Read Online The Good Daughter by Honey Brown - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Honey Brown
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reckon I am?’
Zach waits until his father leaves and then he starts out across the paddocks. The sky is bleached out in the corners. He walks through the tussocks and up over the rocky outcrops, cuts through a stand of bush.
Birds sing and the air seems electric, things click and rustle in the grass. It hurts to breathe. He arches his shoulders, tries to get his breath, keeps touching his hand to his chest like people with asthma do.
Standing by Rebecca’s side gate is a quieter, more subdued replay of the day before – the grey house, the blue sky above it, low rays warming the jagged edges of scrap metal in the front yard, the dogs scratching and whining in their cage. It’s not as intense as yesterday. The heat’s been taken out. He half expects Rebecca to come out of the front door in a longer, more modest T-shirt, one covering her underwear; he waits, sure that it will happen. He looks at the drawn curtains in her bedroom window, runs his hand over the corroded metal gate and down to the latch.
The dogs break the lull. They explode with noise in their enclosure; they jump against the wire and run back and repeat it like animals half-mad with captivity. Zach opens his mouth to speak, but finds he has no voice. He swallows and tries again.
‘Hey guys,’ he says.
The barking becomes less furious. They stick their noses through the wire and snort for his scent.
There are sounds of a person, seemingly twice as heavy as Rebecca, walking around inside the house. Zach turns to double-check that the truck isn’t in the shed. He checks down towards the road for other cars. When he feels sure she is alone he goes up and knocks on the door.
She is in a dressing-gown, tied tightly at the waist, her hair in a rushed ponytail, and her face glossy from being washed.
He starts by saying, ‘I got you out of bed again.’
She looks past him out into the yard. ‘Is your dad here? Is your mum back?’
‘No, on both counts.’
That same blank look from the night before returns to her face, as though she’s uncertain who he is – not the Zach she knows from school, not the boy she touched on the bus. ‘I wanted to apologise,’ he says, ‘about last night, about what I said. Can I come inside?’
Her eyebrows draw together.
‘Rebecca, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what I said. I’m sorry I acted like I did. I was trying to work out if we …’ he motions back and forth between them, ‘if we’re together.’
‘I don’t think we’re together, Zach.’
‘Can I talk to you?’
‘Yes.’
But she doesn’t invite him in. After a moment of them both standing there, looking off in their own separate directions, Zach says, ‘I got the impression last night there was something between you and Aden.’
‘Don’t you see how all this is really strange to me? Last night all you do is insult me and tell me your mum isn’t missing, and now you turn up here saying she is missing and you think we’re going out. I still don’t know if she is missing or not. You accuse me of doing the wrong thing – well, what was I meant to do? She was acting strange. She was upset. She didn’t even go inside the restaurant. I thought it was pretty serious.’
A sharp pain shoots across Zach’s forehead. He rubs between his eyes. ‘Can I talk to you?’
‘We’re talking, aren’t we?’
‘Can I come inside?’
She backs up and opens the door wider; she turns her head away. ‘Fine,’ she says.
She leaves him to walk in alone and goes into the kitchen to light a cigarette. She leans against the bench in her dressing-gown, with her arms folded and the ashtray by her elbow – a picture of Housing Commission white trash. All that is missing is a grubby toddler on her hip.
Zach sits at the kitchen table.
‘So?’ she says.
‘What?’
‘Tell me.’
‘About my mum?’
‘Yes, about your mum.’
‘Why are you talking down to me all of a sudden?’
‘I guess I’m a bit confused. You’re hard to keep up with. I
Zach waits until his father leaves and then he starts out across the paddocks. The sky is bleached out in the corners. He walks through the tussocks and up over the rocky outcrops, cuts through a stand of bush.
Birds sing and the air seems electric, things click and rustle in the grass. It hurts to breathe. He arches his shoulders, tries to get his breath, keeps touching his hand to his chest like people with asthma do.
Standing by Rebecca’s side gate is a quieter, more subdued replay of the day before – the grey house, the blue sky above it, low rays warming the jagged edges of scrap metal in the front yard, the dogs scratching and whining in their cage. It’s not as intense as yesterday. The heat’s been taken out. He half expects Rebecca to come out of the front door in a longer, more modest T-shirt, one covering her underwear; he waits, sure that it will happen. He looks at the drawn curtains in her bedroom window, runs his hand over the corroded metal gate and down to the latch.
The dogs break the lull. They explode with noise in their enclosure; they jump against the wire and run back and repeat it like animals half-mad with captivity. Zach opens his mouth to speak, but finds he has no voice. He swallows and tries again.
‘Hey guys,’ he says.
The barking becomes less furious. They stick their noses through the wire and snort for his scent.
There are sounds of a person, seemingly twice as heavy as Rebecca, walking around inside the house. Zach turns to double-check that the truck isn’t in the shed. He checks down towards the road for other cars. When he feels sure she is alone he goes up and knocks on the door.
She is in a dressing-gown, tied tightly at the waist, her hair in a rushed ponytail, and her face glossy from being washed.
He starts by saying, ‘I got you out of bed again.’
She looks past him out into the yard. ‘Is your dad here? Is your mum back?’
‘No, on both counts.’
That same blank look from the night before returns to her face, as though she’s uncertain who he is – not the Zach she knows from school, not the boy she touched on the bus. ‘I wanted to apologise,’ he says, ‘about last night, about what I said. Can I come inside?’
Her eyebrows draw together.
‘Rebecca, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what I said. I’m sorry I acted like I did. I was trying to work out if we …’ he motions back and forth between them, ‘if we’re together.’
‘I don’t think we’re together, Zach.’
‘Can I talk to you?’
‘Yes.’
But she doesn’t invite him in. After a moment of them both standing there, looking off in their own separate directions, Zach says, ‘I got the impression last night there was something between you and Aden.’
‘Don’t you see how all this is really strange to me? Last night all you do is insult me and tell me your mum isn’t missing, and now you turn up here saying she is missing and you think we’re going out. I still don’t know if she is missing or not. You accuse me of doing the wrong thing – well, what was I meant to do? She was acting strange. She was upset. She didn’t even go inside the restaurant. I thought it was pretty serious.’
A sharp pain shoots across Zach’s forehead. He rubs between his eyes. ‘Can I talk to you?’
‘We’re talking, aren’t we?’
‘Can I come inside?’
She backs up and opens the door wider; she turns her head away. ‘Fine,’ she says.
She leaves him to walk in alone and goes into the kitchen to light a cigarette. She leans against the bench in her dressing-gown, with her arms folded and the ashtray by her elbow – a picture of Housing Commission white trash. All that is missing is a grubby toddler on her hip.
Zach sits at the kitchen table.
‘So?’ she says.
‘What?’
‘Tell me.’
‘About my mum?’
‘Yes, about your mum.’
‘Why are you talking down to me all of a sudden?’
‘I guess I’m a bit confused. You’re hard to keep up with. I
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