Self-Portraits - 2. The Longest Weekend

Friday’s a little better, because I arrive at school fully prepared to be a loner all day. I had more sleep too, so I can actually concentrate in class. I hear others whispering about what parties everyone’s going to this weekend. I hear girls giggle about boys and boys grunt about girls.

When the lunch bell rings, I push my sandwich into my mouth quickly, while people are still filing out of the classroom, then I head to the library. The library’s a safe haven for the friendless.

The only person from my year in the library is Harriet Hayes. Harriet gets top marks in all her classes, but she’s snobby and unpopular. She has her big nose in a book and doesn’t see me.

I find a spare table in the foreign language section. I start catching up on my homework. I open David Copperfield and start reading Chapter One. Miss Bristol promised us it’d be an amusing read, but the very first line makes me depressed: Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.

Because I’m not the hero of my own life. I’m not even the main character. That “station” has always been held by Nicholas. He’s been the centre of my world for years. With him gone, I’m floating out into oblivion.

I’m meant to stop after Chapter 2 but I get all the way through to Chapter 11 when the afternoon bell rings. I’m nine chapters ahead. Harriet Hayes will have some serious competition soon.

At the end of the day, Vicky is standing at the gates again. I’m scared that she wants to go back to the hospital to confront Dad, but she only tells me to tell Mum that she’ll be staying at her squeaky friend Katie’s house tonight.

When I get home, Mum’s not there either. The house is dark and silent. I go into the kitchen, looking for Mum’s usual note beside the kettle – but there isn’t one.

Of course there isn’t, I realise. She’s not expecting me to be home. Nicholas and I always go out together after school on Fridays. We go to Macy’s Café, or the movies, or we just hang around the shops being idiots.

I can’t remember the last Friday night we spent apart.

Standing in the dark kitchen, I open a packet of crisps and have a glass of lime cordial.

I walk through the house, feeling like a ghost.

I pick up my phone and, before I know what I’m doing, I’ve started tapping out a text message to Nicholas.

Hey, what are you doing tonight?

It’s second nature but, luckily, I stop myself before I hit send. I delete the message and put my phone away.

I end up running a hot bath and using Mum’s nicest bath stuff – oils, scented candles, and bring in Vicky’s speakers. I wallow in the bath and feel a bit better. I might be all alone in the universe, but at least I know how to relax.

*

Mum comes home at eight o’clock.

“Where were you?” I ask. I’m sitting in the kitchen wearing a dressing gown and slippers. I look like a little old lady.

Mum jumps out of her skin. “You gave me a heart attack! I thought you’d be out!” She gets her breath back. “I’ve been out with Rosemary. Why haven’t you turned on any lights? And it’s freezing in here!”

I boil the kettle for her and make us cups of tea. Mum and I spend the rest the evening in front of the TV. Bridesmaids is on TV. The movie usually puts me in a good mood, but I’ve never watched it without Nicholas before. Mum cracks up at the food poisoning scene, but for the first time I find it depressing, because the last time I watched it, Nicholas was sitting beside me. I keep picturing his cute half-grin, and I keep imagining his machine-gun laugh.

This weekend feels like it’s going to stretch on for eternity.

*

It’s Saturday morning.

I’m lying in bed, dreading the long weekend ahead, and trying to remember what happened last Saturday. Then it hits me. Last Saturday, I woke up to the sound of Nicholas laughing at the enormous patch of drool I’d made on my pillow.

Then what happened?

We cuddled in bed for a bit. Then we could hear Mum cooking breakfast, so we went downstairs. Vicky was already there, scoffing chocolate biscuits from the pantry, and ranting and raving to Mum about something.

Dad had already gone into work by the time Nicholas and I came into the kitchen. He’d been working a lot of Saturdays lately. Except, of course, now I know that he probably hadn’t been working at all. He was probably at the Red Woman’s house.

I wonder how long Dad had been living a double-agent life. He’s the last person you’d ever suspect of subterfuge. He’s always been so bland. Sometimes, you forget he’s even in the room – especially if Vicky’s in there too, because she never shuts up. Dad’s your typical awkward father: not getting jokes, balding, working. It’s so weird to think of him being in love with someone – even with Mum, he always seemed more like a business associate. Now that I thought about it, most of their conversations were about things like planning and budgeting.

