Political correctness floated through even our school, and on my third year there, we got a ramp—a long, long ramp.
At first I missed our routine of Gus carrying my chair; I just didn’t feel as special when Sharon pushed me up the ramp. I love Gus for insisting I was important. For insisting I was part of the kids. Now I wonder how things would have been without him. Sooo different. Maybe I would have lost hope and conformed to vegetablism. Maybe none of this would have happened.
Rememory 28
Who would have thought that our teacher’s aide Raylene would be such a total wiz with computers? It was a bit disconcerting for the computer illiterate “four-year trained” teachers who greedily sucked up her knowledge as she showed them how to work the programs and school email and Internet. She was so helpful to them, yet they seemed to resent that she knew more than them—which wasn’t hard.
Ray helped me start a journal. I just added stuff each time we were at the computer. She had endless patience with me. She’d say, “Okay, Soph, would you like to do this, would you like to do that?” She never tried to boss me around. Everything was fresh and nothing too much trouble for Raylene. My disability issues were simply facts of life, nothing to get upset about, nothing to be made an issue of. For Ray, they were all part of life’s rich tapestry, and to be taken in one’s stride.
Raylene was under-appreciated. Her teacher’s aide status stood in the way of the principal formally recognising her contribution. At least that’s all I can think it could be. Everything she did was professional and full of flair.
One year, when I was about twelve I think—it was her first year producing and directing the school Christmas concert pirate play—she involved every student in a feature role. Jaden, a grade fiver with Downs Syndrome, had a major, major role where he wielded his sword and yelled, “Make ’em walk the plank.”
Raylene made sure his lines had no “sss” because he was self-conscious of his lisp.
I was super-scary pirate Captain Long John Silver, and little Cindy Haddock, Ray and Ruth’s daughter, was dressed as Captain Flint, my parrot, speaking for me. I had a big patch on my eye, one tooth blackened and a red bandanna around my head. We all had striped shirts, ripped denim shorts and bare feet. The whole cast sang the closing pirate song and it was obviously a huge hit with everyone’s parents.
I looked around for my father, desperate to see him, drunk even, flirting even, asleep even, but of course he wasn’t there. Everyone’s came except mine—mine didn’t come.
Rememory 29
Summer in Central Queensland burns Satan. This morning the sun had risen early looking for victims.
The school is huge on parent involvement—especially the Christmas concert. Many parents have to take time off work to be there. Everyone’s parents wrap a Christmas gift for Santa to hand out. Everyone’s, except mine.
I remember that “make ’em walk the plank” school concert year, when it came to the present handing-out, Santa (our principal, Mr Stephens) said to Santa’s helper (my teacher, Mrs Stephens), “Oh he must have forgotten again, have we got the spare?”
Everyone was all happy and excited. It was stinkin’ hot. I’ve already said that, haven’t I? The kids changed into bathers and ate cheerios—mini sausages—or little boys’ dicks, LBDs, as the kids called them. “LBDs, LBDs!” they were yelling, poking cheerios at each other (at crotch level when they were sure no adults were watching) while they were running around under sprinklers squealing and cackling. Sharon was mooning over someone’s ringer brother, and everyone else was too busy with their own families to notice me.
Still in my chair, still dressed as a pirate, my black eye-patch had slipped down the left-hand side of my face, the top digging into my eye socket. The flies are super thirsty when it’s hot, and swarmed in on the juice from my nose, making it hard for me to breathe without sucking them in. I was really thirsty too, super desperately thirsty. It was forty-two degrees Celsius and the sun had found me still tied in my ancient wheelchair, and I was weeping, hungry, parked on the outskirts of the throng, sitting on a steaming pile of splodgy excrement that stung the sores that were already raw; they were weeping too.
It’s a wonder someone hadn’t noticed the smell.
Rememory 30
My father didn’t come to the school concert because he was away “on business” climbing Mount Kilimanjaro in Africa. He was a triple diamond in Amway, and told everyone he helped house the poor.
He bought old, really cheap, houses, did them up using cheap backpacker labour, and flogged them off to the lower end of the housing market. Some, about ten I think, he’s kept and rents out to “help house the poor people” on a permanent basis. He ups the rent a few weeks into the “lease”—he writes his own—and as he is so nice and apologetic about it, and they can’t afford to move after just having the expense of the bond and moving in, they cop it every time.
He has a way with people—especially the poor saps who are not real bright and not real educated. They seem to love him. They seem flattered that such a golden prince would be their “mate”.
I’m not sure about the whole Amway thing, but he tells everyone it’s a “gold mine”, and plays “motivational” videos to anyone too stupid to walk away. All his friends, even the creepy cronies’ wives, are in Amway.
He often travels overseas—about six or seven times a year. He’s been hiking in Japan “on business”, skiing in France and Switzerland “on business”, kayaking down some famous rapids somewhere “on business”.
He came back all fired up with another new scheme and eager to get together with his cronies—now promoted to his “business partners”. They turned up a few days later and stayed. They were all very chummy, obviously in full bonding mode, and hung around in the bar laughing, drinking, smoking the night away.
Chapter 6
Rememory 31
Today the sea simply doesn’t exist.
School holidays are lonely, but so are Sunday mornings. It hurts to tell you how it feels waking up to my father’s hangover. The hours of waiting for his liver to process last night’s alcohol. Then finally when the heat sweats him awake, his stinkin’ breath splutters all over me, alone in my cot, alone in the house. No one wants to revisit that. But sustained hate is well fed.
Rememory 32
I haven’t seen the sea for three days. My father has been away and Sharon diligently pops into my room three times each day to change my nappy, takes me to the kitchen to eat and drink, then puts me back in my cot in-between. Not even the delights of 90210 video reruns to pass the time. I feel I have missed so much.
This morning my father is expected back, so I’m verandah-ing at last, and the sky is pink, impossibly merging to blue, then falling behind an opaque and corrugated grey-green sea. Despite today’s incandescence, foreboding breaths of wind float through.
When he told my mother she was dead to him, my mother didn’t fight. Not enough. Every night I fight for her. But
