Please Don't Leave Me Here

by Tania Chandler

  She finally sees it right down the back of the car park. As she struggles with the trolley, it seems to get further and further away, as if she’s swimming in deep water, caught in a rip.

  The car is open. She mustn’t have locked it. The Christmas presents she bought earlier are piled on the seat, right there for the taking. She leans against the door, and takes a few shallow breaths before throwing the groceries in the back.

  ‘Found it.’ Kurt climbs into the passenger seat.

  She backs out, and slams on the breaks when she hears a metallic crash. Shit. She looks in the rear-vision mirror — it’s just the trolley where she left it behind the car. She slides the gear into ‘Park’, and turns to Kurt, but it’s not Kurt anymore. It’s the serpent, the dream tattoo. It tries to slither away through the passenger-side window, but she grabs it by the tail. Its scales shatter into a million shards of blue-and-green glass. She rests her face on the steering wheel. The horn beeps, and she covers her ears, unable to stand the pain from the noise reverberating in her head. When she looks up, a woman in a white dress embroidered with little sunflowers frowns at her as she opens her car in the parking space opposite.

  Brigitte leans her head on the wheel again, careful of the horn this time.

  She jumps at the sound of tapping on the window. God, how did Sunflower Dress Woman get here so quickly? Brigitte winds down her window.

  ‘Are you alright?’ the woman asks.

  ‘Yep. Fine, thanks.’ Brigitte forces a tight smile. Everything’s just fine, unless you count Kurt Cobain and a big green sea serpent driving around with you in your car. Oh, and your husband being stabbed when he tried to help somebody, his lungs filling with his own blood, drowning him — because he knew what you did, and he wasn’t concentrating.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’ She smiles and grits her teeth. Now please go away.

  At home, she leaves the shopping bags scattered across the kitchen floor. She needs to sit down, lie down, sleep and sleep.

  She rings Ryan, and asks him to bring the twins home from kinder.

  ‘Are you all right, Brigi?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘You don’t sound all right.’

  ‘Just tired.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘I just need to rest.’

  ‘Nothing’s happened, has it? What time will Aidan be home?’

  ‘How should I know? I have to lie down now, Ryan. I’ve got a migraine.’ She hangs up.

  Ryan’s looking down at her on the couch. She can’t remember letting him in. She’s lost some more time. The kids are running around his legs. He seems slightly faded, like a photocopy of himself. She sits up, tries to stand, but it hurts too much. She asks Ryan to pass her handbag — her painkillers are in there.

  ‘How many have you had today?’

  She doesn’t answer.

  He tells the kids to go play outside. When they’ve gone, he says he knows a good doctor, and he’s made an appointment for her tomorrow afternoon. He’ll come with her.

  ‘I’m not going to the doctor, Ryan.’ She puts her hands on her knees and pushes herself up, taking a while to straighten out.

  ‘I was just saying to Rosie that it might be nice for the twins to come and stay with us for a while.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘It’s been a tough year, Brigi.’

  She shakes her head. ‘Don’t be stupid. I’m fine. Just a sore back.’

  ‘There are ways to make it not your choice. I don’t want to have to do that, but I’ve been talking to Aidan—’

  ‘I’m scared of him, Ryan.’ She grasps handfuls of his shirt, widens her eyes. ‘Sometimes he comes into the house and …’ She looks up into his eyes, and sees the truth. Why didn’t she realise it before? Ryan’s working with Aidan. A police informant. She’s going to have to be very careful from now on. She lets go of his shirt, and takes a step backwards.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she says. ‘And some cake?’

  He raises his eyebrows.

  ‘I made a cake.’

  ‘Yes, Aidan mentioned you’d been doing some baking.’

  She smiles, tilts her head, and blinks.

  ‘I’m staying here until we sort something out, Brigi.’

  She looks at the floor, bites her top lip, looks back up at him, and says, ‘OK, I’ll go to the doctor with you tomorrow.’ She and Kurt will be far away by then. She turns and heads towards the kitchen to put the kettle on.

  21

  ‘Where are we going?’ Kurt says from the passenger seat.

  ‘Carlton.’

  ‘I thought we were going on a road trip.’

  ‘We are.’ But first she has to renew the car registration, which is about to expire. She doesn’t want to be pulled over by the stupid police in an unregistered vehicle.

  ‘Who are you talking to, Mummy?’ Phoebe says from the back seat.