But even with Dad at “work” last Saturday morning, the house still felt nice and full.

This morning, there’s no Nicholas, no Vicky, and even less Dad than there was before.

Downstairs, I can hear the bacon sizzling on the pan and I can smell coffee. This gets me out of bed but when I walk into the kitchen, I feel like I’ve gone crazy.

Because it’s not Mum at the stove. It’s Dad.

“Hi ya, mate,” he says.

I’ve never seen him cook a thing in his life, except when he uses the outdoor barbeque.

I’m not sure what to say. “Where’s Mum?”

“She’s gone to pick up some milk, and your sister,” he says, in that order. Then he adds, “Bacon and eggs.”

“Is that a statement or a question?” I ask.

“We’re having bacon and eggs,” he says. “Is Nicholas up?”

It’s a fair question. I can’t remember the last time Nicholas didn’t stay over on a Friday night. Mum and Dad thought we’ve been top-and-tailing, but, for the past four Fridays, we’ve lain together, side by side, our limbs all criss-crossed, until it got too warm. I wonder if I’ll ever touch Nicholas again. The thought goes through me like a knife.

“He’s not here,” I manage to say.

“Well, there’ll be plenty!” Dad says. He’s never tried to be so upbeat before. “How was school this week?”

It was the worst week of my life. I don’t think that’s exaggeration.

“Okay,” I lie.

I pour a coffee and sit at the kitchen table, conversing in bits and pieces with Dad, until Mum comes home with Vicky.

“You’re AMBUSHING me!” we hear Vicky screaming, followed by the car door slamming shut. “I DON’T want to talk to him! You don’t even know, woman! You don’t even know the half of it!”

Vicky stomps up the stairs, to my bedroom, and slams the door. She slams my door more often than her own. Dad looks justifiably scared.

Mum comes into the kitchen with the milk. “She’s in a bit of a mood – wanted to stay at Katie’s for the whole weekend. I told her she can’t very well move in there. Long story short, she’ll be down in a few minutes.”

I know what Vicky will be doing in my room right now. She’ll be screaming into a pillow. Maybe punching one. My pillows are used to taking the brunt of my sister’s rage.

Breakfast is served and Vicky finally comes down to face Dad. She’s changed into my Pepsi t-shirt and Hawaiian shorts. Her hair looks like a rat’s nest, but her face is thunderous.

“Morning, my girl,” Dad says.

“Hello, father,” she says coldly, “if that is your real name.”

“Er, what?” he says.

“With all the lies you two have been feeding us, Richard and I are now fully prepared for you to reveal that we were adopted. We are ready for you to send us back to our Scandinavian families, who I’m sure won’t lie to us half as much as you have.”

“You’re not fair-coloured enough to be Scandinavian,” Mum points out.

“What would you know about Scandinavia, woman?” Vicky demands.

“I’ve made bacon and eggs,” Dad offers.

Vicky laughs, without a trace of humour. “Frying your way to forgiveness?”

“That’s enough, Vicky,” Mum says.

Vicky looks at me accusingly. “Nothing to say, Rick? Just sitting there polishing your halo, are you?”

“Let’s just have breakfast,” I say diplomatically.

We sit around the kitchen table eating our bacon and eggs. It’s mostly Mum and Dad talking, their usual planning and house-focussed discussion. None of us are talking about what’s really going on.

Vicky has thirds of bacon and eggs. I pour a second cup of coffee, which makes me jittery.

The closest we come to talking about anything real is after Dad’s stacked the empty plates.

“So,” Mum says, “do you two have any – questions – for us?”

“No,” I say as quickly as I can.

Vicky’s nostrils flare at Dad. “I have one question. How does it feel to be a total home-destroyer?”

“I think the phrase is home-wrecker,” I correct Vicky.

Dad just looks at the stacked plates.

“It’s going to take a while for the dust to settle,” Mum says.

Vicky rolls her eyes. “Can I be excused from the table? I’ve got a headache from all this bullshit.”

Mum smiles tiredly. “Of course, darling.” She deserves a Nobel Peace Prize.

I wonder whether she’d be as patient if she knew the whole story.

