An Endless Summer

by C. J. Duggan

  My breath laboured. I blinked against the water that splashed in my face with each stroke. I couldn’t see the light anymore; my arms were cold now, heavy, and refused to work. I wanted to stand up and head back to shore, but there was no bottom.

  A surge of water crashed over my face and filled my throat. I choked on the unexpectedness of it. It lapped again and my head bobbed under the surface. I bobbed up again, a panic spiking through me. This was not fun. This wasn’t what was supposed to happen. I wanted to get out now, but there was water everywhere. I was being swallowed up by the night; there was just black sky above and black water all around.

  All I could hear were my gasped breaths and the beating of my heart echoing in my ears as I sank and surfaced, sank and surfaced again, somehow unable to float anymore. I clawed at the water. I wanted to scream, but my mouth filled again and again with water and I went down deeper. Even as I tried to kick my way free, I was consumed by the darkness of the never-ending stretch of nothing.

  My insides burned as I thrashed in a panic against the engulfing blackness. This was it, this was the end, I thought. I realised I was dying and there was nothing I could do about it. It was an unnerving experience, accepting your fate like that – letting go of the fight, sinking farther into the abyss to meet the end. The fear dissipated. I wasn’t scared anymore. My death was so peaceful, so quiet, so very beautiful.

  Maybe it was a dream—this wasn’t happening—maybe that surge of water and whoosh of bubbles that filtered next to me was my mind playing tricks. The iron grip that swooped around me and grasped me tightly, the one that pulled me upward with such almighty strength? I must be asleep, I thought. It was a nice dream … until I resurfaced.

  “Amy! Amy! Look at me, look at me!”

  I double-blinked my eyes to clear my blurry vision. I struggled to fix on the person yelling at me, a voice coming from a face-hovering above. Beautiful blue eyes narrowed in panic and a strong vice-like grip on my shoulders, jolting me to focus.

  “Get back, give her room!” he shouted.

  Droplets of water dripped onto my face as hands moved and cupped my cheeks.

  “Amy, you’re going to be all right,” he spoke softly, gently. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

  ***

  I was drunk and passed out in my knickers, according to Tammy’s retelling of the events the next day. She told me Sean had dived into the water and duck-dived several times before he found me and dragged me to the surface. She said he screamed for someone to call an ambulance as he carried my lifeless body out of the lake. He gave me mouth-to-mouth and worked on pumping my chest until I vomited up half of Lake Onslow into the sand. When she mentioned the mouth-to-mouth detail, I could tell she was secretly pissed that I’d had Sean’s mouth on mine, but it wasn’t like she was going to admit to it.

  As for me, I had lain in a ball in my room for three days after, silently wishing I had drowned that night, rather than face the embarrassment of it. My chest was still bruised from where Sean had pushed so hard that he’d nearly cracked a rib. It sure felt like he had.

  My parents were furious. I had to be ambulanced to the hospital and, after the initial fear passed, they moved on to rage at me for having snuck out, and then hushed angry whispers outside my room.

  I half expected I would be grounded for life, but instead, it seemed as though I was to suffer a fate far, far worse.

  I was being sent to an all-girls boarding school in the city.

  I wiped away the tears, my throat scratchy from hours of silent sobbing in my room, mixed with swallowing half of Lake Onslow.

  As my tears dried, my throat was parched. I listened to the silence downstairs and cautiously crept out of my room, hoping not to bump into anyone. Especially not my traitorous parents. I would just slip downstairs to the kitchen and grab a Coke, and then sneak back upstairs again, no one the wiser.

  As I crossed the landing, I stilled at the sound of distant voices that filtered through from the main bar downstairs.

  Before I’d even thought about it, I crept down the stairs towards the voices, cutting through the restaurant and pushing myself against the partition. I squinted through the gap in the dividers.

  Sean stood in the bar facing a grim-looking Dad.

  “Well, I just wanted to make sure she was okay.”

  “We appreciate it, Sean. We can’t thank you enough.” My dad shook his hand.

  Sean tapped him on the upper arm and offered a reassuring nod.

  “No need to thank me, Eric, I’m just relieved Amy’s all right.”

