‘Evan,’ I whisper.
‘What? What happened?’
‘I kissed someone else.’
The wind howls and snaps at me as I walk through the bluff car park and up the steps cut into the side of the hill. I sit on one of the steps, sheltered against the wind, and take my phone out. It rings through to Evan’s voicemail and I hang up. What would I say anyway?
You’re gone you’re gone you’re gone.
Words repeating in my head
– In my bones
I’m still holding the record. Evan wouldn’t take it back.
The first fat drops of rain fall from the sky. I tuck the record under my shirt and climb up the rest of the steps onto the bluff. Before me the sea spreads out grey and angry. It swells and drops, currents pushed sideways by the wind. Today it looks dangerous. Today it wouldn’t give you back.
I venture closer to the edge and try to imagine what the fall would be like. My stomach dips in response and my legs sway. Lightning forks onto the water and seconds later thunder cracks. Rain falls hard in a sheet and I’m soaked to the bone. I turn my face towards the sky and let the rain pour over me. I picture it washing clean every joint and gritted dark place. Flushing me out.
My hair matts against my scalp and my shirt clings to my skin. I wipe the rain from my face and walk back over to the trees, holding the spot where the record sticks to my stomach. The grass is slippery and my drenched Vans skid out from under me. I land on the wet ground, mud scraped up my leg, my elbow bruised and throbbing. A hard crease runs through the record sleeve’s top-left corner. I try to smooth it out but it stays crooked.
Hugging the record to my chest I push through the wet bush to the cove track.
I walk, slipping and skidding down the steep incline, until the ground evens out and I make it to the cave. The dry sharp rocks offer shelter from the storm and I push up against them, sniffing and shivering, and watch the rain fall.
I cheated on him. It happened so fast and it didn’t even occur to me not to respond. Cheater. I’m just like my brother.
The words break in and drown me
– Choke me
It’s late when I get home and all the lights are on. Mum paces the lounge room and whirls around when I open the door. ‘Oh my God.’ She hugs the cordless phone to her chest. ‘Where have you been?’
I sniff. ‘Nowhere.’
‘I’ve been calling everyone,’ she says. ‘But I don’t . . . I didn’t have everyone’s numbers. But Megan, she helped. And your dad’s out there trying to find you . . . I need to call him.’
‘Mum.’ My voice cracks. ‘I’m here.’
She nods, her hands shaking, and drops the phone. ‘Oh God.’ She picks it up. ‘Oh God.’ The phone rings and she stares at it.
‘Mum.’ I walk over and take her hand. She blinks at me before she answers the phone. I hear Dad’s voice.
Mum nods. ‘She’s here,’ she says and hangs up. Tears slide down her face.
‘I’m sorry.’ I bite my lip, chin trembling. ‘Mum, I’m sorry.’
‘You’re soaking wet. Where have you been? Are you okay?’
I talk past the lump in my throat. ‘Yes.’ And then I shake my head. ‘No.’
24
Cam died in the first week of December.
‘You’re burning up.’ Mum’s hand is cool against my forehead. ‘How do you feel?’
I sink into my pillows and don’t answer. We’re somewhere in March, I think. How many weeks? They fuse together in my brain and I can’t pull them away from each other to count. More than three months.
‘I’ll go make you some tea.’ She closes my door and I pull my doona over my head because my skin’s suddenly freezing. I need Panadol, Neurofen, anything, but Mum’s never believed in painkillers, or any kind of medication. Which is ironic now, given the bottle of antidepressants in her bathroom drawer.
Some time later I wake in a sweating mess and Mum presses a cold washer to my face.
‘I’m dying,’ I tell her but she just smiles, pats my hand, and walks to the door. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, and the sorry is for so much: for not being able to help her, not being what she needs, for sending her back to bed, for staying out all night. She nods at me and leaves.
My sleep is burning hot. I toss and turn, kicking the sheet off and flinging my pillow out. Behind my eyelids Cam watches me, a blank staring face. I tell him I know about his artwork, he doesn’t flinch. I smack his cheek and I say I know about Tara. His green eyes don’t blink.
