It's Not You It's Me

by Allison Rushby

He shakes his head and puts the phone down near my plate on the table. There’s a beep-beep-beep from it soon after.

  ‘Just the message bank.’

  I spot the words flash up on the miniature screen then. ‘114 calls missed. 113 messages.’

  ‘Brought you some plain biscuits in case you were hungry,’ Jas says, fishing around in his backpack and then placing them on the table.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘How’re you feeling?’ he asks. He doesn’t sit down, but goes over to the window and stares out moodily as he did earlier this morning.

  ‘Heaps better. Pretty much back to normal, surprisingly. I thought I was going to die. It certainly felt like it, anyway.’

  Jas watches me carefully as I speak. ‘Didn’t look too hot for a while there.’

  We both glance away then, Jas to the window and me to my toast, avoiding the real issue. The issue of the worst sex in the world. The worst sex in the world that was had by us.

  Ugh.

  I eat my second piece of toast and finish my lemonade while Jas takes a seat on his bed and flips through the TV channels. He taps his leg on the floor as he watches and I can tell he’s agitated. On edge. Just like I’m feeling.

  When I’m done with breakfast and have a bit of stodge in my stomach I feel even better than before. And with Jas looking as if he’s about to get testy any moment now, I plan my escape. ‘I might go down for a spa or something,’ I say, going over to my suitcase to find my togs.

  He switches the TV off then. ‘Not so fast, sunshine.’

  ‘Sorry?’ I drop my suitcase lid and turn around.

  ‘Tell me about this folder. The one you showed the doctor.’

  I pause for a moment. ‘Like I told you, it’s nothing. I just can’t take a lot of drugs. You know I’m the sensitive type…’ I try to make a joke of it.

  Jas doesn’t crack a smile. ‘But why? You never used to have any allergies or anything. Not that I knew of. It’s something important, isn’t it? Like your mum had. I could tell by the doctor’s face. Something he had to speak to a specialist about too. What kind of specialist did he call?’

  I decide to play dumb. ‘I don’t know who he called, do I? He was speaking German.’

  ‘That right, is it? You have no idea who he might have called? No idea what kind of specialist he might have needed to talk to?’

  I shrug.

  ‘Stop bullshitting, Charlie.’ Jas’s voice rises. But then his expression changes. ‘Just tell me you don’t have the same thing your mum had. Please.’

  ‘No, no. It’s not that—believe me. And I’m not, um, bullshitting.’ I cross my fingers behind my back.

  ‘You are.’

  I don’t say anything.

  ‘You are. You’ve been funny this whole trip about getting sick. Catching a cold or something. Poking your neck. I’ve seen you. Now, stop crossing your fingers behind your back and tell me what this is all about.’

  I keep my mouth set in a firm line while I nonchalantly uncross my fingers behind my back. I may look cool, calm and collected, but my thoughts are all over the place. Soon enough, just like yesterday at the art gallery, my feelings rise up to choke me and my words overflow again. ‘Well, what business is it of yours anyway? What if I did get sick? You’re just going to go back to your little world and we won’t see each other any more, so what does it matter?’ I regret each word as soon as it comes out of my mouth. Why did I say that? It wasn’t what I mean to say at all, and it’s come out all wrong.

  Jas gets up off the bed then, and starts pacing the room. ‘What are you talking about—what business is it of mine? I thought we knew everything about each other. That used to be your big take on our friendship. Remember?’

  ‘A few years ago it did.’ I take a step over and stand behind one of the chairs. I hold onto its back as if it’s going to protect me somehow. ‘Things are different now.’

  Jas stops pacing when I say this, and I can see I’ve made him angry—really angry. My mother used to be like that. She had this unlimited patience until you pushed her just that tiny bit too far over the edge and then she would just snap. He comes towards me and grabs my elbows. ‘What’s this about? Why are you keeping things from me?’

  I push his hands off one at a time. ‘That’s pretty rich,’ I say. ‘I’m keeping things from you? Keeping things from other people is your line of expertise, if I remember correctly.’

  ‘What are you talking about? Why do I know close to nothing about what’s been going on in your life for the past two years? You’ve been evasive this whole trip.’

