Take one to two tablets half an hour prior to bedtime.
The label was more of an order than a suggestion. He felt like Alice in Wonderland—the book was one of the few English texts he’d studied at high school. The bottle may as well have said Eat me.
He opened the childproof lid: inside the bottle, there were twelve tablets left. Enough that Mrs Hughes probably wouldn’t notice if one went missing. He popped a tablet, small as a Tic Tac, on his tongue and washed it down with a scoop of tap water. Immediately he felt calmer, his palms less sweaty, his heart rate slower. He knew this was the placebo effect—the medication had barely reached his stomach—but the change he felt was undeniable.
He lay on his bed as if on a cloud. As the benzodiazepine kicked in, he finally understood the lure of drugs. Up until then he had always thought of drug addicts as weak and out of control. Alcohol had never held any appeal for him, but this was different. There was no itch or heat, just a gentle soothing of his senses. Like exhaling after holding his breath for a really long time. Sleep came slowly. For half an hour he was caught in a kind of limbo. Instead of his mother and Kanbei, his mind was awash with images of Kiko—the skin around her eyes, which creased into fine wrinkles when she laughed, her black hair burnished brown by the fierce Australian sun.
29
When the garbage truck roared past her window at six am, Meg woke up with a start. She rushed to the kitchen to see if Atticus might have magically returned during the night, but the kitchen and his cage were empty. She made a cup of tea, wrapped herself in a robe and stood on the front verandah to drink it. She hoped Atticus might be there, waiting patiently to be invited back in, but the street was deserted.
Her father had been an early riser—a hangover, perhaps, from being brought up on a farm. Sometimes when Meg was in her early teens, she’d set her alarm so she could sit with him as he drank his morning coffee in the garden. Meg always thought she took after her dad—a quiet and thoughtful man, easily overwhelmed by Helen and her mum. Bev and Judith were the only people on Rose Street old enough to remember him. There had been a time when Meg had prided herself on knowing the names of everyone on the street, but she’d given up trying years ago. Even Helen, who was always talking to strangers, had found it an impossible task in the end. Now there was a block of poky townhouses with a revolving door of new tenants. The people, young professionals mainly, were friendly, but always in such a rush.
Meg forced herself to focus on the day ahead. She wished she could be more like Patrick—spirited and passionate—but she only felt sad and weary. Even now, as she stood on the verandah, her belly ached and her knees throbbed. Tired, she sat down on the steps of the porch. The bleeding had settled a few days ago, which she assumed was a good sign. She put down her mug and rubbed her stomach, scanning the trees for a flash of red. But apart from a plastic bag tied to a branch—which momentarily set Meg’s heart aflutter—there was nothing.
30
Andy woke up late, feeling refreshed. There was nowhere he had to be and he lay in bed for fifteen minutes. When he eventually checked his phone he saw there were three missed calls from an unknown number. At three am the caller had left a voicemail message.
‘This is Kanbei. I’ve got food poisoning. I can’t go today. Don’t worry about the outstanding balance. I’ll only keep the non-refundable fifty per cent deposit.’
Andy sat up in bed. The exam had started at nine o’clock. He checked the time on his phone—it was ten-thirty. He felt a wash of panic. A thousand thoughts flooded his head. What would his parents say when they found out? Failing was shameful, but cheating on an exam was unforgivable. Perhaps this would be the thing that would push his mother over the edge. Had he really expected a criminal to honour a verbal contract? Served him right. He’d got what was coming to him. He’d got what he deserved.
