Fragments (Running On Empty Book 1) Read online

  “Right, let’s make this baby hot!” I winked at Pop, eager to get the remodelling started.

  The last weekend we were meant to spend working together on my car, will be forever remembered in bitter regret. While putting my hoodie over my head, I’d walked out of my room towards the kitchen to tell my folks I would be leaving soon. When I’d turned the corner, I’d heard an almighty crash from the living room. I ran towards it and when I got there, my father had my mother around the throat and was squeezing her tightly.

  “What the fuck did I say, Meg?” he’d bellowed. “You were supposed to get me a new fuckin' bottle of Wild Turkey. You deaf? Need me to shake some fuckin’ sense into ya?”

  I’d run towards him and pulled his arms off her, then grabbed her arms and pulled her behind me. I’d been grateful that I had grown a bit over summer and was just taller than him.

  “Keep your hands off her!”

  My father had torn his drunken gaze from my mother and looked at me.

  “What’s that, you little prick? You stickin’ your nose in where you ain’t needed?” he’d sneered, a bead of spit flying from his lips. He’d taken a step closer to me, his fists outstretched towards me. “You need me to teach you a lesson, son?”

  I’d held my arm tight around my mother behind me. I had never stood up to my father before, but I was fed up. As he’d gotten closer to me, I’d heard a loud shout come from our front door.

  “You touch my grandson and I will shoot your sorry ass, you piece of shit!”

  We’d all turned and saw Pop storming in. He’d walked right up to my father and said, “You want to try your bullshit with me?” He’d looked over at me before making eye contact with my mother.

  “You,” he’d sneered towards her, “should know better than to put up with this.” He’d pointed towards my dad. “You need your son to defend you? You’re his goddamn mother!”

  My mother cowered behind me. He’d been right. All my life, she’d never protected me. Instead, she’d watched as Dad had alternated between belting her, Lily, or me. She’d never said or done a thing about it.

  My father laughed and glared back at Pop.

  “You old prick, this is my house and I will do whatever the goddamn hell I want. She is my wife! Stay the hell out of it!”

  Luckily, my Pop would have none of it. “No, Meg and Alex are coming with me, and when Lily comes home, I’ll take her, too. In the meantime, you will pack up your shit and leave tonight before I come back with my rifle. I’m a good shot—I never miss.”

  He’d marched over to us, grabbing both my arm and my mother’s. His heavy panting had alarmed me—I had never seen Pop react like this. As we’d turned towards the door, the grip he’d held on my arm had loosened and I’d looked down at where his hand had been. In my peripheral vision, I’d seen him sway, and as I’d turned, Pop clutched his chest and his face contorted into a wince.

  “Pop! You okay?”

  I’d reached over and grabbed him. Something was wrong. Looking over to my mother, I’d shouted for her to call an ambulance. I’d frantically moved Pop to a nearby chair, but he’d slipped and collapsed on the floor.

  “Pop! Fuck!” Crouching beside him, I’d started unbuttoning his shirt buttons then tore my hoodie off to use as a pillow. I’d heard my mother murmuring in the background, but it sounded like it was far away. I was too focused on Pop. What had they taught us in First Aid at school? My mind had frantically searched for answers on how to help him. Fear had paralysed my heart, but I’d kept moving.

  “Please, Pop, just breathe slowly. The ambulance is on its way.”

  What had seemed like an eternity later, I heard the ambulance barrelling down our driveway. Shortly after, two paramedics were by Pop’s side assessing the situation. He gripped my shoulder, trying to tell me something. As they’d loaded him onto the stretcher, he grabbed my arm and panted, “Finish car … Yours … Leave here …”

  I’d nodded, grasping his arm. “Okay Pop, try not to talk now. They’re going to help you.” I’d stepped back to let them put him into the van, the deafening roar of my pulse ringing through my ears.

  As they’d driven away, I hadn’t known that he would be dead by the time they’d arrived at the hospital. With him gone, my guilt over not speaking up about Dad sooner began to manifest and I’d made a decision. I would no longer be the silent child.

