The Red Cardigan (4 page)

As a little girl, Evie always answers her mother, thinking it's the right thing to do. She doesn't understand it's a special thing, to hear a person's thought. She thinks she's the same as everyone else. No one bothers to tell her otherwise.

‘They're next to the front door,' she calls to her mother one day.

‘What's that?' her mother replies, looking under the couch.

‘Your sandshoes.'

‘My sandshoes? I can't find them anywhere.'

‘They're at the front door.'

‘Are they?'

Her mother walks to the front door.

‘So they are. Thank you, my darling.'

‘Don't put them on,' warns Evie.

Her mother snorts.

‘I'm not a smartypants,' Evie says.

‘I didn't say you were.'

‘Yes, you did.'

‘No, I didn't.'

‘You did. I heard you.'

‘I didn't say a thing,' her mother snaps. She's loosening the laces and stuffing her foot in.

‘There's a b-b …' Evie whispers.

‘Aaagghh,' her mother screams, ripping off the sandshoe.

In her head, Evie can see the bee. It's stuck in the toe part of the shoe, lying on its back, twitching.

‘Did you put that in there?' her mother shouts.

‘No, no. I promise, Mummy.'

‘Well, how did it get there. How did you –'

‘No, Mummy. I promise.'

Her mother hops around the doorway, holding her stung foot. She is crying.

‘Mummy, I'm sorry. I saw it –'

‘You can't, you can't.'

She limps away to the bathroom. Evie follows but her mother closes the bathroom door and locks it. Evie can hear her mother crying.

‘Are you okay, Mummy?'

‘Leave me alone, Evie.'

It's not until evening, when her father returns from work, that Evie's mother unlocks the bathroom door. It's never mentioned again.

 

In the safety of her room, Evie opens the drawing of Alex's face. She knows she has already given it too much time. She still has a history essay and a poetry assignment to
complete. But she cannot concentrate on anything else.

‘What's so special about your eyes?' she says, distracting herself from a low, monotonous hum that has started in her head. Sometimes if she ignores it, it goes away. ‘Maybe it's your pupils.'

She rubs out the black dots in Alex's eyes and again colours in a new shape.

‘There,' she puts down her pencil. ‘An eyeball's an eyeball. Get over it, Evie.'

Balancing the portrait on the windowsill, Evie takes five steps back. The right eye is good. It's alive – it looks at Evie like Alex does. It makes the same connection. The left eye stares through Evie.

‘Yuck,' she whispers. ‘Don't look at me like that.'

Evie walks around her bed feeling the left eye follow her. Quickly she spins around as if to catch it out but its focus is still fixed on her. Now the hum is growing louder like it's travelled out of her head and into the room.

Evie sits on her bed, watching the black dot watch her. She stares till her eyes water and the face blurs and disappears. She blinks, pulling the picture back into focus, and a face stares back at her. It's not Alex. It's not the face she drew. It's a horrible face. Ugly, contorted, pleading.

Evie grabs her cardigan and throws it at the window, knocking the picture to the floor. She runs to the bathroom and locks the door.

‘No. Please, no.' She slides down the tiled wall, gripping her throat.

‘No, no, no,' she cries, thumping her fist on her thigh and
banging her heel on the hard floor. ‘What do you want? Can't you just leave me alone?'

She sits there detached from any sense of time, every nerve in her body struggling to erase the face from her mind.

‘Go, go,' she commands, rubbing the tips of her fingers across her forehead. ‘Please go? Please? Don't do this again. I can't help you.'

‘Evie?' her father's voice sounds like it's echoing through the door.

‘Y-yeah?' Evie hears her bones crack as she struggles to her feet. Her backside tingles with the flow of fresh blood. ‘I'm nearly finished.'

‘You've been in there a hell of a long time.' He hesitates. ‘Are you sure you're okay?'

Evie's hand supports her back as she leans over and flushes the toilet.

‘I'm fine. I'll be out in a sec.'

‘Well, goodnight,' he says. ‘I'm off to bed.'

‘Night.'

She looks at her watch. It's nearly eleven. How has she let time escape her control again? She washes her face and stares in the mirror. The whites of her eyes are bloodstained and her pupils expanded into the blue. She smiles at her reflection and it smiles back. She strokes her cheek and the girl in the mirror does the same.

