The Words in My Hands, page 15
I replay our whole relationship. Maybe I imagined the flirting, the chemistry between us. Did he always see me as just a friend? But I remember sitting with his arm around me, the intense way we stared into each other’s eyes. You don’t do that with an ordinary friend.
Eventually I fall asleep, Marley and Kelsey twisting through my dreams, and when I open my eyes it’s light and something is moving, clambering over the bush above me. A possum?
An image comes to my mind of swinging it hard by the tail, head smashing into the trunk of a tree. I shiver. No way can I do that. But I’m starving, and I can practically smell the sizzling chicken Robbie cooked us—surely possum would be rich and hearty too? The possum’s tail flicks down briefly. I could grab it, but I don’t. Then it’s gone.
After a minute or so it’s back, and like lightning, I seize it. It flails in my grip, snarling. I squeeze my eyes shut and swing it hard against a rock on the ground, twice. The tail goes limp in my hands. When I dare to peek, it hangs lifeless.
Now what? I have no idea how to make a fire without a lighter, and it’s not like I have one handily tucked into my backpack—just a few clothes, my art supplies, my journal, and Robbie’s book, which she told me to keep for now so I’d have an excuse to visit her if I ever returned to Melbourne.
Can you eat possum raw? Possum tartare? I’m not sure that’s a good idea.
I sink back down onto my grassy nest, possum clasped in my hands. I doze a bit, and when I wake properly, I know how to cook it. I hoist on my backpack, pick up the possum by its tail, and walk to Fairfield Park. It’s a long way, and my feet are sore from yesterday, but at least the movement warms me, and the prospect of a meat meal cheers me no end.
I hope the barbecue still works. I’m not sure if they power it with gas or what.
Despite the release of BBQ recon, which comes with little plastic tongs and an authentic burned flavor and even sizzles when you press the button to heat it, Australians are still addicted to barbecues, and Organicore hasn’t figured out a way around that. The last time Taylor and I went to Fairfield Park together, the barbecue still heated up when we switched it on.
By the time I’ve made it there, the sun is high in the sky and the park is deserted. I set to work on the possum, skinning it with my utility knife. The blade is too short and flexible to cut the meat into pieces, though, so I lay the possum on its side on the barbecue, and once some of its flesh is cooked, I bite straight into it.
The meat is hot, greasy enough to be satisfying, and tastes incredible, even without salt. I lay the possum on its other side to cook some more.
I picture Marley with me, watching, cooking, eating, but shake my head to clear it. I have to break this habit of imagining him with me. It hurts too much.
I eat until I’m stuffed full, and that’s less than half the possum. With Marley banned from my mind, and Robbie too by association, I wish Mum was here to share it with me, to discover how utterly amazing wild food can be, even if it isn’t perfectly balanced. I picture her alone and lonely in a barren flat in Newtown, her case open beside her bed, mine zipped closed by the door. She’s hurt, maybe angry, maybe crying, about how I abandoned her—and I left why? For Marley? Oh god, what have I done?
But it wasn’t just for Marley. It was for my garden. I try to picture going ahead with that, no Marley in the picture … Can I still see Robbie? He seems to be the central link to everything. I shake my head to clear it again. Don’t think about Marley. Don’t think about Mum, either. Just be here and now, with the sun shining warm, belly satiated.
Now what? I need to let Mum know I’m all right. I turn on my wristlet, and sure enough, it’s flooded with messages from her. There are so many I’m not sure where to start.
A fly settles on my possum and I wave it away, but it only buzzes around and lands again. I pick up the possum and wrap it in its own skin. I’m still holding it when I glance up and see that I am surrounded by police on bikes. There are maybe six or seven of them, and they’re all wearing dirty navy-blue uniforms with heavy black boots and broad sunhats. It’s hard to tell the women from the men.
The one in front of me, a guy, looks at me with concern. He has broad shoulders and rough red skin, but his pale-blue eyes are kind. He’s speaking, but I can’t hear his words without my hearing aids on. From his body language I’d guess he’s asking if I’m okay.
I indicate my ears, doing the kaput gesture that was so effective with Halim, and he nods. He knows this already. On his wristlet he writes, “Are you hurt?”
I shake my head. They’re enclosing me now. One of them reaches out and takes the possum from my hands. As she unwraps the skin and sees what it is, the energy changes. She asks something, and the guy types it for me. “Do you realize that possums are an endangered species?”
I blink. I’m so shocked at the sudden invasion of police that it’s hard to think about the possum. Why are there so many of them? I shake my head.
The energy of the police changes again. They’re brisker, harsher now, faces blank, exchanging words rapidly. I wish I could understand them. Where are my hearing aids? I think I zipped them into a pocket in my bag. I cast around for it, but one of the cops is holding it and has unzipped it, emptying my journal and art supplies onto the barbecue.
I reach out to grab them—I don’t want meat juice on my journal—but I’m interrupted as the first cop holds out his wristlet with another question. “Do you know your mum is looking for you?”
I nod. I type on my wristlet, “I’m sorry. I ran off.”
