Rewriting the Ending

by H P Tune

  I did wonder when I was reading it how much of your own life influenced the storyline? You mentioned when we were jetlagged and exhausted that you had been to a few specific places, and I noticed them in there. I know it’s fiction, but still, I wanted to ask. The character just seemed so alone and haunted, and there was no one in the world that had her back. And it ended that way, with a defeated realisation that there was nothing else.

  Do you believe that? Is that what you think? Is that you? I thought maybe it was me too, but it’s not. Tomorrow is…tomorrow. There has to be hope.

  I know that all probably sounds crazy, but I’ve done hardly anything except think about it for days. And I wanted to ask you questions straightaway, but I wasn’t sure if that was okay. I don’t want to offend you or upset you, so please don’t be. I’ve got this overwhelming need to just delete this e-mail and send something that is just drab and boring, but I’m trying to be this new person. Or at least a different person, someone who doesn’t just keep their mouth shut and toe the line, someone who takes risks when the risk is worth it; and you seem worth it. And I don’t know why, and it doesn’t all make sense, but yeah, it is what it is.

  Sorry, I know that probably reads like someone on acid…Please let me know if I’ve offended you, I really haven’t meant to.

  Hope to hear from you soon.

  Mia xo

  Taking a breath, Mia pressed send before she could second-guess herself. Immediately, a sense of regret filled her. She had no right to be questioning Juliet; they barely knew each other. But she felt compelled to. She felt something, something unidentifiable, but it was there between the two of them. She wasn’t imagining it. She was sure of it. Wasn’t she?

  * * *

  Gathering together her notebook, ballpoint, and granola bar into a satchel on the kitchen bench, Juliet grabbed her laptop and was about to slam it shut when, acting on habit, she first clicked on the mail icon to the bottom left of the screen, balancing the computer precariously in her palm. Mia’s e-mail stared at her as Juliet slumped back into the chair and put the computer back down on her desk. She raked a hand through air-dried curls, tumbling them into each other so they twisted over the crown of her head.

  Finally closing the laptop, Juliet decided to leave it behind after all and collected her satchel. It was a bag she had bought in India, where she spent a few weeks backpacking after several months at a Buddhist retreat in Cambodia. She’d gone with her hostel manager to an orphanage outside of Siem Reap, where the owners of the hostel provided some financial aid to the facility as well as leftover food. Some of the older children learned skills at the in-house school and made bags, purses, tapestries, and jewellery. So Juliet had bought a bag for herself, a brightly coloured across-the-body satchel with a single large pocket design with a zippered opening and a flap that hung loosely. She had picked up her brother a bracelet too, black and red, the most masculine she could find, and it matched the tokenistic Cambodian beer shirt she had picked up for him.

  Plucking her thick jacket off the back of a chair, Juliet slid into it and knotted a scarf around her neck. Glancing back at the computer, Juliet hesitated, unzipping her bag and reaching into it. She fumbled blindly, and with her forehead burrowed, she eventually withdrew her phone. Quickly, she typed a text to Mia, knowing that she was feeling a whole lot of something, but it definitely wasn’t anger. She needed to tell Mia that.

  Hi, just got your e-mail and about to head out. I just wanted to say I’ll reply later, not offended at all. Hope you’re okay.

  She was standing at the bus stop before a reply came through.

  I’m so relieved. I was worried. Enjoy your day and stay safe.

  Much later that afternoon, and with several afternoon drinks under her belt, Juliet finally sat down to write her e-mail to Mia.

  Hey Mia,

  I should warn you first up, I’ve had a few drinks this afternoon, so hopefully I’ll make sense in this e-mail. I had to celebrate: I actually got some ideas on paper today. Yes, I did say paper, but they’re actually down in black and white; or blue and white. I was using a blue pen.

