The Cry by Helen Fitzgerald

Author:Helen Fitzgerald [Fitzgerald, Helen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Thriller, Mystery
ISBN: 0571287700
Amazon: B00DAJ5AEY
Goodreads: 17846926
Publisher: Faber & Faber
Published: 2013-08-26T14:00:00+00:00

By the time I get home, something has happened that makes me look like a worse mother than Joanna. Two police officers are at the door and my drunk fourteen-year-old is projectile vomiting onto the driveway. Instead of going to school, they inform me, she hitch-hiked to Geelong, drank a half a bottle of vodka on the beach, and was caught trying to break into her grandmother’s house. The officers are from Geelong and they’re very understanding about it, driving her all the way home (with the window open). One of the officers is a fairly young Vietnamese guy in plain clothes. I’ve seen him on the news in the background. His name’s Phan, and he seems kind. Chloe told them she thought the house was empty and ‘just wanted to have a look inside’. Joanna was home, asleep. She didn’t want to press charges.

Before I manage to get the door open, I hear a man’s voice say: ‘Mrs Robertson?’ I turn around and a third professional is on my porch. He flashes his ID: ‘I’m Tim Shaw . . . from Social Services.’

I can imagine the report he’ll write for the custody hearing, this twenty-two-year-old who’s never been alone with a child for more than an hour, let alone tried caring for one full time. (Yes, the first thing that came out of my mouth was: ‘But . . . Really! How old are you?’ and yes, I should not have done this because, you’re right, it was insulting and judgemental and will result in an even worse assessment than the one my puking daughter and the two police officers were already ensuring.) It was probably his youth that gave him the energy to do so much in the hour it took me to get home from town, mind you. He’d phoned the lawyer and asked her to fax the letter of consent I just signed allowing him to get information about me and Chloe from relevant professionals. He’d phoned Chloe’s school, and knew she’d missed three days without permission, and that she had been behaving so badly in five out of eight classes (which I didn’t know) that a special inter-departmental meeting was being held about her tomorrow. He’d also phoned my GP, and would like to talk to me about that once the police are gone and Chloe has been cleaned up and put to bed.

‘If she runs away again, phone us straight away,’ Phan says as he leaves.

Oh God.

On the tram home I’d planned to change into a floral dress and bake an earth-mothery cake in case the social worker visited. I’d imagined Chloe coming in from school and feeding her animals and giving me a hug and generally demonstrating a most excellent home life.

Instead Chloe’s kneeling at the foot of the loo with the door open. Social Work Boy, whose suit does not have the desired effect of making him seem older and cleverer, is holding her hair back while she makes such terrible heaving noises that I fear the contents of her feet might come out her mouth.

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