A guide to falling off t.., p.12
A Guide to Falling Off the Map, page 12
“Dad, you don’t have to.”
“I know. But I want to. For Roo.”
“For Roo,” I say, taking the money.
Mum finishes her shift at eleven that night. It’s her seventh day working in a row, every shift twelve hours long. You’re not meant to do that, but it’s been a long time since Mum followed a Work Health and Safety recommendation.
At the door, she takes off her boots. When she stands, she winces and presses her palm to her back. To think I had actually convinced myself that tonight was the night to tell her about our road trip. As if Vin and I will be doing any road-tripping. I need to get my butt back out there and find whatever job I can because I can’t bear seeing Mum like this.
The next morning, I’m woken by Vin launching at me. She smells like caramel. I try not to be too much of a weirdo, sniffing her hair.
“Rise and shine, sugar brains. I have a surprise for you.”
Only because it’s Vinnie asking, I get up as far as my elbows, reach for my specs, and run my tongue over my furry teeth.
“No. I mean up up. Like, dressed and everything. Pack your bags. Your carriage awaits.”
“You lost me at carriage.”
“Joy!” She steers my chin so I face the window. Sure enough, Aggie’s turquoise Kombi van is parked on the street. I haven’t seen her for years.
“That thing still works?”
“That thing is our home for the next week. Pay some respect.” She tsks in mock despair.
“Sorry. Respectfully, I am surprised.”
“She’s been to Charley Barker’s and everything. You should hear her purr.” She rolls her r’s against my ear. I shiver.
Okay, sure, I was excited about this crazy idea for a minute. That was before I realized I can’t leave Mum. I can’t not look for work. Holidaying with Vin for a whole ridiculous week is a beautiful fantasy.
“That’s great and everything. But I have zero money. Sorry, Vin. I need to find a job.”
She narrows her eyes. “This trip is your job! Remember how I am going to help you sell your work? I’ve put a deposit on the Citadel and everything. You can’t back out now. I won’t let you.”
“Gah! I told you, Vin. I haven’t got cash. I need a job.” I’m trying hard to ignore her disappointed face, as cute as it is. “Tell me you can get your deposit back.”
“It’s nonrefundable!” Sunshine beams out of her eye sockets. I let my head bang against the wall and squeeze my eyes.
“Oh, hi, Vin!” Mum appears at the door, her hair up in a scraggly ponytail. She nurses a teacup. She has gray smudges under her eyes and leans forward slightly, which means her back is giving her grief. “What are we talking about?”
I raise my eyebrows at Vinnie, to let her know I haven’t told Mum the Plan. Though plan sounds somewhat sensible.
“I’m taking Roo on the road, Carla. To remind him what an awesome photographer he is. We’re revisiting old haunts. And I am putting together a show of his work.”
I shake my head.
“It’s fine, Mum. I’m obviously not going,” I intercept. “I can’t, with Myrtle’s and everything.”
“Myrtle’s? Pfft,” says Mum. “A show, on the other hand? I’m curious.” She makes herself right at home and perches on my desk.
Vin stands, in performance mode. “It’s going to be a showcase of Roo’s work at the Citadel. Well, mainly photos Roo takes on our trip. We’ll use the exhibition as a career-launch kind of thing. Sell some work. Get some clients. Brad Whitelaw, eat your heart out.”
“Oh, I like this.” Mum smiles at both of us in turn.
“Yeah, except Vin and I have no money, so it’s less a career launch and more a really bad idea.”
“I have money,” says Vin.
“Please don’t tell me you mean your New York money.”
“I mean my New York money.” She grins like an alpaca.
“You guys up for breakfast?” says Mum, clearly done with our pipe dream. “I bought fresh strawberries from the supermarket this morning.”
Finally, an adult is in charge.
When Roo’s busy on his phone after breakfast, Carla drags me into their tiny laundry room.
Don’t get me wrong. I’ve always loved Carla. She reminds me a bit of Zooey Deschanel, with her bright turquoise eyes. But I’m wondering why we’re sharing one square yard of floor space.
“Listen,” she whispers, “you can’t tell Roo, but here—” She gives me an envelope.
