Call Me Evie

by J. P. Pomare

  ‘Are you okay, dear? Do you need a drink of water?’

  ‘She’s fine,’ I hear him say. ‘She’s a little tired is all.’

  White walls, anatomical posters, a blood pressure machine. ‘Dr Simon,’ says a tall man in an off-white doctor’s coat, taking my hand in his. I’m surprised by its softness, the way his fingers curl around mine. I sit on the bed and stare at a pink mouth and throat cut lengthwise, pinned up on the wall. The tongue looks so thick I wonder why we don’t all choke on them.

  ‘She’s been quite unwell for the past couple of weeks or so; she’s had some issues with eating and sleeping.’ Jim runs through my history, though of course he leaves out the most important, incriminating parts. ‘There was an incident, she’s had a bit of a tough time and you’ve been feeling a little blue, haven’t you, Evie?’ Jim says.

  I nod.

  There was an incident. Dr Simon nods gravely. He scrawls notes, asks questions, pokes something cold into my ear. They speak in euphemisms. Incident, unwell, trauma, stress, history. Jim says just enough to get through the appointment. Eventually the doctor leads us to another room, where a nurse slides a needle into the hinge of my arm and draws out blood.

  ‘Not so bad, huh?’ Jim says afterwards as we cross the car park.

  ‘It was okay.’

  ‘Soon you’ll be better than okay. Trust me, and it will all end up fine.’

  •

  The next morning the air is cold and gritty with salt. We descend towards the private beach at the foot of the headland.

  As we walk on the pale sand, we collect driftwood for the fire. I carry a few pieces in my arms back up the track that splits farmland. Wind-polished bones, boars’ tusks, shinbones, antlers sit on top of the dog cages. An old woman with eyes as dull as oysters watches us from the yawning doorway of an iron shed. Jim turns to look; even he can’t ignore her stare.

  When my breathing gets too heavy, we slow down a little. ‘I’ve got a couple of questions,’ he says.

  ‘Questions?’

  ‘They might help you to remember and understand, eventually, you know?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘If it gets hard to answer, let me know.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘We can walk and talk.’

  We start walking back down towards the house.

  ‘What do you remember about that night?’ he asks.

  ‘Well, I remember in the morning . . . I remember waiting at the table.’

  ‘No, not the morning. The night before.’

  ‘Umm . . .’

  ‘Do you remember drinking?’

  I recall the scorch in my throat. Tipping the bottle back. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘I remember being on the couch.’

  ‘What about seeing him? Seeing him lying facedown?’

  I can see him, see the blood spreading. I squeeze my eyes closed. ‘Stop,’ I say. ‘Stop it!’

  ‘Okay.’ He pauses. ‘It’s not looking good for him, you know.’

  My chest feels weak. ‘What do you mean?’

  He sighs. ‘It means I don’t like his chances.’

  His chances . . . his chances of what? I try to block it out again.

  ‘How do you feel when you try to remember?’

  ‘Afraid.’

  ‘So you do remember?’

  I don’t answer. It’s not that I want to keep it from him; I just don’t know what to say. It’s as though the kinetic energy is working to dislodge something in my mind, but how can I possibly distinguish between what is a memory, what is a dream and what I have invented from everything he has planted in my head with his stories?

  We’re approaching the fence at the road’s edge; sheep watch us from a distant corner of the paddock. He climbs over and holds his hands out to help me. The questions keep coming.

  ‘Do you have bad images, like memories that come when you’re not expecting them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Let’s talk about that,’ he says. ‘What images come to you?’

  Tears start, silently running down my cheeks. I try to think about Melbourne. When I speak, I gasp. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ he says. ‘Do you remember who else was there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m not there, in your memories?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know. Please can we stop?’

  ‘Just a few more questions, alright? Have you thought about how you were feeling? What you went through?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Not once?’

  ‘No.’ We pass the bus shelter; staring white eyes float in the spill of darkness, becoming wide and fierce when they meet mine.

  ‘Regardless of what memories come back to you from that night, I want you to know that you weren’t yourself, okay?’

