Please Don't Leave Me Here

by Tania Chandler

  The apartment stinks: Juicy Fruit, a mountain of dishes piled up on the sink, the ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts, empty wine bottles on the table. Eric is sitting on the sofa, beneath his David Boyd, gazing at the cricket match on TV. The glow from the screen casts an unearthly sheen on his face.

  ‘Where’ve you been, Pet?’ His voice is strangely placid, with an edge of something else. She hasn’t heard this tone before, and the sound of it prickles her skin. She can’t find her voice to answer.

  She forgot her duffle bag at Matt’s — all her stuff is still there. He said he loves her. It’s not too late. She glances at the door.

  ‘Asked you a question.’ Eric flicks off the TV with the remote control, and heaves himself off the sofa. He pulls the window shut, and latches it. He turns and sways a little as he lumbers towards her. Drunk? Stoned? Both? His eyes are red and watery.

  Her heart rebounds from her stomach to her throat, and her palms are sweaty ice — the fight-or-flight response. Before apes evolved into humans, sweaty palms helped them to grip the ground as they ‘flew’ from danger. Brigitte doesn’t ‘fly’ — she just stands there, nodding slowly, halfway between the door and the breakfast bar.

  ‘For me?’ Eric takes the champagne from her handbag, peels off the brown paper bag, reads the label. ‘Moet et Chandon. You shouldn’t have.’ With the fastest action she’s ever seen him make, he smashes the bottle against the breakfast bar. A spray of champagne and glass fragments glitters in the air. She closes her eyes and winces as a shard grazes her cheek. When she opens her eyes, Eric lunges at her, gashing her forehead with the broken bottle. She closes her eyes again, and feels warmth but not pain. Not yet. Another fight-or-flight effect is a decrease in pain response, kind of like an emergency anaesthetic. Was it Doctor O’Meara who told her all this?

  ‘Not so beautiful now,’ Eric says. ‘He won’t want you anymore. Nobody will.’

  He backs her into the corner near the door. The moment seems to freeze in time: a photograph, a snap shot in her head. And then a movie trailer: all the fun at the start when Eric picked her out at the Gold Bar, so glamorous. She pretended to be somebody special, swanning around in her designer outfits, imagining how proud Joan would be. Even when he hit her it wasn’t that bad. Not fun now. Not so glamorous as blood runs down her face, stinging her eyes, tasting salty in her mouth. It’s going to drip, and stain her dress. The apartment is all red.

  Every muscle in her body tenses — steeled for what is to come. Her foot, in its backless sandal, scrapes against the iron doorstop. It feels cold and smooth, and suddenly comforting.

  Eric lifts a handful of blood-soaked hair off her face, tenderly pushes it behind her ear, and says, ‘When I’m finished with you I’m gunna go visit your boyfriend in Brunswick Street.’ He unzips his jeans and puts his hands on her shoulders.

  No, he’s not going to finish with her, and he’s not going to visit Matt — she’s never been more certain of anything in her life. The fight-or-flight response also produces extra strength. She summons all she’s got to smash her good knee into Eric’s groin.

  ‘Fuck!’ He recoils, doubling over. ‘Bitch!’

  Everything starts to fade to a sepia haze, but Brigitte has just enough time, before she loses consciousness, to reach behind her, lift up the doorstop, and bring it down. It makes surprisingly little noise — a pulpy squelch, a smashed melon sound — against the bald patch on top of Eric’s head.

  ***

  The sound of the phone rings through the fog in her head. Matt? No, he doesn’t have the landline number. She tries to stand, can’t, falls to her hands and knees, and crawls to the phone. The pain in her head makes her want to scream, but she can’t make a sound — her mouth is too dry, and tastes of metal. Oh God, the baby? She can’t be sure, but it feels OK — still there. It’s only her head that hurts. The smell of cigarettes and stale alcohol makes her dry retch.

  It’s 7.30pm on the VCR clock. She reaches up, fumbles with the phone receiver, and pulls it to the floor so she can lie down. It takes her two attempts to speak. ‘Hello.’ That rasp can’t be her voice.

