The Red Cardigan Read online

  ‘Exactly, if I wanted to. Now sit down and be quiet, muse.’

  Alex sits on the chair. Evie tips her chin up and turns her face right then left.

  ‘Don’t move,’ she says, walking back to her seat. She starts to sketch. The angle of Alex’s face is perfectly positioned in this light.

  ‘You’re just like the text book says.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Shh,’ Evie says. ‘Don’t move.’

  Alex sighs.

  ‘I said don’t move.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Your chest moved.’

  ‘Pardon moi.’

  ‘Shh.’

  Evie likes the shape appearing on the paper. She needs this outline to work on.

  ‘Can I move yet?’ Alex whines.

  ‘Two secs, I’m nearly finished.’

  ‘What? The whole thing?’

  ‘No, just the shape of your head.’

  ‘Is that all? What about the rest of me?’

  ‘I’ll work on your features later.’

  ‘I thought that’s what you were doing in class yesterday?’

  ‘I know, but my left eye kept watering and going fuzzy.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It was annoying.’

  ‘What was wrong with it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I probably had something in it.’

  ‘Like an eyeball?’

  ‘Funny.’

  ‘Imagine if you have to get glasses.’

  ‘That’d be okay.’

  ‘You’d probably wear those funny old granny ones.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘My dad had a friend with a glass eye. He used to wear a cat’s eye.’

  Evie shivers. ‘That gives me the creeps. Let’s change the subject.’

  The rest of the weekend is uneventful, and on Monday morning Evie runs down the stairs two at a time. Second period is art and she’s keen to show Powell the work she’s done. To be honest, she’d like to shove the drawing up his arse, but she knows under the circumstances it would be unwise.

  ‘Morning, Dad.’ Evie kisses him as she does up the buttons of her cardigan. ‘Hi, Mum.’

  Robin doesn’t look up from the toaster. Perhaps her parents have had another fight.

  In Evie’s world the walls are thin. Two nights ago she heard her mother hiss, ‘Do I have to watch her every move?’

  ‘She can’t help it, Robin.’

  ‘That’s what you always say, Nick. You indulging her every second doesn’t help either.’

  The bedroom door opened. Footsteps down the stairs. The doona on the couch in the morning.

  ‘Wow,’ says Nick. ‘I just had a flashback.’

  Evie’s mother groans as she butters the toast. ‘What, Dad?’

  ‘Do you remember when you were a little girl you used to have an imaginary friend?’

  ‘Kind of.’

  ‘You must have been about three or four. I know we were living in the old Annandale flat.’

  Evie pours herself a cup of tea.

  ‘What was my friend called?’

  ‘Thena.’

  ‘Thena?’ Evie laughs. ‘Did I have a lisp?’

  ‘We used to hear you prattling on to her. Remember that, Rob?’

  Evie’s mother grunts.

  ‘Anyway, you used to tell us she wore a red cardigan. That’s what reminded me,’ he says pointing to his daughter in her red cardigan. ‘Except your friend’s cardigan–’

  ‘Thena, you mean,’ corrects Evie.

  ‘Yes, Thena. Pardon me,’ he laughs. ‘Anyway, you used to tell us that the buttons on Thena’s cardigan were little blue teddies.’

  ‘How tragic. I must have been desperate for a red cardigan with blue teddy buttons. God, Dad, don’t tell Alex. She’s the fashion faux pas queen, not me.’

  ‘Your grandmother’s friend knitted you one,’ Robin says, joining them at the table. ‘But then your father’s mother loved to indulge your little fantasies.’

  Evie watches her mother’s stare sour her dad’s reminiscence.

  ‘Robin?’ he mutters.

  ‘What, Nick?’ she replies, her eyes still fixed on his.

  ‘See you later,’ Evie says, taking her mug to the sink.

  Evie needs no reminding that her mother hated her father’s mother. And these days Evie wonders is it for the same reason she can’t accept her own daughter?

  When Evie opens the door to the art room, she feels its innocence and happiness like red and yellow laser beams bouncing off the walls. That energy, full of optimism and hope, is what helped her return to school. She knows no one else sees it so she’ll never tell anyone, not even Alex.

