Love is a Beach: a romantic comedy

by Lilliana Anderson

  One day, when I’ve recovered from this hideous time in my life, I’ll get the chance to let my sister know how truly grateful I am for the help she’s been over the last couple of weeks. Even though she hasn’t always agreed on the way I’ve handled things, she’s been by my side, doing everything she can while providing me with wine like it’s water. I wouldn’t be as together as I am right now if I didn’t have her support. I’d probably be in an alcoholic stupor, wailing on the bathroom floor using toilet paper as tissues. The poor kids would be beside themselves. So, yeah. Lots to thank Jo for.

  “Well.” I clear my throat. “I’m sure your father will have a wonderful Christmas, wherever he is, just like we’ll have a wonderful Christmas at Nana’s.” I give myself a nod of approval for not calling him any foul names. I was angry at Kevin in the beginning; for abandoning us, for running off without manning up and facing the consequences of the life he left behind. But anger seems too small a thing now. Then, I had a house, and I thought I had savings to rely on until I could find some sort of work. Now, I quite literally want to kill him. I’m not angry anymore. I’m murderous. He’s taken absolutely everything from me: accommodation, finances, possessions, stability, and I’m pretty sure he took my dignity too, and without the resources to fund a good attorney, I’ve no idea how I’m supposed to figure this out and recover any of it. I fucking hate, hate, hate him so much for this. I wouldn’t piss on the man if he was on fire. There’s a massive difference between being unhappy and moving on than leaving the person who’s walked alongside you for twenty years destitute. Thank god I had a separate personal account for my Etsy earnings, it’s all I have left.

  “Isn’t he in Vegas?” Archer asks.

  “What, honey?”

  “Dad. Isn’t he in Vegas? Is it winter there?”

  “Ah, yes,” I reply. “America has opposite seasons to Australia.”

  “Will he see snow?”

  “No, mate. Las Vegas is desert. I don’t think it snows there.”

  “Oh. That sucks.”

  “Not if you like the warm weather,” I say, catching the angry pouting glare shot my way from Abby. I should probably admit that I haven’t told either of the children about our current homelessness. When we were packing up our things, I told them it was because the fumigators were coming in and we didn’t want the poison on anything that couldn’t be washed. I know it seems awful, I’m lying to them again, but after the way Abby reacted over Kevin leaving, I’ve decided to stick a pin in all bad news until the new year. Then I can break it to them that they need to change schools and Nana can hold my hand when Abby flies into a tailspin, and Archer does whatever he’s going to do when he realises his life isn’t the same anymore. I fucking hate the position I’m in. I just keep thinking if I can get through each day then I’m one day closer to being all right again.

  Did I mention how much I hate Kevin?

  “YOU KNOW,” Nana says, standing in the doorway of the kids’ room. “I’m going to get my carpenter friend to come over and build you both a bunk bed.”

  “Bunk bed.” Archer claps and jumps in excitement. Abigail looks like she wants to be anywhere but here. She’s been like this ever since we arrived a little over a week ago. Every day that goes by, she talks to me a little less. It’s gotten worse since Christmas, when the day passed and he didn’t call. Worse still on New Year’s, when she hoped and hoped for a message at midnight but ended up with nothing. Fuckwit. It breaks my heart. And I don’t know how to help her through this without making it worse.

  Nana says she’s just processing the break-up in her own way, and that I need to give her space. But I don’t know if that’s a great idea since I gave Kevin space and he cleaned us out and left. Space just creates distance in my opinion. I hate that I’m seen as the villain. But I still have to keep the communication lines open for that moment when she finally stops blaming me and just needs me. I have to be ready when she is.

  And I know I keep saying this, but I fucking hate Kevin for what he’s doing to our family. Hate, hate, hate, hate. I feel like my brain is on fire with the amount of rage I have directed at that man.

