Moonlight Sonata

by Eileen Merriman

  ‘Really? That’s not like you,’ Sully said, hoisting her suitcase into the back of the van. ‘Jesus, what’s in here?’

  ‘Books,’ Molly said. ‘Thought I’d catch up on some reading.’

  ‘Sounds exciting.’ Sully opened the passenger door for her and jogged around to the driver’s side. Molly slid onto the bench seat, dying to ask why Joe hadn’t come to pick her up as he’d said he would. She didn’t want to sound ungrateful.

  But … where is Joe? He was the only reason why she hadn’t cancelled her trip home.

  Don’t stay in Wellington, Lolly. I’ve been looking forward to seeing you for weeks. We can hang out at the beach, avoid Mum. She can’t stay angry forever.

  Sully pulled away from the kerb. ‘Joe said to say sorry he couldn’t pick you up, but he had an accident.’

  She clutched her seatbelt. ‘An accident?’

  ‘Relax, he’s fine.’ Sully stopped at a Give Way sign. ‘Took a tumble off his trail bike. Doc says he should get home for Christmas Day.’

  Molly’s mouth fell open. ‘He’s in hospital? Why didn’t anyone tell me?’

  ‘It only happened this morning.’ Sully planted his foot on the accelerator. ‘They took him to surgery to put a pin in his ankle this morning. Made a neat job of stitching up his head, too.’

  ‘His head too?’ No wonder she’d been feeling off all day.

  Sully cupped his ear. ‘Is there an echo in here?’

  Molly scowled and wound down the window. ‘Can we go to the hospital?’

  ‘What, now? Mum’s got a roast on.’

  ‘I bet she has,’ Molly said, and her brother’s jaw tightened.

  ‘You should cut her some slack sometime, you know that?’

  ‘For what? She’s the one who’s been trying to control me my whole life.’

  Sully pulled over without indicating, earning a loud honk from the driver behind them.

  ‘She’s had a hard life,’ Sully said, after flipping the irate driver the finger as they accelerated past.

  ‘That doesn’t mean she gets to ruin mine,’ Molly said, her voice wobbling. Sully wound his window up.

  ‘She smashed two dinner plates and a teapot after you called her the other night. Said you broke her heart.’

  ‘You can’t break a heart of stone,’ she snapped back and reached over to flip on his indicator. ‘Take me to the hospital. Please.’

  ‘I don’t know who I’m more scared of,’ Scully muttered, after performing a rapid U-turn. ‘You or Mum.’

  An hour later, Molly strode into the four-bedded hospital room and up to a bed next to the window.

  ‘What were you thinking?’

  Joe blinked at her. ‘Well, hello to you too.’ His hair was sticking out above the adhesive dressing on his forehead, like windblown toetoe. His left leg, propped up on a pillow, was encased in snowy white plaster from his knee to the tips of his toes.

  ‘You could have killed yourself on that stupid bike.’

  ‘It wasn’t the bike that was stupid,’ Joe said, his glower travelling towards their brother, who was drawing the curtain around the bed.

  Sully said, ‘Right, well, I’m off to find some food,’ and took off. Coward.

  ‘Stupid,’ Molly repeated, drawing closer.

  ‘Stupid,’ Joe said, touching her on the cheek. ‘Don’t cry, Lolly, I really am fine.’

  Molly gulped. Why was she crying? Joe was fine, obviously. She forced back the selfish words threatening to spill out of her mouth: You were meant to be there, I can’t cope with Mum on my own, oh crap, oh crap.

  Joe pulled her down beside him. ‘A chicken ran out in front of me.’

  ‘You swerved for a chicken?’ Molly took a crumpled tissue out of her pocket and blew her nose.

  ‘Yeah, stupid, right?’

  ‘Really stupid,’ she said, gazing out of the window. Through the curtain dividing the cubicles, she heard laughter.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, his hand on her knee.

  Molly took a deep breath. ‘It’s not your fault.’

  ‘No, I mean about — I didn’t think Mum would be so — you know.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘She’ll get over it.’

  Molly, not so sure that was true, tapped on her brother’s cast. ‘Did it hurt?’

  ‘Are you kidding? Of course it hurt. Even after the ambo driver shot me up with the morphine.’

  ‘And that?’ She pointed at the dressing on his head.