  Alex is chatting to Antonia Cipri. Antonia is the new girl from the beginning of the year. She always sits at the front of the art room, except if Evie sits there. Evie and Antonia have hardly spoken and yet they already know too much about each other. Evie understands it’s better to avoid her. It’s like an unwritten law of social etiquette. Antonia blatantly avoids Evie and Evie still feels the shame.

  ‘Hi, Evie,’ Alex says, blushing.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Antonia was just telling me the video store’s closing down.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘You’re not pissed off because I –’

  ‘Of course not,’ Evie says. ‘It’s a free world, Alex.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Hey, remind me to give you the blue cardi. Taylor’s party is this weekend, isn’t it?’

  ‘Have you changed your mind?’

  ‘No way. I’m doing something with my dad.’

  Evie prefers not to lie but sometimes it’s a self-preservation policy.

  Powell raves on about the Renaissance period, as if it were something he was personally responsible for. His voice grows louder with each new slide, and at one point his arms wave around so much he disconnects the remote control from the projector.

  Evie stares at the slides, thinking how the women look a bit like Antonia. Thick hair, pale skin, big boobs, a large bum and super rosy cheeks. Evie tries not to think about that day. How the colour drained from Antonia’s cheeks and the way she screamed and cried. It still makes Evie want to throw up.

  She wraps her cardigan tightly around her chest and the slides begin to blur. Her left eye waters. She rubs it, making it worse, and for a second can’t see out of it at all. She blinks hard and gradually the slides fall back into focus.

  A practical session follows art theory. Evie lays out her work on the desk. She smooths down the edges of the paper, careful not to smudge the lines, and waits for Powell as he does his rounds. He always starts at one desk, working around the room in the same order. Evie wonders why he never varies this routine. He’s the sort of teacher that loves to catch you out. Evie smiles at his missed opportunities. She will watch him every class, just in case. She will not be caught out. Not again.

  Powell studies Evie’s drawing. He walks behind her desk, moves to the left and then to the right. He even takes an upside-down view. Evie holds her breath.

  ‘Not bad, considering.’ And he moves to the next student.

  She stares at the funny-looking clay figures belonging to the Year 7s. They are lined up, lopsided and quiet, waiting their turn to be fired and glazed. Evie knows she has to become like them: patient.

  All week, Evie works hard on her drawings. The first completed portrait is due in two weeks. But drawing Alex’s eyes is tricky. No matter what changes she makes, Evie cannot capture Alex’s true expression. She knows handing it in even a day late will bring unwanted attention and she’s determined to show everyone that she can pick up a pencil or piece of charcoal and draw again. No worries, no fears. If she can act like nothing happened maybe others can, too.

  ‘You’re working hard on your portraits,’ Nick says one night, as they stack the dishwasher.

  ‘Evie, don’t scrape the plates like that.’

  ‘Sorry, Mum.’

  ‘Yes,’ adds Robin. ‘You h
ave been spending a hell of a lot of time in your room.’

  Evie doesn’t reply. Instead she thinks about the clay figures.

  ‘I’d like to see your portraits, too.’

  ‘They’re not quite finished, Mum.’

  ‘Well, I can wait,’ she replies. ‘I’m good at that.’

  Evie absorbs those words, knowing her mother still waits. Waits for her daughter to be different. Different, meaning the same. The same as everyone else’s daughters.

  ‘I’m just pleased you’re drawing again, darling,’ Nick says. ‘I’d love to be able to draw. You’re lucky – you inherited your mother’s talent as well as her good looks.’

  Robin clears her throat. Evie excuses herself and goes up to her room.

  She isn’t sure if she actually hears her mother say ‘that’s all she inherited from me’, or whether she intercepts her mother’s thought. She’s become so accomplished at blocking thoughts that there are still times she finds it hard to differentiate a thought from real speech. The lessons have been hard and Evie knows it’s better to keep quiet.

  As a little girl, Evie always answers her mother, thinking it’s the right thing to do. She doesn’t understand it’s a special thing, to hear a person’s thought. She thinks she’s the same as everyone else. No one bothers to tell her otherwise.

