Deep Wate - Sarah Epstein Page 0,45

okay for me to break yours.’

‘No,’ Henry said, guessing what was to come.

Ivy marched across the room towards them, giving them no choice but to back up into the hall.

‘No, no, no,’ Henry cried. He hurried to the doorway of his bedroom and flung his limbs out like a starfish, attempting to block her entry. He kept that room pristine, the few books he had all lined up in rows, little trinkets he’d found in their grandparents’ belongings, polaroid photos from Uncle Bernie’s camera placed in second-hand frames along his windowsill. It was the nicest room in the house. Mason understood why Henry spent so much time hiding out in there.

Ivy lurched forwards, as though to rush him.

‘Stop it!’ Henry screamed. It was so raw his throat would probably hurt for days.

Still clutching the broom in one hand, Ivy raised the other and placed it against Henry’s chest. She shoved his light frame backwards with such force both of Henry’s feet left the floor. Mason swore out loud. He felt paralysed. An image of the school toilets flew into his mind, how he’d shoved Darren Foster in exactly the same way. I’m just like her, he thought. He’d never laid a hand on his mother, though. It crossed a line he never wanted to find himself on the other side of.

Henry landed heavily on the carpet, an awkward jumble of arms and legs. He quickly raised a hand to protect his face, but their mother didn’t step inside the room. Mason stared past Ivy at his brother cowering on the floor, trying to assess him for injuries. There was wildness in his eyes, like a timid animal about to flee. She’s going to drive him away, he thought. One of these days Henry would run out of here and just keep going.

Ivy turned and trudged down the hallway, catching Mason’s shoulder with her own on the way past. She entered her bedroom and slammed the door.

Mason peered around the doorway at Henry. ‘You okay?’

His brother regarded him with such scorn that Mason’s chest tightened.

‘Go away,’ Henry muttered, kicking the door shut in Mason’s face. It rattled on its hinges. Henry had covered for Mason about the Wedgwood plate and Mason hadn’t stepped in to defend him.

But what was he supposed to do? Hit their mother? He didn’t want to be that person.

And he wasn’t a legal adult yet. Ivy still held the power, and she’d threatened things before.

‘I could’ve called someone, you know,’ Ivy had told him so many times since that day baby Henry slipped under water in the bathtub. ‘I could’ve had you taken away to live in a home for kids with behavioural problems. You did a bad thing, Mason, but I let you stay. You remember that. You owe me.’

Mason brought his fists to his temples now, pressing them hard to drive out her voice. He needed a drink. He needed to forget who he was for a while.

He could head over to the graveyard – he’d been going there since he was a little kid. His friends used to think it was funny that Mason found solace among the gravestones, but it was the most peaceful place in town. The temperature was climbing though, and the graveyard offered little protection. The bush hut seemed like a better option. It was cool and quiet, and Mason would enjoy lying on the floorboards with his eyes closed, feeling his body grow weightless with every sip.

He should probably stop drinking so much.

He didn’t want to be like her.

He didn’t want to be like his father.

As he plucked his jacket and car keys from the wreckage of his bedroom, Mason tried to bury the insistent voice that whispered over and over, You already are.

Now

Dad’s already dozing in front of Downton Abbey by the time I lock up the motel office. I offered to cover reception after Luisa went home so Dad could take a long shower and have some of the pasta I cooked for dinner. Luisa somehow managed to get the online software working again, so before I shut down the computer I take a quick peek at the bookings for the next few weeks. Apart from a handful of pre-booked rooms for the Easter long weekend, it’s like a ghost town. Something has to turn around soon. With Cutler Bend closed, we don’t even get spontaneous drop-ins coming from the freeway anymore. How can a motel survive if the only guest is an unruly teenager who occasionally