*

Vicky spends the rest of the day in my bedroom, complaining about Dad, going through my cupboards, and napping. But I don’t object; I’m pitifully grateful for the company. During her naps, I keep reading David Copperfield. Uriah Heep makes my skin crawl. It took me a few chapters to figure out Betsy Trotter. I think she’s meant to be nice, but mad as a chair. I hope Miss Bristol won’t be angry that I’m nearly halfway through it.

Mum comes upstairs in the late afternoon to ask if I have anything for the washing machine.

“You know I do my own laundry,” I say.

“He doesn’t want you touching his undies,” Vicky says.

“I thought we’d go out for dinner tonight,” Mum tells us. “Maybe Sizzler’s – as a bit of a treat.”

Vicky perks up at the thought of buffalo wings, steak and fries, and a toffee cheesecake. I perk up at the thought of actually doing something tonight – even if it is with my mother and sister.

Mum looks at me. “Should I book for Nicholas?”

“Um … um …” I stammer. Vicky’s distracted with one of my old baggy t-shirts, twirling in front of the mirror, as she twists and pulls it in all directions. My throat feels like sandpaper. “No – he’s got a thing with his grandparents this weekend.”

“As if Nicholas wants to hang out with his friend’s Mum on a Saturday night,” Vicky says.

“Well, either of you are welcome to bring a friend,” Mum says. “Rosemary and Cheryl are coming.”

Vicky groans. “Oh God, so they’ll both get drunk, won’t they?”

Rosemary and Cheryl are Mum’s best friends. Rosemary’s big, cheerful, and loud. Cheryl’s stick-thin, and always looks like she’s just stepped off a red carpet. They’re both total man-eaters – they go through boyfriends like toilet paper.

Does that mean Mum’s going to be a man-eater, too, now that she’s single? She’s only a bit overweight – skinny compared to Rosemary – and she’s not all lipstick and eyeshadow like Cheryl. She looks okay. Well, she looks like a mum.

I push that icky thought out of my head and start thinking about dinner.

*

Sizzler’s is an old wild-west style restaurant. You walk in through saloon-style doors, you sit on hay bales instead of chairs, and the waiters wear cowboy boots. Our waiter is a guy my age with spiky blonde hair and a big smile. His nametag says Hi, I’m STU.

“Hi, Stu,” Cheryl purrs, as he takes us to our table. Rosemary giggles. They were drinking champagne before we picked them up.

“Hi, ladies,” Stu says, “and gentleman.”

Stu leaves us with the menus. As he walks away, Vicky elbows me. “Ear,” she whispers.

I look up and, sure enough, see that Stu’s ear is glinting. He’s got an earring. You might see that in big cities, but not here. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a guy with a piercing outside of TV and movies.

“A round of daiquiris!” Rosemary booms.

“Can I have one?” Vicky begs Mum.

“You can have a small taste of mine,” Mum says.

“Oh, let the sausages have one each,” Cheryl says, checking her reflection in her purse-mirror for the millionth time. “They’ll have to start training their livers eventually.”

“I just want a coke,” I say hurriedly. The truth is, I’ve never even tasted alcohol before. When I was little, even the smell of Dad’s whiskey made me feel sick. Most kids at school have tried alcohol, but not me.

Stu comes back to take our drinks order. The diamond stud in his ear twinkles.

Cheryl notices it, too. “What an interesting piece of jewellery,” she says. To my horror, she reaches her long fingernails out and touches it.

“Very cool,” Rosemary agrees.

“Thanks,” Stu says. “I might have to take it out next week. I’m starting at St Peters next week. I hear there’s a pretty strict dress code.”

Mum brightens up. “That’s where these two go!”

Stu grins. “Good, there’ll be some friendly faces on Monday.”

As soon as he’s out of earshot, Cheryl and Rosemary start gushing.

“What a polite young man!”

“That earring – so exotic—”

“But it suits him, don’t you think?”

“Poor thing – ending up in this town of all places—”

“Oh, it’s not that bad.”

“Not much fun for a teenager, though, is it?”

Then Cheryl turns to Vicky. “What do you think? Rather handsome boy, isn’t he?”

Vicky’s attention is fixed on the menu. She’s practically salivating with hunger. She looks up vaguely. “Huh?”

“I think he liked you,” Rosemary tells Vicky. “Imagine that – a handsome boyfriend with a pierced ear.”

“I’m getting chilli chips and buffalo wings as my entrees,” she informs us.

Food has always been more important to Vicky than boys.