Feeling as though he might faint, Andy lay down again. He grabbed the edge of the bed in an attempt to anchor himself in the world. What was it the counsellor at uni had taught him during their first session? Three things he could feel, three things he could hear. He could feel the pillow beneath his head, the wooden bedframe in his hand, his hair resting on his forehead. He could hear a motorbike storming past the house, the distant cry of a child, birds chirping outside the window. He concentrated on his breathing. He counted to three as he inhaled, three as he exhaled. He closed his eyes. Nobody knew anything yet. Three things he could feel, three things he could hear. He could feel the tension in his muscles, the pound of his pulse in his temples, the air moving through his nostrils. He could hear a piano, a bicycle bell, a tree branch tapping on the window. What if he got an appointment with a doctor and faked the food poisoning Kanbei was supposedly suffering from? He imagined people got medical certificates from doctors to explain their absence from exams all the time. Andy opened his laptop and searched for clinics in the area. He found one not far away, along a tramline. When he called, the receptionist said he was in luck and gave him an appointment for eleven-thirty. He could see the doctor and still see Kiko at one o’clock like they’d planned. He would have to sit a supplementary exam, but at least it would give him more time to study.
Andy tried calling the number Kanbei had given him. He rang it five times, but there was no answer. He felt a hollowness invade his abdomen—something akin to hunger but much more painful. He didn’t even know Kanbei’s real name.
Andy walked to the kitchen, relieved to discover that Mrs Hughes wasn’t at home. He wondered whether she’d gone in search of Atticus, or if perhaps she was on another date with her racist boyfriend. Either way, Andy was grateful for the silence. He made a coffee and placed the mug beside his books on the kitchen table. He had thirty minutes to study for the neuroscience exam before he’d have to leave for his appointment with the GP. But as he leafed through the course handbook and scoured the relevant chapters in his textbook, he was daunted by the task ahead of him. At eleven, when his father sent him a message asking how he’d gone in his exam, Andy shoved his books to the floor and ran to the bathroom to douse his face with water. Now he sat on the lid of the toilet and concentrated on his breathing. A certificate wasn’t going to solve everything, but it was definitely better than nothing. This thought momentarily calmed him and he got dressed to see the doctor. Before he left, he tidied up the mess he’d made in the kitchen. Mrs Hughes had enough problems of her own—she didn’t need an untidy housemate.
The clinic was three blocks from the house, in what had once been a family home. In the waiting room Andy pretended to read a magazine about cars while he studied the other patients. There was a snotty toddler stuffing sultanas into his mouth on the chair directly opposite, and an old man with a hacking cough on the seat beside him.
At eleven forty-five, the doctor—a middle-aged man with a large belly—called out Andy’s name. Andy followed him down the hall. The GP was breathless by the time they reached the room. As he sat down, Andy’s eyes found a CT scan report at the top of a messy pile of papers. Herman Pickford. Sixty-seven years old. Metastatic lung cancer.
‘So,’ the doctor said, swivelling round in his chair. He squinted at the computer screen. ‘Andy. Chan. What can I help you with today?’
Andy wrapped his arm around his abdomen and bent forwards. ‘I think I’ve got food poisoning.’
The doctor picked up the clipboard with the questionnaire Andy had filled out in the waiting room. ‘You’re studying biomedicine?’
Andy nodded. He was hoping this detail would make the doctor more sympathetic. ‘I’ve actually got an exam today. Microbiology.’
‘In which case you can tell me which two bacterial toxins are most commonly responsible for food poisoning.’
Andy’s fingers gripped the sides of the chair.
The doctor laughed. ‘I’m just pulling your leg.’ He spun around to face the computer screen. ‘I suppose you’re after a medical certificate.’
On the brief walk to the clinic Andy had perfected his story. He’d wok
en up at three am with projectile vomiting and hadn’t been able to tolerate anything but small sips of water since. This morning he’d had three episodes of watery diarrhoea with no blood. He thought it was probably the sushi he’d eaten yesterday for lunch. But the doctor didn’t ask him any questions. Either he was a very bad doctor who didn’t examine his patients, or he was a very good doctor who saw through Andy’s performance.
The printer on the desk shuddered to life. The doctor removed a piece of paper from its mouth and handed it to Andy. It was a medical certificate for one day.
‘You should be right by tomorrow,’ the doctor said with an amused look on his face. ‘If it’s really just food poisoning.’
31
Patrick arrived at one o’clock. On the phone he’d told Meg that check-in at the beach house was three pm. Meg had spent the morning visiting the neighbours for news about Atticus, but nobody had seen him.