  It’s some detective calling for Eric.

  ‘Eric’s not here.’

  ‘Tell him I’m very sorry to hear about the cancelled concert tour. And I’ll see him in the morning.’

  As soon as she hangs up, the phone rings again.

  ‘Ms Bardot?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Brigitte, it’s Richard Headley from Lipgloss Promotions.’

  ‘Richard?’

  ‘Just wondering about your availability for some barmaid training at a hotel in Collingwood this evening.’

  The room spins.

  ‘It’s paid training.’

  She closes her eyes, but it’s still spinning.

  ‘You can keep your underwear on, but at the end of the shift the punters usually pass around a hat for new girls if they take off their bra.’

  ‘Sorry, Richard.’ Her voice sounds as if it’s coming from far away. ‘I’m not feeling very well.’

  ‘Never mind. I’ll give you another call next week.’

  She coughs.

  ‘Hope you feel better. Take care.’

  There’s blood all over the receiver. Hers? She leaves the phone bleeping off the hook, and passes out on the floor.

  47

  It’s dark when she wakes — barely morning, so there are no traffic noises from the street. A big lump lies on the floor near the door; she sees it out of the corner of her eye, and avoids looking directly at it.

  In the bathroom, Eric’s Clarins For Men range is lined up neatly against the mirror. Brigitte vomits in the sink when she sees her reflection.

  Ignoring the mirror, she slips off her blood-soaked dress, takes a Valium, and runs the shower. She stands under the water for a long time, scrubs her hands, her nails, her body, and brushes her teeth. Foam runs pink down the drain as she shampoos her hair. She works conditioner through the ends, and dabs gingerly at the gash on her forehead. Strange little sobs rise from her abdomen and shake her whole body as she combs and rinses.

  The fluffiness of a big, white towel against her skin is comforting. The normality of it steadies her, and she buries her face in it for a moment; it comes away red.

  She ties her hair back in a ponytail. The wound on her forehead looks serious, deep; it won’t stop bleeding. She covers it with a big sticking plaster, and pulls on a shirt long enough to cover the button on her jeans that she can no longer fasten.

  She puts on rubber gloves, and wipes away all her blood and fingerprints from surfaces. When she’s finished cleaning, she fills a couple of garbage bags with the gloves, cleaning cloths, her dancing costumes, the last of her clothes, and her Chanel dress. She throws a blanket over the lump on the floor and walks around it. Her fingers fumble for the snib on the door, and she recoils as if it’s charged with electricity. She hadn’t locked it — anybody could have walked in.

  She has a quick look around as she carries the bags out to the bins. Sean’s not in yet. None of her neighbours are up. And so what if they were? It’s rubbish day; she’s just taking out the rubbish.

  Back inside, she shakes so much it’s hard to turn on the kitchen tap to wash her hands. Her fingers are numb.

  She walks through the apartment. All her stuff is gone. It’s as if she was never here, except for the Lovers leaning against the wall in the walk-in robe. She slides Eric’s shirts along the rack so she can see it clearly. A dream? A memory? A ghost? The little sobs start again. It’s just today, one day to get through, she tells herself. Tomorrow will be better, and the day after that, and the day after that. And there’ll come a moment in a day, in a year, sometime far away, when she won’t remember this. She’ll make herself forget, somehow. Pagan could do that. The floor rocks under her like a boat. She
rushes to the bathroom and throws up again.

  The sour and meaty smell in the apartment churns her stomach as she throws blood- and vomit-stained towels into the washing machine. She adds an extra scoop of laundry powder before the fabric softener.

  On the way out, she wipes the door handle and leaves it unlocked, the door slightly ajar: anybody could have come in during the night. In her imagination, she hears a low, nightmare moan from the lump under the blanket. She turns and rushes away.

  On the street, a garbage truck — tinsel on the mirrors — rounds the corner. It’s going to be another hot day; the sun already has a sting to it.

  ***

  Brigitte walks halfway to East Melbourne before she feels wobbly again and hails a taxi. In the back seat, she rests her cheek against the window. The taxi driver asks if she’s all right — does she need to go to the hospital? He frowns, probably worried about having to clean his car if she throws up.

