Magdalena Ball
Magdalena Ball's short stories, editorials, poetry, reviews and articles have appeared in a wide number of printed anthologies and journals, and have won local and international awards for poetry and fiction. She holds a Bachelor of Arts degree in English Literature from CCNY (New York), an MBA from CharlesSturtUniversity (Wagga), and has studied literature on a postgraduate level at Oxford University (UK). She also works as a manuscript assessor for Manuscripts Online, is a member of the BookConnector Advisory Board, an Evaluative Reader for Catchfire Press, and Information Manager for Orica. She is the author of a novel Sleep Before Evening, a non-fiction book, The Art of Assessment, and a poetry chapbook Quark Soup. Magdalena lives in on a rural property in New South Wales with her husband and three beautiful children.
The following work is copyright © 2008. All rights reserved. No distribution or reprinting in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
The Slam of Car Brakes
What you see on my face is impassivity. I’m cooler than my bare toes at the end of the bed, struggling their way back into the large double quilt. Jasmine doesn’t seem to have been disturbed by the scream, tucked up with a bunny blanket in her tiny bedroom. Why would she? She’s immune to my pain. Happy to have me back. Blissfully ignorant. If you look in my window, nothing would appear different from the way it was before the accident. I’m alone now, of course, rolling around in my big bed trying to get comfortable. But otherwise everything seems normal. I’m out and about, visiting the bank, getting my hair cut, picking up a bag of peaches from the fruit shop, or getting Jasmine from school. She’s just a regular happy-go-lucky kid. I’m just a regular single mom. So don’t feel sorry for me. The shadow in the corner of the room seem ominous, but it’s only a trick of the light. There’s no bogyman any blacker or more violent than the slam of car brakes which dragged me from sleep this morning, as it does every morning. Shadows are nothing compared to that dark freeway which never ends: a series of honking horns and tearing skin which continues like some Sisiphean torture, returning every time I think I‘m safe. The real mystery is why I should continue to lay down my head every night knowing I’ll be woken by the same memory; the same reminder that, however safe my little girl thinks she is; however impassive my face appears, the accident is ongoing; the change permanent.
Prisca left the bed, her feet making humid imprints against the wood floor. Her eyes scanned the room furtively, while she opened and shut cupboards, drawers full of clothing she could no longer imagine herself in, and walked from her room to the bathroom and back again. Then she sat back on her bed, closed her eyes and began to hum, very softly so as not to wake her daughter sleeping in the bedroom next to hers. It was a tuneless song, more a drone than a hum, buzzing through the tiny opening in her lips. She continued for two hours until Jasmine entered rubbing her eyes.
“Mommy…I had a bad dream.”
Prisca put her arms around Jasmine, patting her back lightly. “Hush. We all have them. They aren’t real.” She looked around furtively, and pushed Jasmine off her.
“Stop crying now. I’ll play cards with you.”
The card game lasted a few minutes, but it felt like hours to Prisca as she looked over her daughter’s shoulder towards the garden, sighing.
“Read em and weep.” Jasmine put her cards down face up on the table, smiling so that the gap between her two front teeth seemed to expand until all Prisca could see was a black expanse before her. She shivered and stood.
“Well done. Time to get dressed.”
“Aww, just one more game?”
“No. Up you get.”