  ‘Didn’t even notice that. Think I knocked myself out for a bit, though.’

  ‘Around ten?’ Molly asked, remembering the funny ache in her head that morning; the uncharacteristic nausea that had hit her an hour into the bus ride.

  Joe didn’t say How did you know? He just raised his hand to her forehead and pressed, gently.

  ‘Mirror, mirror,’ he said. ‘I’ll be home for Christmas, Lolly. I promise.’

  Their plates were in the oven when they arrived home, the lamb chewy, the potatoes dry. Sully tucked into his meal as if he hadn’t eaten a whole dinner at the hospital cafeteria already, while Molly swallowed wrinkly peas, one by one.

  Her father said, ‘It’s lovely to have you home,’ and gave her a bear hug.

  Her mother said, ‘Your dinner’s ruined,’ and went back to wiping out cupboards, which seemed to be a great excuse to slam cupboard doors every couple of minutes.

  It was no more, or less, than Molly expected. It was only a matter of time before her mother exploded. In a way, she wished she’d just get it over and done with. She gazed at her mother’s beloved Christmas fairy, glaring at her from atop the Christmas tree. So ungrateful, the fairy mouthed at her. Molly glared back. Shut up, will you?

  Once Sully had gone outside for a smoke, Ants sat opposite her.

  ‘I got into Teachers’ College,’ he said, propping his feet up on the chair beside him.

  ‘Congratulations.’ Molly swallowed another pea. It stuck, mollusc-like, to the rock in her chest.

  ‘It’s amazing what one can achieve if one turns up to one’s exams,’ their mother said, walking into the lounge with her knitting bag.

  Molly prodded a crumbly potato. ‘I wouldn’t have passed anyway.’

  ‘You were quite capable of passing with flying colours. I told your father you shouldn’t go to Wellington. I told him, but he wouldn’t listen.’

  ‘God, Hazel, would you give it a rest?’ Her father was sitting in the La-Z-Boy in front of the TV, a beer can balanced precariously on the armrest.

  ‘No, I won’t give it a rest.’ Hazel’s chin wobbled. ‘After all we’ve sacrificed for her, to have it thrown back in our faces.’

  Molly stood up, her fork bouncing off the edge of her plate and onto the floor.

  ‘I never wanted to do a music degree. I’ve been doing what you wanted me to do all my life, and I’m not going to do it anymore.’

  ‘Your whole life,’ her mother mocked. ‘Listen to you. You’re just a baby, nineteen years old. You have no idea what you’re throwing away.’

  Clenching her fists at her sides, Molly said, ‘What about Joe? He’s doing a degree in English literature — what do you think he’s going to do with that? But he’s always allowed to do anything he wants, no questions asked.’

  A voice inside her told her she was being disloyal to her twin. Another voice told her that Joe wouldn’t mind.

  ‘I’ve always treated you the same,’ her mother spat.

  ‘That is such a lie,’ Molly spat back. ‘I wish you’d abandoned me when I was six too. We’d all have been a whole lot happier.’ She stepped back, but it was too late to escape her mother’s wrath. Her eyes stinging, Molly cupped her face. Her mother hadn’t hit her since she was ten years old.

  Ants sprang up. ‘Jesus, would you two just stop?’

  ‘She drove me to it,’ their mother said, her voice trembling, and started sobbing.

  ‘Merry Fucking Christmas,’ their father said and stumbled out, still holding his can
of beer.

  Chapter 13:

  NOAH

  In Nana’s kitchen, there are empty preserving jars on every flat surface apart from the stove, where a pot of blood-red liquid is bubbling.

  ‘That’d make a good photo,’ Lola says, gesturing towards the sea of circular rims.

  ‘In black and white, maybe,’ Noah says. He’s contemplating kissing the back of her neck, right where her hair scoops up into a ponytail, when Nana walks in from the hallway.

  ‘I hope you’re not touching those,’ Nana says, as he moves away from Lola. ‘They’re meant to be sterile.’

  ‘We just breathed on them a little,’ he says, giving her a mischievous smile.

  Nana prods his back. ‘You better not have. What are you two doing back so early?’

  ‘Cricket.’ Lola wanders into the lounge.

  Nana says, ‘I’ve made egg sandwiches, would you like some?’