  But it can’t be true. I can’t have done anything . . . I just know that it wasn’t me. When he tells me big lies, how can I accept the small things as truth?

  •

  I’m in the shower the following morning when I hear an engine groaning. A knock at the door. My breath stops. I turn off the tap and stand in the cold, hands to my chest. I focus. A spider creeps down the wall of the shower to eye level. Jim goes to the door. Something crashes down out there, a rumbling like a landslide. Eventually the engine comes back to life on the driveway and chugs back up to the road and away.

  I towel off, dress quickly, and go outside. A pile of firewood.

  ‘Come on,’ Jim says. ‘Give me a hand.’

  We’re stacking the wood behind the steps beneath the back deck when his phone rings inside. Our eyes meet for a second. Jim runs up the steps to answer it.

  A minute later he leans over the balustrade. ‘Let’s go,’ he says. ‘Results are back.’

  We set off in the car. Jim is wearing the glasses again and a blue baseball cap. The winter sun arcs out over the water on one side and there’s a hitchhiker on the other, chin down against the cold and his thumb defiantly thrust in our direction. He holds a cardboard sign that reads AUCKLAND. I never saw hitchhikers in Melbourne. I turn my head to watch the man as we pass.

  Jim flicks his eyes at me. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I say, turning back to the road.

  •

  At the surgery, Dr Simon reads through a sheet of results from a clipboard, looks up and says, ‘Your blood tests look pretty good. You could do with a touch more iron in your diet, Evie, but I think we can rule out any underlying deficiency.’ He places the clipboard on his desk, looks me in the eye. ‘Let me just say that it’s absolutely normal to be having some issues adjusting, particularly given your history.’ I swallow. What does he know about my history? ‘I’m going to prescribe medication to make you feel better for the time being. You just take a pill every morning and we can check on you in a month’s time. If you’re feeling drowsy or nauseous give me a call and we can look at other options. Aside from that, you’re perfectly healthy.’

  ‘Is it possible she might get worse? There’s potentially a family history.’

  Why is he talking about my family?

  ‘It’s possible, but I’m perhaps not the best person to advise about that. I would also like to refer Evie to see someone else.’

  Jim frowns. ‘Who?’

  ‘Anne Lachlan; she’s a psychologist with a clinic in Rotoiti. It’s only a half-hour drive. I think it would help her.’

  ‘Oh, well, that won’t be necessary.’

  ‘Medication will help with the symptoms but if Evie speaks to someone we can help to address the underlying causes.’

  ‘I appreciate the recommendation, but Evie is already seeing someone.’

  He’s losing patience.

  ‘That’s good to hear. Do you mind if I ask who it is?’

  He tries to smile but it doesn’t reach his eyes. ‘I’d really rather not say.’

  ‘Well,’ the doctor says, taking a pen and a notepad from his desk. ‘Let me give y
ou Anne’s number just in case.’

  Jim takes the note and presses it into his pocket. ‘Thanks for your help, doc.’

  We drive to the pharmacy where Jim leaves me in the car. I look out at the street, at the people passing by. The clock on the dash reads 2.19 pm. It’s a new car: leather seats, touchscreen navigation. It’s almost a relief to see technology, a touchstone of the life we left behind. I open the glove box. There is a plastic case containing the car’s manual and service record. I open it and feel the shape of a spare key within one of the compartments. The door to the pharmacy opens and Jim is striding towards the car with a bottle of pills in his hand. I snatch the key and jam it into my pocket, then push the case into the glove box and snap it closed.

  As we speed along a straight road towards Maketu, Jim winds down his window enough to toss the note from the doctor out. I feel the throbbing, convulsive fear growing inside my chest. My brain is full of static and it doesn’t matter how quickly I breathe, I can’t get enough air.

  ‘Kate,’ he says. ‘Are you . . . are you okay?’

  I try to answer but the words come out in clots between my rapid breaths. ‘I—don’t—know.’