  It had been obvious at the funeral that I did not want to be near our father. I sat away from my parents, keeping my sister, Lily, tucked in at my side. She was older, but so tiny. That night, when my father had tried to talk to me, he’d barely gotten a word out before I’d cut him off. “Don’t you ever fuckin’ touch us again, or I will end you. Pop taught me how to shoot, so you remember that.”

  I’d ended up taking a week off school to apply the final touches to my truck. There was no way that I would let it sit in his garage when he had treasured it like a piece of art. One day, I’d be old enough to drive it, and I wanted it ready. Next to the speedometer, I placed a pocket-sized picture of Pop standing next to his own beloved car that he loved. He smiled at the camera, and I felt like that smile was directed at me.

  Trice

  Summer, 2006

  Growing up in a country town was difficult as a teenager. Even though the population exceeded 20,000, everyone seemed to know everyone. If someone mentioned their friends’ aunties’ in-law’s name, you were sure to know her or someone with that last name. It was the most infuriating part of living here. Breaking free from the common mould was so difficult. Going into town, you were bound to see someone you knew, and how you dressed, who you spoke to, and what you were doing seemed to be constantly scrutinised. The only solace a person had was to hide or be surrounded by good friends, if you were lucky enough to have them. I was lucky to have a close group, but they weren’t always there when I needed them. For me, the majestic beauty of the river was a constant thing that kept me sane. The stillness of the current - soft to look at but potentially deadly underneath - reawakened me. In those moments when I felt defeated, I could always rely on the calm flow of the river to soothe me.

  Our family’s property faced the main river, and we were even lucky enough to have our own nook - like a small lake or billabong - to swim in. Surrounded by gum trees, it was our own rustic oasis. A brisk two-minute walk would see you with your feet twinkling in the river itself, but heaven help you if my mother saw you do it. The lake was the only place where we were allowed to swim. Each year at least one backpacker would attempt to swim our mighty river, and said backpacker was

  often found dead a few days later, so it was understandable why my mother was so strict.

  If the river was my solace, then my room was my haven. I spent a lot of time making my room just right - it was the place where I could be myself without distraction while blocking out any hurt. Sadly at sixteen, I was all too familiar with feeling alone. As effervescent as my family was - the happiness of my parents’ marriage, their love did not cocoon me from the dismal loneliness that I faced at school when the bullies attacked me and nothing was done about it. My saving grace was my friends and my older brother, Robbie, who was eighteen, as well as an unlikely friendship with his best friend, Alex.

  We lived in a two-story weatherboard house that my parents built themselves. Our home had soft yellow weatherboards, a wraparound porch, and a beautiful wooden staircase. The eucalyptus trees were a constant reminder of being in the country; in winter, their scent was dulled, however, in summer they had a strong pungent scent that enveloped our house. It made our parents feel truly Australian, even though they could never fully relinquish their Italian traditions. Walking through our house, the smell of my mother’s sauce cooking was a constant reminder of this. The stark white walls contrasted with the colourful paintings and photos that showcased how proud my parents were of our achievements. Set on a large property with our own private swimming hole, our house did seem extravagant, but it wasn’t a sign of wealth in a entitled sense. The h
ours my parents spent working multiple jobs, on weekends and nights to give us a future, were what created our home.

  Summer brought with it the dry, stifling heat, and our daily routine consisted of trudging through the days after sleepless nights and frustrated mornings with only the occasional gust of wind. Going to school was unbearable. We caught the bus with hard, cracked leather seats, where the sweat would bead down our backs and leave us soaking under our legs. More often than not, before we had even arrived at school, we were already flustered and worn. Rising up from the seat, our school dresses would stick to our arse and be plucked off quickly, while turning to check if we had left a sweat stain on the seat. With a quick wipe of your hand, the sweaty seat would disappear, but not before you heard about it from the bitches on the bus.