Raindrops sluice down the window, leaving a trail I follow with my finger, though taking my hands off the wheel frightens me. I should say it increases my fear. My heart always seems to be thumping harder than it needs to for blood circulation. I hear the ragged rhythm of it pushing so intently against my chest that even my throat beats. I have nowhere to go; cancelled the job interview. Said I was sick. Maybe I am. Sweat pours off my head and my vision clouds, along with the windscreen. First I avoid the spot where it happened, driving past it, taking the long way round only to turn and come back, circling over the area where the accident took place. It’s drawing power seems phenomenal. It’s almost as if my body were compelled to recover the sick crunch of metal on metal. I can still hear the screaming, which simultaneously overcame all other sound while remaining utterly silent. The flames and subsequent explosion were delicate, as if I were watching a movie, safe in the living room sofa, my head nodding off between the drama unfolding before me; the car lifting into the air. Now the tug on my body is almost that of longing. Not that I’d like to relive it. God, no. Who would willingly walk back into hell. But I guess it’s like when you go to war for a long time. You feel like you’ve left something important behind; need to go back and get it. It’s a weird kind of nostalgia--not the longing for something good, but a feeling that somehow you belong to the bad--it has some ownership over you. I stop the car for a few moments and put my head down on the steering wheel. It’s so dark outside in the storm that it seems like night, although it’s still morning. Or maybe it’s afternoon now. I don’t have a feeling for time. The car seems like it’s passed through a time/space continuum, and there’s no here or now, just transition. I still smell the leaked petrol and burning metal as I put the car back into drive and move forward slowly, going home, although the word “home” no longer registers either. It’s just a word. Empty. Like my bed full of neglect. Or the flawless beauty of my face before it happened. Remembering is its own kind of purgatory. I trace my mind over Shannon’s face as I saw him for the last time; his tortured look in the hospital when he whispered ‘goodbye.’ The recollection creates a palpable pain which cuts into my head, moving down to my feet--a lightning bolt of hurt that ripples my skin as it passes through me. I can’t feel sorry for him. As if I were guilty for his mistake, responsible for the slip which left me scarred and ugly while he consoles himself between his new girlfriend’s legs.
“Hip Hooray. Blow out the candles now.” Prisca sighed, stifling a yawn as she put her head back against the kitchen chair. Jasmine blew all nine candles out at once and Prisca clapped, trying to keep up the enthusiasm which she had at the beginning of the party, but all she wanted to do was to shuffle Jasmine’s six school friends out the door and go back to bed. Jasmine laughed, pouring orange cordial over the small girl sitting to her right.
“Jas! No! Don’t do that.” The girl began a wail which was more like a fire engine’s siren than the voice of a human. It seemed electronically amplified. Prisca tried to wipe the orange sticky liquid off her pasty white face, but the room began to spin. She tried to breath but couldn’t take in air. Shannon’s mum Lisbeth saw her sway and moved closer, catching her on the way down.
“Sorry, Lisbeth. I don’t know what happened.”
“Panic, doll. I don’t blame you. Things are pretty hairy in here. You go sit on the couch and I’ll take over for a while.”
Prisca walked through the living room, flopping onto the sofa. She didn’t know where she was. Voices filled the room with the cacophony of crows; screaming, crying, laughing, demanding attention and she lay back, letting the sound become abstract. She felt only the slightest pang when she woke an hour later to realise that the guests were leaving and her mother-in-law was seeing them out instead of her. Lisbeth kissed Jasmine quickly, leaving in a huff, which, in the light of her own son‘s abandonment six months ago, struck Prisca as rich. She gave Lisbeth a small wave of her hand, back and forth, like Queen Elizabeth.
“You missed it.”
“What?” Jasmine stood over her, an angry black queen with chocolate ice cream smeared round her mouth.
“You and Daddy both. Nice birthday isn’t it when your mother passes out after you blow out the candles and your father can’t even be bothered to come.” Prisca sat up slowly, holding onto the side of the sofa for support. For a brief moment, she wasn’t entirely sure who the angry girl was. Jasmine held her stained mouth into a single line, her hands folded against her chest while she stamped her feet. Prisca stood up and walked towards the door, mumbling in a voice so small it was barely audible. “Sorry.”
“Where are you going?!” The anger in Jasmine’s face became fear while Prisca opened the front door. “Don’t you want to see my presents?” Jasmine’s voice was disembodied from the child speaking it. It hung in the air between them and Prisca knew she should be ashamed of herself. Jasmine suffered the loss of her father too, and maybe the caring, concerned mother she once had as well. Prisca would just drive around for ten minutes or so to dispel her confusion and then return. Jasmine would be okay. She had all those presents to play with.
Returning to the house, Prisca pushed open the door to Jasmine alone in the corner holding a doll. She was facing the wall--as if she‘d been given time out for punishment..
“Sorry, baby. I just needed a breather.”
“From the party you slept through? Do you need to lie down now to get over your breather?”
