Feeling sorry for Celia

by Jaclyn Moriarty

  So I guess my dad’s having an affair.

  That explains why he’s so determined that I not see his place here I suppose, or meet any of his business associates.

  I don’t really care since I don’t know the person he’s cheating on. But my mum seems to REALLY care. She wants to keep talking and talking about it, and her voice is kind of brittle and bright, and she’s got this new kind of glittery look in her eye. It’s like she’s happy, but in a sharp edged way – like a shiny cheese grater.

  This is a long letter, huh? And once again, I’ve ignored your letter. Wait a minute and I’ll look at it again.

  Yes, I agree that Monday mornings are awful and I HATE getting up in the mornings. I should really train in the mornings, especially now that it’s getting hot in the afternoons, but sleep is way too important to me. So I understand perfectly.

  Katrina Ecclehurst sounds like a first class loser and I really don’t think Derek’s going to fall for her. At least not until she figures out what his actual name is, anyway. It seems like you could get him back if you wanted to, but maybe it’s best to just leave it for a while now? I mean, until you’re really sure. It must be awful to be so unsure – I wish I could meet Derek and help you decide.

  Then again, I guess I’d have to meet you too.

  Oh yeah, and Celia’s still missing and I haven’t heard a word. I’m actually trying not to think about her at all – if she wants to disappear from my life, maybe I should just let her?

  I’ve got to do my English homework now – I’ve decided to write the letter about My Brilliant Career because I realised that that’s my area of expertise and I might actually do well.

  See ya,

  Elizabeth

  Elizabeth,

  You must despise me.

  I honestly meant to carry through with the black cap idea. Honestly. And then I went into a kind of panic.

  I called all the other guys and asked them to wear black caps.

  They don’t know why, but they think I’m weird anyway, so it’s good to occasionally do something inexplicable and sustain the image.

  I could have just not worn a cap at all, but that seemed like too much of a cop out.

  I have now created a web for myself which I see no way to untangle. I am only sorry to have got you tangled too. I’m going to have to pack up and move interstate.

  Tonight, I will call ASIO and ask if they have any spare identities for me to assume.

  It is now a matter of national security that you forget my existence.

  Forgive me.

  A Stranger

  Dear Elizabeth,

  Which one is it, now?

  Figure it out.

  Society of Amateur Detectives

  Dearest Lizzy,

  Remember how I used to call you Lizard? Remember how we used to want to tread on lizards’ tails to see them shake free? And then we planned to catch them to watch their tails grow back, but they always slid away from us, underneath a rock?

  I know we thought we had to do that to the lizards, because they needed to be trained so they’d know what to do if a bird attacked. But I guess it wasn’t very nice of us. I guess sometimes people do things that they think will be good for other people, but then it turns out they’re just being cruel.

  Lizzy.

  This is the hardest letter I ever had to write.

  You are my best friend. You always were and always will be.

  I miss you. Lizzy, remember how we used to play hopscotch and we drew the longest hopscotch in the world; we drew it all the way down the street and round the corner? Remember when your mum brought home the biggest box of chalk in the world and we thought: this will last FOREVER?

  I feel as if I have lost you. You are a different person. It’s like you’ve disappeared. Ever since I got back from the circus, it’s like you’ve disappeared.

  The Lizzy I used to know would have been so happy for me because I’ve finally found somebody I love. Saxon is like my dream boy, like my perfect match.

  You brought him to me. You found him and you delivered him to me in Coffs Harbour. I was so grateful and happy.

  But then something strange happened. You weren’t happy for me. You never asked me a single question about Saxon or about how I felt.

  Maybe you thought you had to be cruel to me so I’d learn how to survive on my own. But maybe you were being too cruel, Lizzy? Maybe you just weren’t being fair?

  I don’t know why I’m saying all this. Because I don’t want you to blame yourself. I want you to know you’ve always been my best friend in the world.

  And I’ll always miss you.

  But it’s not your fault. Please don’t believe it’s your fault.

  It’s nobody’s fault – not my mum’s or my dad’s or my brother’s, not anyone’s.

  It’s just that Saxon and I have made the decision that we have to make. Because our love is pure like snowflakes. We don’t want it to get muddy and grey. We can’t see how to live in this world because it’s such a vicious world, it’s such a dirty, grey, materialistic, unjust and savage world.

  So we’re going away together.

  I mean away for good. I mean tomorrow night we want to just hold hands and jump off the cliff at North Head, okay?

  Lizzy, you are my best friend.

  Goodbye, okay?

  Love always,

  Celia

  PART

  seven

  Christina.

  I don’t know what else to do except write to you.

  What else can I do?

  I don’t know. I can’t figure it out.

  I think I might throw up.

  Okay, I have to explain.

  I’m in the hospital right now and I’m sitting by Celia, and she tried to kill herself.

  God, I can’t explain the way I feel. It’s different to anything I ever felt before. It’s like someone took me by the shoulders and shook me and shook me. So I’m all bedraggled and weak.

