Ruby Tuesday Read online

  The ground zooms into focus. I brace for impact.

  I jerk awake. Breathless and sweaty, my heart hammering in my chest. It’s not the first time I’ve dreamt of falling.

  The howling is real, but it’s only the feral dogs in the forest – dumped hunting dogs, neglected pets. Outside my window, I hear them scuffling, a yelp. The forest corridor in Cooper’s Creek has become overrun with them since the drought. I heard Frank from the neighbouring property talking to Sue, our pharmacist, about how they attacked his kelpie. The dry is bringing them out of the forest. He shot one, but the kelpie was too far gone. Only a matter of time before they attack a person, he said, they’re getting that brazen.

  My skin prickles.

  By the time my phone reads 4 a.m., I decide to call it morning. With Nan gone, it’s strange to be showered and pulling on my school skirt and shirt. So structured, so mundane. Surely, when I walk into the kitchen, Nan will be there smiling up at me – reading glasses on, cup of tea on the table, marmalade toast halfway to her mouth. ‘Rise and shine.’ The words I’ve heard every morning for eight years.

  But when I leave the bathroom, I look straight into her bedroom, at her empty bed. It will always be empty. When I reach the kitchen, it’s still dark. I hesitate, my finger on the light switch. Maybe when I turn it on, she’ll materialise. At our round, rickety timber table, that weary morning smile on her face, wiry curls around her cheeks.

  I know, of course, that she won’t be there. And I don’t want to turn the light on – to face the harsh, cold reality – but I force myself to do it. Squinting in the glare, I don’t look at the dining table. I don’t even sit at it. I make eggs and toast and sit on the lounge instead, staring at the black-and-gold Japanese vase in its lonely position on the mantel above the Steinway.

  That vase has always creeped me out, its shattered black body glued back together with gold. I’m sure it has some kind of deep significance like all of Alex’s art, but it’s not like I can ask her. I’d have tossed it, except she made it for Mum, and Mum adores it.

  I watch the sun rise and brace myself for the first day of school since we lost Nan.

  Mum wheels to the front door in her nightie to see me off. She hands me a note, says if it’s too soon, I can come home. I shove it in my pocket and say thanks. But my first day back won’t be any more or less horrific today than any other day.

  The Dubassi twins, Chante and Angel, greet me at the school gates. They normally treat me like I’m some kind of insect. Millie comes up with them. Everyone loves a family tragedy, I guess.

  The girls take turns folding their arms around my shoulders and exchanging glances with each other they think I don’t notice.

  All morning, I hear whispers around the classroom. I catch Alex’s eye in history and look away. Then a note works its way to my desk. Folded into a love heart. I open it in case it’s not from her. Though I doubt Joey Milano knows origami.

  I’m so sorry, Ruby. Not sure if you noticed, but Mum and I were at the back of the church.

  Of course I noticed.

  If you want to talk, you know where to find me.

  Signed off with a love heart and a sad face.

  I scrunch up the note and let it fall to the floor. Hope she sees.

  I wish we could talk. Wish we were friends. But there are a lot of things I wish and few of them are possible.

  Before long, a piece of paper wedges itself between my back and my chair. I reach for it without turning around, because I can already guess who it will be from. Folded roughly into squares with that familiar, small, angular writing.

  You all right? I’ll sit with you at lunch, okay? L

  Since I stopped sitting with Alex, she has lunch in the art room with her arty friends. Which has left me wandering alone between the cafeteria and the library. Everyone already has their groups and nobody has adopted me. Lukas is the only one who talks to me as if I belong, even though his friends couldn’t be less interested – Kyle can’t seem to think about anything but getting blind at the next party, Jack believes he’s the only muso in the entire school and Joey barely notices I exist.

  At lunch today, true to his word, Lukas sits on the stool next to mine in the cafeteria. I didn’t ask him to, but that’s typical Lukas.

  It’s crowded, and we’re the only ones at this cold aluminium table. His fair hair stands on end in neat spikes and I’m aware of the way his thigh is pressed against mine as he eats his sandwich. I edge mine away.

  ‘I’m real sorry, hey,’ Lukas says. ‘About your Nan. It sucks.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I pick at my sandwich, which suddenly looks about as appetising as a piece of cardboard. ‘Life sucks sometimes.’

