Read Online The Scent of Apples by Jacquie McRae - Free Book Online
Authors: Jacquie McRae
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door.
âYeah.â
âWhy are you up so early? Itâs the weekend.â
âI was just going to the toilet.â
I close the bathroom door and slide the lock across. I stand on my tip toes to see into the mirror. Iâve pulled from the same spot as yesterday. The red bald spot is now weepy and sore to touch. Itâs only the size of a ten-cent piece but it feels as wide as the Pacific Ocean.
The sight of it makes my stomach muscles clench up like Iâm going to be sick. I grit my teeth and slump down onto the toilet seat. I cup my hands over my face and search the dark place behind my closed eyelids. Hoping for some answer to this craziness. This time, I canât hold back the tears of shame and anger.
I pull off a couple of sheets of toilet paper and lie the strands of hair on it. Keeping my thumb pressed down on the hair, I scrunch the paper around it. I ball it as tight as I can, before lifting the lid on the toilet and flushing it away.
Back in my room, I rummage through my top drawer. I pull bikini tops and knickers out of the way as I search for a green bandana. I know itâs here somewhere. Mumâs always on at me about tidying out my drawers, but up until now Iâve never seen the point. I find the bandana screwed up at the bottom.
I pull on some tracksuit pants and an old Rip Curl sweater. I avoid looking in the mirror, and braid my hair into a French plait by feel. I make the braid go a little bit to the left so it covers the bald spot. I slide about a hundred bobby pins in to keep the sides in place and then use the bandana over the top like a scarf.
As I tip-toe downstairs, I hear Mum and Dad talking behind their bedroom door. I canât hear what theyâre saying, but Iâm grateful that for once their voices arenât raised. They swan around the house like all is well, just for my benefit. Then they go into their bedroom and fire shots like theyâre at war.
I slip out through the front door, and pull the door shut quietly behind me. I walk between the poplars along the path towards the river. A small shelter belt of macrocarpa trees blocks the view to the Waikato river. The trees were planted long before we got here. Their flat-top hairdos show signs of their battles with strong winds. I sit under the outstretched branches. Corrugated bark pushes into my back.
The sun has just risen, and a faint glow is still evident in the streamlined clouds above. This sight would usually have me running back to the house or barn, to skite about the wonders that Iâve seen. I press my back harder into the bark.
I hear footsteps, and turn to see Toby heading my way. His faded blue jeans hide his bow legs. His oilskin hat is pulled low on his brow, making him appear way older than he is. I duck behind the trunk and hope the brim of his hat obscures his vision.
âEither leprechauns have got taller since I was a kid, or itâs you, Libby, hiding behind there.â
I scramble out from behind the tree. I can feel the heat from the blush on my cheeks. I see the confusion on Tobyâs face. Heâs always been like a big brother, and Iâve never hidden from him.
His tanned face and raspy voice are some of my earliest memories. At school in year four a teacher made us do an exercise about how far back we could remember. I had tons of recollections of Toby from when I was only about three. Toby helping me to make my very own garden. Digging around in the dirt with him and finding a family of earthworms. Toby and I sitting in the branches of an apple tree, spitting seeds onto the ground. I remember feeling guilty because my memories of Dad didnât start until much later.
âWhat brings you out here so early?â
âJust wanted to get out of the house for a bit.â
âRight.â He nods his head up and down several times, like he understands, but he leaves a gap for me to fill in with more details if I want.
I pick bits of grass and
âYeah.â
âWhy are you up so early? Itâs the weekend.â
âI was just going to the toilet.â
I close the bathroom door and slide the lock across. I stand on my tip toes to see into the mirror. Iâve pulled from the same spot as yesterday. The red bald spot is now weepy and sore to touch. Itâs only the size of a ten-cent piece but it feels as wide as the Pacific Ocean.
The sight of it makes my stomach muscles clench up like Iâm going to be sick. I grit my teeth and slump down onto the toilet seat. I cup my hands over my face and search the dark place behind my closed eyelids. Hoping for some answer to this craziness. This time, I canât hold back the tears of shame and anger.
I pull off a couple of sheets of toilet paper and lie the strands of hair on it. Keeping my thumb pressed down on the hair, I scrunch the paper around it. I ball it as tight as I can, before lifting the lid on the toilet and flushing it away.
Back in my room, I rummage through my top drawer. I pull bikini tops and knickers out of the way as I search for a green bandana. I know itâs here somewhere. Mumâs always on at me about tidying out my drawers, but up until now Iâve never seen the point. I find the bandana screwed up at the bottom.
I pull on some tracksuit pants and an old Rip Curl sweater. I avoid looking in the mirror, and braid my hair into a French plait by feel. I make the braid go a little bit to the left so it covers the bald spot. I slide about a hundred bobby pins in to keep the sides in place and then use the bandana over the top like a scarf.
As I tip-toe downstairs, I hear Mum and Dad talking behind their bedroom door. I canât hear what theyâre saying, but Iâm grateful that for once their voices arenât raised. They swan around the house like all is well, just for my benefit. Then they go into their bedroom and fire shots like theyâre at war.
I slip out through the front door, and pull the door shut quietly behind me. I walk between the poplars along the path towards the river. A small shelter belt of macrocarpa trees blocks the view to the Waikato river. The trees were planted long before we got here. Their flat-top hairdos show signs of their battles with strong winds. I sit under the outstretched branches. Corrugated bark pushes into my back.
The sun has just risen, and a faint glow is still evident in the streamlined clouds above. This sight would usually have me running back to the house or barn, to skite about the wonders that Iâve seen. I press my back harder into the bark.
I hear footsteps, and turn to see Toby heading my way. His faded blue jeans hide his bow legs. His oilskin hat is pulled low on his brow, making him appear way older than he is. I duck behind the trunk and hope the brim of his hat obscures his vision.
âEither leprechauns have got taller since I was a kid, or itâs you, Libby, hiding behind there.â
I scramble out from behind the tree. I can feel the heat from the blush on my cheeks. I see the confusion on Tobyâs face. Heâs always been like a big brother, and Iâve never hidden from him.
His tanned face and raspy voice are some of my earliest memories. At school in year four a teacher made us do an exercise about how far back we could remember. I had tons of recollections of Toby from when I was only about three. Toby helping me to make my very own garden. Digging around in the dirt with him and finding a family of earthworms. Toby and I sitting in the branches of an apple tree, spitting seeds onto the ground. I remember feeling guilty because my memories of Dad didnât start until much later.
âWhat brings you out here so early?â
âJust wanted to get out of the house for a bit.â
âRight.â He nods his head up and down several times, like he understands, but he leaves a gap for me to fill in with more details if I want.
I pick bits of grass and
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