  The doorstop? She shivers. She should have thrown it in the bin. Oh well, never mind. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters anymore. Nirvana on the radio.

  She’s early for her 8.00am appointment. She waits on a bench seat around the corner, and picks at the remnants of nail polish, chewing her fingernails so far down the fingertips bleed. Her senses alternate between dead numbness and hyper-reality, where everything looks brighter, every sensation feels more intense. With each throb of pain in her head, the streetscape expands and contracts in her peripheral vision.

  There’s a crack across the face of her Gucci watch: 7.55am. Time to go in.

  Two men in grey suits stand in front of the Fertility Clinic, handing out anti-abortion literature. They ask if she needs help. She shakes her head, but takes their flyer. It’s still not too late, Johnnie Walker says. What the fuck is he doing here?

  Christmas carols are playing in the waiting room: ‘Silent Night’. Beneath the fish tank, a row of five young women, about Brigitte’s age, sit waiting on hard plastic chairs. One woman looks younger — just a girl. She’s here with her mother. How awful. And sitting next to Brigitte, an older woman sniffs; it’s probably her last chance for a baby, so why is she here? Two of the women chat; they laugh about something. One reads a magazine. How can they? On this day? How can they laugh, or read, or do anything? Brigitte reaches into her bag, then remembers she no longer has Matt’s key, but her fingers find the yellow bunny rug. The woman next to her — she must be pushing forty — asks what happened to Brigitte’s head. She hasn’t changed the plaster, so blood must be seeping through by now. She’s going to have a scar — she’ll never be a model for Richard now. She shakes her head; she can’t speak, and starts shivering.

  ‘You’ll be OK, sweetie.’ The older woman touches Brigitte’s arm as if they’re members of some secret club. Underneath a lot of make-up, her right eye is black. She smells of cigarettes and chewing gum — Juicy Fruit. Brigitte pushes away a grizzly image to a very deep place she never plans to access again. The fish swim pointlessly from one side of the tank to the other. Brigitte wishes Matt was here to hold her hand. She clutches the bunny rug, and Jack’s six-word Hemingway story about the baby shoes comes into her head.

  One of the women starts shaking; her pain begins as a quiet whimper, and turns into weeping. Nobody pays any attention — this is a place for crying.

  The mother pats her daughter’s hand. Brigitte suddenly wants her mother. Why didn’t Joan ever love her? Why was Brigitte never good enough? She was a quiet, obedient child, got good grades at school, and never complained about those stupid designer clothes that Joan thought were important when all Brigitte wanted was to wear jeans and T-shirts like the other kids. She dieted when Joan said she was getting fat. She spent a lot of time on looking good because, for Joan, it was always about appearances. But nothing was ever good enough. Lucky Joan can’t see what she looks like now.

  Nana. She needs Nana, not her mother. Nana doesn’t judge, doesn’t care about appearances. She would tell her not to go through with this, to come home to her and Papa’s house. Home? To the warm smells of wood smoke, and soup, and cakes baking. She’d call Nana now if she had her mobile phone.

  One of the women stands up and goes into the reception area. Brigitte can see she’s making a call on a pay phone out there. The woman has brittle, over-bleached hair. The hint of a baby bump rises from underneath her white tank top. She has a tattoo on her arm; it’s a serpent, a bit like Matt’s. She would have had to cover it with a lot of Dermacolor make-up if she’d been dancing at the Gold Bar. Brigitte looks at the ceiling. What the fuck is she doing here with these people? Hypocrite. She chides herself for judging, for being like Joan. She’s a beaten-up stripper, for fuck’s sake. These women probably all have respectable jobs. Or go to school. And they’ve surely never killed anybody. Oh God, oh God, oh God. She puts her head in her hands, and they come away covered in blood. Lady Macbeth. Hilarious. Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? But it’s real blood on her hands. The nurse comes over, wearing disposable gloves, and cleans her up, changing the dressing on her head.