  I’m not sure where to start with the things you wrote, but I’ll give it a go. I’m sorry to hear you’ve been having a crappy time, and I guess that’s probably an understatement. The break is a good idea, and it takes some guts to do that too. If I can help at all, let me know. I’ve been told that I’m not a bad listener…Any time you want to talk about things, or if you want to tell me anything, you can. I’m yet to be shocked, and I’ve seen a thing or two over the years. So don’t feel like you can’t talk to me.

  You’ve probably got all these great friends that you talk to, and that just ended up sounding stalker-like, right? Damn.

  Hmmm, and on to your questions about the book. That fucking book. Sometimes I wish I never wrote it. I could still be at college or teaching or something. It is a fiction, you’re right, and that’s what it is—fiction. I know there are some parallels that can be drawn, and I definitely used places that I’ve been to and experiences I’ve had, or ones that others have had, but it’s mostly a complete mix of real and exaggerated and completely made up. That’s how I write, I just take something small that is familiar and then I build on it. Sometimes it becomes unrecognisable, and at other times, it becomes the opposite—too close.

  I’m not sure if that answers your questions well enough, but yeah, that’s kind of it. You really didn’t offend me, so don’t be worried. You shouldn’t ever stress about bothering me. I’m pretty resilient. It takes much more than that to annoy or hurt me. :-)

  Correct me if I’m wrong, but it seems a bit like the themes upset you?

  Sending a virtual hug your way…

  Juliet :-)

  * * *

  Woollen hat pulled low over her forehead, Mia sat atop a white mare. Its hooves and speckled black ankles sank into the thin layer of snow. Mia rode slowly, distracted as she headed towards the corner of their first paddock, a few bare trees in her peripheral vision. She felt unsettled, anxious. Christmas was only two days away, and it was just another anniversary that she despised, yet another reminder of the life she’d lost, the future that seemed certain yet fell spectacularly apart.

  And she still hadn’t replied to Juliet’s e-mail.

  Juliet had quite the skill of saying something whilst not saying a lot at all. She was oddly neutral, and Mia wondered if she ever fired up in anger or dissolved in hysterical tears. This was another similarity to her book’s character, who seemed just void of emotion and fight. Mia felt suitably dramatic and unstable in comparison. Yet, Juliet invited her to share and communicate. It was confusing.

  Loosely holding the reins, she allowed the horse to idly walk at will, only mildly correcting her direction when she moved towards the stream that weaved from past the west boundary to a loch that was miles away. Mia reluctantly returned to the barn when a drizzle of rain began to fall, realising then that her nose was icy cold and her lips were chapped. A glance at her watch told her she had been out for just shy of two hours, and she was grateful when Janet interrupted her shaky hands from trying to unbuckle the billet straps.

  “There’s some soup on the stove.” Janet softly rubbed the horse’s neck. “You should take off that wet jacket and warm up.”

  Mia shivered, wrapping her arms around her middle. “Thanks,” she said, shoulders trembling with cold.

  “Go on.” Glancing sideways at Mia standing motionless a few steps away, Janet told her, “I’ve got this.”

  Silently, Mia slipped away back to the house, careful not to slip in the slush. She went straight to the shower, using the steaming water to slowly warm herself. When she emerged half an hour later, her face was pale, though her cheeks were tinged with pink, a combination of the cold from outside and the too-hot shower. She had applied a clear hydrating lip gloss, though the chapped skin still stung when she spooned some thick pumpkin soup into her mouth.

  Cloaked in a blanket, she finished a cup of sou
p before refilling it again and sitting on the floor, close to the fireplace.

  She opened her iPad and sighed.

  Hi Juliet,

  Thanks for your e-mail, and sorry for not getting back to you sooner. I’ve been trying to get my head together, but it probably hasn’t been going quite as well as I would like. I tried to phone you yesterday, thought we could talk over the phone, but I get that you’re a little busier than I am—all my relaxation.

  Great to hear that you’ve been able to get some writing done; I knew you would. And you deserve to reward yourself with some drinks.

  So what I’m getting from what you said about the book is that you put some of your own experiences in there. The book had an incredible effect on me. I would really like to hear more about it. What do you think?

