I always noticed the way she looked at herself when she was done. Sometimes she was proud, sometimes she was disappointed, but she winked at the mirror and said the same thing every time.
‘That’ll have to do, kid.’
She transformed into a different person in there. She wasn’t my mum, she was Sarah, dressed up for a world that didn’t include me.
She would promise to be back in a couple of hours, but she always came back late. I tried to wait up, but I usually fell asleep on the couch or the floor or on my mattress, and I woke up when I heard the key in the door.
It was hard to tell what her mood would be when she came home. Sometimes she said mean things. Other times she slurred and swayed and collapsed on her bed. I would take her shoes off and put a blanket over her. Sometimes she came home full of energy. She would put on music and start cleaning and dancing. Other times she saw me standing by the door and got upset, and she would hug me and cry and apologise.
She always came home by herself. I don’t know if it was to spare me from meeting a stranger, or if she was ashamed to have them see me. But it meant I felt safe in our apartment, even though I was by myself a lot, because it was our own little world.
I liked the nights she didn’t leave. Sometimes she played her guitar and sang me a lullaby. She made them up on the spot using the same three chords. If she couldn’t think of a word to rhyme, she just invented one and we would both laugh.
When I was seven, she started reading me the Harry Potter books before I went to sleep. One night we couldn’t bear to stop, so she kept going. She read so much that she almost lost her voice. She whispered the last chapter, and then she fell asleep with me.
We never got to the last book, though. I still don’t know how it ends.
When I was eight, I woke up late one night to a strange clanging noise. I went to the bathroom and found my mum lying on the tiles. She must have just come home. She was vomiting and having a seizure. It looked like she was being electrocuted. Her heels were hitting the toilet. Her face was red. She had wet herself and her eyes were rolled back. I shook her, but she didn’t respond to me. I took her phone out of her handbag and called 911, because that’s what they did on television. I used toilet paper to wipe the vomit off her face and I held her hand. Her skin was cold. I had never been so scared.
Two paramedics knocked on the door and I let them in. They asked me questions that I couldn’t answer. They carried her out to the ambulance and attached a clear bag with a thin tube to her arm. They let me ride with them. The sirens were on.
At the hospital, I wasn’t allowed to follow her into the ward. I panicked and started to cry, so a nurse took me into a separate room. She gave me a hot chocolate and a biscuit and she stayed with me for a while. She asked if there was anyone who could come get me. I shook my head.
I stayed in the room all night. In the morning, I woke up to a lady standing over me. She looked just like my mum, but she was heavier and had brown hair. She said her name was Gabby.
‘I’m your mum’s sister. You’re going to come live with me while she gets treatment.’
‘I want to stay here with her.’
‘She’s not staying here.’
‘Where is she going?’
‘She’s being taken to a clinic because she’s an alcoholic. And if she doesn’t do the work and get better, she won’t be able to take care of you anymore.’
This made me really upset and afraid. I didn’t want to leave the hospital with her. I grabbed onto the chair I was sitting on and wouldn’t let go.
Gabby leaned in close. She smelled like toothpaste and perfume. She spoke so nobody else could hear.
‘You’re going to stop crying and you’re going to come with me, is that clear?’
She led me outside to her car. She didn’t let me see my mum first to say goodbye.
Gabby lived in Claremont with her husband Miles and their toddler, Patience. Gabby only spoke to me when she was being mean about my mum or telling me I needed a haircut.
My grandparents came over to meet me for the first time. They didn’t hug me, and they asked me a lot of questions about my mum. They loved Patience, though. They blew raspberries on her stomach and clapped and laughed at everything she did.
I hated it there. I planned to run away, but I didn’t have to, because a week later my mum came to get me. I ran to the door and clung to her legs. She had a big fight with Gabby in the front yard. All the neighbours came out of their houses to watch. Gabby told my mum she wouldn’t allow their parents to keep funding her toxic lifestyle. My mum said it didn’t matter what choices she made, everyone would always be critical of her. Then she accused Gabby of only caring about how much money she was going to inherit.
Gabby was furious. She told me I deserved a better mother, then she went inside and slammed the door.
My mum took my hand.
‘Come on, Honeybee.’
We went back to the apartment. My mum tried to do better. She emptied all her wine and vodka bottles down the kitchen sink. She stayed home at night for a couple of weeks, but then she started going out more than before and leaving me alone in the apartment for longer.
My grandparents stopped sending money. I didn’t even know they had been. We were really broke.
That’s when I started stealing on my own.
I went up and down the aisles and filled the basket with food. I took my time and got all the ingredients I needed.
Most smaller supermarkets have a storage section where the night-fill staff wheel in boxes to restock the shelves. Usually it’s only separated by plastic strips or a swing door. There are often stacks of boxes back there and a cool room and a break area. And there’s always an exit.
Once I had everything I needed, that’s where I went. I didn’t rush. There was nobody back there. But when I went out the exit, I saw a man sitting on a milk crate and smoking a cigarette next to the door. He looked at my basket.
‘The fuck are you doing?’
‘Some lady just slipped over in the freezer section. She’s screaming. I think she hit her head. I came back here to find someone.’
‘Fuck.’
He got up quickly and pushed past me and went inside.
I stole his pack of cigarettes and his plastic lighter before I left. Since I ruined Vic’s last smoke, I thought it was the least I could do. I kept the lighter for myself in case I needed it later.
I unpacked the basket in Vic’s kitchen. I had a lamb shoulder, garlic, rosemary, potatoes, carrots, peas, chicken stock and oil. And I had all the ingredients for a trifle. They were easy to make. It was just flour and eggs and sugar for the sponge, some milk and vanilla to make a custard, and some cream to whip. I also got some gelatine and fresh strawberries to make a jelly.
Vic watched me get everything arranged on the bench.
‘Bloody hell. How much I owe you?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nonsense. How much?’
‘Nothing.’
Vic noticed the plastic basket, then he realised.
‘You shouldn’t have done that.’
‘I don’t have any money.’
‘You need money, you take it out of that biscuit tin.’
He pointed to a shortbread container next to his toaster.
‘Okay.’