Moonlight Sonata

by Eileen Merriman

  The music surges again, a rising tide.

  When Lola turns, Aunt Molly and Uncle Joe are sitting side-by-side on a rock ledge, the basalt-and-chalk rock keys chiming behind them. Their faces are two halves of a whole, mirror images, their features running together like wax.

  It’s always the same, a man’s voice booms. Always the same, no beginning and no end.

  Lola gasps and opens her eyes. Through her open window, she hears the slow whirr of a lone cicada, the far-off boom of the waves.

  It’s always the same. It had been Uncle Richard’s voice — but it was just a dream. Just a dream, apart from one detail.

  Noah kissed me. Noah kissed me, and I kissed him back.

  She pulls her phone towards her. Two thirty-one am. Two hours since she returned from the beach, hand-in-hand with Noah.

  ‘We have to keep this a secret,’ he’d said when they’d paused beneath the next-door neighbour’s fig tree. ‘Don’t you think?’

  ‘I won’t tell anyone,’ she’d promised, and when he’d kissed her that time, he’d pulled her close to him, so close she felt the bare skin of his belly warming against hers. Now, in bed, she caresses her breasts, her stomach, between her thighs.

  Have you ever kissed a boy? Do you want to?

  She moves her hand, slowly at first, then faster, faster. Her lips part.

  I want to. I do, I do.

  When Lola wakes next, she is alone. McKenzie’s bed is empty, the covers rumpled at the foot of the mattress. Lola rubs the top of her chest, sand clinging to her fingers.

  Smiling, she slides out of bed and walks towards the bathroom. The door is closed, as usual. Lola thinks she could count on one hand the number of times she hasn’t had to queue for the bathroom since arriving here. She traipses back to the bedroom and closes the door. Trying to ignore her bulging bladder, she checks her blood sugar, then draws up her insulin and pinches up a fold of skin.

  Her mother’s voice drifts through the door. ‘Lola?’

  ‘Yeah?’ Lola slides the needle in and pushes the plunger home.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘I’m shooting up, what do you think?’

  ‘Very funny.’

  Lola shoves the needle and syringe into the sharps container she has stowed beneath the bed. ‘I’m glad you think so.’

  ‘Austin’s making waffles, if you want some.’

  ‘Yum.’ Lola flings the door open. ‘Five.’

  Her mother gives her a blank look. ‘Five what?’

  ‘My blood sugar. Isn’t that what you were going to ask next?’

  ‘Actually no,’ her mother says, but Lola is pretty sure she’s lying. ‘That’s great, though. See you upstairs.’

  ‘See you soon.’ She gazes into the mirror, listening to her mother’s feet clattering up the outside stairs. Lola’s hair is tangled and thick with salt from last night’s swim; the tip of her nose is pink. She needs to shower, to shave her legs, to feel Noah’s lips on her skin.

  This is our secret.

  Her toes curl at the deliciousness of it.

  After brushing her teeth, Lola crosses through the downstairs lounge, past the pianos and outside. The air is shimmering already, and it’s only ten am. From inside the garage, she hears laughter and the tick-tock of a table-tennis ball.

  ‘Bastard,’ she hears Tom say.

  ‘That’s Sir Bas-tard to you,’ Noah says, and she hears an extra-loud tock. ‘Ah, prick.’

  ‘Sir Prick to you,’ Tom says, as she walks around the corner. Noah is bending over, retrieving the ball from the inside of a kayak. He straightens up, gives her a quick grin and turns back to her brother.

  ‘Prepare for my two-hundred-k-an-hour serve.’

  Lola, leaning against the garage wall, watches Noah toss the ball in the air. ‘Who’s winning?’

  ‘So, the Aussie’s cheating,’ Tom says, returning Noah’s serve.

  Noah whacks the ball back with a savage turn of his wrist. ‘Watch your filthy mouth, Mortimer.’ Lola gets the impression Noah doesn’t like being called an Australian. Tom dives for the shot, misses, and tosses the bat on the table.

  ‘I’ll get my revenge on you yet, Bas-tard. I smell kai, are you guys coming?’

  ‘Soon,’ Lola says, plucking the ball out of the corner. She picks up Tom’s discarded bat. ‘Want to play?’

  ‘Sure.’ Noah’s eyes linger on hers. Ducking her head, Lola serves him the ball and he lobs it back. The ball bounces off the edge of the table and angles off into the far corner of the garage.