*

The rest of the evening is predictable.

Rosemary and Cheryl order jugs of daiquiris until they’re drunk enough to get up and dance in the middle of the restaurant. They attempt to line dance, but trip each other up, and fall to the ground.

Vicky eats her weight in meat, chips, and a dessert big enough to feed an entire dinner party.

Mum seems her usual happy self. Well, happy enough. It’s as if nothing’s happened at all. But then, I realise, for the last year or two, Mum’s been taking Vicky and me out for dinner a lot without Dad. He’s either been “working”, or travelling, or had a migraine. How did I not notice this earlier?

As we’re leaving, Stu calls out, “See you on Monday!”

I go red. Stu seems like a cool guy, but he knows I spend Saturday nights with my mother and her embarrassing friends.

“See you on Monday,” I echo, because I can never think of anything original to say.

*

I’m home and in bed before ten., but my sleep is rudely interrupted at two in the morning.

It’s Vicky, shaking me awake.

“What?” I snap.

“Something’s happened between you and Nicholas, hasn’t it?” she says.

I’m still half-asleep. “What are you talking about?”

She turns my bedside light on.

“You and Nicholas. I just realised it. I was having this crazy dream about trying to pack this parachute in my schoolbag, except then I realised it wasn’t a parachute, it was Nicholas, and he was shouting at me, like, why are you pushing me into your schoolbag, and then I woke up, and it hit me. Nicholas hasn’t been here in over a week and you haven’t been hanging out with him. That’s why you were walking around at lunchtime the other day, isn’t it? Well? What happened? Did you guys have a fight?”

It still feels like a knife’s being twisted in my guts.

I tell her everything. No, it’s not a fight. It was my fault. I got the wrong idea about us. We were being silly, thinking we could come out and everything would be fine. We need some time apart.

Vicky’s reaction is not what I expected; she bursts into tears.

“Oh my god! I’ve been so caught up in what’s been happening with Mum and Dad, thinking the whole world was ending, but you’ve been going through that and you got dumped, and you’ve had to go through it all alone!”

Vicky cries until she’s soaked through a pillow, then she rolls over, and falls asleep on the dry side of the bed.

*

In the morning, Vicky’s more depressed than ever. At breakfast, she inhales half a loaf of toast, then slumps her head on the table.

Mum proposes that we all go on a nice walk.

“I don’t think I could ever enjoy nature ever again,” Vicky mumbles into the placemat. “I mean, nature’s practically just all the species rejecting each other. Nothing lasts. Everyone’s alone.”

“What are you talking about?” Mum says.

“She’s not talking about anything,” I say quickly. “I’ll come for a walk with you, Mum.”

Mum and I leave Vicky with her broken heart-by-proxy, and drive out of town, to the Saddle Track. It’s quiet and muddy. We squelch up the track, not saying much, except for comments about the mud and the birds. It’s the best type of cold, the type that burns your lungs and makes the air feel even fresher. We don’t see another person the whole time.

We’re nearly at the top of the track, when Mum says, “Poor Vicky.” She says it quietly so I almost wonder whether she’s talking to herself, but she’s talking to me.

“Vicky’s not like you,” Mum says. “She won’t just potter along happily with things. She gets quite upset, really.”

Once again, Mum’s got it all wrong. Vicky has tonnes of friends and, for all her storming around in a mood, she’s actually a happy person. I’m the unhappy one, but of course, Mum has no idea. I wonder how long it’ll take her to notice Nicholas isn’t part of our lives.

We get to the end of the trail. There’s no stunning vista, no snow-capped mountains, or wide valleys. It’s a little waterfall, trickling into a small pond, in a quiet green glade. It starts raining, so we sit on a rock under a tree, and Mum peels a banana, feeding me little chunks of it like I’m a trained monkey. We sit in silence for a couple of minutes.

“This is nice,” she says after a while. “Isn’t it?”

It’s strange; she sounds so happy, so contented.

Then she says something even more confusing. “What a weight off my shoulders.”

This time, I really do think she’s talking to herself.

We sit in more silence. The only sound is the raining splashing around us. I throw the banana peel into the bushes.

“Don’t do that.” Mum fetches it and puts it back into her bag.

“It’ll just decay,” I argue. “It might even grow into a banana tree.”

But she’s adamant. Banana peels do not belong in the bush.