A Reason to Exist

Chapter 3

There was a white minivan in my driveway. Excellent. Mum would have to behave nicer about my hair in the presence of others. I left my skateboard in the undercover nook up the sideway and let myself in through the front door.

Eleanor Bavel was in the kitchen teaching autoimmune protocol batch cooking. As I walked in, the audio technician turned and shushed me and the cameraman glared. Mum was saying 'How does eating fermented foods help people on their thyroid healing journey?' in the polished voice she used for her videos. Eleanor Bavel began talking about the benefits of homemade sauerkraut and kefir. Mum looked up and saw my hair. Her eyes darkened and her lips thinned. But she was on camera, so she was prevented from having an outburst.

I tiptoed down the hallway and into my brother Tate's room, opening his door quietly.

He was stretched out on the bed playing a game on the iPad.

'They're filming,' he said.

'I know.' I sat down on Tate's bed. It was only then that he looked up from the screen.

'What have you done to your hair?'

'I dyed it.'

'Mum's going to kill you. Green?'

I touched the tips of my hair, like I was scratching an itch. 'I've wanted it for ages.'

He forgot about my hair quickly and went back to his game, skating his finger over the screen with grace.

'I dropped in to see dad at the gallery last night,' I said. 'Hey, stop playing that for a minute. Look at me. Eye contact!'

He lowered the screen into his lap and finally met my eyes.

'He said you cancelled next weekend's visit again. He misses you.'

'I've got a comp,' Tate said.

'I know. But you could stay over afterwards or something. I'm going to be there the whole weekend. You could get mum to drop you off afterwards. The comp will only go to three or four. Stay until Monday morning.'

Tate tugged at the neckline of his t-shirt. His hair is dark like dad's, but he has mum's green eyes. 'I'll be tired afterwards. Besides, Sandra is always there. We never get time alone with dad. I don't see the point.'

'Sandra's nice, I like her. I thought you liked her too? They'll take us out for burgers or something.'

Tate shrugged his shoulders.

'We only get to see him every second weekend. It's the court orders,' I said.

'In two years I'll be twelve and I can choose who I want to stay with. The court can't make me do anything.'

I'd never heard Tate talk like this, yet the tone of his voice reminded me of someone else.

'He's your dad.'

'I'm sick of the two houses. Last time he dropped me off to school I didn't have my homework diary and Mrs Fletcher told me off in front of the whole class. It sucks. He never remembers stuff like that. It was right there on the kitchen bench.'

'You should've remembered your own homework diary.'

'I've got school swimming on Monday. He won't remember my bathers.'

'You can pack bathers in your schoolbag from here,' I said.

'Nah. It's easier if I stay here. Things run smoother that way.'

'Stop being such a baby.'

He raised the iPad again and started playing. Tate used to be so lively and easy-going. But some days, it's like he walks in a dark shadow. It's only when he's on stage performing a Broadway musical that I see him come back to life again; when the stage lights are on and he has rehearsed lines to say. He likes the predictable, the scripted, he can't stand it when things go wrong and he has to improvise in life.

Mum provides that security for him, she controls his environment, she remembers his homework book and bathers. She guides him through the day like an usher at the theatre.

'Stop staring at me,' Tate said into his screen.

'Make me,' I said. 'Dad's a good man.'

'He's selfish. He only cares about himself.'

'That's not you saying that. That's mum.'

'No, it's me. Can't you go and find something to do?' Tate said. 'I'm busy.'

'No you're not, you're just playing a game. Besides I've missed you.' I nestled my head into his shoulder, and started pressing my thumb into his stomach to make him laugh.

He laughed and started crying out 'Get out.' Which made me laugh louder because mum was filming. 'Shhh,' I said, 'You'll be heard on the video.' Which made Tate laugh too.

Before long, mum was standing at the door with her arms across her chest. 'Stop that you two. We're filming,' she said. She stepped into Tate's bedroom and closed the door behind her so that the film crew and Eleanor couldn't hear. 'What's going on?' she asked.

'Nothing,' I said. 'We're just playing.'

Mum's dark hair had been straightened for the filming, she was wearing red lipstick and foundation that covered the dark patches under her eyes. She took another step towards the bed and lowered her voice.

'I'm very disappointed in you, Macy. What have you done to your beautiful hair?' Tears welled in her eyes.

My excitement about my hair withered. I'd been saving pocket money for two months to afford this hairstyle. I knew she was going to be annoyed with me, but I didn't think she was going to cry about it.

'I love it,' I said, trying to remain strong. 'I've wanted it for ages.' I took a breath. 'It's nothing, it's just hair. It's what I wanted.'

'It looks tacky,' mum said, slowly, clearly and predictably. 'You had such a beautiful natural colour of hair. You should've spoken to me about it.'

'You would've said no,' I said, challenging my eyes to stay on hers.

'Of course I would have. Because do you know what you've done?'

'What?'

'Did you read the list of chemicals?'

'Huh?'

'The list of chemicals. Did the hair dye have Resorcinol in it?'

'I don't know.'

'No, you didn't think did you. Well, you've given yourself a massive hormone disruptor. Chemicals in hair dye cause thyroid dysfunction, effects on the central nervous system, alterations in the adrenal glands, immune system dysfunction, even changes to red blood cells. I've dedicated my whole life to trying to protect you from these things.'

I closed my eyes. 'I could get hit by a bus,' I whispered.

When I opened my eyes mum looked stunned. She was looking at me silently, tears rolling down her cheeks.

'Mum, it's only hair dye. Everyone uses it. I just got the ends done. It didn't even go near my scalp.' I hated her tears – those guilt-provoking glossy beads skimming her cheeks, accusing me of bringing thyroid disease on myself.

'I may as well give up,' she said.

'No, don't give up, mum,' I said, my voice pleading with her, wanting to stop those tears and heal the disappointment. 'I'm sorry, really, I'm sorry. I didn't think. I can get it cut off.'

'The damage is done,' she said, her posture deflated, her teary eyes looking at the floor. She shook her head sadly, wiped away her tears with the tips of her fingers and walked out the door.

Tate turned to me and said, 'Idiot.'