“What’s this?”
“Twenty-five hundred. For your trip. For the show. Will it be enough?”
“Oh, Carla, I couldn’t.”
She shushes me with her hand. “Roo cannot know. But please. You have to take it.”
I study the envelope. Peer inside. It’s cash. Lots of it.
“I have money, Carla. I haven’t told Roo, but I don’t know if I really want to go to New York anymore and, if I do, I’ll figure it out. This is more important right now.”
Her faces pinches. “Well, that’s sweet, Vin. It really is. Though I know your mum would be turning in her grave if she could hear you doubting your New York dreams.” She must catch my tense expression because she grabs my hand and squeezes it. “Look, I feel bad, okay. I’ve let Roo down. If I knew he was working for that … ugh. Anyway, please take the money. I’ll sleep much better if I know Roo’s doing something worthwhile, you know? Then you’ve still got your money if you change your mind about New York.”
“Okay, okay.” I squeeze back. “Only if you’re sure?”
“Trust me.” And I do. I tuck the envelope into the waistband of my jeans and pull down my top.
“I won’t tell him. I promise.”
“I love you, sweetie. I really, really love you. Like a daughter.” She hugs me so hard my chest squeezes.
“I love you too,” I say, when she finally lets me go.
“Have you packed?” I ask Roo. He’s still on his phone at the kitchen table.
“What? No.”
“You better. We leave in an hour.” I wink at Carla.
“You’ll need this,” she says, throwing me a can of mosquito repellent. “Oh, and sunscreen. Don’t forget towels! We always used to forget towels.”
Roo shakes his head. “The money, though—”
“Always with the money! What did I say about being a teenager, Roo?” says Carla.
He sighs.
“I promise you, I have enough. Dad gave me a bit. I have savings! Your mum is right, Roo. You need to relaaaaax.” I massage his shoulders. When he sighs again, it’s more resigned. I dip my head over his shoulders to inspect his expression. There’s a definite upward curve to his lips, which I take as a good sign.
Carla must have seen it too. “Roo can never say no to you, Vinnie Smith.”
Mum’s right. I can’t say no to Vinnie Smith.
When we return, I’ll find a decent job or get my job back at Myrtle’s—both, even. I’ll work extra shifts and pay Vinnie back my share. I don’t know how yet, but let’s just believe for a tiny moment that the universe will provide. Meanwhile, I gaze at Vinnie as she squints down at the highway stretching in front of us, her nose wrinkled, freckled, and adorable.
“Oh crap, we forgot the towels,” I say, an hour out of Murwillumbah. Vinnie laughs from the driver’s seat.
“Don’t worry. We can use toilet paper.”
“That sounds like a terrible idea.”
Joy’s as slow as her age predicts, and her exhaust pipe has a habit of drowning out human conversation.
“Pass me a Skittle,” demands Vin, opening her mouth in a perfect O.
I throw one at her when she turns briefly before swinging back to face the road. It bounces off her cheek and lands in her lap. She laughs. “Again!”
This time, it misses her completely and hits the window before sliding into the never never of Joy’s underbelly.
“You are so bad at this,” she says. “If your throwing continues in this atrocious manner, I’m going to have to leave you on the side of the road.”
I chuckle. “Then who will direct you? You’ll end up driving to Brisbane. Uluru, possibly. Kakadu.”
“Are you implying I have a bad sense of direction?” She shoots me a dark look.
“Well …” I smile. “Let’s just say you have a lot of strengths, Vinnie Smith, and I am not sure navigation is one of them.”
She pushes out her bottom lip, faking sadness.
“You’re in so much trouble,” she says. “I’m taking you across the country in a Kombi. Anything is possible.”
I can’t help it. My stomach burns thinking about all the possible anythings.
Even though I’m not on the work schedule for the coming days, I texted Sonia to let her know I’m away. She replied to say,
Thanks for letting me know. Stay well.
I’m hoping this is a sign all will be okay and I’ll have shifts when I get back. I stash that in the pile of possibilities.
