“Lia, I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to …”
Tears well in my eyes, and I blink them back, as if that will somehow stem the hurt.
“You can’t act like I’m the bad guy. You’re not even crying. Don’t you care this is over? Do you even like me at all?”
"I do!" I protest, and the ache in my chest at the thought of life without him resonates through me again.
"What about Melbourne then, huh?"
"I wanted you to come with me!"
"Well I wanted you to stay in Sydney."
Guilt stabs at my gut. It churns up all the hurt residing there, and the ache stings deep inside me.
"I don't want to lose you." My voice is small and trembling.
I can't lose you.
A current of pain runs deep through my body, suctioned onto the blood pumping through my veins. It's taking me over, piece by piece, supported by an undercurrent of fear. Fear for my future. Fear for waking up alone. Fear for my mother.
Fear for my life.
"Do you love her?" I gulp on a whisper, a tear.
Nothing.
"Do you, Duke?"
He huffs out a breath and it distorts over the line. "Does it matter?"
"Of course it damn—"
"Yeah."
It's quiet. It's small.
But it's there.
And I know that she loves him. That she's always loved him.
That she's not planning on making him choose in 144 days time.
Then I think of all the ways Duke saves me, of how he's my safe place, and damn, if I ever needed a safe place, it's now. So much is going on, with Mum and Smith, me needing a job, crunch time in exams and my impending audition looming near—is this the time to be self-sacrificing?
Luckily, I don't have to make that choice.
Duke makes it for me.
"We're breaking up."
Three little words smack me big-time in the chest.
"You don't care, Lia. I need someone to fight, and you ..." You're a cool, hard-hearted bitch. He doesn't say it, but the words are clearly there. "You wanna come 'round, get your things?"
"The Fleetwood Mac record and the pair of knickers you stole?"
"Yeah."
"I'll ... Just maybe bring them to school on Monday."
"Well ... goodbye."
Again, silence echoes down the line, and my heart does a stupid quiver thing as I wonder what if Duke was the one?
Look at your family compared to his. That's never going to happen.
Pain roils in my gut. A fresh wave of tears streak down my face, over my cheeks, and my stupid bottom lip does that trembly thing it does when I think of our relationship.
Duke and I, kissing on his front lawn.
Duke and I, having sex in front of his parents' fireplace.
Duke and I, laughing over some stupid joke.
Duke and I ... being Duke and I.
We shared so much that letting it go seems strange. Unnatural. Unbearably painful
I need him.
"Wait!" I call, interrupting the silence.
"Yeah?" Duke asks.
“I …” My mouth is open, but no words come out. I have nothing to say.
As much as I want to forgive him, I won’t fight for him. I don’t have any fight left to give.
"Don't bother with the knickers," I blurt out, then hang up the phone.
I don't know what else to do.
***
I get out of bed and throw on a shirt and some jeans, then splash some cool water over my face in the bathroom. The girl staring back at me in the mirror looks like absolute crap—mascara streaked under her eyes, red spidering through them in tiny veins, cracks in the surface of an otherwise glossy sheen.
Brushing my teeth, I hear Whitney getting louder. My heart is breaking; hers is stuck on repeat. I scrub harder, harder, till my gums feel raw, and when I spit the toothpaste out, blood is swirled through it like strawberry topping through an ice cream sundae.
Wrenching the towel from its spot by the basin, I scour it over my mouth. I've gone from hurting and feeling so alone to burning up with anger in the space of three minutes.
Grabbing my phone, I barrel down the stairs, ready to get the hell out of there.
"Lee Lee."
Head down. Eyes to the floor.
Just keep walking.
"Lia, wait, baby." Her voice trembles, and I hear the tears without having to see them.
Grabbing my keys from the hanger beside the door, I twist the door handle, yanking it open. A cruel spring breeze floats through, and she shrieks, a cry so damn heartbreaking it stops me in my tracks.