  I wandered downstairs from my bedroom to the kitchen. My mother stood by the stove, monitoring her sauce for tonight. Tendrils of rosemary, basil, and oregano wafted through the rooms, soothing me with its familiar scent of being home. Next to it, a pot simmered, cooking our brodo or chicken soup as my friends knew it. Despite it already being the peak of summer, we would usually have a hot meal for lunch and always one for dinner. My mother also had a strong inclination to use deodorizers throughout the house. The sickly sweet smells of lavender and rose assaulted my senses and usually left me with a blinding headache. As often as she turned on the ones with the sensor, I would swiftly turn them off.

  I was tall like her, five-foot-eight, but with brown hair. Her body was curvaceous and reminded me of a 50s pin-up model. Her eyes, dark as molten chocolate, were the key factor in determining what mood she was in. If they were black, it was best to step back. She wore an emerald green capped-sleeved, V-neck, buttoned dress that gathered under the bust while flowing into an A-line skirt. She looked right out of an advert for Coca Cola in the 50s. Her curves were abundant, yet she held them with grace and dignity. She never looked unkempt in case someone was to ‘drop in.’

  Unlike my mamma, I didn’t care about guests. Our heights made us seem similar, yet we were so different. Her short, straight black hair was cut and set regularly into a perfect bob, which contrasted with my long, brown, messy, wavy curls. We had the same colouring, yet where she neatly presented, I was scruffy. My unruly hair was the bane of my existence, and more so in this tempered heat. My hairstyle of choice was often a messy bun at the top of my head, with a pencil or two helping to secure it if I had been studying.

  My hunger lingered so, while the kitchen itself felt hot, I quickly walked past her and opened the fridge for a moment’s reprieve as I investigated its contents. Our air conditioner functioned well, however when up against a four-burner stove heavily occupied with all sorts of dishes, it failed to compensate.

  “Mamma, aren’t you hot?” I asked while fanning myself with the fridge door. “It’s boiling already.” She turned and looked at me, rolling her eyes.

  “You, gioventú, are weak. Back in my day, we didn’t have air conditioners or these gas stoves. Be grateful. Stop doing that to my fridge!”

  I jumped, barely missing the saucy tip of the wooden spoon that stood inches from me. Any closer and my shirt would be stained by it. She pointed the spoon closer to my face, scolding me with it in her hand. Regardless of what she was doing, whenever she was in the kitchen, she would communicate using whichever utensil was in her hand. If you were looking for something, she’d point; if she was telling you about some gossip, it would be used to punctuate the story highlights, and all while cleverly not spilling food onto the floor. If you were naughty, the utensil became the world’s fastest ninja move, connecting with your arse and back by her side before you could blink an eye.

  I released the door and sheepishly looked at her. Once again, my mamma had managed to both scold and spread a thick wad of guilt over me. You weren’t a true Italian mamma if you didn’t make your children feel guilty at least once a day.

  “Yeah, yeah. What’s for lunch?” I asked, looking into our fridge, trying to find something to eat. Her homemade produce lined the shelves, with gentle wafts of peaches and nectarines permeating my nostrils. Some of our fruit trees were in season, so a selection of half-full jars of peach jam were already made and used. As my hand lingered over the cheese drawer, I stole a glance at the cake she had obviously made earlier - cheesecake lined with slivered almonds. This often meant that someone was coming over. Good impressions were imperative to my parents, and Mamma’s cheesecake was definitely that. Despite all the options, nothing grabbed me.

  A loud slam of the dining room door stole my attention away from the cake. It was followed closely by the stomping of heavy footsteps. Around the corner from our kitchen bench, my father, brother Robbie, and Alex came barrelling through, a look of determination on their faces. For a moment, I worried that something was wrong until my brother started yelling.

  “Mamma, we’re hungry. Feed us!”

  Instead of throwing the wooden spoon at him, Mamma laughed. For some reason, she adored his playful nature. This bothered me more than I would like to admit.

  “Robbie, don’t be a dickhead. Just ask nicely.” I grabbed the ladle and began pouring the soup into large bowls, being careful to avoid the steam from stinging my eyes. Mamma, instead, stood there glaring at me, again.