  ‘We’ll save you a waffle if you’re lucky,’ Tom says, strolling out.

  Lola, digging around in the narrow gap between Grandad’s workbench and the wall, says, ‘I don’t know where that went.’

  ‘I think I can see it,’ Noah says, and she feels his arms slide around her waist, his lips on her neck.

  Someone might see, she thinks, but she doesn’t want him to let her go, not yet.

  ‘You taste like the sea,’ he whispers, before stepping back and bending down. ‘It’s right here, see?’

  Lola turns around, her breath quickening. Noah is holding up the ball. She notices how his skin has darkened in the three days since they arrived, and how his crimson cheeks mirror her own.

  ‘I had a dream,’ she says, but stalls. What if he thinks her dream is really weird or, even worse, boring?

  Noah brings his mouth to her ear.

  ‘Me too,’ he says. A tremor ripples through her, along with a feeling she doesn’t know how to name — desire? Excitement? Fear? All three?

  ‘Um, I’m starving,’ she says. ‘Aren’t you?’

  Upstairs, the family is dispersed through the kitchen, lounge and balcony. Lola opens the fridge and frowns.

  ‘What’s the Christmas fairy doing in here?’ she asks, plucking the ornament out of the butter conditioner.

  ‘She was hot,’ Beckett says, and Austin, standing at the stove, starts giggling.

  ‘Hilarious.’ Lola relocates the fairy to the fruit bowl, sending a flurry of fruit flies into the air.

  ‘I worked my fingers to the bone for you,’ Nana says, to no one in particular it seems. Peering into the lounge, Lola sees her grandmother sitting in an armchair, her body angled towards the ranch sliders.

  Molly, standing at the sink, slides a plate into the dish-rack and takes a deep breath.

  ‘Richard, can you finish these?’ She marches past Lola, her head down, and through the back door.

  Mumbling under his breath, Richard pushes his newspaper aside and walks over to the sink.

  ‘Noah, you’re on drying,’ he says, tossing a tea towel at her cousin.

  Noah catches the towel. ‘I haven’t had breakfast yet.’

  ‘It’ll keep.’ Richard’s tone is steely. Behind her, Lola is pretty sure she hears Noah say for fuck’s sake beneath his breath.

  ‘Hey, Lola, next one’s for you,’ Austin sings out, shoving a plate under her nose.

  ‘Yum, thanks.’ Lola carries the plate into the lounge, glad of an excuse to escape the poisonous undercurrents in the kitchen. Her father is sitting at the table with McKenzie, Beckett and Sully; through the ranch sliders she sees her mother sitting on a deckchair, reading a book.

  ‘Cricket on today,’ her father says.

  Lola smiles. ‘Oh yeah, a T20.’

  From the kitchen, she hears Noah say, ‘Because I’m such a retard, right?’

  ‘I didn’t say—’ Richard begins, and a door slams.

  Sully rubs the stubble on his chin. ‘Who’s up for a walk?’

  Nana is the only person to stay back, saying she wants to get stuck into preserving the tomatoes from the glasshouse. Sulk, more like, Lola hears Molly mumble to Joe. Joe murmurs something back, but Lola doesn’t catch his reply. The rest of the family get out of the house eventually, after several false starts — I need my sunblock, my hat, to go to the toilet.

  Austin charges ahead with Richard and her father, chattering away about who-knows-what.
Lola can never think of anything to say to Richard, unlike with Joe, who is making them laugh with his constipated giraffe impression.

  ‘Can giraffes have enemas?’ Tom asks.

  ‘What’s enemas?’ Beckett asks, swiping at overhead branches with a forked stick he picked up near the entrance to the track.

  Noah says, ‘It’s when they zhoosh water up your butt to make you shit.’

  ‘Noah,’ Molly says, her lips twitching.

  Noah spreads his hands. ‘Was that wrong?’

  ‘I liked zhoosh,’ his mother says.

  Noah grins. ‘Making up words is a special talent of mine.’

  ‘Same as your uncle,’ Joe says, as if he could somehow take all the credit.

  McKenzie’s nose wrinkles. ‘You’re so gross,’ she says and squawks when Joe sidles up to her, making another constipated giraffe noise. Lola doesn’t say anything, because she’s laughing so hard.

  Higher they climb, gigantic kauri trees towering above them. A couple of times, Lola hears the whump-whump of a kereru’s wings beating the air. It always amazes her how the dumpy wood pigeons manage to fly.

