by PJ Vye
“I don’t know—”
“So, if you could find that phone, that would be great. I really need to borrow it.”
“I can’t make any promises—”
He passed her the guitar. “I’d love to hear some of those songs you wrote. The one’s you’re too embarrassed to share with anyone. Those are the ones I want to hear, okay?”
She nodded mutely and Mataio left the room, closing the door behind him. Sunny needed medical intervention and he was ethically obliged to do all he could. And it was allowed according to Rule No. 10—Community Service. He just needed to be careful. Very careful.
Eight
SUNNY
Sunny stayed sitting on the couch after he left, and continued to sit and stare at the wall for a good time after that. What just happened? For nearly twelve months the man had been nothing but rude and antisocial. The day he’d moved in, she and Judd had knocked on this guy’s door—which wasn’t actually a door but a garage roller door that rattled annoyingly every time he came in and out—introduced themselves and told him which day to put the bin out. He’d nodded curtly, uttered a muted thanks and started rolling the door back down while they stood with their mouths still open. She’d tried a second time to connect with him a few weeks later—once he’d settled in. He’d been carrying an enormous box— balancing it on his shoulder, holding the handle of a large empty pet cage with the other hand. Sure, he looked busy, but it was a Friday and she invited him in for a drink. He barely even registered she’d spoken. She’d complained to Judd about it and he’d comforted her, saying the man must be a prick and ‘what right did he have to be so arrogant?’ Judd made her feel safe when he took her side so unconditionally.
The landlord had said an Islander was renting the warehouse downstairs as a workshop but didn’t say he would be living there. Part of the attraction of this apartment had been it wasn’t in a residential area, Judd craved the peace and quiet— ‘imagine it, Sunny’ he’d said. No barking dogs and loud kids playing in the street. Peace and quiet was a joke. At least it was when Judd was home. But he paid the rent and so she didn’t feel she had much say in it. It turned out that being in an industrial area meant once business hours were over and everyone went home, Judd could yell abuse at her louder without anyone in ear shot to call the cops. Anyone except their downstairs neighbour. Judd just assumed the type of man who lived in a warehouse without a kitchen or proper bathroom wouldn’t care anyway, or have much of an opinion, so he didn’t need to adjust his behaviour for the Islander downstairs. Turned out Judd was right. Not once had their neighbour asked how she was, or why they fought, or made any kind of judgement at all. She liked to assume he couldn’t hear. The only thing she ever heard from below was the roller door, so it was likely the floor/ceiling was well insulated, and he had no idea what was happening. Or maybe he heard but thought Judd was reasonable with his demands and opinions.
Now, it turned out, he’d heard her sing and play the violin, so he must have heard the arguments and the screams and the crying as well. Heard them and did nothing. Said nothing.
If he’d reached out to her before now, would it have changed anything? All these months, she could have done with a friend. When a single, kind word might have prevented this terrible spiral of self-hatred. Too late. He was too late. Sunny would ignore him when he came back tonight. She’d tell him she wasn’t feeling well. Which was true. She really wasn’t well. She knew that. She knew it and embraced it. Owned it. Married it. It was the only peaceful thought in her brain she liked. It would be over soon. As soon as she was brave enough. Mat was too late. She’d be lousy company and who’d want to be friends with a fat, unmotivated, untalented, unemployed musician turned depressive masseuse anyway.
Mat had smiled at her today. He never smiled. Did he feel sorry for her? Could he tell what she was planning? Was it that obvious? Absently, she picked up a plate, stacked a few pieces of broken glass on it and scraped it into the bin. Mat was a medical doctor. A hot, young, single professional man lived beneath her and it had taken her twelve months to get his attention. If she’d known all it took was a messy apartment and semi-comatose mental state, she might have done it sooner. Maybe she hadn’t lost her touch after all? There was a time she’d been hired for her looks. A time when a tall, 50kg twenty-year-old violinist with long blonde hair and a nicely symmetrical face could get a gig on a British music television show miming along to a reality singing competition and not think twice.
She knew she’d been pretty then. She knew her job depended on it. But even that couldn’t keep the weight off.
Sunny bent down to collect some clothing from the floor and almost toppled over. Everything was harder with a circle of fat around your middle. Everything. She gathered all the clothing and dirty towels she could find and carried them to the laundry. She stacked a load into the tub, shoving the white bras in with the black jeans, not caring a bit. She reached for the laundry detergent and realised she was out. The whole reason she’d stopped doing the laundry. She filled the kitchen sink with water and a squirt of dishwasher detergent, then inspired, she took the dish detergent into the laundry and gave it a good squeeze. Detergent was detergent right? She checked the label. At least the clothes would smell like lemony goodness.
She had to stop washing twice to clear the dishes piled on the draining rack. The dish water was warm and calming and she felt her shoulders release a thread of tension. Having the lounge room free of clothing and dishes cleared her head and she had an overwhelming urge to take a bath. A warm, long soak. She turned the taps and sat on the edge as it filled. When the temperature was right, she pulled off her pyjamas and stepped inside. The warmth spread around her feet like a blanket and she couldn’t believe the simple pleasure of it. As she got used to the heat around her legs she sat down. Her legs were long, and the bath was small, and she felt cramped, her stomach rolled into a large shaped sausage, floating above the surface of the water, her legs covered in long brown uncaring hairs. She couldn’t bear to sit and look at herself and stepped out and ran the shower instead. Why had Mat smiled? Clearly, he had his own issues. He had no friends either. None that she ever saw. He was introverted too. Another thing in common. Maybe he smiled because he was planning the same thing as her.
