Moonlight Sonata

by Eileen Merriman

‘Why would they find out?’ Joe pulled a fresh square of bubble gum out of his pocket, and peeled the wrapper off. ‘Who’s going to tell them?’

  ‘No one,’ Molly said, her heart speeding up as Ant’s music cranked up a few notches, Van Halen singing ‘Jump’.

  ‘I won’t tell if you won’t.’ Joe leapt off the couch. ‘Are you coming?’

  ‘Thanks, mate.’ Joe jumped out of the cab of the truck, joining Molly in the gravel. ‘Have a good night.’

  The truck driver took his cigarette out of his mouth and flicked ash through the window. ‘No worries, mate.’

  ‘That was gross,’ Molly said, sniffing at the sleeve of her sweatshirt. The truck driver had chain-smoked the whole way, and now she smelt like an ashtray.

  Joe started walking, his hands in his jeans pockets. ‘We’re here, aren’t we?’

  Molly followed him across the road, shivering in the spring-crisp wind. A petite girl was standing outside the movie theatre, her purple leg-warmers pulled up to her knees. The girl waved and bounced up to them.

  ‘Hi,’ Claire said, the braces on her teeth glittering in the glow of the street lamp. ‘You didn’t tell me Joe was coming.’

  ‘Joe is not coming,’ Joe said, smirking at Molly. Ignoring him, Molly tugged on the sleeve of Claire’s denim jacket.

  ‘This is so cool, is it new?’ Molly asked. Claire had covered the lapels in badges — Duran Duran, Culture Club, Eurythmics. Being cool obviously took more money than Molly had.

  ‘My sister lent it to me,’ Claire said. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to watch the movie, Joe?’

  ‘I’m sure,’ Joe said, backing away. ‘Catch you in a couple of hours, OK?’

  ‘Ten-thirty,’ Molly said.

  Claire fell in beside her. ‘Have you been smoking?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh.’ Claire looked disappointed. ‘Do you want some popcorn?’

  ‘No, I’m still full from dinner,’ Molly said, not keen to admit that she only just had enough money for her movie ticket.

  ‘Are you on some kind of diet?’ Claire batted her eyelashes at the guy behind the snack counter, who looked about Ant’s age. ‘A large popcorn, please.’ When he turned his back, she whispered, ‘He looks like Kevin Bacon, don’t you reckon?’

  ‘No,’ Molly mouthed, blushing when the guy turned around and passed Claire a bucket of popcorn.

  ‘Funny, you’re not the first one to say that,’ he said.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Molly whispered once they were entering the movie theatre. ‘He practically undressed you with his eyes.’

  ‘He can leave his shoes under my bed any day,’ Claire said in a falsetto voice.

  ‘Shut up,’ Molly said, elbowing her, and they giggled all the way through the trailers. Once the movie got going, though, Molly saw that Claire was wrong — Kevin Bacon was much hotter than Popcorn Guy, especially in those tight jeans and that white shirt with the sleeves turned up.

  She wondered what it would be like to kiss Kevin Bacon. That made her think of the one boy she had kissed, and then she was lost in the memory of his tongue pushing between her lips, rain drumming on a tin roof, a pinkie swear.

  Claire clutched Molly’s arm. ‘They’re playing our song,’ she whispered, and Molly focused back on the movie. ‘Holding Out for a Hero’ was playing while Kevin Bacon smoked a cigarette, looking moody and goddamn sexy.

  Molly began humming beneath her breath.

  ‘Kevin Bacon,’ she murmured, ‘can leave anything he likes under my bed.’

  ‘In it too,’ Claire said, and they giggled again, until a trio of girls in front turned around and gave them the evils.

  Thank God for best friends. Thank God for her brother, without whom she wouldn’t be at the movie at all. She wondered if he was having as much fun as she was.

  Molly slid out of the car, Joe close behind her.

  ‘Thanks, Mrs Kennedy,’ she said.

  Claire’s mother nodded and gave her a wave. ‘Say hi to your mum for me.’

  ‘Kevin Bacon’s shoes!’ Claire yelled out of her window, and Molly laughed.

  ‘Kevin Bacon’s shoes, what?’ Joe followed her around the side of the house, scuffing his feet through the gravel.

  ‘It’s a private joke.’

  ‘Ooh, private,’ he mocked. Molly was only joking of course. She told Joe everything, all the stuff that mattered anyway.