  Nana pulls out her phone and starts tapping on the screen, her eyes squinting. “I saw a picture on Pinterest of a bunk bed that reaches right up to the roof and cuts the room in two. That way you each get your own side and Abby gets some much-needed privacy. What do you think?” Nana holds out her phone so both Abby and Archer can see.

  Abby sits up, placing her own phone face down on her foldout bed. “That’s how you want us to live?”

  “Better than the cots you’re on now,” Nana says. “We don’t have a huge amount of space to work with, but there’s a wall on one side of each bed that acts as a privacy screen. It’ll feel like you have your own room.”

  “So, this is it, is it? We just give up and live here now?” Abigail folds her arms and glares at me.

  “For now,” I say, trying to stay calm so I don’t start shaking her to find some sort of sense. She should be thanking Nana for wanting to do something so special for them.

  “Why can’t we just go back home? Christmas is over. So is New Year’s. And Dad should be back soon, right?” Her eyes challenge me, that mouth of hers so tight it resembles a cat’s bum. “I want to go home.”

  “You know why we can’t go back home,” I say, my eyes darting between her and Archer. He’s listening with rapt attention. He loves it here, but I’m guessing he wouldn’t mind returning to familiar surroundings either. I really need to sit down and explain this to them, but it’s New Year’s day, and they were both up late last night watching the fireworks from the beach. They’re tired today, and it’s obvious that Abigail is emotional. I think it’ll be best if we wait another day or two before I drop the bomb.

  “We can’t go back because it’s getting fumigated.”

  “And painted,” I blurt, like I need a new excuse for delaying things.

  She rolls her eyes and stomps out of the room. “Fucking bullshit excuses,” she mutters.

  My mouth drops open and I’m about to yell out to her, ground her or something, but Nana touches me on the arm and says, “Fighting with her will only drive a wedge between you. Give her time.” And I close my mouth again. I suppose we all have to deal with this in our own way. Still, I don’t like my fourteen-year-old daughter throwing tantrums and swearing in front of her little brother.

  “I think the bunk is a really cool idea,” Archer says from the edge of his bed, where he’s been sitting quietly, twisting the leg on his John Cena figure around and around and around.

  “Thank you, Archer,” Nana says, sliding her phone back into a hidden pocket in her kimono.

  “Is Abigail right though, Mum?”

  “About what?” I really hope he isn’t going to mention the bullshit excuses part. My son has a cheeky streak and an excellent poker face.

  “That we’re living here now?”

  Pressing my lips together, I exchange glances with Nana. “For a little longer, yeah.”

  “Until Dad gets back?”

  I nod. “Yeah.” The word comes out as a bit of a whisper. How do I tell him the truth? I’m not ready to break his heart too. I couldn’t stand it if he starts to hate me the way Abby does.

  He smiles, runs over and hugs me before he announces he’s going to play. And suddenly, that tiny gesture from my beautiful boy makes me feel about a thousand times better.

  “I guess he likes it here,” Nana says with an amused smile pulling at her lips.

  “Thank God. I don’t think I could take two angry children right now.”

  “I understand why, but you’ll need to tell them both the truth sooner or later. School goes back first week of February. You only have four weeks.”

  “I know. I’ll tell them. I just… I need to deal with the fallout on my end first. Once I know where we stand financially, then I can break it to the kids.”

  She touches me lightly on the cheek, pressing her lips into a smile
before announcing she’s going to put the kettle on.

  I blow out my breath and take a seat on Abigail’s bed, my hand hitting her discarded phone. When I hit her home button, I tell myself it’s not because I want to snoop. It’s because that’s what you do when you pick up a phone, right? It’s like a habit. And because my thumbprint is registered on both of my children’s phones, of course it unlocks fully. Once again, I tell myself I’m not snooping. But the iMessage app is open and I happen to see it unintentionally. Message after message to Kevin:

  where r u?

  Plz come home

  Mums taking us 2 nanas.

  It’s xmas. Why aren’t u here?

  Where are you?

  Happy New Year!

  I miss u, daddy. Please call.