  My dad pulled Sean into a hug.

  “Thanks, mate!” He tapped Sean hard on the back and pulled back, sniffing. I watched as they both stood there awkwardly for a long moment.

  Sean scratched the back of his head.

  “No worries.” He offered a small smile.

  “How about a beer, son? My shout.” Dad moved behind the bar; the awkwardness gone.

  “Yeah, great.” Sean moved to follow Dad but stilled, his eyes flicking towards the partition. I held my breath; I dared not move. Could he see me?

  Sean broke into a broad smile and winked. I expelled a shocked breath and ducked from the opening, my heart racing a million miles an hour.

  Oh God! Oh God! Don’t tell on me! Please. I waited, half expecting the partition to be wrenched open and I would be plucked from my hiding place in my PJs, caught spying yet again. But when nothing happened and the conversation continued, I slowly moved to peek through the opening again.

  Sean had moved and was sitting at the bar now, talking to my dad about footy. I backed away and ran towards the stairs, up and into my room, the first smile in a long time lining my face.

  Chapter Two

  Summer of ’99, The City.

  There was a creature in my house.

  Dragging its feet along the kitchen lino, it expelled a yawned, bad-odoured breath, all the while scratching its butt crack and raiding the cupboard.

  Yep, Dad’s home.

  I had never lived with both of my parents for a long period of time; it just never happened, not in my world. Mum lived in the city; Dad lived in the country at the pub. They weren’t separated or divorced or anything, they were very much together. They spoke every day, they liked each other; heck, they even loved each other. It was just the way it was. When I was younger, I thought everyone’s parents lived like this. It wasn’t until I was older that I started to realise my little family was seriously screwed up. Seeing how I was the only child, guess who inherited all the crazy? Yep! Lucky me!

  I peered over the back of the couch and caught my sneering reflection in the lounge room sliding-glass door. My headphones sat crookedly on my head, a deep frown etched across my brow. I slipped down and resumed my position: my long legs stretched out across the couch, my fluffy, purple dressing gown twisted around my PJs. I reaffixed my headphones and cranked up the volume on my Discman as an attempt to block out the rustling sounds from the kitchen. Noises I had been trying to ignore for months. The sounds, I guessed, that would transform into animated chatter as I sensed my mother, Claire Henderson, click-clacking down the hall.

  She swung into the kitchen with her breezy, sing-songy voice. I peered over the couch again and, sure enough, there she was in her long, flowing, silk nightgown, her ash blonde hair gathered into a French twist. She was bright-eyed and glowing; always looking like a million bucks even first thing in the morning. Freaky ageless genetics? Perhaps. Wasn’t sure if I’d inherited them, though. A close personal relationship with Dr Baritone and his Botox needles was more likely. My mum leaned into my dad and gave him a passionate kiss on the lips. Gross!

  Unfortunately, it was not uncommon behaviour for my mum. My dad, Eric, on the other hand, who stood there canoodling with her in the kitchen; this was not how I remembered my dad. He was big, burly, bearded Eric Henderson, a generational publican in Onslow, a country town a mere two hours away. He was funny, great with people, knew the business, and ra
n it well. But this man spooning out a grapefruit for breakfast was not my dad.

  One night, I overheard Mum crying on the phone, offering my dad an ultimatum, and the next thing I knew, Dad was on our doorstep, moving in. My dad had decided to go on this dramatic health kick: he quit smoking, cut down his drinking, and joined Jenny Craig. He’d lost a stack of weight and even shaved off his beard. And, the incredible shrinking man was now dressing younger, too, and, God help me, had even started strutting around like a rooster in a hen house. And the worst thing? My mum loved it.

  My mum’s attention turned from her loving husband and landed on me as I stared on in distaste. “Morning, honey!”

  I sank back into the couch and thought if I didn’t move, maybe I’d be left alone.

  No such luck. My headphones were peeled off from behind me.

  Okay. Now I was pissed.

  “What’s on for today, then?” Mum asked, innocently enough as she smiled down at me. There was a none-too-subtle probe to her question – with this question there always was. It was the question I was asked every day, and it was a trap.