  My stomach clenches. The car seems to be slowly corkscrewing. My vision blurs and my face pounds with heat. We’re decelerating but it’s too late. The panic takes over. I yank the door handle and throw my weight against the door. It doesn’t open. Jim slams on the brakes, veering off the bitumen. I feel my pulse, my heart slamming in my chest. I breathe faster and faster but the darkness closes in. I squeeze my eyes closed. There are no sounds but my wet shuddering breath and the thunder of my heart.

  A voice tells me to breathe in. One-two-three-four. Hold. One-two. Out. One-two-three-four. In. One-two-three-four. Hold. One-two. Out. One-two-three-four.

  When my violent shaking begins to subside, I realise Jim is holding my head, speaking right into my face. ‘Keep breathing with me, you’re going to be okay.’ He’s holding me firmly but I can’t contain my body. ‘Come on, Kate. Look at me.’ There’s a scratch that starts at his jaw and runs down his neck.

  In. One-two-three-four. Hold. One-two. Out. One-two-three-four.

  It helps. I’m rocking hard against the seatbelt, but it’s beginning to feel like I’m sucking in enough air.

  ‘The doors won’t open when the car is moving. It’s a safety feature. One of the reasons I opted for this model.’

  I think of the hitchhiker and my throat constricts. I could never do it. I’m still rocking but everything has slowed; I can focus again.

  His leg jigs up and down and the pills rattle in his pocket.

  ‘Will they help, the pills?’

  ‘I think so, yes.’

  As cars pass I avert my eyes, keep counting out my breaths, and look out over the glistening water of the long sweeping estuary into the village.

  ‘Better now?’

  I nod. My thighs ache where my fingers dig in. The car starts again and we slide from the gravel shoulder back onto the road. This time he drives slowly, carefully, glancing over.

  ‘You lied,’ I say.

  ‘I would never lie to you.’

  ‘You lied to the doctor. You said I was seeing someone.’

  ‘You are,’ he says. ‘You’re seeing me.’

  It was so easy for him to lie. It came out like the truth.

  ‘The doctor said it would help.’

  ‘The people he wants you to see can’t help you, Kate. They’d only make it worse.’

  •

  There is a faded map of New Zealand hanging off-kilter near the fireplace in the lounge. The house is still, motionless, safe. What I feel is not comfort, but a numbing fear. For a while I stare at the map. The two long islands are drawn in all the colours between yellow and green, like an under-ripe mango. Maketu is a point in the middle of the bay. It sticks out like a jag that could tear the skin. I trace my finger down the coast, measuring it out against the key. Three hundred kilometres to Auckland, maybe more. I try to find Te Puke, where we went to the doctor’s office. It took over half an hour to get there but on the map we had barely travelled any distance at all. The emptiness comes on again, the realisation that home is so far away.

  If I were still in Melbourne, I would be preparing for high school exams. We would already be talking about end-of-year parties, planning ways to stay in touch as we stepped into adulthood. Isn’t it amazing how quickly plans can derail, how life can break apart like a flock of startled birds?

  Even if I still had school and my friends, Melbourne will never be the same without my old dad. I pull the bottom drawer of my dresser all the way out so I can drop the car key into the cavity between the drawer and the floor. Slowly, silently, watching the doorway, I push the empty drawer back in.

  Jim is outside stacking the last of the firewood. We found an old axe to cut kindling. If nothing else, at least we have the means to protect ourselves.

  before <

  FIVE

  PEOPLE WILL SAY I did it just for attention. Here’s the truth: almost no one does anything just for attention. Admiration, freedom, love, obligation, revenge; these are more likely motivations. Before you can understand why Thom and I did what we did, you must know one thing: I envied the girls who got attention but not the attention itself. Rather, I craved the comfort they took from it, the way some girls waded through it. I wanted to be like that. Instead, I shut down when I felt eyes lingering on me, when people expected me to say something cutting or bitchy, when boys joked in that sly way, anticipating my laughter. I hated the sound of my laugh, how unnatural it was, the shapes my mouth made. And around other girls, I was treading on eggshells; just one comment about the size of my ankles or the thick hair on my forearms could ruin an entire week. That comfort I so longed for, it was something I knew I would never have.