The police are losing interest. Three of them are already halfway across the park with their bikes by the time I’ve finished typing. The one holding the possum speaks briskly to the guy communicating with me and makes out that she’s going to leave. I touch her arm to get her attention and hold out my hands for the possum. I almost say, Give that back, but it would feel weird to suddenly speak when we’ve been communicating in writing.
I don’t have time to write anything to her, though, because she gives me a look that says, Are you out of your mind? and packs the possum into a plastic saddlebag on the side of her bike. She doesn’t glance my way again, and my possum disappears with her. Damn! I should have eaten the whole thing, no matter how full I was. Will someone else eat it? It hardly seems fair, given that it was me who caught and skinned it.
There are just two cops left now, the broad-shouldered guy and an older woman with a heavily lined face and disapproving gray eyes. The guy holds out his wristlet again. “We’ll escort you home.”
“Can I have my possum back, please?” I type.
He shakes his head, face blank, eyes not so kind now. He indicates for me to get my bag, and I snatch up my journal and wipe the meat juice onto my jeans. I repack my backpack and hoist it onto my back.
The walk home is tense, to say the least. They appear to know where I live. It only takes 15 minutes and we’re at the bottom of the driveway. Taggert’s glued to the bay window, eyes wide at the sight of the police.
The guesthouse door is open, and the bleak emptiness inside is gone. Our beds are made up, my case sitting neatly on the end of mine, while Mum’s belongings are hanging again on her nails. And there’s Mum herself, sitting in one of our blue velvet chairs, shaking. Her hair hangs in lank strands, and her eyes and cheeks are hollowed out, gray. She stands as soon as she sees me and takes me into her arms, squeezing so hard my bones creak. Tears stream down her face.
It’s not until the police have gone and I’ve put my hearing aids in that she starts shouting.
“For God’s sake, Piper, what were you thinking? I just needed one message, One message That told me you were all right.”
I stand meekly, absorbing the full force of her rage. “I thought you were in Syd—”
“Sydney?! I thought you’d been kidnapped! Did you actually think I’d just get on the train and go without you?”
“Well, yes …”
Mum wrings her hands. She wrenches at her hair. “You are so naive, Piper.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Do you have any idea what I have been through? When you didn’t come back, I had that train delayed for a whole hour while the police searched it. They kept saying you’d run away, and I told them there was no way you would do that. It wasn’t until I said you were deaf that they took me seriously.”
“What, they think deaf teenagers don’t run away?”
Mum rolls her eyes. “They think deaf people are like five-year-olds who cannot survive without a grown-up to hold their hand.”
She gives me a look—a look that says, This is something you know, and I know, and the rest of the world doesn’t know—and it makes me want to cry. This is why I can’t live without her—because I’m not connected to anyone else like that. And I’m so glad she’s here and not in Sydney, even if she’s furious with me.
“I might have used it,” Mum admits, “to convince them that you needed looking for.”
“Is that why there were so many of them?”
“They put out a massive search party, at my insistence. All through the station, all around the city, around our home. They’re not happy with you, Piper, for wasting so much police time and resources.”
I sink down onto my bed. “I’m sorry. I’ll go to Sydney; I won’t run off again. I’ll pay you back for both our tickets.”
This sets Mum off again. “SYDNEY?” she explodes. “AS IF!!” She’s so mad that she hammers her fist against the wall. I can hear her shouting but not the words. Eventually she turns back my way and I think she’s screaming, “What job in Sydney”
Have I misheard her? “Your job?” I ask, tentatively.
She leans toward me and enunciates clearly. “BOB FORSYTH’S JOB! They gave it to him when I missed the train. There is no job in Sydney anymore.”
Mum collapses onto her bed, sobbing.
Stricken with guilt, I watch for a while, then slink over and lay my hands across her back. “I’m so sorry. I never thought …”
Mum cries loudly, and maybe she shouts but I can’t hear the difference with her face buried in her arms. I hold her, for what feels like hours, and eventually she goes still and her breathing slows and I think she might be asleep.
I never thought I’d miss school, but with Taylor still MIA and visiting the bike shop out of the question, there’s nowhere else to go to get away from Mum’s cold, angry energy as she slumps in bed all day. She unenrollled me from Mary Magdalene’s before the Sydney move, and since she can’t pay the next set of fees, they won’t let me back in. She’s enrollled me at Northcote High instead, but there’s a few days’ waiting period before they’ll let me start. How I’ll figure out where I’m supposed to be at a new school, and how I’ll begin the daunting process of making friends, is totally beyond me. Dread sits heavy in my stomach.
I messaged Taylor to fill her in on Sydney, the possum, the cops … and that I have a broken heart. It’s been a week, and she hasn’t even replied. I stay in bed, trying to ignore my hunger. I can’t survive on one recon meal a day! I distract myself any way I can, even by checking out the news on my wristlet, which I never usually do. It doesn’t exactly help.
NEWSMELBOURNE
Food and Fuel Crisis Meetings
Meetings between federal, state, and local governments continue in private, with no statements made to the media yet about proposed plans. Sources hint rations may be on the cards, forcing equitable distribution of imported and local foods currently being snapped up by wealthy buyers before they hit the shelves. Whether citizens will still be required to pay market prices for rations or will receive handouts is uncertain. At a media conference last night, Karen Kildare stated, “We remain committed to finding the best way forward for Australians in this new climate.”