  ‘So, about New Year’s Eve,’ McKenzie says, falling back to accompany Lola, Tom and Noah.

  ‘It’s tomorrow,’ Tom says.

  ‘Yeah, no kidding.’ McKenzie tips her head to one side. ‘So, you know how you’re eighteen and all …’

  Noah turns and bats his eyelashes at Tom. ‘Oh, most esteemed cousin, can you please get us some alcohol?’ he says in a falsetto voice, before smirking at McKenzie. ‘Is that what you were going to say?’

  ‘No, but hey, that’s a great idea,’ McKenzie says in a faux-innocent tone, before slinging an arm around Noah’s neck. Lola, as usual, feels like slapping her. There’s a part of her that wishes she could tell McKenzie all about her and Noah, but she doesn’t dare. Telling McKenzie anything is like posting on Instagram; it’s bound to go viral within minutes.

  ‘I always have great ideas,’ Noah says, slipping away from McKenzie’s tentacles.

  ‘I can get some beer,’ Tom says. ‘But only if you promise not to get plastered and vomit everywhere.’

  McKenzie smiles. ‘Now, would I do that? Thanks, cuz.’ She skips ahead, jabbering away to Joe and Lola’s mother about who-knows-what.

  ‘Famous last words,’ Noah says, and then, ‘Ah, crap.’

  Lola turns to see him holding up a jandal. The Y-shaped strap is dangling free, the rubber sole split at the front.

  ‘That’s what you get for shopping at Target,’ Tom says.

  ‘It’s Tar-jay to you,’ Noah says, affecting a French accent, and Tom grins. Noah glances ahead, where the others have disappeared around the corner. ‘Guess I’ll turn back.’

  Disappointment cuts into Lola’s chest. ‘What, you’re going home?’

  ‘I don’t really want to walk the rest of the way in bare feet.’ He stuffs the jandal into his back pocket. ‘Besides, the cricket will be starting soon.’

  ‘Oh, yeah …’ Lola pretends to hesitate, but her mind is already made up. ‘I really wanted to see that.’

  Tom snaps a twig off a tree and sticks it behind his ear. ‘I’m surprised you made it this far without having cricket withdrawal. See you guys back at home, then.’

  ‘See you,’ Noah and Lola chorus.

  ‘I wasn’t trying to drag you away,’ Noah says as they begin back down the track.

  Lola peers out of the corner of her eye at him. ‘Really?’

  ‘Well,’ he says, bumping against her, ‘I didn’t break my jandal on purpose.’

  ‘You knew I’d come back as soon as you said cricket, though,’ she says, her stomach flipping when he threads his fingers through hers.

  ‘Oh yeah.’ He gives her hand a squeeze. ‘There was that.’

  ‘We could take turns with my left jandal,’ Lola says. Noah grins.

  ‘You’re only, like, five sizes smaller than me.’

  ‘Be that way then,’ she says, nudging him with her elbow. He nudges her back, and she squeals and darts behind a tree.

  ‘You can run but you can’t hide,’ Noah growls, coming after her. They weave through the trees, playing tag — just like when they were kids, except when Noah catches Lola he tries to kiss her. They keep going until they can hardly stand up for laughing, until Noah trips and sprawls, pulling Lola on top of him.

  ‘I’ve got you now,’ he teases, nipping her ear with his teeth.

  Lola pins his wrists above his head and says, ‘No, I’ve got you.’ Noah flips her over so she is lying beneath him.

  ‘How about now?’

  ‘I’ve still got you,’ she says.

  Noah, his gaze unwavering, says, ‘Yeah, Lola, you have.’

  Lola doesn’t know what to say next, so she pulls him towards her and kisses him. She’s got the same slightly out-of-control feeling she had in the garage earlier, but it feels too good to stop. Noah kisses her back, until her head is whirling, until the ache in her lower belly and below is almost unbearable. A noise escapes her.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘I’m OK,’ she says. ‘Our secret. Right?’

  ‘Our secret,’ he says. ‘Forever.’

  Chapter 12:

  MOLLY 1989

  On the morning of her end-of-year recital, Molly went for a walk. It was a very long walk, beginning in Kelburn and terminating on Oriental Parade. There she gazed over the crystalline-blue water, the wind stirring through her hair, and thought about what it would be like to drown. Was there pain, when the water raced into one’s lungs? How long did it take to asphyxiate? Was there a moment of euphoria, once one’s brain was starved of oxygen, before the nothingness set in?

