Beautiful Monster (5 page)

Grimly she shoves her fingers further down her throat, feels them against her tonsils. The gag is powerful this time and her stomach heaves violently. Dinner floods the toilet bowl. She retches again and again, the sight and smell turning her weak and aching gut. Finally it stops.

Deflated, she flushes the toilet, wipes it for any traces of food. She stands in front of the mirror again.

‘You were right, Ned,' she says, resolving to tell him so when she next sees him, ‘I feel much better.' She rubs her hand over her stomach; it doesn't feel as fat anymore.

She looks at the alarm clock: 3.42a.m. She lies back against the pillows. The clattering and banging from the kitchen continues. Next the whirr of the electric mixer. She groans and buries her face into the crook of her arm. Not again. Finally, reluctantly, she swings her legs out of bed and finds her dressing-gown on the floor.

In the doorway of the kitchen she ties her belt. The sight in front of her is not uncommon. Her mother is frantically baking, her movements fast and erratic. Flour covers the benches and floor; broken eggs sit in puddles of milk. Annelise pours flour into the mixer, running it at top speed, and a cloud billows up into her face. She looks up as Tess pulls out the kitchen stool and sits down, trying not to rest her elbows in her mother's mess.

‘Morning,' Annelise says cheerfully. ‘You're up early.'

‘Couldn't sleep.' Tess traces a love heart through the flour on the table. ‘What are you making?'

Annelise throws chocolate chips into the mixing bowl and across the bench. ‘A birthday cake, a chocolate one.'

‘Nice,' Tess says, picking one up and then hesitating before she puts it to her lips. ‘What for?'

Her mother stops her quick movements and stares at Tess incredulously. She has flour halfway up her face and there's eggwhite in her hair, stiffening it so it sticks out. ‘Your brother's birthday.'

Tess's stomach drops. Of course. How could she have forgotten? She is such a selfish bitch sometimes. ‘Yes,' she says slowly, trying to lessen the pain in her mother's face, ‘but it's tomorrow. Not today.'

Her mother shrugs, her movements back to fever pitch. ‘I know. But I need to have it ready now. I don't want to be making it when he gets home. I need to have it ready now. So that when he gets off the bus I'll be there. So that he can come in and eat his cake. I need to get it ready now.'

Her voice becomes higher, faster, with each sentence. The panic rises in Tess's chest. She's already around the kitchen bench as her mother sags against it. ‘Mum,' she cries, holding on to her. Through her satin gown, she feels her mother's bony body, her heart beating at a hundred miles an hour. ‘Mum,' she cries again, holding her tightly. And then her dad is there.

‘Come on, Annelise, let's get you cleaned up.'

Her mother sinks against him.

‘You've got an appointment today with Dr Simpson. Shall we wash your hair?'

She nods. ‘But what about Brodie's cake? I haven't put it in the oven.' She stares at the kitchen. ‘And I need to clean up. I've made a dreadful mess.'

‘I'll finish it, Mum,' Tess says, fighting back tears.

‘Thanks, babe.' Her dad is pale. ‘Come on, Annelise, let's get you sorted.'

Tess pours the cake mixture into a pan and slides it into the oven. She wipes the bench, building small piles of wet flour with the kitchen sponge. This is Brodie's birthday cake—and he's not going to eat it. It hurts to remember his round, excited face. She wipes the flour into her hand, careful not to drop it on the floor. Gives the bench a last going over. Checks the cake, which is beginning to rise nicely. Flicks the Enjo across the timber floor.

It's five-fifteen. Tess heads out for a jog.

There is fog over the lake and it is still in this early hour. She keeps her hands in her tracksuit pockets and jogs slowly around the water's edge. Ned might be up ahead, but part of her hopes that if he is, he won't see her. She can't handle him, not after the way he attacked her following the race meet.

They were walking in the park. Nero was off the lead and running ahead of them, then circling back, sniffing trees and other dogs and air.

‘I know you, Tess,' Ned said slyly. ‘I know what you thought.'

Tess wouldn't look at him. She heard the judgement in his voice; she didn't need to see it too. She shrugged defiantly. ‘It was an honest mistake. Could've happened to anyone.'

‘But it didn't,' Ned continued, worse than Nero with a bone. ‘It happened to you, Tess. You're the reason the team lost the trophy.'

She tries to block out his words, but it's hard to do when she knows he's right. She is worthless. How Ned could love someone so useless is beyond her.

