by Lia Weston
Dan threads his fingers together. ‘Have you thought about what I said the other day?’
‘About painting more?’
‘About going back to it. Properly.’
‘Two. Tee-yoo. Chew,’ comes from the main room where someone is preparing the microphone for terrible things to come.
‘How’s June?’ I say in lieu of an answer.
‘She’s been over at our place a bit, you know, with Ellie.’
‘Who still hates my guts, I take it.’
‘Her sister isn’t speaking to us at the moment.’
‘That’ll be awkward at Christmas. Speaking of which, do you reckon Rosie’s ready for a bow and arrow yet?’
‘Don’t worry about Rosie for the moment.’
The front door is being continually opened and shut, sending gusts of icy wind inside to poke our necks. A brunette disappears into the next room, and I try to ignore the fact that I know what’s coming.
‘Ellie saw one of those books,’ says Dan. ‘Those growing-up books.’
Fear inks out from under my ribs like a puncture wound at the idea that another image has got out of IF. ‘Where did she see it?’
‘A mum from playgroup had one done.’
Oh, thank Christ, not a leak. I laugh before I can stop myself. Dan looks at me strangely. ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Please go on. You were saying how much you hate my job.’
‘It’s not funny.’
‘I know, don’t worry.’
The bartender brings me another beer. I point him towards the guy with the fifty.
Above the bar, the wind-up hula girl waits to be brought back to life. The snow globes lie dormant, thick layers of granulated white across their bases, air bubbles microscopically expanding.
‘Look, I don’t get those types of books myself,’ I say. ‘But the people who ask us for them have lost a kid – would you really rather we say no?’
Dan sighs and jams his thumbs in his eye sockets.
‘You used to like what I did,’ I say. ‘You used to ask me about it all the time, all the weird stories.’
Dan doesn’t reply.
I nudge his arm again. ‘If this is about the party, I’m really sorry. I don’t know what else to say. I’ll keep my mouth shut next time, I swear to God.’
‘But it’s not just the party.’ Dan sits up, dislodging my elbow. ‘When’s the last time you contacted me? When’s the last time you asked me to come and do something with you? We’ve gone from hanging out every week to hardly ever. You either blow it off or forget, and when you do turn up, you’re late and stoned. Look at you, you look like shit. You’d scare Rosie to death with your face at the moment.’
Can’t argue with that.
‘I don’t know if it’s Rohan –’ continues Dan.
‘What’s Rohan got to do with it?’
Dan shakes his head. ‘He’s dodgy. I’ve never really liked him.’
I’m torn between telling him about seeing Ro with Mum – which would handily divert this whole implosion – and being pissed off that he doesn’t trust my judgement.
I bend up the edges of my coaster. ‘Why didn’t you say something before?’
‘You guys seemed like buds. I didn’t want to upset you,’ says Dan.
‘Oh, sure, it’s much better to save everything up and chuck it all at me at once.’
‘I just think we need to do our own thing for a while,’ says Dan. ‘I’ve got a lot on my mind with the shop and –’
‘You’re dumping me?’
He looks at the snow globes.
‘Dan, come on.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he says.
‘You’re dumping me. I can’t believe this. It’s almost funny.’ Glancing down, I notice a rectangular package propped up against the bar at Dan’s feet, and my heart sinks because I know what it is.
‘Look,’ he says, not unkindly, ‘think about what makes you happy, maybe re-assess a few things, get yourself sorted out. We’ll see what happens after that.’
‘I guess I can’t make a Hitler reference and buy you a beer and forget the whole thing.’
‘I have to go.’ Dan gets off the stool and hands me the package. He briefly puts a hand on my back, much more gently than usual. ‘Look after yourself, Tom.’
When I swallow, I have to force it. Everything feels paralysed. My stomach is still churning when someone touches my arm. It’s the guy with the fifty, who finally has a drink.
‘Don’t worry. He’s not worth it.’ He has a kind face.
‘Thanks.’
He gives my arm a squeeze and walks off towards the beer garden.
I look down and realise I’m wearing Mica’s pink and silver scarf.