  ‘Least you still have your mum, hey.’ He picks up a lock of my hair and twists it in the sunlight.

  It gives me the shivers the way he touches my hair. Normally I endure it, but today I feel frail and nervous, like I’m walking along a cliff’s edge.

  I guess that’s one way to look at it. Your Nan died, but you still have your mum. Your mum didn’t die. Quit moping.

  I wish I could tell Lukas to get his hands off me. I don’t want to talk about Nan. My mouth can’t make the words even to say her name. But his eyes are shining and he’s blinking hard.

  ‘My mum had curly hair like yours, hey.’ The words seem to catch in his throat, and I remember he hasn’t got a mother – I mean, he must have one somewhere, but not one at home.

  Half of me wants to reach out a hand, to let him know I get it. The pain. But the other half fears what that hand might mean to him, so I don’t.

  Even if I wanted to talk to Lukas about Nan, I couldn’t explain our bond in two words, or ten words, or even ten days. Nan didn’t focus on what went wrong, and there was a lot of that – Mum’s spinal cord injury, the surgeries. Instead, Nan said us coming to live with her in the forest was the best thing that could have happened.

  After Mum came off that horse, while she was in hospital and rehab, Nan cared for me in her little house. Then when Mum finally came out of rehab, Nan offered us both a home. It was never meant to be forever. We were meant to move out when Mum adjusted to her new normal, head back to the city, but Mum wanted to stay.

  I did too. But now Nan’s gone and she’s taken all our safety and security with her. The pain of missing her is like small, sharp daggers to my chest.

  ‘Hey, come here.’ Lukas reaches over and hugs me. He pulls me against his shirt, suffocating me, the smell of his sweat in my nostrils. His arms are locked around my back. Lukas used to be the guy who sat alongside me on the bus to school, yanked on my hair if he was behind me in class. Now he seems to think he owns me.

  ‘You have to tell me sometime.’ He says it like he’s being reasonable, practical even.

  Except the truth is, I don’t have to tell him. Ever.

  I push him away and stand up quickly. My stool clatters to the cafeteria floor. Lukas’s eyes are still on me, but my head is light.

  Everyone stops talking and a low oooooh sounds in the crowd.

  ‘Burned,’ a guy murmurs.

  I look across at the Dubassi twins. They’re crazy for Lukas. Chante is mad about him, and he knows it, I’m sure. They’re staring at us.

  Lukas is deathly quiet. There’s a flicker of hurt across his face. I don’t look back as I bolt out of the cafeteria.

  The next day is International Women’s Day. And while Mum avoids all other school functions, she never avoids this one. It would be a betrayal of our gender.

  So I betray our gender instead by being embarrassed by her.

  How deep of me.

  The truth is I wouldn’t trade my mum for anyone. Other people’s mothers are garden variety ordinary, not gifted like mine. But sometimes I would give anything for her to blend into the crowd.

  I pull up in the teacher’s gravelly parking lot. The school lets me park there when I bring Mum because it’s the only place in the school with disabled access.

  I’m opening the
tray back and lifting out the wheelchair when I hear a voice behind me.

  ‘Hey, Ruby.’

  I spin around, folded wheelchair in my arms.

  Joey bloody Milano.

  All those times I’ve looked for him, hoping he’ll notice me, and he doesn’t. But the very day I want to avoid him. The day I’m trying not to be that poor girl with the disabled mother. The day I’m praying Mum doesn’t make any of her witty remarks to anyone if they offend her . . . bingo, here he is!

  His hair’s a bit mussed. Millie is hanging off him. They’re grinning like they just shared a secret.

  ‘Hey,’ I say.

  ‘Happy Woman’s Day.’ Joey winks at me, but stops walking for a second while he eyes the wheelchair.

  ‘It’s my mum’s,’ I say. As if he thought it was for me.

  There’s an awkward silence. The wheelchair is heavy in my arms, but I don’t want to unfold it with him watching. Like if we don’t see it unfolded that makes it less pitiful.

  ‘Bludge day for us then, hey?’ Millie says, to break the silence. She smiles awkwardly at me, squeezing her arm tighter round Joey’s waist. ‘Well, guess we’ll –’

  ‘Might see you at the cake table,’ I blurt out.