‘Have you been to Dromana before?’ Patrick asked when they were packed and seated in the car.
‘A few times, with the family, when I was a little girl.’ Meg thought of the shell necklace she’d stuffed back into the shoebox last night. She hoped she hadn’t damaged it.
‘It’s a great spot.’
Patrick was casually dressed in a polo shirt, shorts and sandals. Instead of a leather cap, his balding head was covered by a fedora.
Meg leant back in her seat. She’d never taken much interest in cars, but she could tell this one was expensive, probably European. Not big but spacious, with tan leather seats.
‘This car has seat warmers. Not that we need them today.’ Meg raised her eyebrows. She hadn’t realised the world had progressed to the point of seat warmers. If anything, she’d always found it a little disconcerting to sit on a chair that was still hot from another person’s bottom. But she supposed it was different if a computer had heated it for you.
‘I remember when the only way to cool a car was to open a window,’ she said.
Patrick laughed. ‘Those days are over.’
Meg looked at him, unsure if he was sad or excited about the future.
‘In a few years we’ll have cars that don’t even need a driver,’ he added.
Meg had heard about such things on the radio. ‘It’s hard to believe.’
Patrick chuckled. ‘If you’re rich enough, soon you’ll be able to do almost everything with the press of a button.’
Meg thought of Helen with her useless legs. Now people with perfectly good legs were developing technology to ensure they’d never have to use them. She thought of the daytime telly advertisements for whole-body vibrators designed to help people lose weight while they sat on the couch and watched more daytime telly advertisements for whole-body vibrators.
‘I’ve packed a picnic,’ Patrick said. ‘Tasmanian brie, homemade parmesan crisps and marinated Sicilian olives.’
‘Sounds delicious.’ It struck Meg that her recent meal of spaghetti bolognese must have seemed terribly pedestrian to Patrick. She looked out the window. They were driving past the Melbourne cemetery. A large billboard mounted to the wrought-iron fence read: Limited release! Exclusive graves. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
As they waited at the traffic light, Meg saw a flash of emerald and blue in a nearby gum tree. Taking a closer look, she realised a small flock of rainbow lorikeets had made their home in its branches. She turned to Patrick, who was tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. The radio was tuned to Gold FM. Marvin Gaye’s ‘I Heard It through the Grapevine’ was playing. There was something about his look, a smugness, that Meg found unnerving. She felt a sharp pain in her chest. When she inhaled, the air was as thick as honey.
‘Do you mind opening a window?’ she gasped.
‘Are you okay?’ Patrick said as he pulled over.
‘I can’t do this.’ As she spoke Meg thought she saw a flicker of irritation pass across his face. ‘Atticus, he’s flown away,’ she said.
‘I’m sorry.’ Patrick placed a warm hand on Meg’s arm.
A skinny woman walking a dalmatian peered at them through the windscreen.
‘I know it sounds pathetic,’ Meg said. ‘But he’s been with me a long time.’
‘Of course.’ Patrick’s hand slipped down Meg’s arm towards her wrist. He turned her hand palm up and interlaced his fingers with hers. ‘But what good will it do to wait for him at home?’
‘I want to be there when he comes back,’ Meg said, imagining Jillian’s sneer.
‘Don’t Worry, Be Happy’ was now playing on the radio. Patrick turned it off. ‘Have you ever thought that maybe Atticus isn’t lost at all? That maybe he’s enjoying his new-found freedom?’
Meg knew he was talking about her, but as she sat in the airless cabin of the car, her seatbelt tight as a noose around her neck, she felt anything but free.
32
On the tram Andy tried to focus on his meeting with Kiko. Now he wouldn’t have to lie about being at the exam today. He could tell her a new version of events—one that didn’t involve so much diarrhoea, something along the lines of his alarm not going off—and, even better, ask her about the exam questions.