  ‘Why haven’t you had this stitched?’ The nurse shakes her head, and speaks as though Brigitte is a naughty child.

  When the over-bleached blonde gets off the phone, Brigitte goes out to call Nana, not sure of what she’s going to say or if she wants to hear what Nana will say back. Maybe she won’t tell Nana anything — just say that she loves her. Yes, she’ll at least do that. She puts the coins in the slot. And dials Matt’s number. So stupid.

  ‘Hello. Matt Elery.’ His voice sounds different, tired, with no hint of humour.

  She can’t speak.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Matt.’

  ‘Brig, where are you? I’ve been so worried, calling and calling your mobile. I got really scared because I don’t have any other way of finding you. I don’t even know your address, and I’m sorry I — ’

  ‘It’s OK. I’m OK.’ Her tone is so flat and dead she’s surprised he recognises her voice.

  ‘You sound funny. Are you all right?’

  A pause.

  ‘Brig, are you still there?’

  ‘Matt?’

  ‘Yes?’

  Silence.

  ‘Matt, if anybody asks, can you say I was with you last night?’ Words she regrets as soon as they’re out.

  ‘Tell me what’s wrong.’

  She grips the receiver tighter.

  ‘Brigitte, it doesn’t matter what’s happened. Just please come home.’

  Home?

  ‘Tell me where you are, and I’ll come and get you.’

  ‘It’s OK. I just have something to do, and then I’ll come.’

  ‘Brig?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Di had her kittens this morning. I wish you could have been here.’

  Cars drive by out on the road, just like every other day.

  ‘I don’t think Lucy and Henry should go through with it,’ she says.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ he says, panic back in his voice.

  ‘The characters in your book — they should just run away together.’

  A courier, with a package for reception, walks through the door, and a warm breeze blows the Christmas cards off the desk. She opens her mouth to tell Matt she’s sorry, but it hurts to speak; her throat is too tight, and the words get stuck.

  ‘I’m coming to get you right now. Where are you?’

  She doesn’t want to hang up on him. But she does.

  Now Nana. She clears her throat as she dials. Papa answers. ‘Where are ya, Brigi? Ya phone’s not working. Been trying to find ya. Nana had another heart attack. She’s in hospital. Not too good. Askin’ for ya.’ He sounds frantic.

  The nurse is calling her.

  ‘OK, Papa. I’ve gotta go now, but I’ll be
there as soon as I can.’ She hangs up.

  The nurse pushes a box of tissues at her, and she takes one. It feels soft against her fingertips. The tissue box is covered with blue butterflies. Sorry, Matt. Sorry, Nana. The nurse ushers her into a cubicle area with a bench seat, and leaves her to change into a shapeless, disposable gown. A poster about safe sex is Blu-tacked to the wall. She folds up her clothes and places them in a neat pile on the seat. Still not too late. Yes it is, Johnnie Walker. Yes it is. Of all the women there for 8.00am, she’s the last in line to be operated on. From her little cubicle, she can hear the sounds of surgical implements clashing around.

  The nurse comes back to escort her to the operating theatre. Brigitte takes off the disposable gown and starts getting dressed.

  ‘What are you doing?’ the nurse says.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ve changed my mind.’

  The nurse frowns.

  Brigitte runs out through the waiting room, past the row of empty seats, the fish tank, and the reception desk, still buttoning her shirt.

  She glances at her watch: 9.30. A tram slows for the stop out on the street. If she’s quick, she’ll make it. One of her heels gets caught in the tram track as she runs across the road. She bends to pick up her sandal, and doesn’t see the blue, out-of-control Camry swerving into Wellington Parade.

  Black.

  Nana stands at the end of the operating table under the bright, cold theatre lights.

  ‘God, you scared me. I thought you were meant to be in hospital,’ Brigitte says. ‘Is it over yet?’

  ‘Nearly.’ Nana comes around and kisses her. Brigitte hears a monitor stop beeping. Hers? No, it’s Nana’s. How can that be?

  Sweet voices of little children sing about the train whistle making a sleepy noise, the sunshine, and the day. There must be a kindergarten or school nearby.