  ‘Hope there’s some bread left, I’m starving,’ Joe said, jogging up the back stairs and bursting into the kitchen. Molly closed the door behind her — and halted. She could feel the amorphous shape of the argument already, even before she heard her parents’ voices.

  Their father’s voice, ringing out from the hallway, was like a door slamming.

  ‘Imagining things, as usual.’

  ‘Oh, I’m imagining things, am I?’ Their mother’s voice sounded farther away, as if coming from the bedroom.

  Molly’s heart began to thud. Joe, seemingly oblivious, opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of milk.

  ‘Want a drink?’ he asked.

  Their mother’s voice rose, tracing an arpeggio. ‘The way she looks at you, that’s how.’

  ‘No,’ Molly said, wrapping her arms around herself. Joe poured a glass of milk, stuck his head in the pantry.

  ‘That pig ate all the chocolate biscuits.’ That pig was Sully. The human garbage disposal, their father called him.

  Molly said, ‘I’m going to watch TV in the garage.’

  ‘Fucking paranoid!’ her father roared, and there was a thud, followed by the unmistakable sound of breaking china.

  Molly turned and fled down the stairs, across the lawn and into the garage.

  It was eleven-thirty pm.

  ‘Do you think she’s stopped throwing things by now?’ Molly was lying in the foetal position on the couch, her head propped up on a cushion.

  ‘Yeah, never lasts long.’ Joe was slouched in a beanbag, the light from the TV flickering over him. ‘She’s like a tornado. Always blows out eventually.’

  A door slammed, somewhere nearby. Molly sat up, pulling her hair-tie out.

  ‘Famous last words.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Joe stood up and peered through the smudged garage window. ‘Lights are on in the kitchen.’

  Molly groaned and lay back down. ‘I’m going to sleep here.’ There was no way she was going back inside while their parents were having World War III.

  ‘Same.’ Joe turned the TV off, plunging the room into darkness. Molly shut her eyes, listening to the rustling as Joe settled into his beanbag. She was drifting into sleep, the Footloose theme song echoing in her head, when she heard a yell, followed by shattering glass.

  ‘Fuck.’ Molly sat up, trembling.

  ‘Yeah, never heard them go on for this long before.’ Joe sounded very alert, as though he’d never gone to sleep.

  Molly hugged herself. She felt the couch cushion sink as her brother sat beside her.

  ‘Don’t cry, Lolly, it’ll be OK in the morning.’

  ‘But what if it’s not?’ Molly sucked in a wet breath. ‘What if Mum wants to take me away again?’

  ‘I don’t think that’ll happen,’ Joe said, but she felt a tremor pass through him, too.

  ‘Sometimes,’ she whispered, ‘I wish we had a normal family where no one ever fights.’

  ‘Do you think that’s normal?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can wish for it, though, can’t I?’

  ‘A normal family and Kevin Bacon’s shoes,’ Joe said, a solemn expression on his face. A hiccupping laugh escaped her. He wriggled an arm around her and they lay back, tucking into each other like kittens — just as they used to when they were little and shared a room.

  ‘What do you wish for, then?’ Molly asked.

  ‘Well, I’m not going to bother wishing for a normal family.’

  ‘Are you mocking me?’

  ‘No.’ Joe exhaled, his breath percolating into her nostrils. ‘I want to go travelling, see the world
.’

  ‘Like where?’

  ‘Eastern Europe. Israel. I want to see the Berlin Wall and the pyramids.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Do you want to come?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Because it won’t be fun without you.’

  ‘I want to come,’ Molly said, because she couldn’t imagine a life without her twin, ever again.

  ‘I evol uoy,’ he whispered in their secret backwards language.

  ‘I evol uoy oot,’ Molly whispered back, her heart beginning to slow, the way it always did when she was with Joe.

  Nothing can ever go wrong while we’re together, she thought. Nothing, no one, can hurt us, as long as we have each other.

  And so they fell asleep, breathing in synchrony, and when they woke the world was whole once more.

  Chapter 8:

  NOAH

  Not long after the ambulance leaves with Lola, the rental car swings into the parking lot, his father’s stony face behind the wheel. Noah isn’t looking forward to this.

  He turns to his mother. ‘You can go with Dad if you want. I’ll kayak back with Beckett.’ It won’t take long to get back around the point. Maybe he can look for the other kayak on the way.