Her curiosity devoured her as she washed her hair, pulled a soggy cracker from it and watched it disintegrate into the drain. What could it hurt to have a conversation with the man before she did it? The numbness continued, but there was something else. A vague interest she hadn’t felt in a long time. She’d have to be careful he didn’t guess her plans, or he might try and stop her. She’d pretend to be well so that he’d go back to leaving her alone and not caring about anything other than what happened inside his little warehouse. And, she justified, she really felt like pizza.
She dried herself off, wrapped a towel around her breasts and tried not to notice how it didn’t quite cover her legs anymore. She put on a skirt that didn’t sit the way it used to and an oversized blouse that wasn’t so oversized and went in search of her phone.
Nine
SUNNY
Sunny heard a knock on the door at precisely 7pm and stood to let the doctor in. Sadly, he arrived empty handed. “You came over for dinner and you didn’t bring wine?”
“I don’t drink.”
“Yeah, but I do.”
“Weren’t you coming back from the liquor store the other day when I left? I thought you had plenty.”
“Well, you thought wrong.” Sunny hadn’t been out of the house since that day, and she’d drunk everything in the house. Including the beer samples she’d been given months ago. She hated beer. The liquor shop was less than a kilometre down the road, but that seemed more like a desert trek than a short walk to the shops. She couldn’t even get her shoes on, let alone walk there. The yearning for alcohol wasn’t as strong as the yearning to lay on her couch and not move.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll order some wine when we order the pizza
delivery.”
“Pizza delivery don’t do wine.”
He frowned. “Well, they should. It makes sense.”
“You’re right. It does. Why don’t you walk down to the liquor store? I’ll pay.” Sunny picked up her wallet to pull out some notes and he saw her phone.
“Oh, you found it. Do you mind if I make a call?”
“Sure, go ahead.” She’d give him anything if he’d run to the shops for her, so she unlocked it and handed it over. Maybe he’d agree to grab some bread, too. And maybe some potato chips.
Mataio turned his back to her slightly but raised his voice to be heard. “Yes, Aunt. Take down the number you see on the phone. Yes, you can call me anytime.”
Mataio turned back and explained himself to Sunny. “She’s writing down your number. Hope that’s okay?”
Sunny nodded but at the same time cursed him. She better not have to run messages back and forth. No amount of pizza or wine would make up for disturbing her private misery.
He sensed her concern and spoke into the phone, “Actually, only for emergencies okay, Aunt? I’ll be back tomorrow.” He looked up at Sunny and said, “Or maybe the day after.”
Jeepers. A girl with a more positive frame of mind might interpret that as being hit-on. A sensation she hardly recognised nudged up her spine—it’d been so long since she’d felt anything but heavy fog.
“Just keep giving him the syringes, like I showed you.” He hung up the phone and then dialled for a pizza, asking Sunny what toppings she wanted. He gave the address and seemed perplexed when they asked him if he’d need change, like he’d never ordered a pizza before. Eventually he passed the phone back and gazed around the room for the first time.
“This place looks different. What did you do?”
“I tidied up a bit.”
“Other than that.” He smiled again and Sunny thought she might start keeping score. Something given so rarely seemed so precious. “And vacuumed.”
His offer of walking to the shops seemed to be forgotten and she lost the inclination to ask again. He stood awkwardly, waiting. “You want to sit down?” The words sounded friendly but inside a sudden feeling of helplessness took over, and she wished he’d say ‘no’ and go home. He walked over to the couch and sat, and she followed him, choosing to sit on the corner of a chair.
“So, you’re a doctor?” Small talk. The last thing in the world she felt like was meaningless small talk. She checked her watch. How long would a pizza take at 7pm on a…what night of the week was it? …Friday night. A long time, probably. She sighed and didn’t try to hide the sound. She didn’t want company. She didn’t want to hear his story. She certainly didn’t want to share her own. She didn’t even want the pizza that badly.
Mataio didn’t answer. Instead, he studied her, with his head slightly bent. Last week, when she’d made her final decision to end it, the awareness had consumed her entire body—so it wasn’t hard to believe he could sense it in her now. Every part of her screamed the simple answer to all her problems, and he’d read her like a sad, sorry blog.
“Actually, I’m not all that hungry,” she announced. “I’m not feeling well. Why don’t you take my phone with you. I’m tired. I need to lie down. Do you mind?” She stood and waited for him to do the same.
He didn’t.
“Mat, I’m not well.”
He nodded like he understood, but still didn’t move.
“I’ll get the pizza guy to send it down to you.” Why wasn’t he moving?
“Mat?” She felt tears rising and put her hands on her hips to try and counteract. “Do you mind leaving?”