  They weave their way through the congested traffic in Lygon Street. The wipers struggle with the steamy rain pouring onto the windscreen. Brigitte wipes away the condensation with the back of her hand. She squints and concentrates hard, struggling with cotton-wool vision and another migraine cranking up in her right temple.

  ‘I’ll wait in the car,’ Kurt says when they get there.

  She parks askew, half-in, half-out of a parking space. She rushes — in slow motion, deep-water running — through the rain into the VicRoads office with the twins, their jackets over their heads.

  They climb the bureaucracy-brown stairs to the first floor. Lame Christmas decorations are draped around the walls. It smells of sweat and something sweet like old-fashioned carbon paper, plastic, and petrol. She takes a number from the machine.

  ‘Thanks, Marco.’ A woman behind a counter collects some paperwork from a man in an RACV Drive School shirt.

  ‘Okey-dokey. Have a good Christmas.’ Marco, the driving instructor, turns, looks at Brigitte, and tries to hold her gaze, but she averts her eyes. He walks away, scratching his neck.

  The room spins. There’s not enough air. She can’t breathe.

  ‘What’s wrong, Mummy?’

  She stumbles towards the row of skinny red chairs. She’s not going to make it. She’s falling. It’s lucky Kurt’s here to catch her. She thought he was waiting in the car.

  She makes Finn and Phoebe promise not to tell Aidan or Uncle Ryan about Mummy ‘fainting’ at the rego place if she lets them eat potato chips and watch The Snow Queen on TV. They eat all the chips, get bored with the movie, and go outside to play.

  The pain pulsing through her body verges on unbearable. She runs a shower, and stands under scalding water until the skin on her back is redder than sunburn, but the pain persists. She can’t stand it. Better increase the meds again.

  She looks out the bathroom window as she dries herself. Finn and Phoebe have taken off their clothes, and are rampaging in the warm rain — swinging on the clothesline, and pulling plants out of the garden.

  Brigitte dresses, and drags the big suitcase from her bedroom cupboard to the lounge room. She opens a bottle of wine, and starts packing. She’s distracted by the blank TV screen. Her reflection seems different: older, thinner. She walks over and stares at it, bends to look closer, and sees it’s fading. Disappearing?

  ‘Where’s Mummy?’ Aidan’s deep, soothing voice in the backyard carries through the open window. Oh, no. Why is he home so early?

  ‘Resting,’ Finn says. ‘You want to play with us?’

  ‘Uncle Ryan’s coming over soon to take Mummy out for a little while, so we can play then. But first I’ve gotta get something out of the car for you.’

  ‘When you going back to live with your wife?’ Phoebe says.

  A pause. ‘Did your mum
tell you that?’

  ‘When you going back?’

  ‘When hell freezes over.’

  Finn giggles.

  ‘What that means, Aidan?’ Phoebe says.

  ‘It means never. My wife and I changed our minds.’

  ‘So you can stay!’

  ‘No, I’ve still gotta go. When your mum’s feeling a bit better. Now if you guys get dressed, I’ll go get this present.’

  The side gate squeaks, the twins giggle, a dog barks.

  Inside the house, Kurt beckons to Brigitte. ‘Hurry up,’ he says. ‘It’s time to go.’ But she hasn’t finished packing. She takes the bottle of Johnnie Walker from the kitchen cupboard, follows him to the bedroom, and locks the door behind her.

  Kurt sits next to her on the bed. She washes down a sleeping tablet with the whisky.

  ‘We’re not going on a road trip, are we?’

  Kurt shakes his head. ‘Take some more.’

  ‘Don’t listen to him.’ The man in the top hat and tails on the Johnnie Walker label is talking to her now.

  ‘I’m so tired, I miss Sam, and I can’t stand this pain anymore.’

  ‘Go to Ryan’s doctor, see a counsellor, get your back fixed,’ says Johnnie Walker.

  She and Kurt laugh.

  ‘Stop it, Brigitte, you’re hallucinating.’ Johnnie Walker’s getting annoyed.

  ‘No.’ She taps the bottle with a chewed-to-the-quick fingernail. ‘I know you. I remember you.’

  Kurt gestures with his chin towards the pills on the bedside table. She swallows another one. Johnnie Walker’s really agitated now. ‘How could anybody leave their babies?’ he says.