  ‘Me? Evasive?’ I laugh at this. ‘How about you, with your mysterious phone calls and your five hundred mobile phone messages a day? Why don’t you ever answer your calls, hey? What’s going on there?’

  ‘I told you. I’m on holiday.’

  ‘Bullshit, you’re on holiday,’ I try, and as I say the words I watch closely for the expression on his face. I see what I’m looking for. I knew it. ‘Aha! That was a pretty good guess, wasn’t it? And it helped that I answered one of those calls. Your friend Zed. He’s a charmer, isn’t he? Why doesn’t he know where you are? I mean, he’s your manager. What are you doing? Are you on the run or something?’

  ‘Me? On the run? More like you.’

  ‘Oh, really, Mr “my life’s so hard being in a made-up band”. You’re such a hypocrite. Remember how you used to go on and on about Milli Vanilli? What a waste of time and space they were? That it was shocking people like them got in the door of the music industry? Well, what a crock, Zamiel!’

  ‘Jesus, you’re infuriating.’ Jas runs his hands through his hair.

  There’s a noise, then, at the door—as if someone’s there. We both turn around and stare at it for a moment before Jas runs over and wrenches it open.

  It’s Sharon.

  ‘I knew it!’ she says. ‘I knew all along that you’re Zamiel.’

  ‘If I were you,’ Jas tells her, almost smoking at the ears, ‘I would get the fuck out of here—right now!’

  Sharon stands there, frozen, and a frightened expression comes over her face. Then, when she’s got herself together a little, she turns and runs for it down the hallway. Jas sticks his head out through the door and watches her go before he’s satisfied she’s not coming back, then slams the door closed again.

  He comes back over and stands in front of me. ‘Where were we?’

  ‘Let’s see. If I remember correctly, you were accusing me of being on the run,’ I say, crossing my arms.

  ‘Look at you. You are in some ways, aren’t you? I know your mum’s death must have been hard, but what have you been doing with yourself for the past two years? Nothing, it seems! Sketching?’ he spits. ‘No exhibition. No degree. Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing! That’s nice. As if you’d know about what’s been going on in my life. And what do you think you’ve been up to? Making the world a better place for us all to live in?’

  ‘At least I’m doing something. At least I’m not living off my dead mother’s money.’

  We both pause then, shocked at what he’s just said. And that’s when I reach up and slap him right across the face.

  Jas takes a step backwards.

  We stand and stare at each other for what seems like for ever.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says finally. ‘I shouldn’t have said that.’

  ‘You’re damn right you shouldn’t have.’ I watch as the red mark spreads across his cheek.

  ‘I just want to know what’s going on,’ he says miserably.

  And it’s this one small comment that washes all my anger away. He looks awful, and it’s all my fault. Guilt settles in. Because he’s right. I have been keeping things from him. Big things.

  I turn the chair that I’m still holding onto around and take a seat.

  Hunched over, I glance up at Jas after a while. He’s holding his palm against his one red cheek and I feel terrible. I’ve hit him. Actually hit him. I don’t think I’ve ever hit anyone
like that before. ‘I’m really sorry,’ I say. ‘I’ve never done that before. I can’t believe I just did it, in fact.’

  And as I look at him I know one thing for sure about us—we both owe each other more than a few explanations.

  ‘Come on,’ I motion to him. ‘Sit down and I’ll tell you about the folder.’

  When he’s sitting down, I take a few deep breaths, wondering how I’m going to say it. I hate the telling. At least I didn’t have to tell my mother. Because how can you tell your own mother something like that? It’s supposed to be the other way around, if you’re unlucky enough to have to deal with it at all. But when it comes down to it there’s only one way to do it, one way to say it—those three horrible words.

  ‘I’ve had cancer,’ I say (I always think there should be a cut to the first ad break of the midday movie each time these words exit my mouth).

  ‘What?’ Jas stands up. ‘What?’

  I wait. Obviously he’s heard what I’ve said. All reactions are different. From Kath I got, ‘That’s not funny, Charlie.’ One of my friends simply burst into tears. It’s strange, people’s initial reaction to the phrase. Though no stranger than my own, I suppose, remembering how I ate the doctor’s whole jar of jelly beans as she talked me through the news. I left the black ones lined up on her table in a neat row.