I sit at the bar, buffered by the hum and chat of friends meeting, relationships beginning and ending, and the Avast-Mateys’ maritime themes plaguing us all. I keep hoping to wake up, that it’s just a nightmare and I’ll find that everything’s still okay, but it’s not. Dan was my best friend, part of my foundation. Almost a lifetime of friendship. My chest feels tight.
The bartender keeps bringing me pints and taking money from the dwindling pile on the bar. To avert my impending panic attack, I work my way through a stack of street magazines, skimming over photos of opening nights and shitfaced people in clubs, the profiles of up-and-coming artists who’ve earned reputations and gallery representations and friends who don’t abandon them because they’re a bit strange, and each one adds a weight to the pyramid piling up inside me. By the last magazine, I can barely remember the previous ones but keep going, greased along the pages by alcohol and the silver interiors of chip packets.
People are still gawking at my face. I’m insulated by alcohol now and I don’t give a shit, but my money is down to dollar coins. I need some fresh air.
The rain mists across the streets. There’s no traffic. The moon peeks out of a hole ripped in the sky, trapped behind the buildings above a network of oily roads. I tuck the package from Dan under my arm.
The restaurant strip is packing up, shuttering the doors against the stragglers. A kitchenhand in a stained apron stands by the door, smoking and texting. The muted clack of dishes being stacked filters out into the alleyways.
A girl in a green coat steps out of a closing gelati joint and pauses to put something in her bag. Dark brown hair, wide cheekbones. Sophia. I can’t believe my luck. There were three pictures of her on this road. I kick myself for not looking here sooner.
Sophia puts her collar up and heads west towards the botanic gardens. I cross the road behind her on silent feet, my heart kicking against my chest. The rain flutters like snow under the street lamps. What will I say to her? How will I start? How will it sound when she says my name?
She passes the army memorial, the sword-bearing angel lit from beneath, about to tell a ghost story by the fireside. The park beyond is closed for business. Sophia stops at the garden gate, looking in her bag. Watch out, watch out, I want to tell her. There are strange people around, there are things that go bump in the night, please keep walking. She hears me and moves on.
We continue to the edge of the gardens, where we meet suburbia again. Iron rails and creeping branches, an alarm howling in the distance. A piece I did two years ago is still on the side of the old post office, a portrait of a friend’s father who worked there. It’s faded now, the dark blue turned to ash, but Sophia doesn’t notice it anyway and keeps walking. I could take her on a tour of my walls and corners. I could show her all the tiny artworks people miss, mine and others’, the secret language, the messages in paint and paper. I will paint her anywhere and everywhere.
Her coat glows like an emerald as she passes the laundromat and turns down an alley. I’m six seconds behind, and pause at the mouth. Between the kaleidoscope walls and dumpsters, the laneway is empty. The moon breaks out and silvers the floor. There’s no one there. She can’t have disappeared.
Sophia with the Ramones T-shirt. Sophia running on the river.
The alcohol c
oagulates in my blood. I trace the mirrored path. Sneakered feet are quiet, searching for the emerald coat. Painted eyes watch me as I pass, irises of red and green. One, two, one, two. My breath leaves smoke signals between the walls. The moonlight is cut off again, swallowed by cloud. Another vanishing act. The disappearing girl, the magician’s assistant.
Sophia on the edge of the dining room table. Sophia pooled on sand.
There’s a shadow in a doorway to my left. It has to be her. I step forward.
A crack rings in my ears. My vision explodes. I swear and stumble back, slipping on debris. Something hits the ground and ricochets away.
‘Get the fuck away from me.’ Her voice is high and harsh.
Out of the shadows Sophia comes. She strikes at my knee. I land hard on my back, the package at my side, something digging into my spine.
The sky slowly comes back into focus, nothing but grey thrown overhead. She collects her scattered things. Items clack back into her bag, thrown in haste.
I cautiously pick the object out from my vertebrae, a tube of lipstick or mascara, and hold it up like a flare. ‘Sorry.’
She pauses before darting forward to snatch it, retreating beyond my reach.
‘Sorry,’ I repeat, ‘I thought I knew you.’ My neck twinges as I look at her. Pale eyes, dark brows, and it’s only confirming what I already know.