  She looks closely at the bottle and says, ‘I don’t know. Maybe, sometimes, you don’t have a choice.’ Or is that Kurt speaking?

  ‘You’re stronger than this.’

  ‘No, I’m not, Johnnie Walker.’ She turns the bottle around so she can’t see him anymore. She washes down more pills, lies on the bed, and closes her eyes.

  Kurt lies beside her and holds her hand. ‘It was an accident, you know. Most suicides are.’

  What? This is not suicide. This is just resting.

  ‘Mummy, Mummy,’ Finn yells as he stomps down the hallway, looking for his mother. ‘Aidan got us a puppy!’

  Brigitte barely hears. She’s already too far away, free from pain — chasing Kurt down the corridor, past the row of empty seats, the fish tank, and up a flight of stairs. She finds him in a grey room, in front of a cold, empty fireplace. The smell of cinnamon and bergamot fills the air. He’s wearing the brown sweater, holding a shotgun. It’s too late. The sound of a single shot shatters the silence. But it’s not Kurt in the brown sweater. It never was. And it’s Brigitte with the shotgun in her mouth.

  PART II

  1994: About a Girl

  22

  She opens her dream-heavy eyes, and is confused about where she is for a moment. Light seeps through the timber blind-slats, cutting patterns on the white sheets.

  She drags herself out of bed, follows the light stripes to the French windows, and fumbles with the latch. Traffic hums, a lawn mower buzzes in the gardens across the road, the smell of cut grass drifts into the apartment.

  Eric has left the TV going in the lounge room. American daytime crap — Entertainment Tonight. Why is that even on during the day? She can see the screen from the kitchen, over the breakfast bar, as she makes coffee.

  She knocks the plunger and burns her hand when a news flash announces that Kurt Cobain has been found dead, having shot himself. Get out! No fucking way! She comes around the breakfast bar and stares at the TV, cup in hand, mouth open. Footage shows a police car parked outside a grey, rain-smudged house in Seattle.

  Back in the kitchen, she runs cold water over her burnt hand. What could have been so bad for Cobain to make him do this? She doesn’t really care, but for sure today will be one of those days when everybody remembers where they were — like old people talk about JFK and John Lennon.

  The phone rings. She turns off the tap and stretches for the receiver on the wall. It’s Nana, in tears — that handsome grungy singer has shot himself. How does she even know who Kurt Cobain is? There’s a knock at the door. Why isn’t the intercom working? She tells Nana she’ll ring her back later.

  She steps over a packing box, scrapes her shin on the edge of it, unlocks the door, and opens it a crack.

  ‘Hi. I’m Sean, the caretaker. Just making sure you’re settling in OK.’

  Eric never mentioned a caretaker. He looks pretty old — not as old as Eric, but late twenties, maybe thirty. He’s dressed in black trousers and a white shirt that could do with an iron. His reddish-blond hair sticks up on one side of his head. His green eyes are sad, red-rimmed, as if he’s been crying. She opens the door a bit further, and a grin wipes away some of his sadness — probably because it’s afternoon and she’s still in her Minnie Mouse pyjamas.

  ‘I’m just going down the shop. Can I get you anything?’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘I’ll get you a coffee.’

  ‘No, I’m just making …’ She glances at the spilt coffee on the bench top. ‘OK, sure, whatever.’ Just go away and stop looking at my pyjamas.

  She locks the door, showers quickly, and throws on some clothes before he comes back with her coffee. And one for himself. That’s unusual, but he seems all right, harmless.

  ‘Got you a flat white. Is that OK?’

  ‘Perfect. Thanks. How much do I owe you?’

  ‘My shout.’ He looks at his shoes — the toes are scuffed.

  ‘Is everything OK?’ She sips her coffee. It’s too hot and burns her lip. She winces, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

  He sighs. ‘Sorry, I don’t normally bother tenants, but I’m just so shaken up. Have you heard? About Kurt?’

  ‘Kurt Cobain?’

  He nods. ‘He was my hero. His songs were, like, my life, my feelings — I dunno. He just knew how to say stuff in his songs. I can’t believe he’s gone. Did you like him?’

  Surely it doesn’t look like grunge is her thing. Probably today it does — old jeans and T-shirt, no make-up. ‘Actually, I haven’t really listened to his music so …’

  ‘You have to. I’ll bring you some Nirvana CDs.’

  Great. She can’t wait.

