Another Wrong to Right

Short Fiction. A righteous mother behind the wheel.

That time of night, that far from the city, the freeway was empty. Most drivers out that late might begin to drift off or lose focus, but not Nina. She had once again tapped into the world’s most potent energy source: indignation. She was alert, ablaze. All the world’s ills fluttered in her mind like a shopping list: the wrongs, injustices and disappointments outnumbering the white lines and bare trees in the headlight glow.  The closest thing to a proxy for this rotten world was the steering wheel, so she strangled it, driving fast.

By that point in her life, Nina could survive weeks on indignation alone. That emotion burned so clean and efficient in her veins that she could replace the oil industry. Perhaps scientists should test the theory. They should place diodes on her temples and chest, chain her to a treadmill, measure the watts–the output. If Nina’s pace wanes, just mention the ex-husband. She could power a small business thinking about Edward. And you’d be shocked how many hospital beds could be run by the mere thought of her brother’s new wife. But, if you really want enough clean energy to save the whole planet, then mess with her daughter. Send the wrong size dresses on the eve of her daughter’s first school day. Hold up a picture of the humiliated girl in a hessian sack, fist balled into little boulders because she realised too young what life has in store. See what happens then; watch the treadmill smoke, the world burn.

‘This is a grave injustice,’ she had said before rushing to the car. ‘But Mummy will fix it–there’s always a way.’ 

In many respects, that was the creed by which Nina lived (with arms wide open). Every injustice was addressed, without question. A million Nina’s and our world would be very different: either a just utopia where each gets their dessert, or a barren cinder, lifeless but fair, floating through space as a warning—absolutes choke the lungs!

Take a recent trip to Harvey Norman as an example. The store clerk had said the Westinghouse fridge was ‘easy to use.’ She opened and closed the doors multiple times to demonstrate. She even wore the warped newsreader smile her manager demanded. But Nina’s mind was with her mother. ‘Easy is a subjective term… this is false advertising…’ Hundreds of old grey women then flooded her mind: all starving, crying out, blue and bruised... If Nina does not call out these retail lies, is their combined suffering not her fault? In a world where no one else will ever act, are you not morally compelled to always act? This, the fate of the reluctant shepherd. 

‘Easy to open. I’ll show you easy to open!’

Being banned from Harvey Norman was a worthy price to protect her mother and all those alike. But that’s not to say her mother would care or say thanks. She would rather sit in that cigarette-burned chair and stare a hole in the Westinghouse. She’d just stop paying for electricity, unplug the power cord. If the fridge wanted to play dirty, Margaret would play dirty. She’d let the food rot on the inside, trust the foul juices to kill the fridge like a cancer—a bioweapon trojan horse. ‘We’ll see who it gets first,’ her croaky voice might call from the couch. Such a familiar term, ‘it,’ was how she spoke of cancer: it having threatened her for decades, it having taken her husband (too easily, she believed), it being common as bread now.  

The turnoff appeared in the headlights almost too late. Nina kicked the brake pedal and the sedan wobbled like a fish suddenly snagged on a line. She swore and rushed a few deep breaths, then turned the car down another long, country stretch. Soon she entered the regional town with the strange name, a fairytale name that belonged in one of the books she reads to Annabelle at night, the same books Margaret read to her. From there, finally, her destination was up ahead. 

These were her days now, long and challenging. It was past 2am when she arrived at the warehouse. It must have been at least 9pm when she left the woman from the school clothing store’s apartment. That makes it one minute to 9pm when the police were called, 7pm when she began searching Facebook for the woman: her contact number, address, greatest fear… Before that was the useless complaint line, and while the sun was up there was always work. Nowadays, the dishes were never washed, her back always ached. The house was still half-packed from the divorce, and Edward’s side of the bed remained untouched—as she was.  

Though her life was not as it should be, tomorrow, once Annabelle is at school, it will get easier. Nina thought then how they were supposed to be watching Snow White that evening. She imagined the pair lit up like a photographer’s flash by the television. Annabelle, in her pyjamas, hair wet from the bath, is snuggled against her. She’s combing the girl’s locks—they’re curled like Margaret’s were as a girl. Nina should be there now. Edward should be making this drive. He should be doing something. It seemed only this morning that he was hovering in the doorway, his stubbled face in profile like a man on a coin. Nina had said something—she doesn’t recall what—and then he was gone. She followed him out, screaming, but he rounded the corner, out of view, and Nina knew he was never coming back. Love bells to changed locks—it was over. The fact came to her then like a stone tablet truth of the world: her life had changed, and she was left to carry the load on her own.      

But for Annabelle she would do anything. Nina was not going to just sit by and let her daughter believe the world is cruel. The world is only that way because people let it be so. Liars lie, cheaters cheat, deadbeats leave. What remains true under all circumstances is choice. So, when your daughter is standing there, bone-thin and bawling in her sack of a school dress, you have a choice. You can explain to her the realities of clerical errors, warehouse mislabelling… Or you can fix the problem, and, by fixing it, you can show her that the world can only beat you down if you let it—so take charge! That, after all, is how a decent person behaves. 

Nina smashed the warehouse front door with Edward’s old cricket bat. Glass fell to the doormat, and she cleared the stubborn remnants with the bat’s toe before climbing through. Inside, the click of her flashlight echoed. The warehouse smelled of stale cardboard. Boxes were labelled in code on the steel racks, and Nina had to learn a new language just to navigate the aisles, to find the right dress size and pattern. But she did, and soon she was back on the road, still burning with energy. In place of the stolen dresses, she had left two things: a note and enough cash for the dresses and the broken door. The note began: I am deeply sorry for your incompetence… 

By the time Nina made it back to her mother’s, they were already late for school. So, swearing and checking her watch, Nina helped Annabelle get dressed with a swiftness she reserved for the patients at work. Slumped in her old chair, Margaret watched the dressing with a flat expression. When the girl was ready, however, and she jumped and spun and giggled before the mirror, Margaret’s ancient eyes began to sting.

‘Good,’ she said to Nina, her own daughter. ‘As it should be, is how it is. You did well.’  

Back in the exhausted car, Nina drove her daughter to school. On the gravel courtyard the orientation was underway, so Nina and Annabelle joined the rear of the crowd. To try and spot the speaker through the forest of legs, Annabelle shifted. Nina smiled at her fidgeting daughter. Many children were crying and clinging to their parents’ legs, but not her girl; she was bold, eager, excited. Indeed, when it was time for class, Annabelle was the first inside. The girl with her grandmother’s curls crossed the doorway at pace. Nina managed only a glimpse of Annabelle’s face in profile before the girl vanished. Then the others filed in. The door closed, and with it that phase of their lives. No amount of indignation could bring it back. There’s no saving the past.