Andrew positions himself exactly where he needs to be on the platform. Experience tells him precisely where the train will stop. It doesn’t matter how many people arrive, he is getting on this train.
A cold breath exhales in his face. Andrew doesn’t react in any way. The breath could potentially be one of the other train passengers given how crowded the platform is, except a fellow passenger’s breath would be warm. Andrew pays it no mind, leaning forward and casting his eyes over the tracks. Here comes the train.
As expected, he is perfectly positioned. The train eases to a halt with a door directly in front of him. Around him, the crowd jostles to get aboard, caught between the desperation of wanting to ensure their spot on the train and the forced politeness of waiting for passengers already in the carriage to get off.
The crowd surges, too many people all attempting to get on at once. As Andrew pushes through the door an icy hand grabs his arm, pulling him back to the platform. Fingernails dig into the back of his neck. They want to keep him there. While this wasn’t necessarily expected, Andrew isn’t surprised. He merely exerts a little more force and pulls away, stepping into the train carriage. Two hands grabbed at him. That means two of them most likely. The attempt to drag him back is actually a positive. It suggests they won’t follow him onto the train. All this knowledge works on a subconscious level these days, not even coming close to penetrating Andrew’s thoughts.
Not surprisingly, the overcrowded station results in a ridiculously overcrowded train. Not everyone makes it aboard, leaving the platform still busy. As the doors close Andrew catches a glimpse of the two pale, gaunt faces. Bewildered. Mouths half open. To his eyes, they are no different to the other faces waiting for the next service.
The train pulls away, leaving them with everybody else.
8
I stumble out of the office at five. Somehow I managed to get some stuff done. Occasionally Old Ellie would complete some work and worry it wasn’t great, only to look back a few days later and realise the work was in fact okay. I desperately hope this will be the case with today’s efforts. However, I am aware that I’m clutching at straws.
A horn rouses me from my maze of thoughts. Buckley waves at me from the car. Is it wrong that it takes all my self-control not to sprint off in the other direction? Poor Buckley. His smile is so warm and caring and understanding that I feel as though it is assaulting me.
We drive the short distance to our house, engaged in forced banalities revolving around the parts of each other’s day we don’t yet know about. The entire journey home I can feel the panic bubbling away inside me, threatening to boil over. I keep telling myself I can handle this, and almost believe it too, until the arrival at our street ushers in a whole new wave of stress.
I close my eyes. I can do this.
Bad as the street is, my reaction to the sight of our neat little suburban house itself is off the charts. I say ‘our house’ out of habit. It is only our house for now. We are renting. From a friend of Buckley’s dad, meaning the rent is much more affordable than it should be.
A different type of concern hits me. What would life be like without Buckley? Where would I live? This is a stupid worry. Buckley is not going anywhere. I won’t let him.
“Coming in?”
The question seems like a silly one until I realised I’ve been frozen in my seat, staring fearfully at the house for at least a few minutes.
I nod, but in truth, I really don’t want to.
How does one behave when they get home from work? It is as though I have forgotten. I shuffle in uncomfortably like the place is my enemy rather than my home of the last few years. This is where things are worst though. Worst by far. How did my home manage to become the enemy? That’s not fair. I push the thoughts aggressively from my mind. By contrast, Buckley looks and acts exactly as you would expect of someone who has just arrived home. He tosses his bag in his usual spot, kicks off his shoes and goes to get changed.
For about the millionth time for the day, I chide myself for being silly and yell at myself to stop. I even brave the kitchen. The kitchen and dining area are one big space with large glass panes separating it from the back porch. I stare fearfully through the floor-to-ceiling windows to the neat little suburban backyard beyond.
There’s nothing scary out there, nor should there be. Yet still, my heart races like crazy.
I sit with my back to the window as we eat dinner at the kitchen table. It’s not my usual position. Bucks is kind enough not to mention it. Simply another oddity of New Ellie. I push the food around my plate with my fork. Buckley is an excellent cook and I generally enjoy anything he prepares. At the moment though everything seems to get clogged in my throat.
An oppressive quiet hangs over us. Over the room. I watch my cutlery so as not to have to look at Buckley.
“Electricity is up again,” he comments, checking through emails on his phone.
I have nothing to add, so I say remain silent.
“I wouldn’t have thought we were using as much electricity.”
This is most usual, hearing Buckley struggle for conversation. I desperately hope nothing is irrevocably broken between us.
“Hey, did you see this?”
He passes me an email attachment he has printed out. It’s a party invitation. The invite features a picture of a person in an angry pig costume, puffing on a large cigar.
“Macca,” I say without bothering to read the rest of the invitation. Macca is a friend of Buckley’s who has a weird fixation with fancy dress parties. His family is particularly wealthy and his parties are legendary. Wild, crazy and excessive. Something Old Ellie would have been looking forward to.
“It’s a wild animal fancy dress. I don’t believe I’ve ever been to a wild animal fancy dress. Animal yes, but not wild animal.”
“It’s very Macca,” I say, handing back the invite.
“It’s at the country residence.”
I don’t understand what this means.