Then she spots him up ahead, a spectre materialising out of the gloom. In the stillness he must hear her footsteps because he waits and she catches up.

‘Knew it was you,' he says, moving to embrace her.

Her heart immediately melts.

‘I'd know the sound of thundering elephants anywhere.'

She pulls back from his embrace, fragile from the morning's baking, wounded by the implication of his comments. ‘Thanks,' she says curtly.

‘What?' He acts as if he has no idea that he's hurt her. ‘What's the matter with you?'

They walk along briskly. She doesn't want to talk to him.

‘Come on, what's up?'

‘Brodie's birthday tomorrow.' Tears well up in her eyes. ‘He would've been thirteen.' The idea of him as a thirteen-year-old knifes her.

‘Mum cooking?' Ned asks gently. He is soft and kind.

‘Yeah. Dad's taking her to the shrink today. But she's on one of those downward spirals. Manic and mental today, tomorrow morose and maudlin.'

She shakes her head as he says, ‘It must be hard for her.'

‘It is, and every year it seems to get harder. It's difficult to believe it's been three whole years tomorrow.'

‘Time flies when you're having fun,' Ned replies. ‘Isn't that what people say?'

Tess doesn't respond. She walks on quickly in silence, almost holding her breath. Where has the fun gone? Their happy, loud house is now an Emporium of Silence and Good Manners. She shudders, wrapping her arms around her waist.

‘Cold?' Ned asks.

She feels his warmth through her rigid shoulders.

‘All the time,' she says softly, looking at her fingernails, which have developed a blue tinge. ‘I always feel cold.'

‘Let's run,' Ned says. ‘Kill two birds with one stone.'

She can barely feel his grip on her icy hand as she lets him drag her around the lake.

When she gets home from school she is surprised to find Aunty Sue sitting at the kitchen table, reading a magazine and drinking tea.

‘Hi,' Tess says, dropping her school bag. ‘Where are they?'

‘Hello, my darling,' Aunty Sue says. ‘Dad's taken Mum to the doctor. He told me what happened this morning, couldn't get an earlier appointment. But anyway, she slept most of today, so it was probably good for her. I just got here as they were leaving. I didn't want you to come home to an empty house, so I thought I'd wait.' Aunty Sue pats the chair next to her. ‘Tell me about your day.'

Tess tells her about her last assignment (an A for simultaneous equations) and
The Collector,
the novel she's reading for extension English. Aunty Sue has read it too, and they discuss the characterisation of Frederick and his obsession with butterflies and Miranda. On the kitchen counter, the cake sits in a plastic container. She pushes it to one side as she starts pulling ingredients out of the fridge. It's much easier to prepare food when she has a distraction.

‘What are you doing, sweetie?' Aunty Sue says, moving to a kitchen stool.

‘I'll get some dinner ready for them,' Tess says. ‘Sometimes the clinic is so busy—they can be there for hours.'

Aunty Sue nods. ‘You're alone a lot, aren't you.'

‘No, not really,' Tess says hastily. ‘I just know what the visits to Dr Simpson can be like.' She starts slicing onions into wafer-thin pieces.

‘You're so considerate, Tess,' Aunty Sue says, watching her carefully peel and evenly dice the carrots. ‘You've really shouldered a burden.'

‘Not really.' Tess shrugs dismissively, hating this focus on herself. ‘We all do our bit.'

‘Shepherd's pie? You using that textured protein stuff?'

Tess nods, pouring boiling water onto the vegetarian mince.

‘Do you remember when you showed Brodie how to make shepherd's pie?' Aunty Sue ventures softly.

Tess pauses and thinks, a slow smile spreading across her face. ‘Yes, I do! I can't believe you remember that! He was scared—he thought I was chopping up shepherds to eat them.'

Aunty Sue nods, laughing too. ‘Remember, I was staying here while your Mum and Dad were in Queensland. I heard him scream—came running down the stairs, thinking the worst—but you had him in your lap, cuddling him. Calming him down.'

‘Yeah,' Tess said, ‘he was so freaked out.' She puts the lid on the pot to let the sauce simmer and begins wiping the bench so she can peel the potatoes.

‘You were always the one who knew him best, Tess,' Aunty Sue says and Tess hears her voice thicken. ‘You must miss him so much. I do.'

Tess blinks back tears. She loves talking about Brodie, but it hurts too. She looks at his cake and wipes the bench faster. ‘His birthday,' she says simply.