  Noah grins. ‘Oh yeah, my favourite.’ His stomach’s growling, despite the waffles they had earlier. Leaning against the bench, he watches his grandmother pull a tray of sandwiches out of the fridge and assemble a row of triangles on a plate. Her hands are small, like his mother’s, and covered in age spots. One of the spots is a miniature version of Australia.

  ‘How do you like Melbourne?’ Nana asks.

  ‘It’s OK.’ He swats away a fly.

  Nana slots the last sandwich into place. ‘Your father said you were having some trouble with maths.’

  Noah’s good mood evaporates. ‘Some trouble, is that what he said?’ Why doesn’t she just say failed?

  ‘Well,’ Nana says, ‘I guess you had a pretty disruptive year, having to move countries and change schools. Tell me, are you still seeing Aimee?’

  Noah’s heart speeds up. His eyes scanning over the breakfast bar, he sees Lola sitting on the couch. She seems glued to the TV.

  ‘No,’ he says quickly. ‘Not anymore.’ It’s true. He hasn’t seen Aimee since her last visit to Melbourne, three months ago. Before Nana can ask any more questions, he picks up the plate and hurries towards the lounge. ‘Thanks for the sandwiches.’

  His heart still racing, Noah sits next to Lola on the couch and sets the plate between them. The Christmas tree is still shedding pine needles and decorations all over the place. When he looks up, he sees someone has placed the Christmas fairy on top of the lampshade. A pair of flies are going for it on the fairy’s head.

  ‘Yum,’ Lola says, reaching for a triangle. ‘I love Nana’s egg sandwiches.’

  ‘Better than sweating it up a hill any day.’ Noah puts his feet up on the table, relieved Lola doesn’t seem to have picked up on what their grandmother just said. ‘Although coming down was kind of fun, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Stop,’ she mouths at him. Noah is tempted to trace the cute little freckles on her nose, join the dots, but she’s giving him a look.

  ‘That’s not what you said before,’ he murmurs, and she whacks him on the bicep. ‘Ow, you hit really hard for a — ow, what?’

  She furrows her brow at him. ‘For a girl, is that what you were going to say?’

  ‘I was going to say hard for a fifteen-year-old,’ he lies.

  ‘You’re such a spinner.’ Lola leans back and bites into her sandwich. ‘Anyway, I’m sixteen in two weeks.’

  ‘Two weeks,’ he echoes. ‘Hey, you know what? This morning I asked Mum if we could stay another week, and she said not a week, but we could stay a couple more days.’

  Lola smiles. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He takes another sandwich. ‘Not Dad — he wants to go to Auckland for a couple of days before we head down to Wellington.’

  ‘To do what?’

  Noah tugs on his ear. ‘Work stuff, I don’t know.’

  ‘Bet you’re looking forward to going back to Wellington.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ At least, he was, but now he’s not sure. He’s looking forward to his old friends, was looking forward to seeing Aimee, too. But now, God, what’s he going to do about that?

  A cheer goes up from the TV, another West Indian cricketer bowled out.

  ‘Do you like it in Australia?’ Lola asks.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Noah says, but when she meets his eyes, he amends that to, ‘Actually, not really. I kind of hate it.’

  ‘Kind of hate it?’

  ‘When I arrived,’ he says, ‘the guys at school made fun of my accent, so I had to talk like them.’

  ‘Feesh and cheeps.’

  ‘Yeah, that.’ Noah forces a smile, even though a dense melancholy is washing through him, a memory of the worst year of his life.

  ‘Did it help?’

  ‘Kind of.’ There’s another roar from the TV. New Zealand is wasting the West Indies, but Lola’s not watching anymore. Neither is Noah. His heart is a mallet striking his ribs.

  After setting the empty plate on the floor, Lola swivels so her legs are on the cushion between them, her toes resting against his side. Noah moves her foot into his lap. Nana’s left the kitchen. When the noise on the TV drops, he can just make out the piano below.

  He reaches for the remote and mutes the TV. ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she says and shuffles closer to kiss him. In the room below, the music rises and falls: the ‘Moonlight Sonata’. Lola’s mouth is so soft, and when her tongue flicks between his lips, it generates an instant response down below. Jesus, if anyone catches them, they’re dead.

  ‘Like playing with fire, do you?’ Noah murmurs, just as he’d done the day they’d jumped out of the kayak.