Then she's screaming. Heartbreaking, gulping, painful sobs that don't just hurt my ears, but my very soul.
I slam the door shut, and turn around.
She's on the floor, scrambling to collect all the photos that the wind sent dancing from the coffee table. She picks one up and clutches it to her chest, her tears dampening the surface. Her hair is wild around her, all frizzy and loose and free, and her fingers move like crickets, fast, in a fury, clicking this way and that. From what I can tell, she's simply too far gone in herself to separate reality from what’s in her mind.
"Mum ..." I drop my keys and phone on the side table, then bend down to help her, picking up photos and placing them back on the coffee table. Seeing my actions, Mum slows her sobs, reduced to hiccoughs of sadness that still bear the ghost of depression.
When I'm done with the floor, I manage to retrieve the photos held firmly in Mum's grasp, prying away her fingers and then placing the shiny film on the table with the rest of them.
Whitney's still blaring throughout all of this. I get up and hit stop on the track, and it sets Mum off again, and she's crying and screaming and clutching pictures to her chest, holding on to these memories that she should have already let go.
"Turn it back—back on, Lee Lee." She grabs my wrist, those thin fingers digging into my skin.
And I want to. God, if Whitney can stop her pain, then I want to. But today, I'm hurting too. And sometimes I want to be the kid, not the adult who's always there for her dependent family member.
I don't have Duke.
"You have a boyfriend," I say, shaking my head. "You shouldn't do this ..."
She blinks, as if taken aback, and then her head starts shaking, her eyes wide in panic. "No," she whispers. "No, no, no, no, no, no, NO!"
I drop to my knees and place my hand on her back. She shakes, her whole body vibrating to the frequency of hurt and sadness. "Hey, I'm sorry," I say in a soothing tone, rubbing little circles between her shoulder blades.
Silence coats the room in a thick wash. It's murky and deep and I don't know how to break it.
"Sing with me?"
I press my eyes shut.
I need to get out of here.
"Please?"
When I open my lids, Mum's face is inches from my own. Her eyes have calmed, and even though she's still clutching her favourite picture to her chest, I can tell she's lost some of the psychosis that seemed to take her over just moments ago.
"Will you come to the doctors with me if I do?" I try. So far, we’ve booked ten appointments. She’s made it to three in the last year, each with varying levels of success. It's the same every time—here are some support networks you can join. Let's talk about your alcohol levels. But she doesn't take their advice seriously, and until she takes it seriously, she won't realise how much she needs their advice. It's a vicious cycle, but each time I go, I hope for something more. Antidepressants, maybe.
If only there was some form of pain relief that healed the heart, I'd prescribe some for her, and more for me.
Because as hard as it is for her life to be so ruined, watching it fall to pieces can be even worse.
"And I ..." Mum whispersings, her voice soft and melodic. A tiny smile graces her lips, but doesn't reach those sad blue eyes.
She reaches out and squeezes my hand, her sweaty fingers tight aga
inst my own. There's so much hope in that gesture—so much desire for solidarity behind it.
I feel horrible for bringing up Smith when she so clearly wasn't ready for it.
She's my mum.
And now more than ever, she's all I have left.
"I will always ... love you ..." I sing, and her mouth breaks into this wide grin that makes my heart melt.
I'd do anything to have her smile like that all the time.
It's a ghost of how she used to be.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I don't go straight to the scout hall, no matter how much I want to. Instead, I sing with Mum until she falls asleep. We don't talk about Smith, and I don't ask her where she was before the WhitneyFest started again, or what brought it on. Instead, I cover her with the same blanket as always and pack up the photos, stashing them in the cupboard.
Standing above her in the living room, her tiny body curled up on the couch, she looks so frail, and I'm struck by this protective instinct. I have to keep her safe. To help her get through it all.
Is leaving going to do that?
I banish the voice to the back of my mind. I still have 144 days to deal with that. To help her become self-sufficient. And hell, with her newly promised pledge to go to the doctors with me again this week, and Smith around, perhaps she will get there much sooner than I dread.