“You’re very sarcastic for a little girl. I wouldn’t have passed out if you hadn’t spilled cordial over your friend.”
“I hate her. I’m not a little girl. I’m nine. I see a lot more than you think I do. I hear you screaming at night. I’ve see how much time you spend in front of the mirror. It’s only a tiny scar. You’re lucky. I thought you were dead when I saw you in the hospital bed, your head wrapped in a bandage, both eyes black and swollen. Then you opened your eyes and Gran held my hand tightly and told me it would be alright, that Mommy would come back to me. But you didn’t did you. Then Daddy left. So I’m just an orphan. Just a stupid, stinkin’ orphan, with two useless parents who couldn’t care less if I’m alive or dead. I hate this birthday and I hate you and Daddy.” Prisca watched silently as Jasmine stomped into her room, slamming the door so hard that the dirty glasses still on the table from the party fell on the floor. She left them there, and went to bed. It was too big to take in. Her failure was too deep to climb out of.
Lisbeth came to pick up Jasmine. Her face was beetroot red when she walked in. The cup of tea I gave her shook so much half of it spilt on the saucer. Good. He’s her son. She should feel the pain. It’s nothing next to what I’ve felt. I’ve even wondered, god help me, whether he meant to do it--plowed his car deliberately over the fence into the field--disappointed when I came to in the hospital bed, my eyes black balloons, my lips whiter than the skin on my face. Was that shame on his face, or disgust when he walked out of the hospital, not stopping to look back? I kissed Jasmine on the cheek to apologise, and she flinched, as if I’d smacked her. Kids always tell their parents they hate them, but I know she means it. I’m a disappointment. A loser. I remember holding her. Remember the softness of her tiny fingers as I stroked them. But I can‘t seem to make the connection between that moment, frozen in my head, and the present, where Jasmine seems like someone else’s child. I run my finger down the condensation on the bathroom mirror. If I close one eye, I look normal. The swelling and bruising is gone, and there’s only a single curved line, like a second smile on my chin, to remind me of the accident. But somehow I don’t look the same. I’ve become a Picasso painting, my cheeks fragmented, reshaped and integrated into the geometry of Cubism. On the one side is a smiling, fashionable woman--the sort you might nod to in the street, but on the other is a completely different face--one in profile rather than head on. The eyes are distorted. I allow myself to collapse on the cool tiles and put my head into my lap, hysterical, until I’m completely empty and then I make myself a cup of tea which I can’t drink. I leave it on the counter with two other cold cups and go out to drive around, past the spot, which attracts and repels me simultaneously. I park my car right over the scar on the side of the road where Shannon drove into the fence and sent my life spilling onto the verge while he calmly phoned an ambulance. Thinking about Shannon is worse then pressing fingers into my scar, trying to reopen the wound.
“Daddy was there.”
“What?” Jasmine’s sentence slashes across Prisca’s face like a knife. She didn’t want to talk about Shannon, but she couldn’t stop the voice which came out of her mouth.
“Was he alone?”
“No.”
“That bastard. He nearly kills me then swans around with some younger woman. Was she pretty?”
“Grandma was there was all I meant. He came over for dinner.”
“Oh, I see.”
“He’s sorry about the accident.”
“I know.”
“He wants to be friends.”
“Screw that. He’s your father, Jas. My husband. I don‘t give a shit what he wants. He isn‘t here. That‘s all that matters.” Prisca’s stomach fell in on itself, the cramping waves pushing her towards the toilet before Jasmine could answer.
Sometimes I stare in the mirror for so long I can’t see anything but that scar smiling angrily. I’ve fallen through the glass like Alice in Wonderland. The shell of my body stares and waits for the live person to come back. If I look long enough maybe I’ll see her. My real self behind the silver.
“Hurry, Mommy, you’ll be late.”
Prisca walked into the room and gave a swirl. “Okay?”
“You look great. I’ve never seen you in that colour before. It’s beautiful. I’m sure you’ll get the job this time.”
“If only you were doing the hiring, I’d be fine. I’m still not sure I want to go. The pension is okay, isn’t it?”