  ‘They’re next to the front door,’ she calls to her mother one day.

  ‘What’s that?’ her mother replies, looking under the couch.

  ‘Your sandshoes.’

  ‘My sandshoes? I can’t find them anywhere.’

  ‘They’re at the front door.’

  ‘Are they?’

  Her mother walks to the front door.

  ‘So they are. Thank you, my darling.’

  ‘Don’t put them on,’ warns Evie.

  Her mother snorts.

  ‘I’m not a smartypants,’ Evie says.

  ‘I didn’t say you were.’

  ‘Yes, you did.’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘You did. I heard you.’

  ‘I didn’t say a thing,’ her mother snaps. She’s loosening the laces and stuffing her foot in.

  ‘There’s a b-b …’ Evie whispers.

  ‘Aaagghh,’ her mother screams, ripping off the sandshoe.

  In her head, Evie can see the bee. It’s stuck in the toe part of the shoe, lying on its back, twitching.

  ‘Did you put that in there?’ her mother shouts.

  ‘No, no. I promise, Mummy.’

  ‘Well, how did it get there. How did you –’

  ‘No, Mummy. I promise.’

  Her mother hops around the doorway, holding her stung foot. She is crying.

  ‘Mummy, I’m sorry. I saw it –’

  ‘You can’t, you can’t.’

  She limps away to the bathroom. Evie follows but her mother closes the bathroom door and locks it. Evie can hear her mother crying.

  ‘Are you okay, Mummy?’

  ‘Leave me alone, Evie.’

  It’s not until evening, when her father returns from work, that Evie’s mother unlocks the bathroom door. It’s never mentioned again.

  In the safety of her room, Evie opens the drawing of Alex’s face. She knows she has already given it too much time. She still has a history essay and a poetry assignment to complete. But she cannot concentrate on anything else.

  ‘What’s so special about your eyes?’ she says, distracting herself from a low, monotonous hum that has started in her head. Sometimes if she ignores it, it goes away. ‘Maybe it’s your pupils.’

  She rubs out the black dots in Alex’s eyes and again colours in a new shape.

  ‘There,’ she puts down her pencil. ‘An eyeball’s an eyeball. Get over it, Evie.’

  Balancing the portrait on the windowsill, Evie takes five steps back. The right eye is good. It’s alive – it looks at Evie like Alex does. It makes the same connection. The left eye stares through Evie.

  ‘Yuck,’ she whispers. ‘Don’t look at me like that.’

  Evie walks around her bed feeling the left eye follow her. Quickly she spins around as if to catch it out but its focus is still fixed on her. Now the hum is growing louder like it’s travelled out of her head and into the room.

  Evie sits on her bed, watching the black dot watch her. She stares till her eyes water and the face blurs and disappears. She blinks, pulling the picture back into focus, and a face stares back at her. It’s not Alex. It’s not the face she drew. It’s a horrible face. Ugly, contorted, pleading.

  Evie grabs her cardigan and throws it at the window, knocking the picture to the floor. She runs to the bathroom and locks the door.

  ‘No. Please, no.’ She slides down the tiled wall, gripping her throat.

  ‘No, no, no,’ she cries, thumping her fist on her thigh and banging her heel on the hard floor. ‘What do you want? Can’t you just leave me alone?’

  She sits there detached from any sense of time, every nerve in her body struggling to erase the face from her mind.

  ‘Go, go,’ she commands, rubbing the tips of her fingers across her forehead. ‘Please go? Please? Don’t do this again. I can’t help you.’

  ‘Evie?’ her father’s voice sounds like it’s echoing through the door.

  ‘Y-yeah?’ Evie hears her bones crack as she struggles to her feet. Her backside tingles with the flow of fresh blood. ‘I’m nearly finished.’

  ‘You’ve been in there a hell of a long time.’ He hesitates. ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’

  Evie’s hand supports her back as she leans over and flushes the toilet.

  ‘I’m fine. I’ll be out in a sec.’

  ‘Well, goodnight,’ he says. ‘I’m off to bed.’

  ‘Night.’

