Page 15 of Muddy Messy Love

As the garage door shudders down and the sound of Beth’s car fades, I can finally breathe, or so I think. My phone blasts the Wicked Witch’s theme fromThe Wizard of Oz, and Mum’s name lights up the screen. I smile and roll my eyes at the ceiling.Hilarious, Jen.But the humour is fleeting, and a sour taste grows in my mouth. Beth wouldn’t have mentioned the assault nor my arrest, since I asked her not to. But Mum hasn’t called once since leaving all those months ago. Why now?

Dropping my legs down from the back of the sofa, I sit up and bring the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

“Avery.” Mum’s voice comes through the line, wired and breathless. “Can you do me a favour?”

My stomach hardens. “Hi, Mum, how are you? Long time, no speak.”

“Avery Lee, I don’t have time for attitude right now. I need to speak to Bethany, but she’s not answering her phone, and her office line goes straight to voicemail. It’s a matter of urgency.”

My grip tightens. “Why? What’s going on?”

“Nothing you need to worry about, but I need to speak with her. Can you please go to her office and deliver my message?”

“But, Mum, that’s a ninety-minute round trip by tram. How long have you been trying?”

“Since this morning.”

I shake my head. It’s barely 8:00 a.m. “She’s on her way to work. How about I try calling her?”

“I told you. She isn’t answering.”

“Yes, but she will eventually.”She might for me.“Is everything okay?”

“Forget it,” she grumbles. “I’ll keep trying from here. Thanks for nothing.”

The line falls dead, and I stare at the phone. A normal child would worry. But a normal child is the product of a normal mother, and unfortunately, neither of us fits the bill. Knowing Mum, there’s probably a sale she can’t get to or a question she needs answered. Everything is a matter of urgency where she’s concerned.

I shoot Beth a text, warning her what’s coming, and lie back down, hugging a golden scatter cushion to my chest. My heart hammers, and my stomach twists into infinity knots, but I expected as much. It happens every time. Mum’s a hit of adrenaline that throws me into flight mode with nowhere to run.

She could have asked how I was, or at least pretended to care.

The thought burrows me further into the sofa, and I rub my sternum and groan. This icky feeling—the acid ball of nerves, the vice inside my throat, dark mind forever spawning doom. I’m sofucking sick of it. I want to rip it from my body with sharp claws and shred it into oblivion. Only then might I be normal.

I launch the cushion across the lounge room and stand. On autopilot, I amble to the studio and find myself staring at the bags of clay. R.E.M.—one of my dad’s favourite bands—floats through the speaker, telling me everybody hurts, and in that moment, I’m a little less alone.

Lifting the heavy bag closer, I grab a box cutter and slice open the plastic, then shimmy it down the sides. Burnt orange stains my hands, and the scent of damp earth tingles through my nose. With fishing line, I slice off a generous piece and slam it down on the bench, then glare at it while pressure builds in my chest. It climbs up my throat and rips free as a guttural roar. My fists fly, and I pound the helpless clay until my shoulders heave from exertion and my screams turn to sobs. And then I collapse to the stool and purge every plaguing thought, every toxic feeling, and let my hands do whatever it is they will.

The sun sets beyond the plantation shutters, casting the room in a terracotta glow. I drop the modelling tool to the bench and roll back on my stool, staring in silence. In front of me lies a girl crushed to the ground, her abstract face contorted in anguish. She’s long given up trying to move, the weight pinning her far too great.

I tilt my head to the side and admire her. It’s like she came from somewhere else, or from another’s hand. But as I examine my fingers and clay-smeared yoga pants, all evidence points to that not being true.

A smile finds my lips as I bow my head. The impossible has materialised, and time away seems to have only marinated my talent. Allowed it to rest and strengthen—acquire depth and flavour like Beth’s fine cellared wine. I only pray this isn’t a one-off. A cruel glimpse of what could be but won’t. The tap could seize again, or in ten days…be jailed.

Shoving that thought aside, I wander to the pegboard and unhook the nest of copper wire and snips before resuming my seat. I know exactly what will pin her down.

The weight of the fucking world.

Five

While the Children’s Courtisn’t the historic Gotham-style building from my nightmares, the sleek, modernist hub radiates something equally daunting—the promise of merciless process. Cold like the aluminium beams slicing the sky and hard like the cantilevered concrete shadowing me from above.

With a deep breath, I brush off the non-existent dust from Beth’s pencil skirt and blouse for the fifth time, noting the subtle green tint of the glazed entry makes me look as sick as I feel. Karma has me cornered, and despite Beth’s assurances, freedom feels as remote as the Everest summit. I look skyward but refrain from praying. Hope opted to stay in the studio, gathering dust in the dark with a collection part done.

With a whimper, I check my hands for stray remnants of clay. The fact we’d just found each other again is bittersweet. But maybe there’s a kiln in juvie. Maybe I’ll find fame as a delinquent jailhouse potter. Dark and edgy. Deep and troubled. Knowing this fucked-up world, that might fly.

The door swings open, casting my reflection into nearby shrubs, and a tailored woman exits with a black roller bag in tow. She holds the door open and arches a brow. “Are you going in?”

Nerves strangle my throat, and I emit a sound somewhere between a choke and growl. I bobble my head, miming the lost words, and her forehead furrows. She probably suspects a seizure of some sort. And maybe she’s right. That’s how it feels. Every cell in my body jiggles like slime, rendering my limbs loose and ineffective. And heels? What the hell was I thinking? I can’t walk in these damn things at the best times.

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