Aunty Sue comes round the bench and puts her hand over Tess's to still the frantic movements. ‘I know.' She turns Tess to face her. ‘You're not alone, my darling. We're all here. It's okay to cry.'

But Tess shakes her head. ‘I know. But I'm okay. Really.'

The house is silent that night. Her mother is in bed, tranquillised. Dr Simpson has upped her medications in anticipation of the crash tomorrow. They all expect it.

Tess sits with her dad in the dimly lit lounge room, watching reality TV. It strikes her as absurd. How can this be real? Strangers forced to live in a controlled environment under the watchful glare of TV cameras. Nothing real here—but when you think about it, what is reality? Who would have believed that this would be their reality?

‘Tomorrow will be okay,' her dad says.

‘You think?' Tess asks fearfully.

‘I know,' he says, gently rubbing her knee, ‘but we have to believe with each year, and with more therapy, we're closer to happiness. If that's ever possible.' He shrugs.

‘I'm going to bed, Dad—who knows when she'll be awake.'

She ignores the pain on his face as she leaves the room.

In the bathroom Tess glares at her reflection. She is revolting. Those rolls of fat on her waist, under her arms. She grabs them and shakes them viciously. ‘You disgusting pig,' she hisses. ‘The world would be so much better off without you. They'd be so much happier if it had been you and not Brodie.' She scowls at herself. ‘I hate you. We all do. You're hopeless.'

She can't stop thinking about the food she's eaten. Since the rowing finals it feels like her dad is hovering over her like a mother bird with a mouthful of regurgitated food. Waiting to make her eat more. As she looks at her reflection she knows she's put on weight. She pulls out the scales and steps on: 47 kilos. She sighs loudly. She's been fluctuating wildly between 45 and 50 since the finals. She can't hold a true weight. If only she could be 45, then she'd be right. It would all be okay. Everyone would be happy. This is
her
fault; she has the power to make it right, but she's just too damn lazy.

‘Get rid of it,' Ned commands inside her head. ‘You're weak. And if you don't get rid of it YOU WILL GET FAT.'

She swallows painfully. Why does he always have to be right? Vomiting hurts her stomach, burns her throat. But if she doesn't—what then? What will happen next? She'll be fat—and who is ever going to love her then?

‘No one,' Ned taunts again. ‘Who is ever going to love a FAT, DISGUSTING, WORTHLESS PIG?'

Of course he's right. He is always right. If she is thin, they'll love her. That's what will happen. She'll bring happiness into the house again.

She jams her fingers hard down her throat; her stomach is so well-conditioned that it knows what to do immediately. It heaves the calories away.

Her clock radio pips. She turns over and looks at the luminous figures: 6a.m. She lies still for a while in the silence. And then the silence has her springing from bed. Today is Brodie's birthday and it's so damn quiet. How is this possible? She enters the kitchen and sees her dad, his head bowed over his coffee cup—almost like he's praying.

‘Hey,' she says, sliding onto the seat next to him, ‘morning.' She's horrified to see his face streaked with tears. This raw emotion isn't Dad's job, it's Mum's, and thankfully she's not around whipping up some culinary delight. ‘Dad.' She touches his arm, alarmed.

‘He'd be a teenager today,' her dad sniffs.

And it hits her, again. This isn't just her mum's pain, it's his too. His son, his baby. Dead today, the day he would have turned thirteen.

‘Dad,' she whispers, ‘it'll be okay.'

He looks at her sadly. ‘The thing is, Tess, it won't. It'll never be okay. Never. Brodie's gone and every year is another year without him.' It's become a ritual. Every morning she stands in front of the mirror, repulsed by what she sees, reminding herself so that she doesn't mess up.
If you could be better, faster, smarter, if you could win, don't you see that you'd make them happy. Don't you see that? You're so weak, it's fucking disgusting.

Tess turns away from the mirror—from that voice in her head. She needs to get ready for school. Today they have an in-class essay. She can't get another B. Can't fail.

She hears Ned whisper, ‘The reason you're so unlovable is that you eat too much, Tess. Your life will be wonderful if you lose a couple of kilos. That's all it takes. Two kilos will make you happy. Down to 45—it's your number, kiddo. Go for it. Everyone will love you. Life will be perfect.'

She turns to face the mirror. Down to 45 kilos. That's all she needs to do.

Downstairs her mum sits in the chair by the window, staring ahead, all the life and energy drained from her body. Tess puts her school bag on the floor and crouches down in front of her. ‘Okay, Mum?' she says gently, touching her mother's hand.