by Lee Murray
Al laughs. ‘Vertigo – it gets better over time. You’re the bee’s knees, kid. You’ve taken to crossin’ over real quick.’
*
A few days pass and much to Nicholas’ chagrin, I am due to cross over again. Before I depart, I see a yellow Post-it on the fridge with my loopy print. Asthma attack is what I’ve written. I cannot recall writing it but I decide to leave it there like an alarm reminding me to swim every morning.
I meet Al at his desk where he is hunting through one of the endless number of files. I clear my throat. He looks up, tipping his fedora. I am in some dated detective movie – I’m re-enacting film noir.
I bypass the frivolous greetings and mundane polite gestures. ‘So you can feel and smell but can’t really touch?’
‘You can smell, too? Only a few can do that,’ he says. ‘In a way, you don’t really feel. You can’t feel the weather, the breeze, the temperature. Most of us somehow feel substances, that’s about it.’
‘But you can’t touch?’
‘You don’t touch. We must never touch.’
‘Can it be done?’
‘We don’t touch. We pass through. We don’t touch, we don’t interfere. We learn, we accept, we take comfort.’
‘And all those files, Mr Farrone?’
‘Oh, they’re comm’n knowledge. No secrets there.’
‘Well?’
‘There’s a file here for everyone in Adeville.’
‘You’re kidding?’
‘Nope. Two million, four hundred thousand and thirty-seven, as of this mornin’s count.’
‘Why don’t you just have them backed up on a hard drive somewhere? Electronic, save on all that paper.’
‘Hard drive? Ah, computers. Too high tech for me, I’m kinda uncomfortable outside o’ the flicks and radio. This is how I’ve always done things.’ He stops his filing. ‘Head into the hall. This crossover you’re doin’ by yourself. You got that? Five minutes, then you’ll be returned.’
‘How do you pull me back? How do all the others come back?’
‘I’ve been doin’ this for a while, kid, and I ain’t gonna explain in a minute what’s taken years to learn. Here, at the agency, we’re all experienced crossers. I ain’t ever touched nobody and I ain’t never had the inkling. Basically, as long as I know the area, I can recall ya’ back or if need be, physically get ya myself.’
*
On my own.
I recall the place I lived in with Mark, just down from the strip. Nicholas knows what I am doing. I don’t know whether it’s truly fair by him. At least I’m being honest.
I think of the red brick apartment, our large balcony; the crisp smell of anti-bacterial pine Mark sprayed obsessively throughout the house, a cover of sorts for his lack of cleaning aptitude. I imagine his fresh aftershave, the opposite of Nicholas’ macho old-man fragrance. The marital bed and mattress, snug enough for the two of us, and how I napped on his side whenever he was away.
Suddenly, I am there. Just outside on the balcony. No more red brick – the entire apartment building has been rendered. I pass through the glass door. The kitchen is neater, the benches clear and scrubbed. Surprising smells drift through the air, much spicier than I recollect, traces of turmeric and something else – cumin. Both spices I have little time for. The spare bathroom is spotless, too. Of all the things Mark was, cleanliness was not one of his better qualities. I search for signs. Perhaps he has moved on in the afterlife? In the lounge, the couches are different: pleather monstrosities. On the wall, however, is a sign. The abstract painting we bought together. Its earthy colours made the place feel comfier.
I pass through the bedroom door. Our wedding photo is not on the bedside table or the shelf above the bed. Another picture sits in its place. I inhale sharply and move closer. Somebody else. While I am fair, she is dark. My hair long and blonde, hers short and raven black; my eyes are a cheeky blue but small, the Indian woman’s eyes are the large sagacious type that could swallow seas.
It wracks me, so different.
Four years, Mark, and you’ve erased me completely.
I try to grab the frame. It’s beyond irrational, I want to smash it. I will my fingers to hold it, but they just slip through no matter how many times I try.