  ‘Yeah, maybe,’ Joey says. ‘Catch ya.’

  The cake table? The guy is a fitness freak, and Millie wouldn’t touch sugar with her pinkie. If her body was any more toned, she’d be a ninja.

  I don’t even like cake.

  They continue up the path to school, nobody to worry about but themselves. Millie turns back and casts a glance inside the cab, so I get busy fiddling with the wheelchair. She’s checking out the disability. I can feel her relief that it’s my mother, not hers. Disability is so foreign until it comes to dwell in your house. That’s the first thing people see about Mum. The paraplegia. It’s the only thing most people around here see.

  Mum opens the passenger door and I wheel her chair alongside. I take my time aligning it until Joey is out of sight. Last thing I want is for him to see Mum manoeuvring herself from the Colorado. This is an operation that takes a few minutes, and requires a bit of patience. I learnt years ago not to offer my help if I didn’t want to be snapped at.

  Mum wriggles her way to the edge of the seat, swivels herself sideways, and moves her legs until they’re hanging out of the ute. She grips the handle inside. I watch her muscles flex on her arms as she swings herself in to her wheelchair.

  ‘That was reasonably graceful, wasn’t it?’ she says, realigning her legs and straightening her skirt.

  ‘Very graceful.’ And I find myself smiling. ‘Next step, gymnastics.’

  ‘Watch it,’ she says wryly. ‘My yoga’s already better than yours.’

  It’s only annoying because she’s right.

  I walk slowly beside her into the hall – okay, so maybe I’m delaying a little. I don’t want to be too early, standing in silence with only a handful of people, and run the risk of Mum striking up a conversation that’ll end up as an argument about feminism. But equally I don’t want to be last, with all heads turning to announce our arrival. Plus I’m hoping Alex and her mum don’t see us. I want to blend into the homogenous mass. My aim for International Women’s Day: blend.

  I am a complete disappointment to the movement for women.

  We make our way to the tea and coffee table. Thank god for these sanity savers. I wonder if the inventor of tea decided we needed something to hold. An activity for the hands. Tea is a sanctuary for the awkward.

  Mum sips her instant coffee.

  ‘Urgh, terrible,’ she says.

  I catch Alex’s eye across the room, and she quickly looks up at her mum. I look down at mine, but it’s too late. We’ve been spotted. Alex’s mum is making her way straight for mine. Alex trailing uncomfortably behind.

  Susan and Alex reach us too fast.

  ‘Oh, Celeste,’ Susan says, bending down to hug Mum. ‘I’m so sorry to hear about your dear mum. You must miss her terribly. I’ve been meaning to bring over a couple of bakes, but, you know . . .’

  She looks at me, then Alex. She doesn’t need to say any more. Alex and I have made it difficult for them to remain friends.

  ‘It’s been a bit rough,’ Mum says.

  Understatement of the year.

  ‘I’ve missed our cuppas.’ Mum ignores the hard look I’m giving her. ‘I’ve missed both of you actually.’ Alex doesn’t look Mum in the eye and takes to studying the parquetry floor instead.

  ‘Me too!’ Susan says. ‘I’ve been meaning to come over for so long. I’ll have to remedy that.’

  Watching them talk, I remember how much I like Susan. She’s the only one in this room full of mothers who ever bothered to see beyond Mum’s disability. Most people talk in weird, childish ways to someone in a chair. But not Susan. They were friends.

  Susan used to sit for hours on the back deck with Mum and Nan. They’d chat as the sun sank in a shimmering red ball behind the thick trees of the forest. Alex and I would disappear to my room and talk boys. Well, she’d talk boys. And I’d talk one boy. Joey Milano, of course. I’m loyal like that. I think this is the first time our mums have seen each other in over a year. That’s how long it’s been since Alex and I stopped talking.

  The deputy principal, Ms Hurst, taps the microphone twice. She’s up on stage, and we all turn to look at her.

  ‘Welcome to International Women’s Day. A day by women, for women. Women of all shapes, sizes and abilities.’