  “How about we get dressed today?” My dad leaned against the archway to the lounge room, taking an irritating sip of his soy, low fat/no fat, sugar-reduced, low GI drink.

  I liked how he said ‘we’, as if his jab wasn’t solely directed at me. It wasn’t as if anything had changed, I did what I always did at home with Mum. The only difference was that Dad was here to point out the things he didn’t approve of.

  When it came to me, it seemed like he approved of nothing. Especially since my decision to defer from uni for twelve months, the biggest mistake I could possibly have made, or so I was reminded every day. A familiar anger bubbled under my skin.

  I pulled myself up into a sitting position. “And what is it you two lovebirds have on for today?” My voice dripped with sarcasm.

  Mum straightened with interest. “Your father’s taking me on a date.”

  Ugh. Another one? Seriously?

  They gave me an over-enthusiastic rundown of how, after yet another day of living out their second honeymoon, they planned to come home and watch a double episode of Ally McBeal on Prime Time. I had to get out of here!

  Later that night, my parents relaxed in front of the TV. Dad slinked his arm around Mum and stole a wayward chip from the bowl. Mum playfully slapped his hand away. Rolling my eyes, I crept out and shut the door on their uproarious laughter as cutesy, crazy Ally McBeal fell over her own feet, again.

  I switched the phone to my other ear where my friend Mary waited.

  “What did you say?” I asked, lowering my voice.

  “Where are you going to go?”

  More laughter erupted from the lounge. My glare towards the offending sound was my usual expression these days, and with all that frowning and scowling I, too, was going to need Dr. Baritone’s Botox before too long.

  I shuddered.

  “I don’t know,” I sighed. “Anywhere but here.”

  I guess I should have been happy for my parents. Most normal offspring would have been relieved that they were working things out, reigniting the flame so to speak, and I thought I would adjust to the change of Dad being a full-time presence in my life. But, to be honest, it was rocking my world. In a bad way. It was rocking a world that, since I finished school, Mum and I had lived in exclusively the majority of the time. Just us. Dad didn’t belong here, he was a country boy; his role in my life was to provide me with an escape, a place I could go for school holidays and weekends. A place to get spoilt with an endless array of raspberry post mix and limitless packets of salt and vinegar chips.

  My dad was the coolest. Or he had been. To all my friends in the city, I was this rich kid with a country mansion and my own multi-roomed hotel on the lake. When I was younger, I would literally bounce on the balls of my feet at the thought of going to Onslow; I longed for school holidays where I would pack up my swimmers and thongs, don the floppy hat and war paint my face with fluoro zinc cream before heading to the lake with all my country friends. Onslow was the ultimate escape; it allowed me absolute freedom and some of the happiest times of my life.

  I froze, zoning out from Mary’s chatter on the other end of the line as my eyes fixed onto a photo on the fridge door. It was a picture of me from years ago sitting outside the Onslow Hotel on a picnic table, my gangly legs hanging over the edge, and a goofy, forced smile on my face. At a guess, I must have been fourteen. I could usually tell my age in a photo. Closed-mouth smile: braces. Bright, beaming smile: post braces. By the awkwardness of this photo, I was definitely sporting a mouth full of metal, but, more disturbing than that, was I wearing a …

  “Skort?” I grimaced.

  “Amy? Amy? Did you hear me?”

  “Oh, sorry, what did you say?”

  “Seriously, you’re not thinking of leaving the city for the summer, are you? Like, where would you even go?”

  My eyes never broke from the goofy, suntanned, happy fourteen-year-old me, perched alone in front of the sweeping verandah of the Onslow with its heritage green roof and cream brickwork.

  I broke into a toothy grin at the thought of being alone, just like that girl in the photo. I plucked it off from under the magnet.

  “Mary, did I ever tell you about my mansion in the country?”

  Chapter Three

  “You have got to be fracking kidding me!”

  Yes, I said fracking. It’s what a life of growing up with my mother had reduced me to – compromised swear words. Even though she tried her hardest to stamp dirty words out of me with the best private, all-girl education money could buy, my sailor-mouth habit was never completely cured. It was Dad’s fault, really. All the foul language I learned was a direct result of my time spent hanging with him at the Onslow. Even though I refrained from saying the real ‘F’ word, Mum still loathed my rendition and eventually just gave up trying to stop me altogether.