  If you can picture it, I’m sighing right now. I’m sitting on the floor by the fireplace, and I’ve just regained feeling in my fingers (seemed like a good idea at the time to go for a ride in freezing temperatures.) I have no idea how to say what I want to say. I don’t have all these people in my life to talk to. And I’m only just realising that I never really have, but you probably figured that out two minutes after you met me. You’re good at reading people, aren’t you? I don’t know what makes me say that, I just think your book is all about saying the things that people don’t say. Or don’t even think about.

  Do you hate that? People telling you what your book is about? Feel free to throw something at me—virtually, that is.

  I think I mentioned to you that I have a sister, Daniela. I’m only eighteen months older, and we spent our entire childhood together, constantly playing and talking, doing everything together. We even had some of the same friends when we were going through high school. We still talked heaps, even when we lived in different places, went to different colleges. I was her bridesmaid when she got married.

  When I was seventeen, she caught me in bed with a woman. But she also found me smoking weed on at least five occasions, cigarettes in my school bag, major dents in my car—you get the idea. So we didn’t really talk about it again; it was as if it didn’t happen. Six months ago, she arrived at a jazz bar, where I was meant to be meeting my husband for a drink and dinner and to try and agree on our financial settlement, although there’s a bit more to that story. Anyway, I was standing in the corner, kissing the female violin player. Daniela walked over, dragged me to the door and asked me what the fuck I was doing with a woman (my sister, by the way, has a husband and various other male suitors). I had a long prepared speech, should the need ever arise, though I won’t bore you with that five-minute diatribe. But the main point is that I told my sister that I was bisexual. She didn’t say a word, just gave me this look of disgust and walked away. And I haven’t heard from her since. She even changed her phone numbers, e-mail addresses. I heard that she moved too. Who does that?

  We were always different. She was really into the high-profile socialite scene, but I wasn’t; I did it, but I wasn’t into it. Still, we always got along. We never fought or argued, always stayed in touch. And then suddenly, the one single person who had actually been around for my entire life was gone. Because of what? Because I…

  I don’t know what I should have done. Lied? Lived an entire life that was a lie? I don’t know.

  I’m sorry. That seems to be a theme for my e-mails. I end them with an apology. And it’s Christmas in two days. I hate Christmas. But I feel like I should wish you a Merry Christmas and holiday season and all of that. But then, doing that would make me want to cry, and I’m trying to not be a crazy person right now.

  I’m sorry.

  She didn’t sign off; she just closed her eyes and sent the e-mail. Then she curled up against the foot of the recliner and stared at gentle flames until the room was cloaked in darkness.

  CHAPTER 5

  One hand to her chest, Juliet reread Mia’s e-mail. Her stomach somersaulted, and a lump swelled in her throat. She felt disbelief and uncertainty at the awareness of what Mia had lost. And Juliet assumed it was only the tip of the iceberg. She was strangely envious of Mia, envious of the openness and the honesty. Juliet could barely conceptualise the anxiety she would feel if she were to attempt the same.

  A big part of her wanted to attempt it. She had never wanted to be honest like that before, and she doubted she would ever want to again, or to anyone else. But to Mia, there was the distinct hint of a possibility.

  Life had been a slow progression into isolation for Juliet. She hadn’t always been so closed off. She had always been close to her family, and she’d had a range of friends during her childhood and youth. She’d even had a string of relatively stable relationships in her early twenties, none of which ended particularly traumatically. In reflection, though, she had never been as open and communicative as her partners had been. She had always been the listener, the supportive one.

  Her tight fists slammed onto the desk with a loud bang to try and make herself feel more alive. The laptop bounced slightly, and the desk groaned at the unexpected impact. Squeezing her eyes shut, she bolted upright, stumbling as the chair flipped back and crashed to the floor. Ignoring it, she paced around the small living area, back and forth and into the kitchen. She walked into her bedroom, stood at the foot of her bed with her hands on her hips, and shook her head. She was frustrated at her own insecurities, at her inability to be who she wanted to be. After a few minutes, she walked purposely into the bathroom and stilled herself, gripping the chipped basin, head bowed with her weight on her arms. Slowly, she raised her face to the mirror, staring at her own reflection.