He finally stood and she led the way to her door. When she turned she saw he hadn’t followed her. Instead he’d moved to the opposite side of the room, picked up her guitar and sat back down. “Mat?”
He began to strum a funky, rhythmic beat. It sounded so good it was hard to believe it was just one instrument and not an entire band. He plucked a bass line on the lower strings, off-beat chords with the upper and tapped the strings like a drum. Then, quietly like only he could hear, he began to sing, with a warm thick voice—the sound of chocolate—if chocolate had perfect pitch. She didn’t recognise the song, but he knew it well and she couldn’t look away. The concentrated joy on his face, like he held the most precious thing in his hands. Each touch of the strings felt like they connected somehow.
A sudden, enraged and powerful feeling of jealously came over her. Like the music was an ex-lover and Mat was now in the relationship. Sunny didn’t want it, but she didn’t want anyone else to have it either. The urge to take the instrument off him was primitive. Music had been her love, her life, her partner. She used to love it the way Mat loved it at this moment. He loved it unconditionally. Her love had been conditional, and music hadn’t loved her back when she’d grown too ugly to perform it the way she used to.
She stood at the door and called to him, but he kept playing, like he hadn’t heard. She stomped across the room and lifted the guitar from his hands, mid strum. He still didn’t move as she willed him to leave with her glare. Her glare could move people out of a waiting line. Her glare could stop a person reaching for the last cold soda. Her glare could stop her father from asking questions about her relationship. But her glare failed her now. Mat met it, big brown eyes surrounded with lines of concern.
She saw it then. He knew. And he wasn’t going anywhere.
Tears threatened but she held his focus. This had nothing to do with him. Nothing. He had no right to interfere with her choice. She felt her heart pound and saw his cheek twitch.
An annoying sound echoed in the room and she looked down at the guitar to check he wasn’t somehow mastering the strings with his mind. It lay still in her hands.
“Sunny. Your computer is ringing,” he said, his voice quiet and deep, just like his singing voice. “You should answer it.”
She gave him one final scowl before turning to look at the screen. It would be her dad. He’d been calling every day. She hadn’t answered in a week.
“I’m not well, Mat. Won’t you listen to me? I need you to leave.”
“You should answer it. Is that your dad?” He indicated the flashing photo on the screen and watched it a minute. She thought he might answer it himself and quickly slammed the laptop shut, ending the annoying jingle, the sudden silence making the air feel cold. She shivered. “He’s on holidays. In Spain.”
“Why don’t you talk to him now? I’ll wait.”
“Mat. I just want to be alone. Do you mind? You’re not picking up the signals here. Thanks for the offer, but like I said, I’m not well. Please can you leave?”
“Why won’t you talk to him, Sunny?”
Maybe the only way to get rid of him was to give him the answer he was looking for. “He’ll know I’m unhappy and it will spoil his holiday.”
“Maybe if you talk to him, it will help.”
“I know him. I’m an only child. If I tell him, he’ll cut his holiday short and be on the first plane here. That’s not what I want.”
Sunny understood what Mat was trying to do. If she talked to her dad, she would be his responsibility and he’d be off the hook. He could go back to his normal life guilt free and forget all about her.
But she wouldn’t do that again to her dad. Her father was a tiler and had always been desperate to see the Alhambra. This was his third attempt at a holiday in Spain—the previous two attempts stalled because of her. Four years ago, she’d got her first studio gig on Great Britain Idol and she’d begged him to postpone so he could see her on television. Two days before he was set to fly off the second time, she’d came down with adult measles and spent a week in hospital. Now, two years later, he would get his vacation no matter what. He was two weeks in. She only had to wait another fortnight.
“I don’t know much about parenting, but not answering his calls probably doesn’t do much for his enjoyment. Won’t he be worried? How long have you not been answering his calls?”
“I’ll wait. Tell him you can’t Skype right now because you’ve got a friend over.”
“Are you kidding me? That would make him worry more. I have a boyfriend you know.” The words were out before she could edit, and her face turned hot and she looked away.
He didn’t seem to notice her embarrassment. “Should your dad be worried?” he asked.
“About what? You?” She picked up a dishcloth and wiped the already clean counter.
“Sunny—”
“Can you write prescriptions?”
His mouth shut and his eyes narrowed.
She weighed up telling him. Tell him she couldn’t see any happiness ahead. Let him hear the awful truth and watch the pity spread across his face. But what good was talking? It never stopped the pain. It was time for action. Time to stop the blackness ahead. What could he do about it? He couldn’t stop her. He had no authority over her. He was virtually a stranger. If he already suspected what she was planning, how could it hurt to be honest? Why not just tell him? “I get migraines. Can you give me something for that?”
“Migraines? Is that what you call it?”
“Actually. I plan to kill myself in two weeks and two days. Can you give me anything to help with that?”
He flinched, liked she’d slapped him, but he recovered quickly and returned his face to what she supposed was his impassive doctor expression.
“I—”
The doorbell rang.
Rule No. 3
Eat Only To Survive
Ten
MATAIO
47 days to go
She said it so matter-of-factly, Mataio thought she might be joking. Yet wasn’t he, all afternoon, thinking the exact same thing? How could she be so blasé?
