Being Kalli(19)
I slip my G-string back on and belt up the coat, which traps enough heat to remind me of the temperature rise Nate caused when he fingered me. Nate is sitting on the grass by his equipment, legs spread like a triangle, leaning on one hand. He must be checking the images because the camera sucks his concentration. He didn’t peek up once to watch me change. Not even as I walk close enough for the breeze to whoosh my hair and coat in his direction, surely filling him with my scent, and at the least the hem of my coat to his hair.
“That hasn’t ruined our friendship,” I ask him to be sure, “has it?”
His eyes are still diverted. His voice breaks when he says, “Nah, it’s fine Kall Bell.”
• • •
Last weekend I got him off and today he got me off. Was it just a return of favour?
It’s all I think about until today in the kitchen with Mum when she tells me her and Betsy are going out for a coffee. Milk carton in my hand, I shut the fridge door and walk it to my tea but I must have had more force than I intended because the door slams behind me. I put my milk back afterwards and this time nudge the door shut with my fingers.
“Mary,” I say, coming up to sit at a kitchen chair. I prop my hands on the table with the tea cooling between my arms, and watch her fuss over a pot. “You’re having a coffee, right?”
“Kalli!” Mum gives me a moment’s glare then brings the pot to three containers on the counter.
“It’s an honest question. It’s not like you haven’t gone out, left the babysitter without enough pay so she had to leave and have your four-year-old boys home alone until your teenage daughter rocked up in the middle of the night to find this mess.” I snap my fingers in the air, seemingly overcome by the realisation. “That’s right, you did that last Saturday!”
“Oh, shh. You’re so serious all the time. Everything’s fine. Smile.”
I smile for her.
She starts pouring the custard from the pot into three cups. “That’s a freaky smile there, but see? Happy. Don’t you feel good? You guys are awesome, but I’m just having some me time.”
“Uh-huh,” I manage.
She dunks three biscuits into the custard and walks to the fridge to let them cool in there. Mum’s good for making cute little treats for us, but we’d much rather lose the dessert and have her cuddle up to watch a movie as a family.
We take what we’re given.
“You’re such a great daughter. You just need to work on loosening up. Anyone would think you’re the mother.”
“I am, most of the time, Mary.”
“Most mothers would take offense to what you call me.”
I roll my eyes. Her trying to be serious is like a clown trying to tell you he’s just there to keep you company; I’m always on the lookout for her to jump out at me.
“Most Mums wouldn’t freak at being called ‘Mum’.”
“Your sarcasm is epic, daughter.”
“Mary?”
She turns, the slightest bit of concern in her lined forehead. “Mmm?”
“I keep my promises. Come back high off your rocker and fuck up again? I’m taking the boys for the night until you come to your senses.”
“Yeah, yeah, Mum.”
“Say you love us.”
She replies, “You know I do.”
That’s the problem. She is happy, fun, stupid, crazy, loud and boisterous. But not once, for weeks or months or maybe a year, have I heard her say “I love you” sober. I’m too worried about her coming back drunk and high to worry about that, though.
• • •
When I’m awoken by girly laughter at some point later, dread sinks my heart. Heavy after waking from sleep, I’m slow and out of it until I see the time: 1.00 am.
Fucking idiot.
I flick on the lights and walk with my forearm thrown over my eyes until it’s not blinding anymore and my vision adjusts. I pad up the carpeted hallway in my socks. At the doorway to the main area, I rest on the doorframe where I can see the front door, and Mum. I’m wary of Mary gone and Mary Jane here instead. This woman, who’s just walked into the house, she’s looked my way but in her current state, she hasn’t seen me.
“Mary Jane?”
Mum winks at me and says, “Just Mary, baby!”
“Shh,” I whisper through grit teeth. I grab her hand and go down to the basement where there is enough wall padding to dampen her shrill voice as it travels the house.
I sniff her breath. She isn’t lying. She reeks of everything—beer, scotch, Baileys. But not weed, and her slurry voice and swaying movements tell me she’s drunk, not high on anything else. It’s a good sign she kept her promise—or, the part where she said she wouldn’t do drugs, at least.