‘Yeah, I’ve heard that before,’ says the girl, who is definitely not Sophia.
Her fading footsteps reverberate in my head like a tuning fork. Water seeps through my coat, spreading cold fingers across my back.
There is a soft click and flash of movement by the wall, then the whisk of a white-tipped tail. I don’t bother to try and get up or follow, because I can’t.
I’m just going to stay here for a while until everything stops spinning. Watched by a fox. My fox guardian angel. Admittedly, a useless one, but, then again, they all seem to be.
‘You know, I told you bear-baiting would end in tears.’ Mica tiptoes to look at my face. The warmth from her apartment coils around her.
‘Can I come in?’ My voice sounds like it’s in another room.
‘It’s probably better than bleeding to death on my doorstep. My neighbours are funny about that kind of thing.’ She takes my arm and guides me inside. I don’t register much past the spectrum of paintings. There’s a rug of inky blue. I’m walking on the night-time sea.
‘Tom?’
Mica’s face shimmers, and then the fog descends.
I’m in an unfamiliar bed. I’m in hospital. But it doesn’t smell like a hospital, so maybe I’m dead. Maybe I’m in heaven. No, Mica’s cat is here. I’m in hell. I’m in hell with Mica’s cat.
‘The good news is that I don’t think there’s any permanent damage.’
I peel my head off the pillow. Mica is cross-legged in a chair and having a cup of tea.
‘What happened?’
‘You said, “Help,” and then you threw up.’
‘Oh God.’ I put my head back down.
‘Eeeeverywhere.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘I forgive you. I thought you had a brain injury, but you’re just very, very drunk. And tomorrow I think you’ll be very, very hungover.’
She’s thoughtfully turned off the overhead light. There are stars projected on the ceiling, and a pink bulb glowing on top of the chest of drawers. The steam from Mica’s cup twists into the rosy air.
Chunks of the evening resurface. My mum. Dan. An emerald coat in the mouth of the alley. But it’s Dan that hurts the most, even more than my head and ankle.
Mica has removed my shoes and coat. The scarf is gone, no doubt straight to the laundry. Her bed envelopes me in a faint perfume. I want to sink inside and never come out.
‘What’s this?’ Mica holds up the wrapped package.
‘Open it.’
She doesn’t tear the paper this time, but carefully peels it back. ‘Wow. That’s lovely.’ She holds the portrait at arm’s length and examines it. ‘Is that Dan’s kid?’
‘It was a present.’ My teeth are chattering. ‘He gave it back. He didn’t want it.’
‘Oh, sweets,’ Mica says, rising. She’s wearing some kind of robe with tiny pompoms all over it. She pulls the quilt higher over my shoulder and briefly brushes my hair. ‘Try and sleep. I’ll be reading if you need me.’
I curl up gingerly, feeling like a kid. ‘Can you read in here?’
‘Sure.’ She pads out and returns a minute later with her book. ‘If you promise you’ll try and sleep.’
I close my eyes to keep her happy.
The stars have slowly moved across the ceiling. Mica is asleep, folded over the arm of the chair, the book on the floor. I manage to kick off the covers and lever to the edge to stand up.
She stirs when I lift her. ‘Whuh?’
I don’t answer, but gently tumble her onto the bed. Mica snuggles under the covers with her back to me. I hesitate.
‘Come on. It’s freezing,’ she mumbles.
My head still feels like glass. I pull the quilt over us both and lie on my back to watch the constellation glow crawl over the bedroom walls.
I do not dream of Sophia, but I dream of Mica, or remember fragments from earlier in the night. Hands holding my head, very gently. Palms, warm, in the small of my back. Mica’s voice, far away. There is no pretence with her. She is here, as she always is.
I pull her towards me, half in sleep. Mica is warm against my chest, turning her face into my neck. Her rainbow hair slides over her shoulder. I slip my fingers underneath it, flip it over, leaving her shoulder bare and smooth. Mica with her dark nails and sooty eyes. Mica with her lizard queen statue covered in spines. Mica who can seem diamond-hard when threatened, can shut down faster than the Batmobile, has the softest skin under my hands, feels lusher than velvet.