  ‘Sorry, what was your name?’

  ‘Brigitte.’

  ‘Right-o. Better get back to work then, Brigitte. Let me know if you need anything.’

  She nods.

  ‘And, Brigitte.’

  ‘Yes, Sean?’

  ‘Light a candle for Kurt, OK?’

  ‘Sure.’ She locks the door behind him.

  It’s a ten-minute walk to work. The cool darkness of the Gold Bar wraps around her like a security blanket. She pulls back her shoulders, sticks out her breasts, and swings her hips as she leaves stupid, awkward Brigitte at the door, and sexy, confident Pagan takes over.

  Downstairs, her pseudo family is busy getting ready for the night shift: waiting for the middle-aged men whose wives don’t understand them. Hannah, the housemother — ex-dancer, blonde, expensively groomed — is walking around with a clipboard, checking the roster. Al, the manager — ex-boxer, balding, black Italian suit — is looking over Hannah’s shoulder, complaining about something, as usual. Brigitte hands him a shopping bag containing a brick-sized package from Eric, and that cheers him up.

  Ember — aka Jennifer, Brigitte’s former housemate — is dancing around the pool table next to the bar, singing ‘I Believe in Malcolm’ to the Hot Chocolate song throbbing through the speakers. How many times does Brigitte have to tell her it’s miracles?

  She asks Ember where Crystal and Angelique are. She thought they were rostered on tonight.
>
  ‘Gone up to King Street,’ Ember says. ‘Reckon the girls are earning more money up there.’

  ‘Yeah, but they’re doing more than just dancing. Al says they’re giving punters blow jobs in the back room at the Platinum Club.’

  ‘Dunno. Probably.’ Ember shrugs, and dances off.

  Tim, the bartender, pours Brigitte a glass of champagne with a dash of raspberry cordial.

  ‘Thanks. Saw you in the Hungry Jacks ad.’

  ‘It’s just a start. My agent’s lined up an audition for a film role.’ He smiles as he cuts a lemon into slices.

  ‘Good luck.’ She nods and sips her drink.

  ‘You’re supposed to say break a leg, Pagan.’

  ‘I should know that. My brother’s an actor.’

  ‘Really?’ He looks up. ‘Who’s his agent?

  ‘He’s at NIDA.’

  ‘Lucky him.’ Tim frowns, and goes back to slicing lemons.

  She takes her drink to the dressing room. It’s always freezing out here. The dancers warm themselves with alcohol and the hand dryer. Scarlett is doing her make-up, and Paris, a new girl, is hiding in the corner shooting up. She won’t last long here. Brigitte plops her bag on the bench under the old theatre mirror with light globes around the edges. She undresses, then pulls on a silver-sequined bra and G-string, and squirms into a white dress that barely covers the tops of her thighs.

  Scarlett looks up from her lipstick and says that Al says he saw Rita again last night. After closing. Rita is the resident ghost — apparently a dancer who was murdered at the Gold Bar back when it was a cabaret. ‘He reckons the cigarette machine started up by itself. A pack of smokes popped out, and then he saw a shadow on the ground.’

  ‘Al drinks too much at closing time.’ Brigitte makes a ghost noise, and laughs as she slides her silver stilettos on.

  There are only a few punters around when she climbs onto her first podium for the night. ‘Raspberry Beret’: the DJ knows that Prince is her favourite. Her dress glows under the UV black lights. One guy — business suit — comes over to watch. He takes off his coat and covers his groin with it. His cigarette smoke hangs in a grey cloud, trapped in the dingy air. He waves a five-dollar note at her, but it’s going to take a hell of a lot more than that. She swings around the pole, muscles flexing, the beat of the music pulsing through her body. When the punter holds up a fifty, she smiles down at him and blinks a slow blink, her eyelashes a stage-curtain coming down. She’s in control up here, powerful, safe, where no one is allowed to touch her. She kneels in front of him, takes the money, folds it neatly, and places it under her garter belt. The beauty queens don’t make the most. To do well you have to master the art of tease. Move hypnotically, slowly … slither — until he imagines he is the pole and you are making love to him. It’s all done with the eyes. Removal of clothing is secondary. Once you capture him with your eyes, you can make him slip half his week’s pay into your garter belt without thinking. Then your ten-minute set finishes, you dress, and you leave him sitting at the podium. Empty. Until the next dancer comes along.