Then I ask the thing that’s driving me crazy: Who’s texting you?
He closes his eyes and shakes his head. Then he walks away.
Wait! I scream and try to follow him but I’m stuck. I struggle until I break free and race after the blurry outline of my brother.
He pauses in front of his bedroom door, everything about him seems slumped, he looks at me with sad, heavy eyes and we flicker into his room.
What’s going on?
Cam shoves me and I connect with his desk, my skin burning from where he touched me. He throws open the wardrobe and pulls out his stuff: clothes, shoes, bags, boxes, CDs. It piles up across the floor.
Then he turns the light on and disappears. A chill splinters over my sweaty skin. I look into the wardrobe. On the back wall is a mural—another monster. This one is in the process of eating someone, two feet hanging out of its mouth.
I’m sorry, the monster says, but I was hungry.
‘She’s not good,’ Mum says. ‘Could be flu.’
‘I still can’t believe it though. She trashed his room, Norah.’
My parents are talking outside my door.
‘I know.’
‘What do we do?’ Their voices fade as they walk away.
Sleep comes back like a wave and I try to fight it off—the mural at the back of Cam’s wardrobe poking at me—but I sink down.
Hours later, I manage to open my eyes. My heavy limbs keep me pinned to the mattress. I concentrate on my hands, pins and needles flooding through my fingers, and stretch them out. I push my doona off and the cool air washes over my sweaty skin. My head spins as I sit up. It takes me a moment to get my bearings and place my feet on the floor.
I shuffle out of my room and into the dark hall. Mum and Dad are asleep, and I have no idea what time it is. Eventually I reach Cam’s room.
I shut the door behind me and flick the light switch, closing my eyes until they stop stinging. It takes me a second to register what I’m seeing. The room is stacked high with boxes. Cam’s drawers and cupboards empty, all his stuff packed away. When did they do this? How long have I been asleep?
I open the box closest to me, it’s filled with CDs. What the hell is going on?
I walk towards his wardrobe but trip and knock over a stack of the heavy boxes. I lie there, my hand trapped under a pile of magazines. Murmurs come from the hallway, my parents.
Dad bursts into the room as if he’s expecting a burglar, catches his breath and frowns at me lying on the floor. ‘What are you doing?’ He spreads out his words, trying to make sense of it before I can answer.
I pull my hand free and sit up. ‘What are you doing?’ I say. ‘What is all this?’
‘Lucy,’ he says, rubbing his eyes, already tired of me.
‘He’s not just something you can pack up.’ My head pounds and it hurts to look up at Dad.
‘What are we supposed to do? Leave all his stuff out? He’s not coming back.’
‘Can’t you just wait?’
He runs his hand over one of the boxes and pulls out one of Cam’s skate shoes, worn out and covered in black Texta—it reminds me of Steffi, always scribbling on her shoes—looks at it for a moment then puts it back in the box. ‘There’s never gonna be a good time,’ he says.
He turns his face to the ceiling. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ he says, like he’s praying for help.
‘I’m sorry about the other night,’ Dad says, focusing back on me.
I blin
k at him, my mind slow to turn his words over, and realise he’s apologising. I sniff and hug my knees.
‘And you were right . . .’ Dad sucks in a breath and presses the heel of his hand to his brow. When he opens his mouth again his voice is cracked. ‘Cam wasn’t okay and we should’ve seen it—I, I should’ve seen it.’
I nod.
‘We’ve been talking,’ he continues, clearing his throat. ‘And I think maybe we should give this counselling thing a shot.’
My dad has never backed down on anything. Yet here he is swallowing his pride and admitting he was wrong. It makes me respect him, it makes him seem like a person. ‘Okay.’
‘You need a hand getting up?’
‘I need a packet of Neurofen.’
He reaches over the boxes and helps me up. ‘I got you one,’ he whispers. ‘But don’t tell your mum.’
Dad pads down the hallway in search of drugs and I weave my way around the boxes to the wardrobe. I sway slightly as I grip the door. The picture of the monster eating the girl swims in my mind. And the words, were they there or did I just think them? I swing the door open.