  And just as she’d done that day, Lola says, ‘Are you the fire?’

  ‘No,’ he says, stroking the soft flesh of her inner thigh, ‘you are.’

  By the time the others arrive back from their walk, it’s early afternoon. Joe flops onto the couch between Lola and Noah and kicks off his shoes.

  ‘How’s the cricket going?’

  ‘We’re wasting the Windies,’ Noah says. ‘I don’t know why we’re still watching it.’ Not that they had been watching it that much. Nana had played the piano downstairs for at least half an hour, maybe longer, and Lola and Noah had made out the whole time.

  Joe sticks his hand in his shorts’ front pocket, and waggles a finger through a hole in the bottom.

  ‘I’m going to head into town, look for some new shorts,’ he says. ‘Want to come?’

  Lola shakes her head, her focus back on the cricket.

  ‘Oh yeah, I need some new jandals,’ Noah says, jumping to his feet. Also, it’s a chance to get some one-on-one time with his favourite uncle.

  Joe drives with the window wound down, his elbow sticking out, even though it’s baking outside. He’s driving in bare feet. Noah’s father would kill him if he did that.

  ‘So,’ he says, ‘are you having fun?’

  Noah winds down his window too, inhaling the seaweed-scented air. ‘Hell, yeah. You?’

  ‘Best place on Earth.’ Joe turns the stereo up, humming along to some eighties song about tainted love. ‘Swell’s kicking up. We could go for a surf when we get back.’

  ‘That’d be awesome.’ Noah eases his sweaty feet out of his sneakers and wriggles his toes in the breeze coming through the window. ‘Hey, can I ask you a weird question?’

  ‘Ask away.’

  Noah rolls his bottom lip between his teeth. ‘Have you ever liked two girls at once?’

  Joe glances at him. ‘By liked, I assume you mean lusted after two girls at once?’

  ‘Yeah, I guess.’

  Joe looks straight ahead again, percussing the steering wheel. ‘That’s happened to me before, for sure. How about you?’

  ‘I think so. I mean, it is.’ Noah says, feeling sweatier than ever. ‘So, what did you do?’

  ‘So, that might be classified information.’

  ‘Really? Are you a secret agent as well as a journalist?’

  Joe laughs. ‘I hate to disappoint you, but no. Look, it’s OK to fancy two girls at once. But at some stage
you might have to decide, you know what I’m saying?’

  ‘Is that what you did?’

  His smile fades. ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘But she didn’t do the same for me.’

  Noah is getting the impression his uncle doesn’t want him to ask any more questions, and he’s pretty sure Joe won’t give him a straight answer anyway.

  Joe turns the radio down a notch. ‘So what are you going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Noah says. ‘I’m worried I’m going to hurt both of them.’

  ‘Maybe you should go with your gut feeling,’ Joe says. ‘And if that doesn’t work, then you could draw up a list with pros and cons for each of them, see where that takes you.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Noah says, but he’s not convinced. What if one of the cons is worth three of the pros? What if one of the cons is, she’s my cousin? Quite apart from what their family might think, how the hell is he meant to cope with family holidays in the future if everything blows up between him and Lola? What if things don’t work out and she never wants to talk to him again? But how can they work out?

  Noah can hardly breathe for all the thoughts batting around in his head. Turning his head towards the window, he sucks in more air, the heady scents of pine and petrol fumes and steaming bitumen rushing into his nostrils.

  Joe says, ‘Of course, you could take the easy option and forget about both of them.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Noah slumps into his seat. ‘Maybe I should.’ He ploughs on. ‘Um, can I ask you another question?’

  Joe’s mouth twists. ‘Sure.’

  ‘How old were you when you first had sex?’

  ‘Jesus, you could have got me drunk before you started asking me all these questions.’

  ‘Sorry.’ He’s not.

  Joe tugs on his ear. ‘I was your age.’

  ‘Seventeen?’

  ‘Well, eighteen, but only just.’

  ‘How long had you been going out?’

  ‘Ah,’ Joe says. ‘It was one of those things that just happens between friends sometimes, you know?’

  ‘Was it good?’

  Joe’s eyes are so far away Noah is not really sure he’s looking at the road at all. ‘At the time, I thought it was the best thing that ever happened to me.’