  His mother huffs, as if to say, good try.

  ‘I think you’ve done quite enough kayaking for one day. How about you, Joe? You must be exhausted.’

  Joe, after ferrying Lola to the beach and calling the ambulance, had come back to pick up Noah in a double kayak. It seemed to take forever. The whole time Noah was freaking out about Lola, about whether she’d gone into a coma, or worse.

  ‘I’ll just take it slow,’ Uncle Joe says, glancing over Noah’s shoulder. ‘Hey, Rich.’

  Noah’s father jiggles the car keys. ‘Is Lola all right?’

  ‘I think so,’ his mother says. ‘They put an IV in and gave her a shot of glucose. She was coming around before they put her in the ambulance.’

  ‘Well, that’s a relief.’ His father transfers his gaze to Noah. ‘No thanks to you. What did you think you were doing?’

  Noah folds his arms across his chest and looks down at his feet. What’s the point in saying anything? Nothing he can say will be right.

  ‘Both of you could have drowned,’ his father carries on, as if Noah needs to be reminded. ‘Lola could have gone into a diabetic coma and died.’

  His father is right. If Uncle Joe had turned up even five minutes later, that’s exactly what could have happened. The thought gives Noah a plunging sensation in his stomach. He’s not sure if it’s heat and dehydration, or nervousness, or all three, but he’s starting to feel ill.

  His father, as always, doesn’t stop there. ‘So where’s the kayak? S’pose it’s gone for good, is it?’

  ‘It might have washed up on the beach,’ Joe says. ‘Tom and I will look out for it on our way back.’

  ‘Do you think the life jackets will have washed up, too?’ Beckett asks.

  ‘You took off your life jackets?’ Noah’s father asks. He’s speaking really slowly, like he always does when he’s livid.

  ‘We were swimming,’ Noah mumbles, bracing for the next onslaught.

  ‘I don’t think that’s a mistake he’ll be repeating any time soon,’ Joe says.

  ‘Damn right he won’t,’ his father says. ‘The cost of a replacement kayak and life jackets will be coming out of your bank account, do you understand?’

  ‘It was a mistake,’ Noah blurts.

  ‘Richard—’ his mother interjects, but his father cuts her off.

  ‘Just let me discipline him for once, will you? Maybe this will teach you a lesson: to think before you take risks. Now get in the car.’

  The next morning Noah wakes early, probably because the inside of the tent is already like a glasshouse with the heat from the morning sun. When he enters the downstairs flat to use the toilet, he sees that the girls’ door is still closed. McKenzie isn’t usually up before ten am; Lola, though, could be up.

  Only seven-thirty in the morning, and already he’s looking forward to their night swim.

  Remembering how Lola had lain next to him in the tent yesterday, Noah feels hot again. Everything feels weird between them at the moment, unbalanced somehow. Maybe it’s because it’s been two years since they last saw each other. He’d never thought things would get awkward between them, but suddenly they are, and he’s not sure why.

  He leaps outside, up the stairs and into the house. No sign of Lola.

  Tom, lounging on the couch in front of the TV, says, ‘Wassup?’

  ‘Too muggy,’ Noah says, sliding a plate out of the dish-rack. There’s only a thin crust left in the bread bin — they’ve run out of bread again — so he sticks the crust in the toaster and fills a glass from the tap.

  ‘You should’ve pitched your tent underneath a tree, like me.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe.’ After covering his toast with jam, Noah brushes past the Christmas tree on his way towards the front balcony. A pair of baubles clatter to the floor, joining several other forlorn decorations and browning pine needles lying beneath the tree. Noah doesn’t see the point of leaving Christmas trees up once the day’s been and gone. Just one more thing he’s never going to do when he’s an adult, along with not saying things like in my day and how’s school?

  On the balcony, Joe and his mother are sitting side-by-side in deckchairs. They’re talking rapidly, the way they always do when they’re alone. Sometimes Noah wonders if they’re making up for all that time they were apart as kids.

  His mum doesn’t like to talk about it much, the six years she spent with Nana in Christchurch, when Nana was teaching at the music school. The lost years, Molly had said once. Families are complicated. Someday you’ll understand.

  Noah sits in a chair near the railing and bites into his toast. Leaning over, Joe sticks his cap on Noah’s head.