I’m conscious that our bank account is going to take a hit with me not earning. But Mum’s promised me it’s under control. She’s done the math, and we are going to easily pay our bills, she says. When I asked her if she’d already paid for the course, she nodded reassuringly.
I just need to tuck my guilt into my pocket and focus on being here with Vinnie in the Kombi. With all her theater stuff, school, her billions of friends, it’s surreal to think it’s just the two of us for a whole week. Just us and the world.
I’m scared to think too much about having Vinnie to myself in case I jinx it. Next thing I know, she’ll get a text from Lilah telling her about some party, and she’ll do a U-ey, driving eighty miles per hour to get back for it.
“Joy’s holding up okay,” I say. “Sounding pretty healthy.”
“Ha. You mean that sarcastically. Unless you think it’s healthy to sound like an ninety-year-old with emphysema. I’m still marveling at the fact that the mechanic reckons she’s in tip-top condition. If this is tip-top by his standards, I’m curious what he thinks about a car in actual good condition. He reckons Joy’s worth a bit, everyone loving vintage these days.”
“So, if we run out of money for canned spaghetti, we should sell Joy to feed ourselves?”
She smiles. “Imagine how much canned spaghetti you can buy with one 1960s Kombi in tip-top condition.”
Farms become rainforests and windier roads, which cause slight motion sickness, for me anyway. We sing to Vin’s Taylor Swift playlist. Well, she sings, and I watch her singing. Occasionally, I mouth some words to appear festive.
After a couple of hours driving, we roll into a little town called Woodenbong, halfway up the Great Dividing Range. Vinnie pulls into a gas station to fill up, then we look for somewhere to have lunch.
Unless you want a cold meat pie from the gas station, there’s just one option—Jack’s Shack—a brick-and-tile house with red gingham curtains, perched on the main road. The doorbell tinkles when we enter. We’re the only customers in a café that could fit the whole of Woodenbong’s population, judging by the number of empty tables.
“Should have booked,” quips Vinnie.
“Yeah. Pity we’re going to miss out.”
We pick a table under the window. The tablecloth matches the curtains and is protected in clear plastic. God save the gingham.
“Do we order at the counter?” I ask, just as a large guy in a small undershirt and low-slung jeans approaches. He walks slowly on account of his stomach and the vast number of empty chairs he has to prop aside as he passes.
“Hi, guys!” he says, grinning and whipping out a notepad. “Welcome to Jack’s! What can I get you?”
“Is there a menu at all?” asks Vinnie.
“All up here, lass.” He taps his head. “We have pumpkin soup or Devonshire tea. Or I can make you a toasted sandwich if you want. Baked beans too, most likely. But I better check the storage before I promise beans.”
I imagine the guy on his hands and knees, peering into a cupboard, looking for beans. I love that this is a café that promises baked beans the way another café might promise tiramisu.
Vin raises her eyebrows at me. “What are you going to have, Roo?”
“Ah, soup?”
“Two soups, please,” says Vinnie.
“I can probably just get one out of the pot. How about one soup and a sandwich?”
“Okay?” She catches my eye. I nod.
“That’s fine. Thanks, mate,” I say. All this talk about one soup and a sandwich has my stomach growling.
“Are you Jack?” asks Vinnie. “Like, from the shack?”
He beams down at us, something green caught between his narrow teeth. “Sure am!” He sweeps his arms wide, his notepad flapping open. “Do you guys like dolls, by any chance?”
I am pretty sure I misheard him.
“Dolls?” I repeat.
“Dolls?” asks Vinnie.
“Yeah, you know—dolls.”
Vinnie smiles so hard her cheeks must ache. She’s loving this. I, meanwhile, am wading through a Dalí painting.
“We love dolls!” she says, eyes flashing. “Don’t we, Roo?”
I nod. Sure—I love dolls. For Vinnie, for Jack, anything. Also, I’m curious.
Jack shuffles off, hitching his jeans over his butt crack. He disappears for ages. I can’t bring myself to mock him or laugh or anything. We just stare at each other, the heft of curiosity between us.
It takes a while, but here he comes, the same chair dance, this time carrying an armful of plastic dolls dressed in what looks to be a thrift store full of lace and, of course, gingham.