There is a sound in the en-suite, the faint whirring of the fan. I step through the bathroom door. It’s steamy but he is there. Mark, in his jeans, buttoning his shirt.
Four years. He has a slight softness to his body that wasn’t there before. Then I see his head, his once black locks peppered and thinning, those lips I’ve kissed so many times, the light shadow on his jaw, and those cerulean eyes, crisp and sharp.
I watch.
It hits me that he’s advancing and I’m not. I’m the ghost. I could tear up if I let myself. I need to control it – let that flood of emotion come later. There are other recollections to deal with now.
The memories don’t come flooding back – they never left: his true laugh at a higher pitch; his slightly vacant gaze when he disagreed with someone; his attempts to keep me upbeat even when he was down; the way we read together at a café without having to talk; and of course those evenings when I would feel his breath and then lips begin to caress the nape of my neck.
‘Mark!’ I call. I move closer, trying to touch him, passing through his warm body. Back and forth I pass through the body that was once so tactile.
I try to clear my mind, solely concentrate on him. I reach out once more, my hand passing through, but this time he shivers. Did he feel something?
I’m back in the hall, on the floor trying to cope with the spinning walls. I’m crying, I brush the tears away with my sleeve. The thin veneer of composure disappears and I dry retch over and over, until my throat aches. I lie there in numbness for an age, then that gradually transforms to wonder: Did he feel something?
And then ire sets in.
*
I drive down Church St, my hand pumping the horn incessantly like a heartbeat. The zealots – I bet they’re all restlessly hoping this is not all there is – leap out of my way.
I pull off the street and arrive at Nicholas’ neighbourhood, all 1920s federation houses, exteriors roughly rendered beneath tuck-pointed redbrick. Everyone has a yard, both front and back.
He opens the door and greets me. I shrug to the side as I push past him. Inside usually tastes like a well-maintained but still humble red wine. Thick jarrah floorboards throughout add to that vintage sense. Now everything tastes acidic. To think that we’ve chatted about moving in. Dead people discussing our relationship barriers? Closure with Mark was my first obstacle; Nicholas refusing to get a wireless internet connection was the other.
Nicholas doesn’t even own a television. He always has music, scratching out of his antique gramophone, or humming on the radio.
He pulls some iced tea out of the fridge – he finally did away with that old icebox – and pours us both a glass as we sit at the scarred jarrah table.
‘I have a Post-it note on the fridge. Know what it says?’ I appear as calm as can be, yet inside I’m a shivering wreck. I wait as the seconds drag by. He doesn’t reply. ‘Asthma attack. C’mon Nicholas, why didn’t you remind me?’
‘Not this again. I have reminded you – who do you think told you to put the note up in the first place?’
‘I still went for a swim in the morning though – not that I ever have to.’
Nicholas sits opposite, calm. How many times have we been through this? How many times have we replayed the scene? His stillness helps calm me. I’ve been down this path before. But this time, I will remember.
‘Mark shivered. Maybe he felt something?’
‘You mustn’t ever touch them.’
‘What?’
He stops talking and swirls the ice in his glass, staring at the amber liquid. Eventually, he pulls hims
elf away to look up at me, crunching ice and gulping it down. ‘Maybe we weren’t good enough for someplace better or bad enough for someplace worse? And we’re all people from the twentieth and early twenty-first century. We’re a unique lot, us Adevillians.’
My murky thoughts are dissipating, as if inundated by a stream of clear water.
‘Different times,’ I say, so familiar with his words that I can continue his line of thought aloud: ‘We feel wrong when we’re in places futuristic for the time we lived in – our time. That’s why we always end up at that dreadful milk bar.’
‘That place is special to me. But you’re right. Going backwards is fine, forwards, however. Like you in anti-gravitational restaurants, well, that’s me in one of your lounge bars.’
‘I know. I’ve heard this before.’
‘Yep – but not after crossing over. The second or third crossing tends to be the key orientation.’