  “Your tongue needs soap. Do not use that language in my house.” A quick peek over at Robbie saw him chuckle and stick his tongue out at me. I clenched my teeth, ready to bite back, when all of a sudden, my father’s hand came out and retreated quick as lightning, slapping Robbie on the side of the head.

  “Ah, Dad, what did you…” but my father’s scowl cut him off.

  “Do not ever talk to your mamma like that and leave your tongue in your mouth.” I smiled triumphantly at Robbie. Take that! Arsehole.

  “Well, it’s safe to say it’s never dull over here.” Alex piped up while I scowled at him. Alex never left my brother’s side. He was more at home with Robbie by his side, than at his own home.

  To call my brother a ‘golden child’ would be an understatement. He was both striking in appearance and in personality. He could commandeer any room or conversation and anyone nearby would feel the gravitational pull and linger on his every word. He was so incredibly animated. Every story he told seemed over exaggerated, yet he got away with it. It drove me insane and Alex and I seemed to be the only ones who would call him on his bullshit. Luckily, I was Daddy’s little girl, so Father would only interfere if Robbie was being a direct arse to me. Yet, despite his fan club being half of the skanky girls in my year level, when he wasn’t being an arse, he was a decent big brother.

  Robbie’s melted chocolate eyes and short curly hair were a popular subject at school. He carried himself like a strong rugby player, as he had large shoulders and often worked out in our garage with the small selection of weights. Both he and Alex thrived on seeing who could ‘out lift’ who. His eyes and hair were definitely from our father as his were also dark. Unfortunately for my father, he had grown a beer belly from a life of over indulgence in beer and rich food, yet he nevertheless seemed youthful with his still naturally dark hair - mostly due to the gel he slicked through it.

  Alex, well, he was chalk to Robbie’s cheese. Where Robbie was dark, Alex was fair. Despite Alex’s strong shoulder set, he still looked soft in comparison. He was a blue-eyed, blond, spiky-haired athlete. He looked more at home in a beach setting rather than a dirty river, though he hated the sea. He thought it was okay to look at, but his aversion to saltwater made his allegiance to the river stronger. Where Robbie was the enthusiastic storyteller, Alex held a serious stance, especially if he spoke about something that he was passionate about. The only time I ever saw him being a bit goofy was when he was around my family or teasing me. His smile, though, could wipe out a hoard of women when he used it. He, too, was lusted over by the slutty girls in my year level. A sly wink and his megawatt smile just about got him whatever or whomever he wanted. That smile never worked on me, though. I had years of b
eing used to it and was immune to that bullshit.

  “If someone would help me, we could eat at a reasonable time.” Mamma glared at me. For some reason, being a female often meant helping my mamma with the house setup.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I answered. I approached the table and delivered the steaming hot bowls one by one to everyone.

  “What have you boys been doing anyway? You looked like there was a drama or something.” I asked Robbie. He sat at the dining table, pouring drinks in the glass that Mamma had previously set, while fanning himself with a newspaper.

  “There are a few wild dogs or dingoes breaking into the chicken coop. We were trying to make it safer for Bjork and her ladies.” Bjork was our Rhode Island red chicken. She was almost as loved as our German Sheppard Pret. Six years ago, Dad had come home from one of the markets with four baby chickens, thinking our mamma would appreciate fresh eggs. She didn’t. She just thought it looked like extra work.

  “So, Bjork is all right?” I asked, returning to the table with the bread and butter plates and setting them out, worried momentarily as we had grown fond of our family chicken.

  “Yeah, they’re all fine. We’ve set some concrete around the edge to stop the digging,” he replied, reaching for the bread rolls.

  Mamma approached a table with a platter of cutup meats, cheese, and other sandwich fillings. We all dug in hungrily, the gentle munching of rolls with the soft sounds of my father’s slurping echoing throughout the room. Mid-chew the house phone rang, but none of us wanted to move.

  “Robbie,” I chewed, “You get it, it’s probably one of your ‘lady’ friends.”