  Jas keeps standing. ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘Sit down,’ I say. ‘It’s all over. For now, anyway.’

  ‘What kind? When?’

  ‘Hodgkin’s,’ I say. ‘In my lymph glands.’ I bring my hands up to my neck. ‘I found out about a year and a half ago.’

  ‘It’s all over? You said it’s all over. You’re OK now?’

  I nod. ‘I’m in remission, anyway.’

  His hands are skittering all over the table. Picking things up, putting things down. ‘What’s that mean? It’s gone? Not coming back? What?’

  ‘It means I’m fine for the time being.’

  ‘It won’t come back again, right?’

  ‘It doesn’t for lots of people. I’m planning on being one of them.’

  ‘Jesus, Charlie. Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you call?’

  I roll my eyes. ‘I was hardly going to call out of the blue and say “Guess what, I’ve got cancer. Want to be friends again now I’m sick?” was I? Why should it change anything? And what could you have done anyway? You’re hardly ever in the country.’

  ‘But I called. Kept calling…’

  I sigh. ‘I know. I just couldn’t call back. I didn’t want you of all people coming around with flowers, or something, and feeling sorry for me. It was bad enough feeling sorry for myself through it all without having to deal with everybody else’s grief too. It wasn’t just you—I let all my friends go. It was selfish, but I had to be like that. It was the only thing that worked for me at the time.’

  ‘Jesus.’ Jas is genuinely shocked. He’s gone quite pale, which makes the red mark on his cheek seem even more distinct. ‘First your mum and then… Man. All the time—all the things you’ve said this trip. You were talking about you. I thought you were talking about her.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘That’s why you’re different. It’s not her. It’s you. The thing you said about fate. And when you got angry at me for wasting my life. Being Zamiel. Throwing my life away. I thought you were thinking of her. But it was you.’

  I nod and get up and fetch him some ice, wrapping it in one of the washcloths from the bathroom. While I’m moving around Jas sits in silence. I suppose he’s digesting everything I’ve just laid on him, poor thing.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me? When we met up on the plane?’

  I shrug. ‘What was the point? It’s over. And you’re just going to go back to…wherever. And I’m going to go home. It would have spoiled things. I wanted us to have a good time.’

  ‘But it would have explained everything. Like you not having finished uni. What was I supposed to think about that?’

  ‘I know. You must’ve thought I was a pretty sad specimen. Not having finished one subject in two years. That’s a record, even for me.’ Done wrapping the ice, I press it on to Jas’s cheek and he brings one hand up to hold it in place, still not looking at me, still staring at the table.

  I decide it’s time to change the topic before he goes into a catatonic state. I know how this initial conversation goes if you don’t break it off and give them time to think. Usually round and round in circles. ‘Anyway, that’s what I’ve been doing with my life,’ I say quickly and, before Jas can ask anything else, pick up the mobile phone from the table. ‘So, are you going to share too? When are you going to tell me what this is all about?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know what. All the messages. You’re not on holiday, Jas, are you? What’s the deal with this Zed guy?’

  ‘OK…’ Jas starts, but then a knock on the door interrupts him.

  Being closer, I get up and go over to see who it is.

  As soon as I do, I’m blinded by the flashes from what feels like a hundred cameras. Someone starts yelling and then other people join in. I hear my name and look up, and the cameras are off again. Someone else sticks their foot in the door as I shield my eyes, and at the same time the phone starts ringing.

  Jas races over to me then. He kicks the foot out of the doorway before slamming it shut and bolting it. I run blindly over to the phone, which is still ringing, and pick it up. It’s the front desk, babbling about how it’s not their fault all these people are at the door. They keep on and on and eventually I have to hang up, because what they’re saying isn’t making any sense to me.

  ‘What?’ is all I can say as I rub my eyes.