  Only at the same time, I feel poisoned. Like someone tipped a bottle of poison into my chest.

  What happened? I don’t know.

  I didn’t hear any thing from Celia for days, and I thought she and Saxon must have moved into a cave and were living happily ever after on roasted seaweed or something. Then suddenly I get this letter from Celia out of nowhere, this letter saying how I’m her best friend, but I’m not there for her any more, and now she and Saxon are going to jump off the cliffs at North Head.

  God, I read this letter and I just started shaking.

  What does she mean, I’m not there for her? I’ve been here all along. I’m always here, just waiting for her. I waited for her while she ran away to busk in Kiama, and when she tried to get a job as a jillaroo out at Coonabarabran, and when she – God, so many times. I waited for her when we were eight years old and she ran away to live in the broom closet at the back of our Year 2 classroom. God, I’m so mad I could strangle her right now.

  Only she’s so tiny and fragile I want to just gather her up into my arms and carry her far away to a safe place with down quilts and fireplaces, and bring her mugs of hot chocolate. I feel like if somebody tried to hurt her, even if somebody tweaked her hair, even if they pinched her arm, I’d put my hands around their throat and just squeeze until they were dead.

  I have to calm down.

  So I got the letter and I wanted to throw up. I never felt so sick with panic. Actually, the panic started after a moment – at first I just felt dead. I mean I thought she was dead. Then I realised it was that exact night that she wanted to jump and I went into the most intense panic ever.

  I phoned Mum at work and they said she was in a meeting and I just hung up. Then I thought, my God, this is an emergency, so I phoned again and made them interrupt the bloody meeting. It was all slow motion, you know? Or like a slow-motion replay, because nothing seemed to happen until after I’d done it.

  Then everyone was taking over, and calling the police, and Celia’s mum, and Saxon’s
parents, and everyone was heading out to North Head, and it all moved so slowly that by the time we got there, they were heading up the hill and ready to jump off.

  Like a film, you know, cutting-edge suspense.

  The police moved super-fast then, crawling up the side of the hill like cockroaches, and one of them saying in this low voice, ‘Take it easy. Okay, guys. Take it easy.’

  Celia and Saxon turned around with spotlights in their faces, dirty faces, small, frightened faces.

  And Saxon just sat right down on the ground and burst into tears, like big sobbing tears. Celia was kind of half dragged down when he did that because their hands were held so tight, but she wrenched her hand away from his, and started running.

  Then it got confused because police were shouting, ‘Calm down now. We’re not going to chase you’, Celia’s mother went pelting after Celia, and Saxon’s parents were jogging up the hill to throw themselves at their sobbing little son.

  Somehow Celia ended up jumping.

  Just jumping, just flying.

  Only she had run down the embankment so she was closer to the water.

  Wait a minute. A very weird thing just happened.

  Play that over again, Elizabeth.

  What did you just hear?

  ‘Don’t cry, Christina. She’ll be okay.’

  ‘Nick, don’t touch the lady’s flowers.’

  Play it again, Elizabeth.

  What did you just hear?

  ‘Don’t cry, Christina. She’ll be okay.’

  ‘Nick, don’t touch the lady’s flowers.’

  With compliments,

  The Instant Replay Society

  Elizabeth,

  Cut it out.

  Stop eavesdropping and imagining.

  Stop thinking of Christina.

  Stop writing to Christina.

  Stop it.

  This is Celia beside you. Don’t you see her?

  Best Friends Club

  Elizabeth,

  Okay, you want to hear it again? ‘

  Don’t cry, Christina. She’ll be okay.’

  ‘Nick, don’t touch the lady’s flowers.’

  With compliments, etc.

  MESSAGE FOR CHRISTINA KRATOVAC: WARD E, 11th FLOOR.

  Is this Christina Kratovac of Brookfield High?

  If not, I am very sorry, and please throw this note away.

  If it is, I’m sorry to disturb you. I heard people walk along the corridor, talking, and it kind of sounded like your family, and I asked a nurse if there were any Kratovacs around, and she said yes, someone just came in, and they’re in Ward E, 11th floor.

  I’ve been trying to decide for over an hour if I should disturb you.

  I just want to make sure you’re okay.

  I don’t know if a nurse will deliver this to you or not.

  I’m in Ward D, 7th floor.

  Elizabeth.

  Elizabeth,

  Jesus. I can’t believe you’re here. Why are you here? Are you sick? Oh God, everything’s awful. Are you okay?

  I’m terrified.

  It’s my sister, Renee. Her appendix burst. They say it’s ‘touch and go’.

  It can’t be true.

  I’m going to get my brother Nick to bring this to you. He’ll wait if you want to write back.

  I want to make sure you’re okay too.

  Love,

  Christina

  Christina,

  God, you poor thing.

  She’ll be okay. I’m sure she’ll be okay.