  ‘Howzit?’ Joe is wearing a white t-shirt with a red insignia; the writing says Médicins Sans Frontières, and beneath that, Doctors Without Borders.

  Noah swallows. ‘All good. Where’d you get the t-shirt?’

  ‘From a doctor I met in Nigeria a couple of years ago. She and I swapped t-shirts.’

  ‘Bet that’s not all you swapped.’ Noah’s mother arches an eyebrow at her twin, and Joe arches an eyebrow back.

  ‘What was on your t-shirt?’ Noah asks, after a short silence.

  ‘Hmm, journalists without morals?’ Joe says. His mother pouts, and Joe grins. ‘Actually, my t-shirt said, “The past, the present and the future walk into a bar. It was tense”. Get it?’

  ‘That’s a dad joke,’ Lola says from the doorway.

  ‘Ugh, strike me down,’ Joe says. ‘How are you this morning, chook?’

  Lola holds up her thumb. ‘Six.’

  ‘Your blood sugar?’ Noah’s mother asks, and when Lola nods, ‘Is that good?’

  ‘It’s perfect. Just like in cricket.’ Lola perches on the edge of Noah’s chair and pinches a piece of his toast. She’s wearing tiny white shorts, and her legs are the colour of honey.

  ‘Hey,’ he says, swiping at it.

  She holds it out of his reach and takes a huge bite.

  Joe laughs and stands up. ‘I’ll put some more toast on, shall I?’

  ‘We’re out of bread again,’ Noah calls after him.

  ‘I think I need another cup of tea,’ his mother says, following Joe inside.

  Watching Lola lick jam off her lips, Noah says, ‘Hope that gives you a blood sugar of, like, a hundred.’

  ‘Then I really would be dead.’ So casual, as if it’s a joke she nearly died yesterday.

  He gestures at the raised spots on the pulps of her fingers. ‘Does it hurt?’

  ‘It stings,’ she says. ‘It’s worse than the injections, actually.’

  ‘Will you test me, one day?’ From the lounge, he hears an ad on TV, something to do with New Year’s sales.

  Lola raises her eyes to his. ‘Sure, I’ll test you.’

 
It’s a split second before she looks away, a split second in which the unbalanced feeling in his stomach spreads to his chest, his throat, his whirling head.

  That’s when Noah realises what’s been making things feel awkward between him and Lola.

  McKenzie scuffs her feet through the grass. ‘Man, it’s boiling. I could kill a Coke Zero.’

  ‘I could kill an ice-cream.’ Lola stops to rinse her feet at the tap. ‘Vanilla with a chocolate shell.’

  ‘I thought diabetics couldn’t have sugar,’ McKenzie says, polishing her sunglasses on the bottom of her tank top.

  ‘I’ll just give myself an extra dose of insulin,’ Lola says, giving their cousin a well, duh look, and Noah suppresses a smile.

  ‘What happened to the dairy that used to be on the corner?’ Noah pulls his cap off and lobs it up and over the balcony rail. His hair’s still wet from their afternoon swim. It’s so warm he knows he’ll be back there within the hour.

  ‘Nana said it closed down for the winter and never reopened,’ Tom says. ‘Closest place is probably the service station over the hill.’

  Noah takes Lola’s place at the tap, standing beneath the showerhead Sully installed a couple of years ago. Sand streams over his belly, down his legs. He turns to let the water run over his chest, wondering, not for the first time, if he should have more hair on his chest by now, and if girls really care about that sort of thing.

  ‘We’d have to drive,’ Lola says.

  ‘I can drive.’ Noah steps away from the shower, shaking off the water, and looks up at the balcony. His father is up there, frowning at his laptop as usual. ‘Dad, can I have the keys to the car?’

  There’s a short silence before Richard’s head appears at the balcony railing. ‘For what?’

  ‘We’re going to get ice-cream.’

  His father frowns. ‘Not in the rental car, you’re not.’

  ‘I can drive,’ Tom says, spinning his hat on his index finger.

  Noah ignores him. ‘Why not? It’s not far.’

  Richard’s voice echoes around the yard. ‘Because you’re under twenty-five and not covered by the insurance, that’s why.’

  ‘It’s only ten k’s away.’ Noah’s cheeks could fry bacon. ‘God, why can’t you lighten up for, like, five minutes?’