Hands holding my head, very gently. Palms, warm, in the small of my back. Mica’s voice, very close.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I am woken in what I assume is the traditional manner: Mica’s cat puts a paw in my mouth.
It takes me ten minutes to get to the lounge room, on my hands and knees because my bad ankle is twice the size it should be. I lean against the wall, trying not to disturb the spitting electricity in my skull. My brain feels like a grenade. I can hear ticking. I’m being sucked into the day against my will.
Why has no one invented the Hangover Drone? It turns up at your window with a burger, chips and Berocca. You could choose different emergencies: food, Berocca and Panadol; food, Berocca, Panadol and bandaids; food, Berocca, Panadol, bandaids, and business cards for locksmiths, psychologists and lawyers. (Note to self: investigate drone technology.)
There’s a note on the table. I’ll tell Kain you’ve called in sick. Try not to choke on your own vomit. xx, M. She’s even drawn a picture of me lying face-down in a chunky puddle. What would have been nicer would have been some food or a noose, but this is Mica, and I kind of love her for the fact that she doesn’t try to mother me.
Her lounge room is painted red, which normally feels cosy but right now feels like being inside a haemorrhage. I push aside the multicoloured cushions and bury my face in the deep black of the couch, trying to ignore the day and the fact that Mica’s cat is calmly licking its groin while sitting on my coat.
In the nine hours between Mica leaving and returning, I have managed to shower and wash my clothes. I’m considering it a personal victory. Bunsen has spent all day in the laundry and is now sulking on top of the ironing board.
There are glass droplets hanging from translucent threads in the window, and potted succulents clustered by the front door. Mica has drawn galaxies across the walls, silver paint against the scarlet. She repaints a different colour every year. Apparently last year’s tangerine theme was a mistake. ‘It felt like waking up in a fruit bowl every morning,’ she said at the time. ‘Less pleasant than it sounds.’
Her knick-knacks tend to be round and smooth, things that f
it in your palm. Photos line her shelves but most of them are landscapes or plants; only a few people appear. There’s a shot of Mica, Tarik and me at Rohan’s 27th birthday party, before the photocopying incident. We’re in a three-way hug, Mica squished between Tarik’s shoulders and my chest.
I have spent the day in denial of the night before. Memories rise like bubbles, bringing with them a new kind of guilt. Mica was half-asleep. I was . . . I don’t know what I was. Sophia sits in the background of my mind, her arms crossed. I feel as if I’ve potentially ruined something that hasn’t yet happened. What have I done?
‘Hey,’ Mica says, putting takeaway on the kitchen counter.
‘Hey.’
She inspects my face briefly, businesslike, and then my messed-up ankle, gently rolling down my sock.
‘The swelling’s going down, at least,’ she says.
‘I owe you two bags of frozen peas.’
Mica brings sashimi and miso soup to the lounge room table while I sit with my foot on a cushion. She’s wearing a tight black top, scooped in the front. I watch her hips make their figure of eight as she returns to the kitchen for soy sauce. I have knowledge of that body now, the way it can shiver and shake. The remembrance both elates and depresses me. I am a god and a monster.
‘So are you going to tell me what happened to you last night?’ she says, closing the laundry door on Bunsen’s suddenly interested face. ‘Before you showed up here, I mean.’
‘Short version is I got ditched.’
There’s a pause before she opens the cupboard. ‘I didn’t know you were seeing anyone.’
‘It was Dan.’
‘I didn’t know you were seeing Dan.’
‘I’m not gay.’
‘You could be bi.’ Mica sits on the floor opposite me.
‘I have no desire to have sex with men.’
‘Then what happened? You didn’t sleep with Broccoli Neck, did you? Because then we may not be able to be friends.’
‘She’d rather shoot herself, I think. No, Dan’s bummed because he thinks I should be painting full-time instead of what we do. And I’ve kind of stood him up a couple of times. And forgot to return some texts.’ I fish around in my soup for some seaweed. ‘Oh, and I accidentally ruined his sister-in-law’s marriage.’
