Page 19 of Summer, in Between
Tommy’s feet hit the second last step and slip from under him and my stomach lurches as he skids down the stairs, the path slick with rain.His head slams into the last step with a loud thunk that rings in my ears.He blinks rapidly, his eyes focused on mine.Bile rises in my mouth.
‘Muuummmm!’I scream and kneel beside him.Tommy lays on the ground blinking as a procession of misery moves its way across his features, his eyes becoming luminescent with tears, his brow furrowing, his mouth opening.He wails and in that moment I see him as baby Tommy, as toddler Tommy and preschooler Tommy.Mum appears at the top of the stairs, her face blanched.
‘Just walk, sweety,’ Dad says to Mum as he slams the car door behind him, ‘or you’ll be on your arse too.’He kneels over Tommy.‘You okay, mate?Don’t try to move.What hurts?’
‘My head,’ Tommy sobs, then sits up, rubbing his crown.My legs are shaking; I feel almost swamped with relief.I thought for sure he’d be spending the next six months in a spinal unit and I’d be hand-feeding him jelly that he’d let dribble out of his mouth just to annoy me.I love him so much I’d let him.
‘He’s fine,’ I say.Tommy’s been skidding down these stairs at least once a week since we moved here.
‘I’m not fine, dickhead.’He tries to kick me.
Mum’s at the base of the stairs by now.
‘Enough with that filthy language,’ she says.‘If you can kick and talk like that then you’re fine.Upstairs with me, you need an icepack for the back of your head.’
‘No, I want to go with Dad and Cat,’ he whines, but by the way he clutches his head his protest is completely by rote.As he stands, he rubs his sacrum.‘My arse is fucked too.’
‘What did your mother just say?’says Dad.‘The language in this house is beyond a joke!’
‘It doesn’t help that you call your offspring the Dirty Three, Dad,’ I say.‘It’s like we have a genetic predisposition for profanity.’
‘Bullshit,’ says Dad, proving my point times infinity.
‘Come on, Tommy.’Mum places an arm around him and guides him up the stairs.‘Don’t be hours,’ she calls over her shoulder.
‘You’re driving.’Dad moves to the passenger side of the car and throws the keys over the car roof to me.
I catch them, and clap my hands and jump on the spot, then curse myself for acting like a silly schoolgirl.Which I am, for the next ten months, anyway.I slide into the driver’s seat and pull Dad’s tattered seatbelt over my shoulder.I clip it in and it hangs limply across my torso, as ineffective as a strand of cooked spaghetti.I yank it tight and with my hand on the seat lever, I use my body weight to jerk forward so I can reach the pedals.This movement is just a flick of a button in Mum’s, but Dad’s battered work car has no such luxury.I adjust the mirror as Dad clicks in his seatbelt.We’re off, puttering down the dirt road, the potholes making the car shake and shudder.
It’s cold today; yesterday, it was over 40°C and it felt as though my lungs were about to spontaneously combust.The northerly wind felt like a blast in the face from a hairdryer.Today, I’m in my favourite yoga pants even though I’m no yogi, and I’m wearing last night’s singlet under my puffy jacket.
‘What do you think’s worse?Extreme heat or cold?’I ask.
‘I’d prefer heat.You can always find a way to cool down.But imagine being stuck in the snow with no way to warm up.That would be hell.’
‘Hell is a car without seat warmers.You live like a savage, Dad.’
He laughs, and points to his right.‘Let’s hit Boomers.’
We have the roads to ourselves, the storm keeping everyone contained inside their holiday homes, a win for my self-esteem.Dad insists that I drive not so much the speed of light but at the speed of custard, and not the runny kind – imagine custard that could hold a metal spoon upright.That speed.
One of Matty’s favourite ways to give me hell is to give us a head start on one of my practise drives and then catch up on his bicycle, riding beside me with greatly exaggerated movements to pretend it’s an accomplishment of massive physical exertion to keep up with the car.He takes the hilarity to new levels, that kid, especially when he dismounts and holds his bike above his head, walking backwards.Dad always says to ignore him, to ignore all distractions, then leans out the window to yell at Matty to stop distracting me, which, funnily enough, is highly distracting.Helpful, Dad.Thank you.
We roll to the end of the street, by gravity more than actual acceleration, and I look left, right and then left again, the indicator sounding like a drum beat.There’s nothing.I change gears.
‘Hang on,’ says Dad, ‘check again.’
‘I did, there’s nothing.’
He knocks the car out of gear, and I know we’re not going anywhere.I sigh, then physically lift myself out of the seat, twisting my entire body to look in both directions.
‘Okay,’ he says.
‘You sure?’I keep switching back and forth, right and left.‘Should I just keep looking?’
‘You want to walk?’
‘It would be faster.’I ease my foot off the clutch and rev the accelerator.Nothing happens.I rev harder and the car shudders beneath me.‘What the hell?’