I have to look after my mother. Even if it kills me.
In the hall, I slide some coins off the side table, scooping them into my palm. Funds in the bank account are low, and Mum's government assistance won't kick in till Thursday.
It's always a scary time of the fortnight, the Tuesday and Wednesday before payday. It's when she's at her most desperate, and I'm most on edge.
Before I leave, I check what's in the cupboard, and make a few frugal decisions on what to get from the store on the way home. We should have enough for something cheap—perhaps some mince. I muster up a smile, shaking my head. Maybe if the piano stuff doesn't work out, I could write a cookbook. One Hundred Ways With Beef Mince.
I stop smiling when I remember that I don't have a job, and don't know how I'll get to Melbourne unless I make some cash, fast. All of a sudden, the cookbook doesn't seem like such a terrible idea.
That's all it takes for the memories of yesterday to wash over me in a tidal wave. No job. No boyfriend. No escape.
I bite my lip until the mental pain becomes physical, too, and salt coats my mouth. Blood pumps through my body at a too-fast speed, and I feel it in my pulse. My mind whirls. I need a solution. I need answers. I’m going to explode. I can't just—
I need to play.
Slowly, I pull the door to and make my way to my car, then drive to the scout hall. It's earlier than normal, but thankfully, no one seems to have their name listed next to midday on the hire chart, so I quickly scribble mine in and then make a mental note to increase my hire fees when I transfer the money across at the end of the month.
I throw my calico bag on the floor, and place some sheet music in front of me. It's something new, a sonata I've never attempted before, and I'm hoping it'll be just what I need to take my mind off what's happening at home. Everywhere.
My fingers start working the keys, and I play the opening page over and over perhaps twenty times, stumbling over a transition at the end that's timed with a particularly tricky scale run over the top. It requires you to move your hands at lightning speeds, and soon my fingers ache, grow heavy with the weight of overuse, but I keep going, keep pushing, because what else do I have?
“Lia?”
I look up. Kat leans against the doorframe, the afternoon sun silhouetting around her hair, making it glow golden. Like a halo.
Huh.
A fresh wave of pain stabs me in the gut, because reality is sinking in. Not only have I lost my boyfriend, I’ve lost my best friend. The one I was supposed to be able to trust.
“Lia, I’m so sorry.”
I stare at the keys in front of me. If I don’t look at her, maybe it will stop the tears from falling.
“I never meant for it to happen.” Her voice wobbles over the last word. “I just … I won’t see him again. I’m so, so sorry.”
A splash of liquid lands next to the key I’m staring at. It’s glassy against the ivory below it. I wish I could have held it in.
“I’ll never even—I won’t speak to him again if you want. I’ll do anything, whatever it takes.” Footsteps thud across the hall, and my heart leaps to my throat. Because I can’t do this right now, and I hate that I want to tell her that it’s all okay, that things can go back to the way they used to be because they can’t. She betrayed me.
She took away my safe.
“Stop.” One word. It’s almost a whisper.
“Lia, I’ll do anything,” she says, but the footsteps don’t sound further and I know she’s obeyed my request. “I want to … I want to be there for you. Especially since you’ll be leaving soon, and with your mum the way she is, you might need someone to—”
I whip my head around to meet her gaze. “You don’t know anything about us.”
Kat’s hands fly up in an offensive stance. “I’m sorry, I was just trying to—”
“Just don’t.” We stare at each other. Hurt flares in her eyes, and I sure as shit know it’s mirrored in my own. Because this aches. Losing someone you loves aches.
And I know way too much about that.
“I’ll go.” She backs away, her eyes never leaving mine.
When she’s finally out of the hall, that stupid lump that’s been welling in my throat since she entered breaks free, and I gulp, tears streaking down my cheeks.
“Play,” I cough out. It’s always helped me before.