  When she says this, I notice a mother tilt her head ever so slightly in Mum’s direction and give her the small, sympathetic smile reserved for the pathetic. It’s the kind of pity spoken in unspoken ways by the Plan As who think they could never end up with a Plan B life. ‘How’s your mother?’ Ms Hurst asks me sometimes. Always in that hopeless tone. None of them have any idea who Mum used to be. Who she is.

  As I’m heading back to the table with my empty mug, I see Chante huddled in a chat with Joey, Lukas and Millie. Usually I’m watching out for Joey, but this time it’s Lukas I’m aware of as I near them. He seems to be ignoring me after yesterday. I’m okay with that, but it also makes me edgy. My stomach clenches at the sight of him.

  Then I hear a voice, Chante’s. She’s leaning into the group, talking in secretive, low tones. Just not low enough that I miss her words.

  ‘. . . so tragic. She has to look after her mum for, like, the rest of her life . . .’

  My skin prickles as the words register in my brain. There’s no other mother she could be talking about in this room of able-bodied people. Here, where people move without a single thought about their bodies cooperating because this world is designed for them.

  But she’s not sorry for my mum.

  She’s sorry for me.

  I knock Chante’s arm hard as I pass her, and see her head turn, hear her cut off her last word. Chante can cloak her gossip in sympathy if she wants to, then she can go back to her unmodified house with her mother who picks up after her and vacuums her bedroom. My mum didn’t do those things before her fall – she was invested in more important things.

  I’m half tempted to march onto the small stage where Ms Hurst is standing, snatch the microphone from her, drop a few jaws and say, ‘Just to set the record straight, my mum is a musical fricking genius who’s played in places you only dream of visiting.’

  But, of course, I’d never do that. Mum would kill me for starters. And the truth is I only vaguely remember Mum’s concerts. What I remember more than the concerts is the group of loud women in bright scarves and hats who would come to our terrace house in Newtown. They’d bowl through the door with their wine and guitars, and the walls would come alive with song. Mum would let me stay up late, dancing in my big, swirly skirts to their music, like I belonged there with the grown-ups. And they’d all get tipsy and say, ‘Sing for us, Ruby, sing! Free the bird from her cage!’

  ‘Let her out, Rube,’ Mum would say.

  And I’d open my mouth and let the pe
rfect notes soar.

  I don’t know what happened to that confident girl, but she was lost the same time we moved to Cooper’s Creek. The accident ended more than Mum’s career – it spelt the end of our time in Sydney, of our friendships. Nan’s was the only place Mum could still find joy in her music, the only place she could play without fear of judgement. But whose judgement was she really afraid of? Her own?

  Lately I’ve been wondering what my life would be like if we still hung out with Mum’s old friends – those vivacious musicians who lifted us up. But it’s fruitless, because I’m here now. A small town, with small-minded people, and maybe that’s what I’ll become too. I’ll just shrink further and further into myself until my voice is lost completely, until I forget that I once had a gift.

  ‘And on that note,’ Ms Hurst says, ‘I’ll end by saying that women are stronger than any knight in a fairytale. Cheers to women!’

  Mum reaches for my hand to give it a quick squeeze. The crowd erupts in applause, but I missed whatever point Ms Hurst was making. The boys wolf whistle over the applause. Joey uses the moment of distraction to give Millie a slow, wet kiss. I turn away so the knife doesn’t dig into my heart.

  When I look back in Joey’s direction, Millie is resting her head on his shoulder and I can feel Lukas watching me.

  Happy International Women’s Day indeed.

  A couple of weeks later, my phone buzzes on the benchtop next to the sudsy dishes. I’m still halfway through the washing up, but the instant I see a ‘J’ flash onto my screen, I know who it is. I dry my hands, grab my phone.

  Very occasionally, Lukas adds me into the group’s chat thread. It’s the only time I get messages from Joey. They’re only ever short and casual, to the group. But I screenshot them to reread later. Just seeing Joey’s name on my screen is enough to give me butterflies. I’m already smiling as I open the thread.

  Whose going to Anna’s party?

  Even the misspelling is adorable. I envy the way he can shoot out a message without proofing it or agonising over it for hours the way I would . . . if I was game enough to start a group chat. Which I’m not. Because I’d be left sweating second by agonising second, waiting to see if anybody responded.