My wristlet buzzes. It’s Taylor! Finally.
3 From: Taylor
Who broke your heart? Are you going to JAIL? Save some possum for me? I know I’ve been horrible—let’s get together. This Saturday afternoon? I’m SO GLAD you haven’t disappeared off to Sydney and need to make the most of having you here!
3 To: Taylor
Yes! Saturday afternoon! It’s a date. Come over? I want to show you the garden I’m making. I’ll tell you all then.
3 From: Marley
Hey, Piper … How’s Sydney? I should have said before you left that there are Deaf organizations in every state—you could look up the one in Sydney and make contact. Maybe you can find out about sign language classes or meet the Deaf community? It’s so quiet without you here.
3 To: Marley
We didn’t go. I realize now I should have planned to stay. 16 is old enough to live independently, but I didn’t realize until it was too late, and the short version of that particular story is that I caused Mum to lose her job and now we’re staying.
3 From: Marley
What the hell? I’m intrigued now. Surely your mum can get her job back?
He wants Mum to get her job back? Can’t he at least pretend to be happy I’m staying? There’s no invitation to go to the bike shop. No mention of Kelsey, either. I glare at my wristlet.
I don’t feel like messaging anymore, so I flip my journal open to a page with a background I started when I was using up some leftover paint on my palette and hesitate. Then, on a whim, I sketch a tree. I’m thinking of Grandma’s oak tree again. The first draft looks ridiculous, so I rub it out and look up an image of an oak tree in Robbie’s book. Copying slowly, I draw in branches, scribbling quickly to shape the knobs on the trunk. But when it comes to drawing acorns, I stop. There are no acorns here. Instead, I draw blocks of textured concrete hanging from the tree—lots of them. Words form in my mind as I sketch, and by the time the concrete blocks are filled in, I know what I want to say:
I’m distracted when Mum suddenly hauls herself out of bed and goes outside. Peeking through the window, I see her talking animatedly on her wristlet. It’s the most normal she’s looked all week. I work on shading the block letters in my journal until something soft lands on my back. Mum’s jumper. I look up.
“That was Bob Forsyth. He’s taking my cheap research proposal to the board. I suggested I could work for him remotely, and he’s not sure there’s enough work, but if there is he’ll prioritize me. So I can get started on my proposal.”
“Mum, that’s great.” Since she seems to be in a better state, I decide to broach the Northcote High problem. “About school, do you think I could have a break, just until all this … is over? Until life goes back to normal? Then I could go back to Mary Mag.”
I suddenly realize that for the past three months I’ve had this feeling of waiting about me. All the stress of living in the guesthouse, and cars and public transport and electricity and everything being far too expensive or impossible to get … I’m just waiting for it all to be over.
A look of pain clouds Mum’s face. She comes to sit beside me on the bed. “Piper, I don’t think this is going to be over. The days of cheap oil are probably behind us forever. And even if this job comes through with Bob, I still won’t have enough for Mary Magdalene.”
I don’t reply. I just stare at her.
Eventually Mum says, “One way or another, you need an education. So, Northcote High it is.”
I think again of trying to fit in without Taylor; of trying to make friends and keep up with what I’m supposed to be doing. I swallow and say, “I’m 16. I’m old enough to leave school. You can’t make me go.”
And that’s it for our harmony. Mum says something under her breath that I don’t catch. She looks … bitter.
“What did you say?”
She shakes her head.
“Tell me!”
“I said I think you have just established that I can’t make you go anywhere anymore.” The disappointment in her face is sharp. She stands and pulls out a folder of her notes.
“Mum,” I say, wanting to make it all okay, but she doesn’t look at me again.
I go outside to check on my seedlings. Thank god for my garden—one positive thing to focus on. My seedlings are about ready to be transplanted to a bigger box. I make one by cutting open a few recon boxes and taping them together then set to work, transplanting. Handling seedlings, looking at tiny green growing things, soothes me, and the guilt I feel fades into the background slightly.
When I wake and switch my wristlet on, it buzzes right away.
Infringement Notice to the Addressed
From:
Victorian State Police
Official Notification to:
Piper McBride
Offences:
Wasting Police Time
Harming of Threatened Species without Licence
Penalty:
$2000 fine payable before 21 October
If you wish to contest this matter, you may apply before 21 October.
If you do not pay the fine by the due date, you will be summoned to the Magistrate’s Court.
Pay the fine here.
Oh god. No way can I come up with $2,000. A thin layer of sweat forms on my upper lip. Who knew eating a possum was an offense—why didn’t they teach us this in school? What happens if I have to go to court? I’m under 18. They can’t do anything too terrible to me … can they?
What that cop said about the possum being endangered suddenly really hits me. The idea that soon there won’t be any more possums, just like what happened with the fish, makes me feel sick. What if the possum I ate was the very last one? I’d thought there were heaps of them. Hunger is turning me into a person I don’t recognize. What would Marley say if he knew?