  Willow, my closest friend, was magnetic. What you first noticed about her was her hair, dark and chaotic in a deliberately structured way. Mine frizzed out from neglect and a refusal to cut it more than once every few years. Willow was the same height as me, but where I was drawn and thin, she was strong and filled out. Her green eyes were enigmatic, with a feline quality. Eyes designed for eyeliner ads. Mine were brown, doe-like and boring. Willow was different from me in so many ways. Her father was a musician; she went to a co-ed public school. I went to Windsor Girls’ Grammar, a private girls’ school, which I suppose conjures images of violin lessons, plaid skirts and school trips to France, but the reality was cigarettes, cagey bulimic friends, and talking about blow jobs. The reality was trying to fit in; that’s something everyone goes through, I guess.

  We had only known each other since I changed swimming coaches and moved to the pools closer to home a year or so earlier. I might never have met Willow if not for the pool. Everyone assumed I would be athletic like my father, but the only extracurricular activity I stuck with was swimming. I told Dad it was so I could interact with people outside of school. Truth be told, it was the boys I was most interested in. One boy in particular. Had it not been for the pool, I might not have met Thom either.

  •

  At the end of the summer before year eleven I was eager to return to my regular routine – maybe not so much school but definitely swimming. Seven weeks had passed since I’d last seen Thom. We’d been flirting and sitting together each day before swimming but then the holidays came at the worst possible moment. He was the first boy to show me that sort of attention. He was the first boy I wanted attention from.

  Dad and I had been away for most of the summer, leaving our five-bedroom home empty, except for occasional visits from the cleaner. Dad opted for a rusty caravan in Torquay rather than the house on the beach in Portsea. For Dad, the Portsea house was a place where Mum’s ghost still lingered like a fog; he couldn’t bring himself to sell it but he couldn’t visit it either. For me it represented the bath and all that happened in it.

  Things had changed since Eloise the nanny, and those days I spent in the hospital recoverin
g from the third-degree burns on my thighs while Mum was sick. After Mum died, Dad decided to hang up his rugby boots to raise me himself. He reinvented himself as a financial analyst and by the time I reached high school Dad’s new career occupied him until late most afternoons. This meant I had a lot of alone time but since he didn’t let me take my phone to school, I had to wait for him to get home before I could use it.

  I was bubbling with excitement to see Thom and Willow at swimming. The afternoon before our first training session back, I rushed downstairs from my room the moment the front door closed. In the foyer, my dad unbuttoned his cuffs and looked up, his eyes finding me.

  ‘Hello, Kate,’ he said, lowering his head and turning his cheek towards me. I kissed it. ‘How was school?’

  ‘Good, thanks,’ I said. ‘Can I have my phone now?’

  ‘And here I thought you were running down to see your dear old dad.’

  ‘Please? I want to message Willow.’

  ‘Oh, you want to message Willow.’ He winked. ‘If it’s Willow, I’d better hurry then.’

  ‘Dad.’ I tipped my head forwards so my hair fell over my face.

  ‘Alright, alright. I’ll bring it down soon.’ He climbed the stairs.

  Thom Moreau. While I waited for my phone I wrote it, holding the pen close to the nib to keep my handwriting tight and neat. Putting the name on a page made it tangible, gave my thoughts a place in the real world. Again and again I wrote it, with serif twirls, in block letters, scribbled in ovoid flurries like Dad’s signature. My journal was filled with small encounters, jokes and observations. I thought of ways to describe him, things he did that no one else did. He turns one ear to you when he listens. He blinks quickly when he’s thinking. He bumped his shoulder into mine on the way to the changing room. My heart was there on those pages; anyone could have seen it if they found the journal. I was attracted to him before I knew what attraction was.

  He didn’t seem to try when it came to swimming, unlike other boys; he just did it. I imagined him, imagined the future him, imagined the future versions of us: private kisses, school dances, attracting the envious eyes of all of my friends. I was almost fifteen and could still believe in these things. The burning ideals that keep us warm when we’re young, before colder, harder times temper them.