  Over and over again she’s sent these messages, and not once has Kevin replied. I don’t know this man, anymore. One who cares so little about his own flesh and blood. It’s agonising to witness, and as I slip the phone back where I found it, I have to fight back my tears. My little girl is hurt and angry, and there’s nothing I can do to fix it. She needs her dad.

  “God damn you, Kevin,” I mutter under my breath.

  FIFTEEN

  DARCY

  “What is this?” I ask later that night. The kids are in bed and Nana and I are partaking in a glass of wine out on the deck, and suddenly a group of women come walking down the footpath chanting. They’re wearing dark cloaks and holding candles, and they stop right in front of Nana and me. I feel like I’m in that scene in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom where they pull the guy’s heart from his chest. I place my hand on my throat and recoil.

  “This is your cleansing ritual,” Nana says, her eyes gleaming as she opens the gate and lets the women in.

  “My what?” I’m basically crouched on the chair like a mouse is on the floor as the women take their places. It’s dark, and they all have hoods on, their candles held in front of them. I can barely make out their faces, but I think I met a few of them during Nana’s Christmas party. I’m also positive I spot Betsy under one of them. I lower my feet back to the ground, figuring I’m safe since these are Nana’s friends. Seems they’re performing a throwback to their coven days.

  “Out with the old, make way for the new,” they chant over and over.

  “The new?” I laugh and pick up my wine glass, taking a hefty drink since there is obviously a whole show to see. “Is this because it’s a new year now?”

  Nana picks up a bundle of twigs she must have had stashed in the garden bed then lights the end of it with a BBQ lighter, waving it around and joining in with the chant as smoke billows out.

  I cough and wave a hand in front of my face. “Is that sage? Great. OK.”

  Three of the women set down their candles and pull a long ribbon from their sleeves, each handing me one end to hold.

  “What is this?” I ask, but I’m getting no answers. They just keep chanting and passing the ribbons between them, braiding them together.

  The final lady pulls out a massive set of dressmaking scissors, and suddenly I’m not sure if sitting here is such a great idea.

  “You need to cut ties with him, dear,” Nana explains.

  Now I get it.

  “Close your eyes and picture your relationship with Kevin,” she coaches. “Imagine this cord is the invisible string that connects your heart to his. When you’re ready, pick up the scissors and repeat after me.”

  A smile plays on my lips, but I do as she says, closing my eyes and picturing Kevin’s and my togetherness. I recall a lot of the small things, holding hands at the cinema, debating over world events, sharing a bottle of wine, bringing our children into the world. I see one of his rare smiles, a private moment of tenderness. And I also see the cold, hard glare of anger, the look of indifference when he lacked empathy. I see the sneaking and the scheming, and then I don’t want to see any more. I want it over.

  Keeping my mind focused, I picture that the braided ribbon runs through the streets and finds its way into his hands. I see his face, watch his lips move, forming the words ‘I want a divorce’. Unlike that day in the parking garage, they don’t hurt me anymore. In fact, I’m relieved when he says it.

  I pick up the scissors.

  “I cleanse my heart of Kevin Field,” Nana starts, and I repeat her word for word.

  “By cutting this cord, I cut him from my life and let him go. I ask the universe to fill my heart with healing light to make way for my future. May the mother guide me on the right path.”

  Then I cut the cord, and the ladies set it alight with their candles and drop it into the silver bowl that decorates the middle of the table. Nana waves the sage around a little more, then the women all say, ‘Love and light,” then snuff their candles with their thumb and forefinger.

  The moment they finish, they fling off their cloaks and hang them over the backs of the chairs.

  “Got anything to drink, Esme?” one of them asks. She has white hair, wire-framed glasses and a slash of red lipstick across her wilted mouth. “I’m a bit parched after all that chanting.”

  “Lots of wine in the fridge. You know I’m never lacking refreshments.”