  Molly didn’t believe in life after death; didn’t believe in God, or Heaven. She sat on a bench, checking her watch, over and over, until the time for her recital had been and gone. Then she stood up and began the journey home.

  She’d never failed anything in her life, but somehow, strangely, she felt unburdened, her bones bird-light.

  For the next four weeks, Molly lived in blissful oblivion. If she had believed in life after death, then this might have been limbo, all soft pink light and cocktail umbrellas.

  There were no cocktail umbrellas in Molly’s limbo, just cups of tea and Wellington-grey dusks. Everyone else in her hostel had gone home for the holidays, including Joe, who was earning money over the summer by helping their father in his building business. Molly was enjoying the solitude, perhaps because she knew it wouldn’t last long. Soon enough, she’d be home with her noisy, quarrelsome family.

  Kath, her best friend from the hostel, had sent her a letter the other day and asked if Molly was getting any. Kath always told Molly all about her one-night stands with various students and, once, a university professor. To Kath’s disgust, Molly didn’t reciprocate with similar stories. God, Molly, Kath had said, don’t tell me you’re still a virgin?

  Molly hadn’t told Kath she probably got it a lot more often than her friend did. It didn’t hurt for her friend to think Molly was celibate. There were some things Molly couldn’t tell her best friend, some things she hardly dared to think about herself. She’d written a letter back saying, No, but who knows, maybe one day a handsome stranger will sweep me off my supermarket stool?

  Molly had a part-time job at the supermarket. The closest she got to a handsome stranger was a lanky guy with a squint who had asked if she wanted to go out for a drink once her shift had ended. Thanks, but no, Molly had said. I don’t think my boyfriend would like that.

  In her spare time, Molly went for walks. She read a book called The Selfish Gene, discussing a gene-centred theory of evolution. She made Christmas decorations in preparation for her trip back home. She didn’t play the hostel piano, not once.

  If it weren’t for Joe, she wouldn’t have gone home for Christmas at all.

  In the fifth week, three days before she was due to go home for Christmas, Molly came back from an afternoon shift to find a note taped to her
door: Your mother wants you to call her ASAP.

  Her heart racing, Molly walked down the deserted hostel corridor. Call ASAP? Was someone sick? Had there been an accident? Molly plucked the receiver off the wall-mounted phone and called the operator.

  ‘Hi, I want to make a collect call.’ The phone rang twice before she heard her mother say, ‘Yes, I’ll accept the charges,’ her voice razor sharp.

  ‘I can’t believe you’ve betrayed me like this,’ her mother said, before Molly had a chance to ask what was wrong.

  ‘B-betrayed?’ Molly stammered, and her first thought was Joe, where’s Joe? I should have called him first.

  ‘Your exam results arrived today.’

  Molly swallowed, unsure whether to be relieved or annoyed. ‘You opened my mail?’

  ‘I thought you’d want to know your results as soon as possible,’ her mother said, as if that was any excuse for her invasion of Molly’s privacy. ‘Imagine my surprise when I found you’d failed your exams because you never turned up.’

  ‘No,’ Molly said. ‘No, I never did.’

  ‘But I asked you how they went, and you said they were fine.’ Her mother’s voice rose.

  ‘They were fine,’ Molly said, ‘because I didn’t sit them.’ A storm was gathering on the other end of the phone, a mother-tornado gathering speed. ‘I’m switching degrees,’ she said. ‘I’m going to do a Bachelor of Science’

  ‘No,’ her mother said. ‘No, I forbid it.’

  Speaking very slowly, very precisely, Molly said, ‘Mum, I am nineteen years old. You can’t forbid me to do anything.’

  The tornado slammed the phone down in Molly’s ear. Molly hung up, trembling all over.

  ‘You can’t control me anymore,’ she said. ‘You can’t.’ And burst into tears.

  When Molly stepped off the bus three days later, her father’s work van was already waiting on the opposite side of the road, Mortimer & Son emblazoned down the side.

  ‘Hey, Sis.’ Sully crossed the road with large strides and gave her a hug. ‘How was the bus?’

  ‘It was shit.’ Molly stepped back and followed her eldest brother across the road. ‘I got car-sick, or bus-sick, whatever.’