‘It's me,' she says, touching the mirror. ‘Yes, it's definitely me.'

 

That night, Evie dreams of a young woman, a little older than herself. The girl stands with her back to Evie. Her dark copper-red hair hangs to her waist. It is matted at the crown of her head. She holds up her hand to show a ruby ring in the shape of a heart. A rumbling sound in the distance grows louder. It bursts into Evie's dream, all bells and thundering. The girl turns around. It is the same face as the one in the portrait. The girl reaches out her hand and tries to grab the sleeve of Evie's cardigan. Evie wants to help, she knows it's the right thing to do, it's what she's here for – but the pain and dread surrounding the girl are too much. Evie tries to pull her sleeve from the girl's grip. The girl holds on, stretching the sleeve towards her. Evie struggles to free her arms from the cardigan, then she runs. She turns back to see the girl doing up the cardigan. It is then she notices the buttons: they are little blue teddies.

‘It's mine,' the girl whispers.

 

Evie opens her eyes and stares at the ceiling. She turns on the lamp and looks around the room. The furniture is in the same place and the blind is still down. She rolls up the sleeve of her pyjamas and runs her hand along her arm. It feels soft and warm. She smells her skin; the scent is hers. She looks in the mirror. The side of her face is creased from the blanket and her eyes are small, like they should be after sleep.

‘It's still me,' she whispers.

Evie plays her Jeff Buckley CD softly.

‘Fall in light, fall in light. Feel no shame for what you are. Feel no shame for what you are.'

When she loses control and the darkness stalks her she feels as though these words were meant for her.

‘Fall in light, grow in light.'

Evie holds up her hand, her long fingers curling in the shadows.

‘Don't belong. Don't belong. You and the stars. Throwing light … Fall in light, fall in light …'

Evie opens her mouth, catching a tear that runs down her face.

‘Don't belong. Don't belong,' she whispers.

 

‘Here we are.' Evie hands Alex the blue beaded cardigan.

‘Thanks.' Alex hugs her. ‘I wish everything was, you know, normal and that you would come to the party.'

‘How can I?'

Alex plays with her fingers. ‘Is it going to be like this forever?'

‘Like how?'

‘Like you never going out – because of what happened?'

‘I don't know.'

‘It sucks.'

‘I can't help it, Alex.'

‘I know. The whole thing is such a shit.'

Evie nods.

‘I mean, I don't mean what you do or that sort of stuff. You
can't help it. I know that. It's just everyone else, they're so, so – pathetic the way they can't handle what happened.'

‘Alex, my mum can't even handle it. She thinks I'm a freak.'

Evie sees Antonia Cipri walk up to the library. Her steps are slow and cumbersome.

‘It's not like I had that many friends before,' Evie says. ‘You and Poppy have always been my real friends. It's not like I lost anything.'

‘It doesn't matter,' sighs Alex. ‘It still sucks what they did.'

Evie shrugs.

‘I'd love to know who did it,' hisses Alex.

‘Why? It wouldn't change anything.'

They watch Antonia return from the library.

‘Do you think it was her?' asks Alex.

‘Definitely not,' Evie answers. ‘She's not like that. You know, she's so sad. I think I felt sorry for her, even before.'

‘She seems to be on a permanent downer. Not, not, 'cause of –'

‘Yeah, I know,' Evie sighs. ‘She's hardly been at school this term.'

‘I hadn't noticed.'

How fortunate, Evie thinks. She will always be aware of Antonia.

‘Maybe I won't go to Taylor's party, as a protest.'

‘As if! You've never missed a party in your life. Remember you insisted on going to Tom Kessler's ninth birthday even though you had the chickenpox?'

‘Yes,' laughs Alex. ‘I was so itchy. Remember, I had one in my –'

‘Yes, I remember!'

‘That was awful.'

‘Go and have a rage, love. Just promise one thing?'

‘What?'

‘Give us all the goss. Okay?'

‘Cross my heart.'

 

On Saturday morning, Evie gets up early. She washes her hair, shaves her legs and after trying on seven different outfits, settles for the faded jeans, a dusty pink petticoat she found at an antique store, Blundstones and a double-breasted pea-coat from an army disposal shop. She wants to look good but she's not prepared to freeze. She twists her hair in a low bun, ties a fine piece of leather string around her neck and puts on some lip gloss. She smiles at her reflection saying, ‘Hi, Ben. I'm sorry I had to rush off last time. I, um …'

She decides not to mention it.

