by Sarah Mussi
I lean in.
He leans in.
Our kiss is soft and volcanic and intense and thrilling.
And there’s quite enough screen space for both of us.
And afterwards a blistering hurricane sweeps across the Sahara. A loop of electricity crackles from Fletcher to me to Fletcher again. And round and round.
I’ve never known any of this before.
Here we are. Alive. Just two teenagers kissing. In a library. During break.
Shivering and trembling and kissing.
Totally terrified.
And it’s real.
It’s really real.
34
Embrace the moment. Live for today. Lips and the smell of books. Sunshine in a slanty, angular library. Conquests in the Coliseum of Life.
And kisses. Sweet, sweet kisses.
Lee walks in and yells, ‘Am I interrupting anything?’
Guiltily we spring apart.
‘Shush,’ says Fletcher.
‘YO, SEX AND DRUGS AND ROCK ’N’ ROLL,’ shouts Lee.
‘Go away,’ I say.
The dust of the Sahara swirls.
‘Please, Lee?’ says Fletcher.
The wheel turns.
Relationships are forbidden. Clients at Daisy Bank Rehabilitation Centre must resign their place on the recovery programme if they form sexual relationships.
‘I was just showing Dani what I found out,’ Fletcher says, staring back at the computer screen.
Attendance at Circle Time is the one central commitment to recovery expected of all clients.
Lee grins.
‘Look,’ says Fletcher.
There on the screen it reads:
BERKSHIRE-BASED WOOD PRODUCTS
ARCHES TIMBER LTD
London’s Leading Timber Merchant
Timber, Sheet Material and Cladding Cut to Size
Call us on 020 3733 3801 or email your enquiry
Arches Timber Ltd
Phoenix Wharf
Mordly Hill Street
Lewisham
London SE4 9QQ
Opening Times:
Mon–Fri 7:00a.m.–5:00p.m.
Sat 8:30a.m.–5:00p.m.
‘I did it, Dani!’ Fletcher is exultant. ‘I goddamn found out where that room was.’
Step Six
Defects of Character
35
I really should have screamed at Fletcher.
He must never miss Circle Time.
Never.
Never.
Never.
Never again. Certainly not on my account. Not on ANY account. HE MUST BE TOLD. I feel the panic rising inside me. Wobbling at the back of my throat. I can’t swallow. I send him a text.
Listen. That was a dumb thing to do. I mean skipping CT. I know you’re trying to help but NEVER NEVER NEVER do that again.
No reply.
Maybe now we’ve kissed he’s going to avoid me. He doesn’t even answer his phone.
The Alien starts laughing.
He’s realized how ugly I am. He regrets kissing me. That is why kissing is not allowed. Kissing destroys things.
Screaming is so much better than kissing. I want to scream at Fletcher really loudly now.
But how can I go looking for him now we’ve kissed?
And start screaming?
It is so exhausting. I go to lie down.
Another letter has been pushed under my door. It’s from him. He going to tell me he’s made a horrendous mistake. He’s going to insist we ask the centre to allocate us new partners. He’s realized we can never be recovery buddies again.
I lie down on my bed, daring myself to open it.
One-way communication totally sucks.
You can’t scream at a letter.
Even if you had the energy.
Dear Dani,
Today was so great in the library.
But why is it, when things go so well, I get jittery?
It’s really bad. Almost panic. Really sweaty hands and heart jumping around everywhere. I can’t sit down or stay still either. So I’m doing journaling again to see if it’ll help. It did last time.
I’m sorry to dump it on you again. Especially because it was your turn to dump on me. I’m sorry too because I know I’m doing it in case you die. I’m being really selfish. But I have to be heard by at least one real person in this world that could, maybe (?), care about me. I’m so sorry it has to be you.
It's the lies, you see, that are worrying me now.
My mum lied. If she said she felt really deeply about something, you could bet your last piece of chewing gum she was lying. To outsiders she would lie deliberately, but always in a way that she could cover up. Once when she was being boastful, she told me, ‘Lying is an art form. For example, if you are going to lie, be bold, go right up to someone and look them square in the eye and lie your heart out.’
She’d boast: ‘Only ever add one lie to a situation. Stir it in like you’re blending cream into your coffee - you don’t want it to curdle.’ She’d laugh then at how clever she was. She’d say, ‘Keep every other fact painfully truthful, and then seed your lie at the very heart of things.’ She liked using ‘the heart’ as a metaphor when she explained about lying.
But it wasn’t just lying - like, fibs and that. She’d put dishonest interpretations on anything she wanted if it suited her. And she’d lie in advance to discount what I might say, before I even said it. It was impossible to catch her out. When I tried to tell my nan (before she died) how scared I was about Mum dying, Nan just said, ‘Yes, your mum has told me you’ve invented “a thing” about her drinking.’
Mum would even lie to me after she’d been drinking. She’d say she’d had one teeny-weeny sip of gin and I’d gone ballistic. When I showed her the empty bottles, she sneered at me about the lengths I was prepared to go to, to demonize her, and swore blind I’d dug those bottles out of the rubbish.