I don’t know the collective noun for dolls, but if I did, I would use it when describing this scene.
“Wow,” I say. I nod at Roo, prompting him to say something. We can’t just stare open-mouthed at Jack all afternoon. That would be rude.
“Yeah. Wow,” says Roo at last.
“Are these … yours?” I ask. I was never much into dolls. More into puzzles, and imitating fictional characters. Mum and I used to do the Evening Show with Garth Welding, which was basically the two of us set up in front of Dad, doing skits of Chewbacca and Han Solo going to school. There was never time for dolls.
Jack’s dolls have a vintage quality to them. He beams at us proudly. “Made each and every one. Well, dressed ’em anyway. Check this out.” He shoves a pale-skinned doll toward my nose, and I do my best to stuff away surprised laughter as I inspect the fine hand stitching on the seams. There’s ruby ribbon woven into the white hem. The doll is vanilla scented.
“That’s very impressive, Jack,” I say. “What got you into dolls?”
I glance at Roo, who’s looking too stunned to talk. This is where ten years of improv comes in handy. Where Roo’s frozen, I couldn’t wish for a more juicy setup.
“Always have been, always will be. Actually, it was my sister, Margie, if I’m honest. She and I spent a good many years creating doll frocks, setting up doll parties, hosting doll swaps—things like that. Then she died of a heart attack.”
“Oh,” Roo and I say together. I was just getting attached to Margie. I feel bereft.
“Was she very young?” I ask softly.
“Not so young. Fifty?”
That puts the time stamp on this doll caper as quite recent. Jack can’t be much past fifty himself.
“Sorry to hear about your sister,” says Roo.
“Thanks, mate.”
Even though we only met Jack a moment ago, I instinctively pat his hand.
Minutes ago, it was laughter bubbling inside me, fighting to explode. Not anymore. Not with Margie dying and Jack with his armful of dolls in his near-empty café.
I have a thought then. Something to take away the sadness.
“Roo, get your camera from the car. I have an idea.”
It takes him a moment to stir, but eventually he gets up and fetches his SLR. I help Jack set the dolls in sitting positions on the table next to us. I’m not an expert. But I’d say the sun streaming in from the street-side window is perfect lighting.
“We need food. Tiny food, ideally. Do you have anything?” I ask Jack.
He glows. “Give me a sec.” This time, when he shuffles through the restaurant, it’s urgent. He returns with a Tupperware container full of miniature plates and cutlery.
Roo hangs back, letting me set the stage for Mercy and Tamara to host their first ever tea party at Jack’s Shack. They invite Melissa, Monique, and Melanie.
He serves his dolls Devonshire tea, aka broken-off bits of scone and small dollops of homemade jam and cream. Filling tiny teacups with real tea, though, is practically impossible; Jack’s teapot collection is nowhere near as good as his doll collection.
“You’re on, Roo,” I say, stepping back and dusting my hands.
He steps forward and follows my direction. Eventually, I keep quiet because I know every artist needs space to do their best work.
We’re so caught up with the doll photo shoot, I totally forget about pumpkin soup and toasted sandwiches until the fire alarm goes off. Seconds later, smoke billows from the kitchen.
“Darn it!” Jack lumbers as fast as he can to the kitchen to unplug the sandwich maker and toss a blackened something into the bin.
“This is literally the best and the weirdest day of my life,” Roo whispers.
“Anything to make you this happy.” I grin at him and thread one arm through his. I lean against him. We only have a week of this. But in Jack’s Shack, with Melanie, Melissa, Mercy, Monique, and Tamara, I feel something that I wish could last indefinitely.
We make it to Tenterfield just before sunset. We’re camping at the showground, which is only $14 a night, just a small chip out of Vin’s New York fund. Not that it is the New York fund we’re using. When the trip’s over, I’ll find a decent job and work extra hours to pay her back every cent we spend.
The end of the day flickers through the campsite. It’s just us and a couple from Bourke in a Jayco. Vin talked to them for nearly an hour about their entire family history. She even had them show her pictures of their son’s wedding in Rajasthan.