  Her eyes looked sullen and ringed with darkness underneath the lower lids. They almost looked bruised, but it was only tiredness that had evoked the telltale sign of exhaustion. She hadn’t been sleeping that well, just a few hours here and there, with intermittent periods of staring at the ceiling or listening to the wind outside.

  She shook her head at her mirrored image, briefly distracting herself with a promise to eat more and better. She had only been in Belgium less than two weeks, though it had been more since she had started her trip from the United States. She guessed she had lost a couple of pounds, maybe a few.

  Her eyes had a few laugh lines. She didn’t mind that; they told the story of the life she had lived, or at least they provided evidence that she had lived. She had always liked her eyes for being clear and bright. Though even she could tell that they were no longer the highlight of her looks that they once were, they seemed even duller and greyer now since she’d arrived. The lack of sunlight wasn’t helping her pale complexion either, but if she blamed it solely on the cold European winter, than she was deluding herself. Her appearance told of long hours spent staring and thinking rather than living.

  Taking one hand off the basin, she turned on the hot water, fingertips trailing under the flow as she waited for it to warm. She cupped both hands and repeatedly splashed the water onto her face. She stopped when the water became too hot, reaching for a hand towel.

  Instead of returning to her computer, she slumped to the floor of the bathroom, shivering slightly on contact with the cool tiles.

  It was dark before she moved again.

  * * *

  “Ready for Christmas, Mia?” Martin walked through the doorway and stopped a few steps away from where Mia reclined, open book on her lap.

  Offering a half smile, Mia shrugged. “Just another day, I suppose. How about you? Shouldn’t you be leaving earlier than Christmas morning?”

  “No, not at all. With all of the kids spread out, there’s no real reason to rush. My son and his wife will be home by lunchtime, so I’ll make sure I arrive around then.”

  “And they have children, right?” Mia asked, knowing that Martin had a couple of grandchildren at least.

  “Just the one, a very boisterous toddler. My daughter in London has an older boy who just started school in summer and another one on the way.”

  “Oh, that’s right, the pilots, yes? How are they possib
ly going to manage two children?” Mia laughed.

  Chuckling, Martin rubbed his hands together and nodded. “Apparently, Grandpa will be required for the occasional school holidays—babysitting duty, although hopefully not until this next one is a little older. It’s been a long time since I changed a nappy. That said, I don’t think my daughter is too thrilled about taking another year off work. She had only just started training on the direct London-to-Sydney route when she found out. She loved doing the Dubai-to-Sydney leg because she got to catch up with Amy, my youngest, who is studying there. They were always so close.”

  Mia shook her head, amazed. She had known that Martin’s children were spread out, but she had no idea how he stayed so connected to them all given his long hours and only occasional holidays. “Lucky you’re skilled at Skype, by the sounds of it!”

  Martin laughed, throwing his hands in the air. “Oh you sound like Amy. I don’t understand the Skype.”

  “Remind me to teach you one day. Your kids will love it.”

  “That they would. Their tolerance for my lack of technology skill has at least improved in recent years. Their mother was much more apt at that. She would be laughing in her grave at me attempting anything on the Internet, I suspect.”

  “How long has it been now, Martin?” Mia asked.

  Rubbing the side of his jaw, Martin squinted and moved his head side to side as he appeared to count. “Uhhh, must be sixteen years. Amy was six when El passed away, and she’s twenty-two now. How the years go.”

  Mia nodded and drew in a long inhalation through her nose. “Sometimes. Other times they seem to drag.”

  “There’s never enough time, Mia. I learnt that very young: make the most of every minute.” He grinned. “And that means when your youngest up and takes herself off to Australia, you just smile and book yourself a flight to see those kangaroos at the opera house.”