When she really couldn't lie her way out of things, she’d say she’d ‘only had a couple’, but that was what happened when you had a ‘child who was such a worry’.
I put the letter down. I pause. I consider. Is Fletcher telling me this because I am doing the same thing? Is this letter an accusation?
His mother was killing herself.
I am killing myself.
Fletcher tried to save her.
Fletcher is trying to save me.
An uncomfortable feeling, somehow like water going down a drain, starts at the back of my throat. Is Fletcher trying to explain why he is killing himself? Because of me? Or her?
I try to work it out.
The gurgling water empties into a lake.
Or is his letter a message of hope? See – our mothers hated us, but we have each other.
I long so much for that. I hate his mother. I hate my mother. But Fletcher is much nicer than I am. So I hate his mother more. His mother was hateful. Fletcher missed Circle Time. She could have loved him. Should have loved him. She had all that time to love him. Before he started killing himself. Suddenly the lake boils up, like a geyser of scalding water.
All the screaming spurts out.
I pick up a pen.
And she expected me to do everything she requested on command, and preferably at a time that was the most inconvenient for me. Like, just as I was leaving the house to go to school, she’d ask me to put out the rubbish, or look at the computer, which was ‘playing up again, since SOMEBODY fiddled with it’ and she needed it SO URGENTLY today - in fact, she was REALLY ANNOYED. It was REALLY ANNOYING - and a life or death matter - and she’d work herself up into a proper temper.
And I’d better fix it.
I drag the pen across the letter. I press hard. I grind the ballpoint into the page in vicious lines. Up and back. Up and back. The paper rips.
The geyser spurts lethal jets of blistering water EVERYWHERE.
Of course there’d be nothing wrong with the computer, but she’d insist I run a full spyware check, and th
en I’d be late for school. I’d get detention and a telling-off. When I got back home afterwards, she’d tell me in THAT voice, ‘The school rang again because you were late.’ A voice that told me how embarrassed she was, what a disappointment I was. How, really, that was just EXACTLY what she expected of me.
Hateful.
Hateful.
Spiteful.
Vicious.
Up and back.
And she would invite herself along where she wasn’t welcome. If I was going to go out and meet a friend she would insist on coming too. She was weirdly seductive to any lads I hung out with. It was really embarrassing. She would flutter her eyes and behave like a fifteen-year-old girl. I was scared to invite anyone home. So I stopped having friends. Then she would tell me that I was Jonny No Friends, that nobody liked me, and it was a miracle that she allowed me to hang around with her so much.
I put that page down, but before I pick up the next one, I scratch and scrawl all over it. Not just up and back. But round and down and round.
And round. Hard. Fast.
Craters open up.
I carve great holes.
Spots from the geyser land in drips on the writing. The ink smudges. I scrub the drips into his remaining words. The whole page is soggy, unreadable.
Falling apart.
She had all that time to love him.
I’m sorry, Dani. I’m just going on and on. Please forgive me.
Thing is, since I met you, you’ve given me hope. I am in such a dark place. I’m doing it to myself. It’s really all so trivial. So what if my mother was horrible? Get over it. That’s what everyone says. People are so mean. They’re probably right. I don’t know. But I can’t seem to get over it. I can’t seem to get a perspective.
I’ve fallen out of love with everything, with everyone.
I’ve reached a place where there are only lies. There is nothing to trust. And it’s all my fault. When you believe everyone is untrustworthy, even yourself - especially yourself - you can’t get over it.
But you are real, Dani.
Well, more real than anyone I’ve ever met.
And I think you could care about me if I fix up.
And I trust you.
X Fletch.
I read this last page again.
I run my thumb over the words ‘more real than anyone’.
I run my thumb over my lips. They remember his kiss.
Then I text him. Don’t trust me. I’ve lied to you. I run strategies to make me feel better than other people all the time. My Alien laughs at everyone. He laughs at you.
He texts back. Only someone real could text me that.
I text again. I am mad at you. Mostly.
He replies, I probably deserve it.
I reply, OK. I will try to be worthy of your trust.
Fletcher texts. I feel such a mushroom.
I text. Mushroom?
He replies, Reared in the dark and fed shit. That was an attempt to use humour to get a sense of proportion. Ha ha. It’s not even original. It’s second-hand. I heard it somewhere. That’s all I am: second-hand and not funny.
You just accepted the reality your mum gave you.
Why do I obsess about her though?
Maybe you’re still in the dark.
I am?
Outer Space is dark. Maybe there is no waking up.
Maybe it’s a choice, like in The Matrix. Here is the blue pill. Here is the red pill.
You choose.
36
Kerstin visits.
I’m hoping she may have news to tell me. Fletcher would like that.
‘Hi, baby-head,’ she says. ‘How’s tricks?’
It doesn’t seem likely.
I sigh. I don’t know why she bothers. I don’t know why I bother.
‘Anybody cute here? Anybody fanciable?’
‘Everybody here is an addict,’ I say. If she had news, she wouldn’t start on that tack.
Kerstin laughs. She draws in her breath. ‘Yeah, you’re right – you should definitely aim higher.’
‘I don’t know,’ I say.