  I’m okay. Don’t worry about me. I’m here because Celia tried to. I’m sorry, I can’t write that. She jumped off a cliff.

  She’s okay. She’s not hurt. Just feverish. She was already sick, see.

  She’ll be okay.

  Are you okay?

  Elizabeth

  No. Not really.

  Jesus, Elizabeth, it’s my fault.

  It’s my fault.

  I was babysitting. Renee said she felt sick. I put her to bed with an ice-cream container to throw up in.

  What was I thinking?

  Christina

  Christina,

  It’s not your fault. Stop it.

  That’s what you’re supposed to do when a kid feels sick.

  Are your family there? What are you doing, just waiting? Is she conscious?

  (Should I stop writing? Does your brother mind running the messages? He says he doesn’t, but does he?)

  Elizabeth

  Please don’t stop writing. It’s keeping me alive.

  Everybody’s here except my grandfather, he’s staying at home with Robbo and the baby. But aunts and cousins and Mum and Dad and everyone. We’re in a waiting room. She’s in intensive care, she’s unconscious.

  Oh Jesus, I can’t write.

  Everyone’s here and nobody’s crying. We’re too scared to cry. Nobody’s talking. My pen on this paper is the noisiest thing around.

  My mother looks like her cheeks are dragging her mouth half-open. She’s completely white.

  Christina,

  Your poor family.

  I wish I could say something to make it all right.

  My mum just told me that her cousin’s little boy had a burst appendix a couple of years ago and he was fine.

  My dad just told me that this is one of the finest hospitals in the country, and they’ll be doing absolutely everything they can for your little sister.

  Tell me if there’s anything I can do for you. And my mum and dad say the same.

  Elizabeth

  Elizabeth

  Sorry for taking so long.

  I hope I didn’t frighten you.

  Doctors came and talked to us.

  Then we all cried, every one of us.

  I think it’s going to be okay. The doctors said that as she’s made it this far, she’s pretty sure to make it. It looks like she’s not going to get peritonitis (which is basically what can kill you if your appendix bursts).

  She’s sleeping now.

  I think it’s going to be okay.

  God, it’s hard to write when you’re crying your eyes out, isn’t it.

  Most of my family are going home now, except my mum and dad and me. I couldn’t stand to go home. I want to stay here all night and make sure.

  Nick will take our last few messages, then he’s going home too. So we have to say goodbye.

  I’m really sorry about Celia. I can’t get my head around that yet. But it must be horrible for you. I hope she’s okay.

  Thanks for being here.

  Christina

  Christina,

  Fantastic. I’m so glad.

  Do you want me to come see you and sit with you for a while? I know it’s a weird time for us to actually meet each other, but maybe it’s a good time too?

  If you prefer to just be with family, I understand.

  Elizabeth

  But I guess you have to be sitting with Celia?

  Christina

  No. Not really. I want to be here when she wakes up, but she won’t until morning probably. She’s okay. And she’s got her mum and brother here, and my mum and dad, and Saxon’s here too.

  We could meet in the rec room that’s on this floor. Just beside the lift. It’s got a coffee machine and magazines and stuff.

  I’ll be the one in a grey t-shirt and jeans.

  Would you like to?

  Okay.

  Yes please.

  I would.

  PART

  eight

  Dear Elizabeth,

  It seemed incredibly weird to talk to you in person. And now it seems bizarre to write to you too. But we should keep doing it, shouldn’t we? I’d really miss your letters otherwise.

  WELL.

  Now I’ve got stage fright. Weird.

  Jesus, though, it was so good meeting you. I felt really nervous at first. I was worried we wouldn’t have anything to say, and I was terrified you’d take one look at me and go: ‘Uh, big mistake. Forget about getting another letter from me un
til the sky starts raining rhinoceroses.’ You’d think my head would have been filled up with worrying about my little sister, but it generously made space for me to be terrified about meeting you.

  But then you were SO nice and friendly and funny. I mean, you should be a social worker or a diplomat or something – the way you kept the conversation going, and asked all the right questions, and got me talking about Renee and then about the rest of my family and Mum’s florist shop and everything. It was amazing. You even had me laughing, which earlier that night I thought I’d never do again.

  The best thing of all is that you’re exactly like your letters. That’s such a relief.

  And you’re not like a nice private school girl at all.

  AND you stayed up all night talking with me. You must be a real party girl.

  I’m putting a packet of marigold seeds in this letter, which you should plant somewhere sunny in your backyard. This is a good time to plant them. You don’t have to worry about them, just kind of scatter them around in some dirt, and they’ll figure a way to grow.

  They’re to say thank you. Seriously, you got me through that night. If you hadn’t been there, well, I don’t know what.

  Renee’s practically completely recovered now. She’s still in hospital and she’s kind of pale, and her eyes look spookily huge. But they say she’ll be fine. And she’s already starting to be her angelic self again, worrying that Mum looks tired, and making all the nurses adore her. They keep bringing out secret supplies of maple syrup to pour on her ice-cream.