Scar Tissue. Narrelle M Harris

The way that brothers do.

      ‘Poor Daddy’s ouch,’ says Amelia. ‘I’ll kiss it better,’ and she plants a sloppy kiss on the smaller scar, the way her parents give her kisses to make it better when she falls or bumps her head. She draws back and pats the hard tissue again. ‘It feels funny.’

      ‘If you get a big ouch and then it gets better, sometimes the skin goes pale and hard like that,’ Jayden says, his voice low and even. ‘It’s called a scar.’

      Amelia considers this information. ‘Mummy has a scar on her tummy and Lachie has a scar on his head and his side and his mouth. Unca Lachie has lots of scars. I’ll kiss them better too.’

      Jayden flicks a glance at Lachlan, as does Clara, and Lachlan is very still, seemingly caught between pride at Amelia’s cleverness in noticing these things and regret that she is so aware of all his old hurts.

      Amelia wriggles off Jayden’s lap and toddles over to Lachlan. He has to manoeuvre a bit to maintain his modesty in the silk robe as she clambers into this lap, stands on his thighs and stares earnestly into this face. He lets her scrutinise him without comment.

      She pats the scar at the corner of his mouth. ‘Poor ouch.’

      ‘It’s nothing, Amelia,’ he tells her.

      She wetly kisses the side of his mouth anyway.

      She peers at him further, then kisses the scar in his hairline. Then she sees something that Clara never knew she could. Amelia squats. Lachlan’s hands are on her waist to keep her from falling, and she leans over to peer at the inside of his elbow on his left arm. The track marks are almost invisible.

      Almost.

      She goes to kiss them and Lachlan flinches, pulls away.

      Amelia is immediately full of childish concern. ‘Does it still hurt?’

      Lachlan swallows.

      ‘No.’

      ‘Was it a big ouch?’

      Clara holds her breath, wondering what he’s going to say. Her husband, too, she notices has gone very still.

      ‘Not any more,’ Lachlan says carefully. ‘Your Mummy and Daddy helped to make it better.’

      ‘I want to make it better, too,’ Amelia pouts.

      ‘You do.’

      ‘No. I have to kiss it better,’ she insists. ‘It’s the rule.’

      Reluctantly, refusing to look at Clara or Jayden, Lachlan holds his arm up. Amelia kisses the inside of his elbow with a loud, wet, noisy smack of her lips. A big kiss for a big ouch.

      Then she grins up at him. ‘All better?’

      His reply is delayed while he clears his throat. ‘All better,’ he agrees.

      Amelia’s expression is full of pride – and then she is all giggles and shrieks as Lachlan ducks his head to pretend-bite her fingers. ‘Don’t, don’t, don’t!’ she shrieks while making no actual effort to escape, ‘Don’t eat me up!’ He manages to get to her belly and blow a raspberry (and narrowly avoid being accidentally kicked in the balls – that’s unclehood for you) before letting her squirm free and run across the carpet to Clara.

      ‘Mummy, Mummy, don’t let Unca Lachie eat me!’

      Laughing, Clara drops to her knees and makes zombie-hands and gnashing-teeth motions at her. ‘I’ll eat you up!’

      Jayden jumps to his feet, crouches down and chases Amelia all over the living room, threatening to eat you all up until Amelia turns on him, bares her teeth and says ‘I’ll eat YOU all up!’ and chases him in turn.

      By evening’s end, Lachlan has commandeered a pair of Jayden’s track pants and a t-shirt, both too short and too loose on him. He is lying on his back on the sofa, more or less respectable now, and explaining how her Daddy is the most graceless diver the world has ever seen. Amelia, belly-down on the carpet, falls asleep to his voice.

      Jayden and Clara are dancing in the kitchen to the radio, kissing, cuddling. Canoodling. As date nights go, it hasn’t been too bad.

      Lachlan is the one who gets the call from the teacher. Clara and Jayden have taken off for a romantic anniversary week in New Zealand and the teenaged Amelia is in Lachlan’s care for the duration.

      Lachlan is a driving to the school hall as fast as he dare. He wants to go faster, but he can’t risk being stopped by the police. He can’t risk failing her, though his heart is hammering, because he feels he already has.

      How did I miss it? he’s thinking. I didn’t. I couldn’t have. I would know if Amelia was an addict. If anyone would know that, I would. Therefore, she is not. There has been a mistake. I will fix this. I will fix this. Oh god, what if it’s my fault?

      Lachlan doubts himself all the time, but he has never doubted Amelia.

      And yet.

      He remembers. He remembers choices made because they seemed to be the only ones left. He remembers wanting to calm the storm in his head and his heart, and finding only one way to do it. He remembers defiance and rage and despair and how a simple solution and a simpler needle gave him respite, if only for a while.

      Amelia has not done this thing, but if she has, if she has done this unthinkable thing he will...he will...

      And Lachlan remembers all the attempts to stop him, to help him, to cure him, to deny him, to fix him and it was all for nothing. Most of it didn’t touch him; some of it made everything worse. And then he nearly killed Jayden, and he realised that the simple solution was no longer a solution, that what had helped no longer helped, that he was a danger to the only person who mattered.

      So he chose a different path. It took a lot of work, a lot of help, a lot of forgiveness, but he chose it. Sixteen years later, he was still choosing it. Every day.

      Lachlan thinks: if it’s true, and I can’t work out how to help her, then I will... I’ll...

      I will offer her my arm, he decides. If nothing else will stop her, I will offer her my arm and take the cocaine with her. If I can’t save her, I’ll go down that path with her. I won’t let her be alone. I will not let her walk that path alone. I don’t care if I go down with her, as long as she’s not alone like I felt I was...

      He stamps on the brake in front of the hall and dismisses that train of thought as destructive and not in the least helpful.

      Which isn’t to say he won’t choose it, if he can’t offer Amelia anything else.

      He runs to the door, ignoring the loud music and the sound/scent of the close-packed bodies of dancing teenagers. He runs past a clump of kids having a furtive smoke by the bushes. As he bursts into the hall, a teacher is there to intercept him. She grabs Lachlan by the elbow and tugs him aside.

      ‘Mr Carroway, it’s Mrs Braithwaite. We’ve put Amelia in the caretaker’s office,’ she says.

      ‘Where’s Chloe Dyskstra?’ Lachlan demands. This is Chloe’s school dance. Chloe, 15, had invited Amelia along as her sort-of- date, on the logic that Amelia was a good friend, and good fun, and (Lachlan knew, although Chloe hadn’t said as much) Amelia was meant to be the perfect wingman for the evening. ‘They were here together.’

      ‘We’re looking for her now.’

      That’s ominous. But first things must come first.

      Lachlan follows Mrs Braithwaite down the hall and into the caretaker’s office. She lets him in then goes in search of Chloe Dykstra.

      Amelia stands in the middle of the room and glares at him. She is furious. He hasn’t seen her in such a rage. It stops him like a wall.

      ‘Amelia?’

      ‘If you believe one word of that lie for