‘Nonsense,’ she says all briskly. ‘You just haven’t met the right one yet.’
OK. There’s no news. Kerstin wouldn’t be able to wait this long before telling me what a great friend she’s been.
If she had been a great friend.
But I need to make sure. ‘Did you get my email?’ I ask.
‘Darling, I haven’t been able to do anything about all that yet. I’ve been so busy. There’s this new guy I’ve met, called Rod – he’s totally dreamy.’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘That’s nice. But will you be able to?’
‘Yes, yes, of course, darling. I just need to think about it a bit. I hate doing things in a hurry.’
‘Oh. OK. Thanks.’ For some reason I’m surprised. Kerstin normally makes more of a show of being helpful. Especially after her last promises.
‘Now back to you and that special person.’ Kerstin shivers her shoulders as if her special person (presumably Rod) has draped a special-person arm around her and is blowing her special-person kisses. ‘That’s much more important.’
She leans forward and touches my hand. Perhaps she thinks that special-person-ness is catching.
I can already hear the Alien giggling and humming ‘Some Day My Prince Will Come’.
OK. So no news on who I am, or why, or even if . . .
I try to refocus.
I vaguely wonder if everyone believes in THE ONE.
‘There is hope, darling,’ she says.
Bullshit. You’re on your own. Fletcher was so right about that.
‘Your knight in shining armour is out there waiting for you. You just need to believe it.’
No, he’s not. Nobody is coming to save you. There are no heroes. There is no God. There is no meaning. Only you battling with yourself. All alone. And failing. And there is no final revelation that it all added up to anything. There is just this one messed-up life, and that’s it.
And it’s full of Kerstins.
‘You have to believe!’ says Kerstin.
What the hell does she mean? I don’t even bother saying anything. She has got that smile playing over her top lip. That one Fletcher noted about his mum. It means she is getting one over on me. She has taken up residence on Planet Superior. She’s believing in Beauty and Faith and Truth and Wisdom and Meaning and Love and Heroes and Happiness. Whereas I am not.
Anything I say now will sound morose and miserable and moronic. So I offer her a biscuit.
Luckily she accepts.
I hate myself.
I watch as she licks crumbs of a custard cream from the corners of her mouth, as she masticates and reassures herself that she is not the one with the problem.
I guess I should start composing my confessional text in advance. If I can be bothered. Even the thought of scoring a point has lost its appeal today.
I wish I was with Fletcher.
I push the plate at her and say, ‘The Jammie Dodgers are really good.’ Just out of spite. I don’t even want the point. I can almost see her trying to think of a morally elevated spark of wisdom to throw at me.
‘You should really read this book called The Secret,’ she says. ‘Basically, it tells you that the thoughts you send out return to you. You need to believe in a better future for yourself, Dani.’
Kerstin’s tune has subtly changed from ‘Some Day My Prince Will Come’ into an upbeat remix of ‘Every Little Thing Gonna Be All Right’.
‘I’ll bring you a copy next time I come.’
Oh God, so there’s going to be a next time, is there?
‘And look, I’ve written out a list of new aphorisms to keep you going!’
I start wondering how I can possibly discourage her from ever coming again.
‘Just continue saying your aphorisms every morning,’ Kerstin continues. ‘You’re really very pretty, you know.’
I don’t know whether to say ‘thank you’ or thr
ow my cup of coffee at her. Instead my eyes light on the biscuit plate.
Kerstin reaches out for another biscuit without me even suggesting it.
At some level, I start to cheer up. Today might be my lucky day after all.
‘Yes,’ continues Kerstin, ‘once you’ve sorted out this chapter of your life, and have found the Right One, things will be a lot better.’
Wonderful. We are all now characters in The Book of Life. This chapter is entitled Chapter Three: The Teenage Years, In Which Dani Becomes Anorexic and Goes to Rehab Then Cleans Up Her Act and Finds True Love.
I don’t think I want to recover if it means having to believe in all her Real-life Scripts.
There is no Book of Life.
There is no Film of Me.
This is it.
And I think I’m going to be sick.
And that’s just it. That is the problem. If I do recover and I no longer have my Thinness, if I send my Alien off to live for ever in Outer Space without me, I will have to live in a world of Kerstins.
Multiple Kerstins, all promoting their own reality bubbles; all acting like reality isn’t reality, spouting idealisms, playing out their perfect scripts, being better than everyone else, romanticizing their lives.
Real-life Scripts aren’t real life. They’re just ideas that make you feel good. That’s all. Every addict knows about them. They allow you to be morally superior, even when you’re shooting heroin. They’re the ultimate form of denial. The Fletchers of this world have to learn to live without them, learn how to cope with being continually blasted by the Arctic breath of What Is. The Kerstins of this world have to have them to survive.
Hi, I’m Kerstin. I am sane.
I am healthy and it is you who has the problem.
I do not have weaknesses or addictions.
I believe in my Real-life Scripts.
Like:
• Everybody should always be loving and giving.
• We should be kind to everyone, even drug addicts.
• For every girl there is a Mr Right.
Addicts call Real-life Scripts like these Belief Systems.
BS for short.
They’re just another kind of addiction.
