Page 42 of The Family Across the Street
‘My life wasn’t meant to go like this, you know,’ I tell her.
‘That’s not my fault,’ she says, frustration in her voice.
‘Then whose fault is it?’ I ask as I rub the gun against my shirt, ridding the handle of my sweat.
‘It’s…’ she begins, but I shake my head at her.
I don’t care to listen to her answer.
24
Katherine
Her mouth is gritty with bits of chocolate muffin, her throat dry, but she doesn’t want to ask him for water. She doesn’t want to ask him for anything except that he just go, just leave her and her children alone. There is mounting anger inside her but she knows that she needs to control it. His behaviour is not just unpredictable and violent – it feels like he’s on the edge of something worse, something that she will not be able to recover from. The room is warmer with each passing hour, filling up with the heat of their combined bodies, and she longs for the outside, for space to breathe and move. She can feel that there must be a way out of this beyond just sitting here and waiting for him to decide it’s over.
‘It’s getting late,’ she says. ‘Do you understand? This can’t go on.’ She speaks softly, gently. He is back in the recliner, the gun resting on his knee, pointed at the three of them. He is getting tired. It’s hard work to maintain the rage that’s keeping the gun pointed in their direction.
‘I don’t…’ he begins.
‘I understand. You don’t know what to do,’ she says. ‘But if you just get up now, just get up and leave, I won’t report you to the police. I won’t say anything at all. Take whatever you want and just go.’ She is in pain all over her body but she feels herself rise above the throbbing and the sharpness of it as she speaks. She has to end this. She cannot give in to the pain because she has these children to save.
He snorts, derision in the sound. ‘Of course you’re going to report me. I would report me.’
‘No one needs to know about what happened here today. I can say that I fell and hurt my wrist. The kids will keep the secret, won’t you, George? Sophie?’
The children rouse themselves from their light sleep. She knows they have been listening. ‘We can keep this a secret, can’t we?’ she repeats. They both nod, but cautiously. They’ve been told that lying is bad. She hopes to have a chance to explain this all to them, to be here still and to have them with her so she can explain.
‘It would be so easy to leave now. You can go anywhere you like. Where would you like to go?’ You have to keep a person threatening you talking. That’s what she’s read and heard. Keep them talking until you can see a gap, a space, a moment to change the balance of power and save your own life.
She keeps her tone light. He has responded to her a little, and all she needs is a little. The children watch her as she speaks. They don’t understand her calm voice when they know she should be angry or scared.
Outside the cicadas are screaming and inside the air conditioner rattles and wheezes. It is afternoon and the heat is thick and heavy, hanging in the air, the sun burning the grass brown in places. And he is tired. She can feel his exhaustion in the air, as though it is part of her. If she keeps watching him, there will be a moment, just a moment when she can make this work. She rests her damaged wrist on her knee, wincing at the continual pain there, and she slides her good hand between the seat cushions, surreptitiously, slowly and carefully. She feels the slightly rough plastic handle of the scissors and she grasps it tightly. Any minute now.
25
Logan
Fifteen Minutes Ago
‘Debbie, Debbie!’ he keeps screaming as he drives, weaving in and out of traffic, other cars hooting their anger. He can hear muffled conversation from the other end of the line but he has no idea what’s going on. It sounds like she’s dropped her phone. He feels like he cannot control his speed. His foot is pressed on the gas pedal and the van goes faster and faster and he is powerless to make it stop. He roars through a stop sign, narrowly missing being hit by a car that had the right of way. The driver holds their hand down on the hooter, long and loud, indignant at his behaviour, but he is moving so quickly, too quickly, and the sound is only momentary before he’s left it behind.
He needs to slow down or he’s going to get pulled over and then he won’t get to her. He won’t be able to save her. Debbie is small and light, and although she’s stronger than she looks, she won’t be able to defend herself against an enraged man. Patrick’s hands on his sister, Patrick’s hands on Debbie, the two women he loves most in the world. This cannot be. He cannot let this happen.
‘Logan,’ he hears, ‘Logan, why are you shouting my name?’ She yells the words, sounding hysterical.
‘Debbie…’ he says again, pure relief running through his veins, making him feel almost high. He lifts his foot off the gas, the van slows down and he searches for a space to pull over for a moment. His whole body has broken out in a sweat and there is an ache in his jaw from clamping his teeth together. His hands slip a little on the steering wheel. ‘Who’s there? Who’s there?’ he yells as he pulls the van to the side of the road.
‘Stop yelling,’ she says, even as she’s shouting herself. ‘Stop yelling and listen. It’s my dad, just my dad,’ she says, her voice still raised. ‘He came over to bring me some soup and he dropped it all over the carpet. We’re cleaning it up but you’re yelling like a crazy person. What on earth is wrong?’ Her voice softens and with her explanation he feels his body relax, his muscles release, and he takes a deep breath. It’s her dad, just her dad.
He would like to reach through the phone and grab his wife, hold her to him. He could have lost her. She could have been taken from him and he will not let that happen.
Logan rubs his eyes, creating the dark space he needs, knowing that if he doesn’t calm down, he will not be able to explain himself.
A white cockatoo lands on the front of his van, cocks its yellow-crested head and stares at him. ‘Put your dad on the phone,’ he commands, and he is grateful that she doesn’t question him. He watches the bird as it climbs onto a windscreen wiper and perches there, making eye contact, before spreading its white wings and flying onto a tree in a garden near where he’s parked.
‘Logan,’ says Paul, concern in his voice.
‘Listen, Paul, I don’t think I can explain it to her without freaking out, but Patrick is here, in Sydney. He’s here and I got a text saying that I’m next and I think he’s here to hurt me because of…’