He watched a couple standing by the tram doors, kissing and whispering. People pretended to look at their phones, but every so often Andy saw their eyes flick up towards the lovers. He was relieved when the tram arrived at his stop. He squeezed past the couple and the woman smiled at him, her lipstick so smeared it was hard to tell where her lips began and where they ended.
Andy chose a quiet table at the back of the restaurant. It was still five weeks until Christmas but somebody had strung red and silver tinsel across the ceiling. As one o’clock neared, Andy could sense every muscle in his body tighten.
‘Can I take your order?’ the waitress asked with an impatient look. It was the third time she had asked him.
‘I’ll wait for my friend,’ Andy replied.
By one-thirty, Andy must have checked his phone sixty times, but there were no messages from Kiko. When he waved down the waitress and ordered beef pho, he thought he saw an annoying I-told-you-so smile on her lips. He ate slowly, partly to justify his continued presence and partly because each bite was an effort. When he finished eating it was past two o’clock and Andy had to accept what the waitress had been so sure of from the start—Kiko wasn’t coming. He contemplated messaging her—perhaps she’d been mugged or murdered as she walked from the exam hall to meet him. Perhaps she was dead or dying a slow death in a dumpster somewhere. Perhaps it was all his fault. Or maybe she’d just stood him up. As hard as it was to admit, Andy knew the last option was the most likely. There was nothing he could do. His parents had raised him to preserve face—he couldn’t message a girl after she’d humiliated him.
The air inside the tram was stifling. No matter where Andy sat, he couldn’t escape the smell of body odour. There was no kissing couple this time, only a man with leaves in his hair talking loudly to an invisible companion.
Andy had had an imaginary friend as a child. He’d never told his parents about him. He’d worried it would make them angry, or sad, or both. But he remembered his make-believe companion—an older and braver version of himself—rolling his eyes at the noisy way his dad ate and making funny faces behind his mother’s back as she fussed about the kitchen.
The tram rumbled up Swanston Street and came to a stop at a busy intersection. The man with leaves in his hair got off and a group of university students climbed on. They were chatting loudly about an exam, complaining about the poorly worded questions. Andy slumped down in his seat, leant his head against the window.
He didn’t recognise his aunt straight away. She was wearing a white shirt with lace sleeves and bright red lipstick. She looked younger and prettier than usual. She was sitting at an outside table beneath an awning, having coffee with a man. As the tram started moving again Andy’s thoughts turned to his birthday. He remembered the excuses his aunt had made when he’d suggested they meet for yum cha—the school pick-up
s, the distance, the kids’ sporting activities. No wonder Kiko couldn’t face having lunch with him—even his own family found him boring.
When Andy arrived home, Atticus was perched on the letterbox, scratching his belly with his beak. Andy smiled, less surprised by the return of the parrot than by how moved he felt.
Atticus bobbed his head up and down. ‘Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall!’
Andy held out his hand and the parrot climbed onto it. As Andy fumbled with the key, Atticus whistled a tune. They went inside together.
Mrs Hughes wasn’t home. Andy couldn’t bring himself to put Atticus back in his cage. He didn’t want to imprison the bird after his recent bout of freedom. Instead he let the parrot roam free around the house.
At the sight of his neuroscience textbooks on the kitchen table, Andy felt a hole open up inside his chest. He called Kanbei three times, but every time it rang through to voicemail. On the third call he left an angry message about verbal contracts and the natural history of food poisoning.
Enraged, Andy paced up and down the hallway. Atticus chased him, which only infuriated Andy more. He paused outside the bathroom. Mrs Hughes had left the cabinet slightly ajar. Andy went in, ignoring his frantic face in the mirror as he opened the cabinet door. Atticus didn’t follow, preferring to watch at a safe distance from the floor of the hall.
Andy picked up the bottle and pushed down on the childproof lid with his palm. He only wanted to sleep, to quell the noises in his head, to take a break from the exhaustion of being himself. The tablets fell like lollies onto his tongue. He filled his mouth with water from the tap and sat on the toilet seat to wait.
Room for a Stranger Page 10