The clear water now rages through, only a slight discolouring remains.
‘Asthma attack. I don’t remember dying.’
‘Few do.’
I should let rip with some expletives.
‘You okay?’ Nicholas asks.
He may not be Mark, but he is so solid, so real, so supportive. Shit, I realise. With his relic of a car?
‘When did you pass away again?’
‘1936.’
‘So you’ve been here—’
‘Going on ninety years.’
‘Fuck.’
I go to the bathroom, turn on the tap that squeaks, then splash water over my face. I slap my cheeks a little too. My reflection hasn’t changed. Mark’s has. Perhaps Mark and I could still be happy? Maybe I could go back there?
I come out to the table where Nicholas waits.
‘Family?’
He nods. ‘Still miss them every day.’
‘After so long?’
‘You weren’t the only one to cross over.’
I feel an incongruous sense of betrayal. He reaches for my hand but I pull mine away. Stung, Nicholas continues to talk, his voice rich with nostalgia.
‘I crossed over all the time. I had two boys. Took them to a place just like the milk bar every Saturday morning. Eldest, Harold, got a lemonade spider; he was fair like my wife, like you. He could run like the wind, full of beans too, never rude although he did wolf his food down at the dinner table. Youngest boy, Walter, he’d order the malt, little bit on the chubby side like his old man. He could tell me the names of every blimmin’ bird in Kalgoorlie. Couldn’t run, couldn’t kick at footy, but he was a gutsy little bastard.’ Nicholas’ eyes light up as he speaks. I reach my hand out this time and he grips it firmly. ‘Nine and twelve, that’s how old they were.’
‘You watched over them?’
‘For ten years, I watched my boys grow up. Watched the eldest become a boilermaker and the youngest go off to university, the one in Perth – first of my family to do so. I’m proud of them.’
‘You still see them?’
‘Probably dead as us by now. Life goes on. My wife met another bloke – that was hard, though I was glad at the same time. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable but you remind me a lot of her.’
‘That’s okay.’ My voice comes out thin.
‘Used to see them almost daily, but as time went on I wanted to get closer to my boys. You know, touch them – give them a hug, shake their hands, ruffle their hair. I knew better – you never touch the living. Still, the feeling kept on growing, eating me. Seeing Walter and Harold only nourished the idea. You know, give them a pat on the back, let them know you care.’
‘What happened?’
‘I stopped myself from going – to make sure I didn’t break the crossing over rule. Haven’t seen them since. Probably a good thing too – didn’t see them grow old, didn’t have to see any heartache in their lives or deal with the pain of their aging. I just remember them as two fine young men. Maybe my time alive was some part of that. I certainly like to think I helped in some way.’
‘I’m sure you did. You’d have been a great dad.’
We sit, sipping our tea, listening to some prehistoric jazz. I actually don’t mind it, the trill clarinet, the strums from the double bass, the slide trombone and voices singing in reedy tones. I try to concentrate on the present, on Nicholas and all he has divulged. But I begin to imagine Mark opposite me. Nicholas’ innocent eyes morph into Mark’s sharp ones, his body leans up, the hair remains sparse but begins to loop and darken slightly.
‘I’m sorry, Nicholas. I still need closure.’ His hand turns limp. ‘Five years married, you know.’
Nicholas withdraws, arms retreating. His spine presses back against his chair. ‘Look, this is Adeville. I know I am not perfect. Maybe you aren’t ready for us.’
‘It’s not that.’
‘I get the picture. You’re talking to someone who crossed over for ten years. Do you think my kids are all I saw? I watched her curl up at night, foetal like. Sobbing in the early years, her body wracking itself, always when the kids weren’t around. Hell, I even watched her in the bath or shower imagining what’d be like if I was in there with her.’
‘So you understand? You’ll be here for me?’
‘No,’ he says. ‘I feel like we’re magnets – but you draw me in and then flip me around so I can’t get close. I don’t want to be led on.’