Music always sets me free.
I hover my hands over the keys, deciding on one of my application pieces, then I launch into the song. My hands shake, and I think of how I hate her, but I don’t hate her, and how I’m going to have to see them at school, and how Mum isn’t getting better, and how I don’t have a job and will need to earn some money so I can move to Melbourne and—
I hit a wrong note, and fist my hand into the lower keys.
"Shit!" I yell.
It feels so good.
So good that I do it again.
"Shiiiiiiiiiit!" I yell, and it echoes around the empty room, the tired walls resounding my sentiment.
"Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit!" This one is punctuated by several dramatic fists to the keys, and my little fingers smart, and my throat tears from too much crying and screaming, but in those two seconds, I feel free, because it's not the sort of thing ladylike Lia does at home, or at school. This Lia is different. She's honest. Raw.
"Is everything okay?"
Sprung.
I whip my head left and of course it's the bar owner from next door, because that's how the world works. "Fine," I reply curtly, then turn back to the piano.
"I know you don't like people to stalk you while you play, so I'm gonna leave you to it. Just wanted to make sure you're not letting those keys get nasty on you."
My eyes remain glued to the keys, but I can practically see him backing up, hands high in the air in a don't shoot style gesture.
I huff air out my nose, then slump down in my seat, my hands over my head. When did I become such a mess?
It's then that I let it all out and cry again, cry for this horrid uncertainty. And hope like hell I have the strength to pull through it.
***
It's a tiny independent supermarket just down the road from the hall. The prices are slightly higher than at the chain store on the main drag, but I like the anonymity. There, I could run into anyone.
And I don't need to run into anyone today.
It's so close to the hall that I decide to walk, strolling along the lake. In the distance, waves crash, the angry sound of high tide thudding against the shore. Seagulls have long since abandoned their mission of flying overhead, and instead, my trip is orchestrated by lonely insects buzzing out repetitive tu
nes. It's perfect for my mood.
By the time I hit the store, it's dark, and bright white fluros bring the grocery aisles to life. I blitz through the fresh food section, the tune of some 80s dance number playing over the supermarket speakers in direct contrast to my mood. I just make it to the meat section as Billy from upfront yells that they're closing up soon. I turn the corner, and reach down for the last packet of mince—
And then I hear it.
That voice.
"So there really isn't any more to the story?"
Mrs Finnegan.
I drop the mince and duck back into the aisle I came from, taking light footsteps all the way to the front of the store so I can hover behind the nuts display.
"Nope. We're just ... over."
Duke.
Hearing his voice is like a knife to a wound.
A punch to a bruise.
A break to a fracture.
It all becomes real and my world crashes down around me as I think about school tomorrow, and how the hell I'm going to cope. I shake so much the nut tower wobbles, and I grab either side of the pop-up display, steadying it.
"Are you sad?"
"Mu-um," he chastises, and I know from his tone that he’s rolling his eyes. It makes me smile, and it makes me frown. Knowing him that well means hurting that bad.
"I mean upset. You know. You did date for a year. You even said you'd considered moving to Melbourne to be with her."
Those words. Ow.
A painful reminder that maybe it could have worked.
"Yeah, but whatever. She wasn't willing to stay. Or if she was, she didn't show it."
I press my eyes shut tight, thankful that they can't see me, that this assortment of almonds and walnuts and cashews and yes, even mixed nuts, are stopping these tears from being witnessed by the boy who caused them.
I shake my head, no. The person who caused this was me.
"Well, I'm glad you're happy, Son."
The voices are getting close, dangerously so, and I look left and right for somewhere else to hide. The way the store is laid out, the fruit and veg section I'm in is to the left of the registers.
I have a fifty/fifty chance, here. Either they'll reach the end of the meat aisle, and turn back up the tinned goods aisle. Or, they'll head to the registers. It doesn't definitely mean they'll see me.
How To Save A Life (Emerald Cove #1) Page 8