“His parent’s place in the country. A big, old country house. Apparently very fancy. His parents are overseas or something.”
He sticks Macca’s invite to the door of the fridge with some fridge magnets.
As the quiet takes hold once more I battle to remain in my seat.
I spend the evening in front of mindless television. Buckley isn’t much for TV. There was a time when he quite liked Survivor, but that’s about it for him and television. He appears quite content, plugged into his iPad. I, on the other hand, am close to crawling the walls.
On screen, a bunch of fame-hungry skanks are horribly catty to one another, under the pretence of looking for love. The shows get worse and worse and yet it will be all anyone talks about it at the office tomorrow. Every second that passes the night closes in on me that little bit more, until I cannot stand it.
I jump to my feet, giving Buckley a start.
“Swim,” I manage to blurt out.
“Would you like some company?” he asks, fishing an earbud from his ear. He already knows the answer without me having to say anything.
9
Steam rises off the heated pool into the cool evening air. The YMCA is busy enough that there are still people around yet quiet enough for me to get a lane to myself. I like swimming and I am good at it. Tonight, I swim laps like a woman possessed. Like I’m running away from something, which I guess I am, although swimming backwards and forwards over 25 metres won’t really aid me in getting away from anything.
Immediately I begin to feel better. Something about being fully submerged in the water. The precision of the strokes. I feel stronger and more confident and the world disappears around me. All is calm and peaceful. Kind of a meditative bliss. The more I swim, the better I feel. I can block out the world.
I pop up at the deep end for a quick break to catch my breath. The night is a perfect mix of warm water and cool air. I watch the heads of the other swimmers bob up and down as they complete their laps. I am faster than all o
f them. Not that it’s a race. Still, it feels good to be the quickest. The noise of nothing engulfs me. The pool, the people, nearby traffic. For the first time since I can remember I feel pretty good.
I extend my break, floating on my back on the surface for a moment or two and gazing up at the dark night sky. Then I dip my head under completely. The water sways back and forth, endlessly disrupted by the swimmers’ strokes. The movement makes the blue tiles of the lane lines appear as though they twisting and shimmering, contrasting the regular green pool titles.
My eyes close and I sink down. The pool is deeper than I anticipate. My feet don’t hit the bottom. Calm and content I drift down a little further. I still can’t seem to find the bottom. I turn in the water and dive deeper. Head first. Water surrounds me to the point where I can’t see anything else. I can no longer make out the edges of the pool or the lines on the tiled floor. The other swimmers have all gone. I can’t see anything except water. And…
There’s something else. Oh no. A bunny rabbit stares up at me. As in a person in a full-size rabbit outfit. The sort of outfit you might see in a shopping centre around Easter time. Not at the bottom of a public pool. The rabbit smiles up at me. The smile is terrifying. I panic and start to flail about, trying to get away. I’m too late. The rabbit grabs me by my leg and pulls me down deeper. I swim upwards desperately. It’s not enough. The rabbit drags me down, down. I reach the other way, straining with all my might.
We sink down, ever deeper. Someone grabs my outstretched hand and wrenches me upwards. For a moment it is though I am being ripped in two directions. The upward momentum wins out.
Two lifeguards pull me out of the water, looking at me as though I am insane. “What the hell are you doing?”
The pool has returned to normal around me. The ropes and the walls and floor and other swimmers are all back.
The rabbit has disappeared.
Several people watch on. The lifeguards wait for some kind of response. I have no answer for them. Instead, I grab my stuff and hurry away from the pool as fast as I can.
I arrive back at our house half changed and still wet from the swim. Buckley is on the phone. His manner and posture involuntarily adjust when he sees me, in a way that suggests I have been the topic of conversation. I have no right to feel paranoid. I’m the one who has been acting odd, not him and yet it burns in me to know who he has been talking to, what they’ve been talking about. Why he sat up straight the moment he realised I was entering the room.
“Alright, I gotta go,” he says, hanging up.
“Who was that?”
“Bear.”
Great. Now I’m acting like a complete nutcase and the jealous girlfriend. How attractive.
“Bear said to tell you you’re crazy.”
My brow furrows.
“Going for a swim,” Buckley adds.
Make sense. Bear isn’t a big fan of pools or swimming. I want to say something. As usual no words come, so instead I wander out of the room.
“How was the swim? Did it help?”
“Not as much as I had hoped,” I yell back over my shoulder as I head down the hall.
Water thunders into the bath. We are lucky. Our house has a big tub. I have no problem with showers. In fact, they are the perfect thing when you’ve just woken and need to get ready for work. But showers are simply not as relaxing as a long, hot soak in the tub. Nice to have the option to do both. It’s good to remind myself of things I like about the house. Pleasant to realise I don’t hate everything about my home of the last few years.
I turn off the taps, bringing the water to an abrupt halt; a sudden quiet replacing the loud splashing. I sit on the edge of the bath for a time, doing nothing.
The exhaust fan murmurs quietly.
Steam fogs up the mirror.
A few bubbles froth around the rim of the soap.
The tap isn’t completely off and I watch intermittent drops fall from the spout, rippling the smooth veneer of the otherwise still bathwater.