Nick looks up from his newspaper. ‘Where are you off to looking so gorgeous?'

‘You'll freeze,' butts in Robin.

‘I have a coat, Mum.'

‘You're not taking that shabby old coat, are you?'

‘Clay figures, clay figures,' Evie whispers.

‘What happened to that lovely navy woollen jacket I bought you?'

‘Ummm?'

‘You never wear anything I buy you. It was so expensive and I –'

‘Well, I'm off to the markets.' Evie cuts her mother's impending lecture.

‘Do you want a lift?' Nick asks.

‘Only if you're going up the street, Dad.'

‘Rob, let's go and have a coffee.'

‘Nick, I have to catch a plane in two hours and I have twenty-seven essays to mark.'

‘Come on, hon. We've got time.'

‘Nick, if you want to take Evie to the markets, take her. But I don't have to go too.'

‘I thought it'd be nice to have a coffee together before you go away.'

‘Dad, I'll get the bus.'

‘There we are, Nick. She says she'll get the bus.'

‘Well, I'd like to take her.'

‘Nick, you can't protect her forever.'

He stands there staring at her. ‘I just offered her a bloody lift, Robin.'

Evie waves and closes the door. ‘Bye.'

‘Hang on,' her dad calls.

 

He stops the car at the footpath. ‘Get in.'

Evie climbs into the front seat. ‘Sorry, Dad,' she says. ‘Are you guys okay? I feel so bad that it's –'

‘It's not your fault. She can't help it.'

‘Can't help what? Hating me?'

‘Evie, she's your mother, for godsake. She loves you.'

‘Dad, that's such a typical parent thing to say.'

‘Well, it's true. Of course she loves you. You're her daughter.'

‘Just not the daughter she wanted,' Evie says, staring out the window.

‘That's not true. It means so much to her being a mother, having a daughter. I think it's something she craved all her life.'

‘Why do you say that?'

‘She was so little when her mother died, Evie. She was brought up by a string of housekeepers. Sometimes five or six different ones in a year.'

‘What about her father?'

‘Well, he was hardly the warmest man in the world.'

‘See, she can be like that too.'

‘She tries.'

‘Look, Dad, you know what I'm saying.' Evie turns to face him. ‘Ever since that stuff happened at school and mum's been seeing a counsellor, she's been so – so cut off. At least she used to try and pretend I wasn't a freak. Now she can't even do that.'

‘She was the same with my mother,' he says.

‘Well, what's it going to take? Me predicting an earthquake or something?'

‘Evie, it hasn't been easy for her. At least I know about this. I mean, I grew up with it around me. People were always coming to the house to see my mum. “Is Anna here? I need Anna to read for me.” At all hours of the day and night.'

‘Did it bother you?'

‘No. That's what I'm trying to say. To me, it was completely normal. That's the way my mother was.'

‘What about Grandpa? What did he think?'

‘He thought she was special.' He pauses. ‘She was special.'

‘I wish Mum could think like that.'

‘Look, she's trying. That's why she's seeing a counsellor. There are lots of things she has to work through. Her father wasn't at all tolerant of, let's say, supernatural things. He was a minister and more than that he was a very harsh man.'

‘Did he like you?'

‘Not much but then he didn't like anyone much and he especially didn't like my mother.'

‘Sounds familiar.'

They drive the rest of the way in silence.

As Evie gets out of the car her dad calls, ‘Evie? Here,' and hands her fifty dollars.

‘Dad, it's okay.'

‘Take it. Please? You're a good girl, Evie.'

She smiles. ‘Thanks.'

 

A busker smiles at her as she walks through the market gates. Evie takes a deep breath and feels her heart flutter. She is nervous about seeing Ben, but then she always is. It's a ‘good nervous', full of butterflies and secret smiles. It's facing Petrina she dreads. Not physically, it's just that she's never had to face it here. Here she has always been free, nameless. Simply a girl from somewhere who loves second-hand clothes. No reputation or rumour follows. The market has been like her refuge, her escape.