‘That’s hard to hear from you. You won’t even—’
‘This is why. You had to know me and know yourself. I’ve been patient. If I did anything more it would have felt wrong.’
I touch his cheek, wanting to be touched in return. He is still. I search for that unripeness, that innocence in his gaze, but I cannot rediscover it. There’s strength between us, his protective and genuine manner, old-fashioned values; warm reliability. I feel safer, securer and more loved by him than anybody else, including Mark. Do I want to toss all this away for a past love?
But another curious or nostalgic part of me wants to see what possibilities lay with Mark. A final closure perhaps? A new beginning? What remains? Can the past recommence?
At the front door, Nick doesn’t farewell me, he doesn’t say that customary apologetic line about it not working out. Rather, it comes out of left field and out of character for Nicholas: ‘Area code NP6000, right?’
*
I’m in the office with Al.
‘What’s crossing over all about?’
‘Initially it centres us, here in Adeville. After that it depends – an Adevillian need for most, I s’pose, to come to terms with the present. And to check up on ’em.’
As much as I pry it’s always a similar response: ‘See how things are,’ or ‘Make sure things are okay,’ or ‘Agents help us understand our world.’
I ask to look at the files and he says, ‘No problem. Whose’ll it be?’
‘Mine, Nicholas Lamb’s and yours.’
He collects them from the various cabinets, standing on a stool for one. The other two are on the bottom rung. ‘Curious little dame, ain’t ya?’ Al says as he hands over the metal-rimmed green files.
I open mine and head straight to the endpoint. Death 2016, asthma attack. Status: married to Mark Self.
Nicholas Lamb: Death 1936, cardiac arrest. Status: married to Mary, two boys.
Al Farrone: Death 1929, found shot, possible links to the St Valentine’s Day massacre. Case unsolved. Status: engaged to Vera Manino.
I hand them back.
‘This’ll be your last time before we get you signed up. And remember, no—’
‘Yeah, yeah, no touching.’
‘Listen hard – we’ve lost more than a few people, all through touchin’. I do what I can but I can’t save ’em all. If ya wanna touch, ya don’t cross over. They don’t wanna be touched. You got that? They can’t handle us Adevillians.’
‘Adevillians. Anyway, it’s instinctual. Some scientist claims when they do see us, their brain floods with some hatred-dope. Like I said, it’s instinctual.’
It’s hard to play meek, but I nod tamely.
‘You have to get this, Jane. The living hate; hate us; hate bein’ touched, and if ya touch ’em … that means they can touch ya’ back.’
*
This time, I concentrate on the changes, her picture rather than mine; turmeric and cumin rather than oregano and parsley; our man. And then I’m there, and she is inside watching television, legs tucked up and near her body. Well-fitted jeans and slightly too long bare feet. It is hard to find fault. She seems a touch happier than I was, and carefree, she smiles at an old Friends rerun. Her teeth are perfect, and not in that ridiculously bleached style either.
Nothing of me – not a trace. A trace may ease the pain. A certain familiarity might breed contentment.
I move into the study where Mark taps away on his laptop as expected. I shift closer to him. I need him to know I’m here, that I still crave him, that I haven’t forgotten him or cast him aside. I need to touch that face, feel his jaw, his shoulders, have his hands on my lower back.
My fingers pass through the warmth of his body. He shivers. I do it once more, and again he shivers. A third time and he pushes his chair back and stops typing. I am close. I pass through once more, there is a slight feeling of texture.
He jumps from the chair and strides out and into the lounge room. ‘Arpana.’
‘Yes, Babe.’
I never called him that. Those names were far too dolly-like for me.
‘Can you feel my temperature? It felt like ice in there, it came on out of the blue – really shook me.’
She places one of those elegant and elongated Punjabi hands over Mark’s forehead. ‘Feels fine to me. Was there a draught?’
‘No, it just unnerved me a bit. I’m going to head out, walk it off a little.’