  She looks at her watch. It’s nearly eleven. How has she let time escape her control again? She washes her face and stares in the mirror. The whites of her eyes are bloodstained and her pupils expanded into the blue. She smiles at her reflection and it smiles back. She strokes her cheek and the girl in the mirror does the same.

  ‘It’s me,’ she says, touching the mirror. ‘Yes, it’s definitely me.’

  That night, Evie dreams of a young woman, a little older than herself. The girl stands with her back to Evie. Her dark copper-red hair hangs to her waist. It is matted at the crown of her head. She holds up her hand to show a ruby ring in the shape of a heart. A rumbling sound in the distance grows louder. It bursts into Evie’s dream, all bells and thundering. The girl turns around. It is the same face as the one in the portrait. The girl reaches out her hand and tries to grab the sleeve of Evie’s cardigan. Evie wants to help, she knows it’s the right thing to do, it’s what she’s here for – but the pain and dread surrounding the girl are too much. Evie tries to pull her sleeve from the girl’s grip. The girl holds on, stretching the sleeve towards her. Evie struggles to free her arms from the cardigan, then she runs. She turns back to see the girl doing up the cardigan. It is then she notices the buttons: they are little blue teddies.

  ‘It’s mine,’ the girl whispers.

  Evie opens her eyes and stares at the ceiling. She turns on the lamp and looks around the room. The furniture is in the same place and the blind is still down. She rolls up the sleeve of her pyjamas and runs her hand along her arm. It feels soft and warm. She smells her skin; the scent is hers. She looks in the mirror. The side of her face is creased from the blanket and her eyes are small, like they should be after sleep.

  ‘It’s still me,’ she whispers.

  Evie plays her Jeff Buckley CD softly.

  ‘Fall in light, fall in light. Feel no shame for what you are. Feel no shame for what you are.’

  When she loses control and the darkness stalks her she feels as though these words were meant for her.

  ‘Fall in light, grow in light.’

  Evie holds up her hand, her long fingers curling in the shadows.

  ‘Don’t belong. Don’t belong. You and the stars. Throwing light … Fall in light
, fall in light …’

  Evie opens her mouth, catching a tear that runs down her face.

  ‘Don’t belong. Don’t belong,’ she whispers.

  ‘Here we are.’ Evie hands Alex the blue beaded cardigan.

  ‘Thanks.’ Alex hugs her. ‘I wish everything was, you know, normal and that you would come to the party.’

  ‘How can I?’

  Alex plays with her fingers. ‘Is it going to be like this forever?’

  ‘Like how?’

  ‘Like you never going out – because of what happened?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘It sucks.’

  ‘I can’t help it, Alex.’

  ‘I know. The whole thing is such a shit.’

  Evie nods.

  ‘I mean, I don’t mean what you do or that sort of stuff. You can’t help it. I know that. It’s just everyone else, they’re so, so – pathetic the way they can’t handle what happened.’

  ‘Alex, my mum can’t even handle it. She thinks I’m a freak.’

  Evie sees Antonia Cipri walk up to the library. Her steps are slow and cumbersome.

  ‘It’s not like I had that many friends before,’ Evie says. ‘You and Poppy have always been my real friends. It’s not like I lost anything.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ sighs Alex. ‘It still sucks what they did.’

  Evie shrugs.

  ‘I’d love to know who did it,’ hisses Alex.

  ‘Why? It wouldn’t change anything.’

  They watch Antonia return from the library.

  ‘Do you think it was her?’ asks Alex.

  ‘Definitely not,’ Evie answers. ‘She’s not like that. You know, she’s so sad. I think I felt sorry for her, even before.’

  ‘She seems to be on a permanent downer. Not, not, ’cause of –’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ Evie sighs. ‘She’s hardly been at school this term.’

  ‘I hadn’t noticed.’

  How fortunate, Evie thinks. She will always be aware of Antonia.

  ‘Maybe I won’t go to Taylor’s party, as a protest.’

  ‘As if! You’ve never missed a party in your life. Remember you insisted on going to Tom Kessler’s ninth birthday even though you had the chickenpox?’