Moments like this help. Moments of nothing. Calm. But of course, I can’t simply sit on the edge of the bath for the rest of my life.
I squirm out of my wet bathers and step slowly into the tub. The water is scalding hot, exactly how I like it. The heat forces me to lower myself in slowly, gradually becoming used to the temperature as I descend.
I lie back.
Baths are generally a good place to think and after a few moments I find myself unwittingly assessing my life. Attempting to figure out where I’m at. Right now there is absolutely no clarity at all as to where I find myself. The sensation is one of clinging by my fingernails. I am acutely aware that clinging is not a long-term strategy. The thought of falling terrifies me, yet there is no determinable way to climb back up. And climb back up to what? My old life becomes less and less real every day.
I slide my head down, disappearing beneath the surface. Sounds take on a strange, muted quality with my ears fully submerged. A sudden stab of awareness slices into me. Something isn’t right. My eyes flutter open, still under the water.
A person stands over me. Leaning over the bath, staring right at me. What the fuck? It can only be Buckley, except that it’s not. It’s a different man. Older. Gaunt. His face all bones. Deep black bags under his eyes.
I crash out of the water, covering my chest with my arm. My eyes dart around. Whoever he was he has gone. Except, gone where? The window is closed. So is the bathroom door. Our bathroom is reasonably large, for a bathroom, but there is nowhere to hide. I peer over the rim of the bath in case he somehow managed to lie on the floor. There is no one there of course.
Evidently, I must have squealed as I crashed out of the water because I hear Buckley’s footsteps hurrying up the hall.
Knock, knock, knock!
Despite hearing him coming Buckley’s urgent knocks at the door still make me jump.
“Ellie? Are you all right?”
As usual, I lie to him. “Yeah, I’m good. I’m fine. I just…” What did I just? “I just got a fright.”
I hear him linger for a few moments before tramping back down the hall.
I sit there, staring at the bathroom, the magic of the bath broken. I pride myself on being quite a logical person. As such I try to logic my way through this latest turn of events. I was underwater. I opened my eyes. Someone was standing over the bath, watching me. When I came out of the water, he wasn’t there anymore. There can’t have been anyone in the bathroom. They can’t possibly have got in the house, let alone the bathroom. And yet they were there one minute, disappearing the next.
There is only one logical explanation I can draw from the situation and it doesn’t say good things about my sanity.
10
Sharon wants to break up with me. I shouldn’t really be surprised, I’m a bit of a downer at the moment. As with most breakups, I feel hurt and a little ashamed and wonder what I’ve done wrong. She doesn’t give me the old ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ line, which makes sense. Of course, it’s me. Our entire relationship is based on the fact that there is something wrong with me. She does, however, think we need to see other people, by which she means I need to see other people. Presumably, she has been seeing other people this entire time. If not, she doesn’t have a terribly successful practice.
“So, what? You think regular therapy is not good enough for me? That I’m so messed up, I need some kind of super therapy?” I do my best to hide the bitterness from my voice. I am hurt. I don’t like Sharon and I don’t enjoy coming here, but I never expected her to bail on me. I thought all of our time together would mean something and result in some sort of resolution. I trusted that she would be with me until the bitter end.
Sharon purses her lips, trying to come up with the most tactful way of being horrible to me. “To my mind, it appears as though we have reached the end of the line for where this can usefully take us.” I am not really sure what she means. She goes on before I am able to figure it out. “Honesty is an essential par
t of therapy.”
I know that.
“You appear to have some difficulty being completely honest.”
“You think I’m lying to you?”
“Not just to me.”
Not just to her? Who else does she think I have been talking to? She reads the confusion in my expression.
“I don’t believe you’re being completely honest with yourself.”
I am too busy pouting to pay attention as she calls someone on the office phone. It is tempting to tell Sharon to get stuffed. Just walk out and never see her again. I am not sure that would make me feel any better in the short term and definitely wouldn’t in the long term.
Before I have made any sensible decision about how I should respond the door opens and a kindly looking lady walks in. She’s about the same age as Sharon, with a round, full face.
“Ellie, this is Brenda. Brenda is another specialist here.”
Brenda’s smile is so warm that I immediately feel kindly towards her.
“Brenda is a different type of therapist. She specialises in hypnotherapy.”
Wait… Hypnotherapy. What?
Self-diagnosing with Dr Google is never a good idea. I know this both as a reasonably rational human being and from what I have witnessed in life. Getting carried away and assuming the worst is easy, especially when you aren’t feeling the best. Yet even though I know it is stupid, I do it anyway. I search questions like ‘What to do if you’re going insane’ and ‘How to cope with hallucinations’. Not surprisingly the process doesn’t improve my state of mind one bit. Everything I read sounds horrible and terrifying. I soon tire of learning about psychotic breaks and coming to grips with new understandings of reality and how I need to address the issues with professionals. The least traumatic articles I can find suggest I could be dealing with acute anxiety. While this is quite likely, it seems to be the wrong way around. The insanity is causing the anxiety. I step away from the computer, aware I am going to have to face the trauma of bedtime sooner or later.
Glimpse Page 4