“C’mon, Mom. You can do this. It‘s only a receptionist job. You‘re so up to it.“
The car was sticky and hot, and Prisca felt her starched calm melt as she pulled out of the driveway of Jasmine’s school. Jasmine’s figure disappeared over the hill, surrounded by bumping schoolbags and laughter. Prisca hadn’t worked for over a year, and the job offer she’d accepted before the accident had been withdrawn while she was in the hospital. She rubbed her eyes, taking her hands momentarily off the steering wheel. The car swerved, crossing into the wrong lane, and on autopilot, she moved it back, just before a large truck sped by her, his honk blaring in her head long after the blur of his shiny vehicle was gone. Her body shook, but she felt her mouth grin widely, teeth grinding together at the back of her mouth. She wanted to keep driving. To keep swerving between traffic, forgetting who she was and where she was going; obliterating the present. She wouldn’t get the job anyway, despite what Jasmine said. She could save everyone time and trouble. But Jasmine would be hurt. It would be another failure from a mother who was constantly letting her down. She had to go through with it. She turned her Barina into Franklin Street, checking the directory, and cutting off another vehicle as she turned quickly into the single spare car park spot. She turned the key in the ignition, removed her hair from its bun pulling it back into a ponytail, and left the car.
A few minutes later she walked out of the office, shirt tail out of the skirt, her jacket crumpled against her arm, and mascara wiped down her cheeks. There had been a mix-up; the job was already filled; she’d wasted her time, wasted her afternoon, and wasted her daughter’s hopes. She got into the Barina and began to drive, trying to keep Jasmine’s hopeful little face out of her head. She’d failed on every level. The job was nothing, but she’d failed to be a good mother. Failed at the most basic thing. Being there when Jasmine needed her. Her failure had its own momentum, propelling her forward through the streets as her car began to gain speed.
The cicadas were so loud I thought I might lose my mind. They screamed in my ear like the inside of my brain was angry at me. I was sweating so hard my neck was wet; my shirt soaked through across the chest. The air conditioner was broken and the fan only served to spread the hot air to every corner of the car. I inhaled but no air seemed to be getting in. I felt trapped in my vinyl cocoon, surrounded by the seat and guided by the increasing velocity of the car as I tried to remember who I was and what I was here for. I kept going, faster, someone or something outside of myself leading me forward. There were other vehicles outside of my car I knew, but the sunlight was so strong it seemed to cut my head through the windscreen, blinding me with the combination of white light, and the dripping sweat which poured down my eyebrows into my eyes. When I wiped the stinging salt liquid away I saw nothing but my car pulling into the drive, until everything came together in a huge cymbal crash of sparks and darkness.
“When will you wake up?“ Jasmine sat at Prisca’s bedside, holding her hand so hard her fingernails made small moon crescents on the skin of her mother’s hand. Prisca’s left hand was soft and flat, blue veins bulging from the skin, while her right hand remained tightly contracted.
Prisca opened her eyes and Jasmine screamed. “You’re awake! Mummy, it’s nearly 10:00am. I thought you might be in a coma again.”
Prisca’s face was blank, her eyes stared ahead of her, fixed on the beige wall opposite. “Mommy! I’m sorry I’m not a good girl.”
“No Jas. You are a good girl.” Prisca sat up in her bed and smiled, pulling her daughter close.
I woke, ending the dream that I’d been living in for the past eight months. I might have driven into a tree; might ended the pain forever, driving into the all consuming fog. I heard nothing except the screech of tyres against bitumen; the slam of brakes and my scream, so high pitched it hit another frequency. Then it was silent. Beautifully, horribly silent, for what seemed like an eternity. But then, I got out of my car. Safe, went home, and tucked myself into bed until Jasmine woke me, her voice so sweet it began to nourish my own body’s cells. Her hand held mine so tightly it was the only thing keeping me from floating away. Pain was everywhere. In Jasmine’s beautiful face; in the fractured remnants of the person I once was; in every failure and even in success. I reached out and brought that pain close to me. It hurt and I embraced it. The glottal, throaty warble of a Currawong singing outside my window: currar-awok-awok-currar. The tight sensation of my mouth stretching into a smile. It’s enough.