  “That’s why we love her,” another lady with dyed red hair says as she sits across from me. Helen, I think her name is. “She keeps us all fed and sedated.” She smiles and her eyes practically disappear. I’d put her in her late seventies, but I could be wrong.

  “It’s nice to see you again, Helen.” I reach across the table and touch her hand, saying hello to Betsy, the lady next to her, while I do. She’s always reminded me a lot of Sophia in Golden Girls with her small stature and large glasses.

  “You think your nana has something a little harder than wine in there?” Betsy asks. “I haven’t had a drink all year.”

  That one gets a lot of laughs and eye-rolls. “That’s a dad joke if ever I heard one,” another lady says. Carla. I met her last night at the beach. She was with her grown children and grandkids, and the best way I can describe her is ‘beige’. From her oversized cardigan to her glasses and hair. She’s monotone. “I have to tell you, we don’t normally practise witchcraft. We prefer regular craft—the paper and glue kind—but we made an exception for you. Esme has told us all about you, and we feel like you’re part of the family.”

  “Oh. Well, I’m honoured,” I say with a smile, lifting my glass as one is set in front of her. I’m fairly sure I’m going to need a lot of wine to get through tonight. Doing something symbolic like cutting ribbon feels oddly freeing. It almost gives me the confidence to start moving forward. I can’t do anything to legally end my marriage for another eleven months, but I can sever ties emotionally. Then I can set myself free. So, that’s a start.

  “And this here is Martha,” Nana says, setting bottles of wine on the table as the lady with the lipstick takes her seat, placing a bowl of nuts between us all.

  “I hear you’ve attracted the attention of our favourite rugby player,” Martha says, smiling wide, a smudge of red coating her incisor. I war with whether I should tell her or leave her be while trying to control the heat in my cheeks over the mention of Leo in our conversation. It hasn’t been easy since we returned, knowing he’s right next door and avoiding him like the plague. It’s not that I don’t want to see him, it’s more that I can’t face him. I feel so foolish over the way I left things that I’m not sure I can look him in the eye. I actually almost ran into him on the street on Christmas Eve, and I freaked out to the point where I ducked behind a telegraph pole to avoid being seen. Then I had terrible anxiety, thinking he might stop by Nana’s on Christmas Day, but it turned out he was spending the day elsewhere with his son. And that just made me feel stupid, because of course he has his own life outside of being Nana’s neighbour. I don’t know what I was thinking.

  However, that didn’t stop my eyes from scanning the crowd and drifting to observe his quiet apartment on New Year’s Eve. He was nowhere to be seen, and I’m conflicted as to whethe
r I’m glad or disappointed by that. It’s like I don’t want to see him and I do want to see him at the same time. And that’s a strange place for me to be. I mean, how do you even behave towards a man when you licked your own tits after clawing at his chest? There’s no handbook on dealing with the aftermath of sexual embarrassment in social settings, so I don’t really have a step-by-step on how to do this. But I know I can’t avoid him forever. The man lives next door.

  “So, uh…is that what this ritual was about?” I ask, my gaze landing on Nana. “Leo?”

  She shakes her head. “No, darling. The cleansing was all for you, to get rid of the bad energy of he who shall no longer be named. The girls have heard the rumours is all.”

  “Rumours?”

  Martha sits forward. “Oh yes, you’re the talk of the complex, a pretty single mother spending time with our most eligible bachelor. Everyone in the building knows something happened between you two.”

  My mouth falls open. “I’m sorry? They, um…they know what exactly?”

  “That’s all we have,” Helen adds. “We asked Esme for the juicy details. But she’s so tight-lipped.”

  “That’s why we’re coming straight to the source,” Carla puts in, resting her chin on her hand.

  “I, uh, I don’t know what to tell you,” I start, rubbing the back of my neck as I pick up my wine glass. I hide behind it like it’s a shield. “I suppose Leo and I are friends at best. I was helping him with his sore knee and then I went home. That’s where it ends.” And I won’t talk to them about him when I can’t even manage to speak to the man himself.