10. Family

When the fog in his brain cleared he found a flat spot off the shoulder and stopped the car. He sat for a while staring through the mashed bugs and flies on the windscreen into the middle distance. His forearms were cramped from the manic grip he’d been forcing on the wheel. The ringing was still crowding his ears but he found enough awareness to remind himself to breathe - breathe and wait.

He looked around the interior of the car littered with all kinds of shit – glass bottles, greasy paper bags, food wrappers, dried out chips. The backseat was stacked with bags, blankets, a rolled up groundsheet and a swag. There was a stuffed toy that could have been a donkey or a rabbit.

He clenched his fists and hammered them on the steering wheel. He smashed his forehead into it three times. He screamed a long bellow of frustration.

Then he became desperate to escape the car. He scrabbled at the door handle unaware that the lock was down and bashed his shoulder into the door until it defeated him. When the violence was spent he raised the little pillar, opened the door and emerged into the blasting sun.

There was a bridge over a creek up ahead. He didn’t know this road, didn’t know how far he’d come. Could be fifty miles, could be a hundred but he knew now he’d kicked her out back there somewhere. He had a visual flash of the shock on her face when he swung both feet up and drove her out the passenger door. He must’ve splattered her with gravel when he took off.

He told himself she was lucky. If it had gone on much longer he might have done her some real damage. He’d never hit her. Not once. Slapped – yes but not with a closed fist. She was lucky it wasn’t his old man. His hands were never open. Only time he opened his fists was to grab a bottle of beer or roll a smoke.

He became aware of being watched. There was a family of nine or ten. It was some kind of swimming hole.

“What are you fuckin looking at?”

He watched them shepherd the kids back behind the tree line to the creek bank.

She knew it drove him crazy too. She’d get that whine in her voice and get on the bit. Family? Don’t talk to me about family. He got a flash of his old man walking towards him – at a cattleyard – riding boots squelching in cowshit. He’d fallen off the fence. Broke his arm. But his father’s two arms end in knotted fists. He’s not coming to pick you up.

She couldn’t give it up though even when she knew the haze was coming down on him. 

“Every woman wants a family,” she said.

“We are a fuckin family.” 

Maybe he'd done some damage. She looked like she might’ve fell wrong. He rolled a smoke and started to walk aimlessly toward the creek. He could hear the splash and the shrieking kids.

Now that he’d aroused the memory of the argument there was no escaping the guilt.  She was a good kid but that whine she got going screeched at his ears like a high-speed drill. He’d have to go back for her but. She was all he had. 

He’d get a drink from the creek and go back. 

The family had set up a camp. There was a small fire, towels and bags scattered around. There was a little wrapped up bundle on a wire-framed bouncer. They were all swimming in the river. They had a couple of inner-tubes they would push into the rapids for a bumpy fifty-yard ride before returning up the opposite bank. They didn’t see him approach.

The next thing he knew the baby was in his arms and he was running.

© Ray Lillis 2012