  He slams one hand against the wall as he walks back over from the door. ‘I’m going to kill that little bitch,’ he says.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Karen, or Sharon, or whatever her stupid name is. She’s gone straight out and blabbed to the media, the cow, just like I told you she would.’ He looks around quickly, then comes over and grabs me by the shoulder. ‘Right. Pull some clothes on and grab some stuff. Not everything. Just stuff for tonight.’

  ‘Why?’ I hold my shoulder.

  ‘Sorry.’ He rubs it. ‘Didn’t mean to be rough. Just do it. We’ve got to get out of here.’

  I stand there for a moment, wanting to argue that people had to find out he was here some time, that the media will eventually get tired of waiting for the door to open. But when I see Jas’s face he looks serious, so I start shoving things into my backpack and pulling some pants and a shirt on all at the same time. While I’m doing this Jas picks up his small diary from the bedside table and makes a couple of calls using his mobile.

  I go and grab both our toiletry bags, and by the time he’s done on the phone I’m ready.

  ‘Who’d you call?’ I ask as he races around grabbing a few items of clothing and stuffing them in his own backpack.

  ‘Called for a bodyguard.’

  ‘What?’ I stop where I am and laugh. ‘A bodyguard?’

  ‘Two, actually.’

  I keep right on laughing. Bodyguards. For us. He has to be joking. ‘What’s this? An upscale version of the Hofbräu tent save? Do you think I’m going to get my butt pinched en masse again?’

  He stops then, and comes over to me. ‘It’s for your own safety, Charlie. There’s been a few death threats lately.’

  I quit laughing. ‘What? Someone’s trying to kill you?’

  He shrugs. ‘Threatening to, anyway.’

  I grab one of his arms and shake it hard. ‘Jas! You’re saying that like it’s normal. Like it’s an everyday thing!’

  ‘It is in this line of business. Listen, I need you to take this seriously. Here.’ He lifts his shirt up his arm and points out a spot that doesn’t need to be pointed out. There’s a gash that runs about fifteen centimetres straight across, and I can see where the stitches have been. ‘That’s from one of my little fans. At a concert.’

 
‘But you said you’d cut it surfing.’

  Another shrug.

  ‘Holy shit, Jas.’

  ‘Apparently the guy wasn’t aiming for my arm. More like my chest. I just happened to move at the last moment.’ He pulls his shirt back down then, and reaches out to hold onto both my shoulders. ‘So, when we get out of here, you do whatever those bodyguards tell you to do. All right? I’m really not joking. It’s one thing for them to go for me, another thing completely if it’s you.’

  ‘OK. OK. I will.’ I nod.

  ‘Promise?’

  Shit, yes, I think. I don’t want to get stabbed. I’m not going to martyr myself and die being known as the bride of Satan or something. ‘I promise.’

  ‘Good.’ Jas gives me a quick hug. ‘You’ll be fine. Don’t worry.’ He rushes off into the bathroom.

  Don’t worry? I watch him go. Um, hello? How can I not worry? The question begging to be asked is how Jas was stabbed at a concert with, presumably, security everywhere. But I don’t ask it. I don’t want to know.

  ‘Where’s my damn…?’ I hear from the bathroom.

  I wake up. ‘I’ve got it. Your toiletry bag. I’ve got it.’

  ‘Great—thanks.’ He comes out of the bathroom zipping up his backpack. ‘OK, then. You ready?’ Jas says.

  I nod.

  ‘Just have to wait for Michael and the other guy,’ he says, and sits down on the bed. ‘Shouldn’t be long. We’re lucky we’re in town. Come and take a seat.’ He pats the mattress.

  I go and sit down.

  ‘You’re shaking.’

  I turn and look at him. ‘What do you expect? I’m frigging scared out of my mind! And it’s not helping that you’re on a first name basis with one of the bodyguards.’

  ‘He’s good. I’ve used him before. You’ll be with him— I’ve arranged it. Don’t know the other guy, but I trust Michael…’

  …with my life? I finish Jas’s sentence in my head. Oh, great. That makes me feel better. And I must look like I’m starting to lose it at this point, because Jas forces me to take a few deep breaths. Then we sit and wait for five or ten minutes in almost complete silence, bar for the noise leaking in from the hallway.

  There’s a knock on the door after a while. A funny knock.