I suck in a breath. The back of the wardrobe is blank.
25
‘Are you allowed out yet?’
I lie across my bed, cordless phone pressed to my ear. ‘You could come over,’ I tell Steffi.
‘I’m not risking whatever you’ve got. Well, maybe if I had one of those hazmat suit things and they placed you in a bubble.’
I think about my crazy fever dreams. ‘That’s probably wise.’
‘So I heard about Evan,’ she says. ‘That’s gonna be rough.’
I close my eyes, my last conversation with Evan playing through my mind.
You need to break up with me.
‘But hey, maybe you’ll survive the distance.’
I blink. ‘What?’
‘He could spend his holidays up here and you can go visit him—’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Um . . . how he’s moving back to Sydney—’
‘He’s what?’ I sit up straight.
‘I thought you knew. He got the all clear when he went down the other weekend . . . he’s finishing up the term here then he’s moving.’
I open my mouth but nothing comes out.
‘Lucy?’
‘We broke up.’
‘You what . . . are you okay?’
I shake my head though she can’t see me.
‘What happened?’
And then I do spill it. All of it. Everything that happened with Ryan. I mumble it all into the phone.
‘Say that again?’
‘I went to Ryan’s house, we were talking about Cam and he kissed me.’
‘And you’ve broken up with Evan?’
‘More or less. I think . . .’ I sigh. ‘I don’t even know.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘What I told you. I kissed Ryan.’
‘Yeah but did you tell him the whole thing? That Ryan kissed you and you were all mixed up with grief and didn’t know what you were doing? And you stopped him. And you left. Did you say that?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Yes, Lucy, yes it matters.’
‘But I kissed him back.’
‘Of course you did, it’s Ryan. You’ve liked him for forever! Evan needs to know that you stopped it and left.’
I hug my pillow to my chest. ‘What do I do?’
‘How do you feel about Ryan?’
I close my eyes. ‘I dunno,’ I say, ‘I want to not like him but it’s been like that for so long, it’s as if I don’t know how to stop.’
It takes her a moment to respond. ‘I don’t think you can be with Evan if you’re still hung up on Ryan.’
‘Yeah. But does it even matter now? I mean, I can’t be with him anyway.’
‘I think you need to work out what you want and I think you need to talk to Evan and explain. Let him decide what he wants to do.’
‘When did you get so wise?’
‘When did you get so Real Housewives?’
After I hang up I get dressed and put the phone back in the kitchen. Evan is leaving. I need to sort this out so . . . So, what? So, best case he forgives me and we have a few weeks together before he heads south? Is there even any point?
But any time is better than none.
‘Heading out?’ Dad asks. He’s sitting at the breakfast bar reading the paper. It’s early evening just after six.
‘Yeah. Yes.’ I’m going to find Ryan and tell him it was a mistake.
Dad scratches his head and looks away from me.
‘Are you okay?’
‘They broke ground at the new Bunnings site.’
‘Oh. Oh, Dad, I’m sorry.’
He shrugs. ‘What’re ya gonna do, hey?’
‘Maybe it won’t be as bad as you think. You’ve got loyal customers.’
‘Yeah, maybe.’ Dad clears his throat. ‘I know I haven’t been there,’ he says. ‘For you or your mum. I know how hard it’s been on you.’ He looks at me, his eyes all misty. ‘I’m really sorry, Luce.’
The familiar lump forms in my throat.
‘I miss him,’ he says.
I nod and blink back tears.
We look up at a knock on the door.
‘That’d be Ryan,’ Dad says. ‘Let him in would you?’
It takes me a moment to register what he said. Ryan is here. I’d been planning to build up my resolve during the steep ride to his place, but now he’s found me and I’m running on empty.
‘Hey,’ Ryan says when I open the door. ‘Your, ah, parents invited me for dinner.’
I step back and he walks in. Dad smacks him on the back and takes him for a beer on the deck.
I slump on the couch. Mum comes over and sits next to me.
‘Feeling better, chook?’ She squeezes my knee.
‘Yeah.’