  Speaking of giving up, I stood outside the Onslow Hotel and stared up at the building in mystified horror. I would have thought maybe I was tired and grumpy due to the bus trip from hell, or that maybe I was at the wrong place and didn’t even realise it.

  Or maybe I was hallucinating this monstrosity.

  But no. I wasn’t.

  I had not expected this.

  My heart sank at the sight of it: the overgrown lawn, the dirty ring-stained picnic tables, cigarettes, and broken glass near the front door, a couple of empty bottles on the windowsill. The windows were smudged and grotty – even the overhanging Carlton Draft sign dangled from a snapped chain, squeaking in the faint, hot breeze that blew. I half expected a tumbleweed to roll past me and a lonely wolf cry to echo through the hills. If we had wolves in Australia. Okay, a dingo, then. The atmosphere was that of a horror movie, an eerie, deserted scene.

  I shielded my eyes from the beaming sunrays and hoped against hope that what I saw before me was a mirage, a nightmarish illusion.

  But no. It wasn’t.

  The Onslow Hotel had been downgraded to the Norman Bates Motel. How long had Dad been in the city? A couple of months? Not even. He hadn’t just upped and left, he’d put the Onslow staff in charge and he’d done the odd check-in and business call on the phone when he wasn’t wining and dining Mum.

  What the hell had happened? How long had the Onslow been like this? This was not what I expected to arrive to. Not. At. All.

  ***

  My hand traced along the peeling, blistered paint of an outside picnic table, the very same one I’d been sitting on in the photo when I was fourteen. I had thought that merely being here would transport me back to that time, a happier time.

  But I was so wrong.

  My zombie-like, depression-filled trance was broken by the sound of an approaching car. The screaming of the fan belt was only out-blasted by the deafening sound of heavy metal music from the stereo. A weather-beaten, white Mazda hatchback scaled up Coronary Hill and sped into a long, winding circle. It flicked up gravel as it turne
d and halted with a violent jolt in the Onslow car park. I sidestepped away from the picnic table and into the shadows to get a better view of the new arrival and to avoid being seen.

  Blissful silence followed as the engine of the Mazda was shut off and the car door flung open with a pained screech. I ducked behind an overgrown bush and took in the lean figure of a guy, somewhere in his mid-twenties, in fitted black jeans, boots, and a crumpled white shirt. Dark, greasy hair fell to his collar. He readjusted his shades and stretched his limbs to the sky with an almighty groan before reaching into his top pocket for a ciggie. My first thought was that he might be a weary traveller making a pit stop; he looked like a wiry musician, maybe? Or a grubby stand-up comedian looking for a gig at the local. He bent into his car and reached for something in the back seat. Just when I was sure he would bring out a guitar, he pulled out a leather jacket and haphazardly slung it over his shoulder before slamming the car door.

  His boots crunched over the gravel as he made his way towards the hotel. Reaching into his pocket, he foraged around to expel a long chain with an array of keys – keys I would recognise anywhere. They were Dad’s.

  With his brief distraction, tall, dark, and greasy kicked a wayward can as he stepped up to the porch.

  “Piss and shit,” he mumbled.

  Charming fellow.

  He unlocked the door with expert ease; he was, obviously well used to the old door, the special twist, and jiggle the lock needed before it would open – something only a few select people would know about. Once he unlocked the main door, he moved on to the side poolroom French doors and it suddenly dawned on me: After Chris left, Dad had put on a new barman – this must be him. Matt, was it? What the hell was he doing – or, rather, not doing – and more to the point, what the frack was he doing opening the hotel at two p.m. mid-week, or any day of the week, for that matter? For as long as I could remember, the Onslow Hotel was a seven-days-a-week trade, three hundred and sixty-five days of the year. Not even Christmas was sacred (something I’d been painfully aware of when I was a kid). At the latest, the pub would open its doors at ten a.m. Monday to Saturday and eleven a.m. on a Sunday, and as far as shutting up at midday went, it just didn’t happen. The restaurant may have been closed, but there was always someone to mind the bar. Always.