing my mess of dark hair out of my face as I hang like a scarecrow from the arm looped across my chest. “Does this look like you were doing fine?”

  I screw my eyes shut and turn away from the train-smash that stares back at me, sagging into his hold against his chest. My eyeliner is smeared around my eyes, my face pale and hollow. I left the house as some mixture of punk and gothic, but I’ve arrived at Carver’s rocking the “crazed crack whore” look.

  Tanya hands me the facecloth with a sympathetic smile and I set to work washing the remnants of the day from my skin after Carver lets me go to stand on my own two feet. “Dad gave me two weeks to conform to their rules or I have to find somewhere else to live. That’s why I left.”

  “Harsh,” Tanya states.

  “Where the hell did he think you’d go?” Carver asks. He frowns from his position leaning against the wall behind me, our gazes meeting in the mirror.

  I shrug. “I don’t think he really cares.”

  “You’re all of eighteen—”

  “Seventeen,” I correct.