‘Dinner’ll be ready soon. Made burgers.’
‘Need any help?’ I don’t want to tell her my stomach’s so knotted up I doubt I’ll be able to eat anything.
‘You can set the table.’
I stand to go grab the plates and forks. Mum clears her throat. ‘What?’ I ask. She nods her head towards the dining table.
‘Yeah. That’s what I’m doing.’
She smiles. ‘Wall,’ she says.
‘What . . .’ On the wall behind the dining table is a painting—a new painting. The ocean at sunrise—her first piece since the coffin. ‘Oh.’ I walk over to it. ‘Oh, Mum, it’s lovely.’
She puts her arm around me. ‘Thought I’d try a new palette.’
The sea is dark beneath a rolling pink sky, yellow light arcs through the clouds; a flock of tiny grey birds fly over the ocean, the rising sun causing their edges to glow. I smile at my mum as she gazes at her work, losing herself back in the brushstrokes.
Dad and Ryan come in and I set the table.
Mum has cleared the house of any junk food Deb left behind. I peek into the empty freezer.
‘Hey Mum . . . Do you know what happened to all that food?’
‘Hm?’ She focuses on chopping a tomato.
‘All that food people cooked for us.’
‘Oh . . . that.’ Smiling, she adds the tomato to the salad bowl. ‘Did I tell you about that young girl I met at Leanne’s?’
I shake my head.
‘Well, she needed it more than us. Plus, you know your dad can’t have wheat. All that lasagne was clogging him up.’
‘Oh Mum, ew!’
She laughs and passes me the salad bowl.
‘Smells great,’ Ryan says as Mum places the burger patties on the table.
She wipes her hands on her apron. ‘Well, dig in, everybody.’
Dad and Ryan grab coconut flour flat bread, salad and meat. I tear up a few lettuce leaves.
Ryan eyes my plate. ‘Gone vego?’
My skin flames and I can’t get any words out.
‘She�
�s getting over a nasty flu,’ Mum says. ‘It’s okay if you don’t have much of an appetite, love.’
I consider faking a headache and escaping to my room. But I can’t help wondering why Ryan’s here, if it’s more than just a free feed. And I still need to talk to him. What am I even going to say?
I help Mum clear up while Dad and Ryan have another beer on the deck. Their conversation trickles in from outside and I find myself straining to hear.
Until Mum turns up the music.
She bumps hips with me at the sink, trying to get me dancing. I’d almost forgotten how fun she can be. Though I’m not sure if she’s forcing it, trying to show me she can be better. But when she smiles at me, bobbing her head and passing me a plate to dry, I don’t really care.
‘I’m off,’ Ryan says, disrupting the flow of the kitchen. ‘Thanks for dinner. It was delicious.’
‘Of course,’ Mum says. ‘Come over anytime.’ Then she dries her hands on a tea towel and wraps Ryan in a hug.
I dry the hell out of a mug. Now is the time. I can do this.
Ryan leaves and I follow him outside. He doesn’t look at me until we reach his car in the driveway.
He leans against his faded blue Commodore and scratches a hand through his hair.
‘Olds are doing better,’ he says.
I cross my arms and hang back from him. ‘Yeah.’
‘Leaving on Saturday,’ he says.
‘Saturday?’ I start. That’s only three days away. ‘I mean, I thought it was another week or something.’
He shrugs. ‘I scored a cheap flight. So . . .’ He swings his arms, clicking his fingers and bumping his fists. ‘Find out who was sending those texts?’
‘No.’ I don’t tell him I lost the phone.
‘Look, Lucy.’ He pushes off the car with his fingertips and steps towards me. ‘We should talk about what happened. Shouldn’t we?’
‘Well, too bad you’re leaving.’ I move back and he grabs my elbow. I stare at his hand. Everything I wanted to say a second ago has dried up. Now that I see him, I know what he’ll say. That he was high, he didn’t mean to, he’s sorry. And I don’t know if I can take it.
He lets go. ‘Haven’t left yet.’ His eyes flick to the house and I glance back too. The outside light is on but the windows are dark.
Pieces of Sky Page 18
