Candelo

by Georgia Blain

  As I closed the curtains so that I could sleep, I saw myself, momentarily, reflected in the window.

  I did not have the courage.

  I was a fool for ever thinking I had.

  And when I woke, three hours later, I rang the clinic and made an appointment.

  She gave me a day and a time. She told me not to drive and she told me to bring clean underpants and sanitary pads.

  I hung up and did not know what to do next.

  It was the day before the funeral and I had no work. No audition to prepare for. No friends I had arranged to visit. Nothing.

  I heard Mouse slamming the bathroom door and I heard Louise coming down the path and past my door. As I got up and searched for my swimmers on the floor, I heard her going up the wooden stairs, sagging after all the rain; I heard her key in the lock, her footsteps down the hall, in their bedroom, and the thud of her shoes as she took them off, one by one, and climbed into bed to try to sleep.

  The path to the beach was still wet. Dripping branches had been tossed, pulled and flattened, making certain places almost impenetrable. Clumps of blood-red lilies with thick purple leaves bent at their stems. Nasturtiums and morning glory in a tangled heap of destruction, and great pools of rain that soaked up through my sandshoes.

  Below me I could hear the sea.

  I could hear it before I saw it.

  The thunder of the waves, white and wild, over the rocks, slapping up against the base of the path, almost licking the edge and then pulling back.

  And I stood there, looking out, watching the ocean and, in the distance, Anton, walking towards me. Watching him without realising it was him. Seeing him just as I would see anyone coming back from a swim, hair still wet, towel over his shoulder, T-shirt damp.

  He looked at me and I looked at him.

  And I did not know whether he, too, remembered the times we would meet on the stairs, when we would swim together, when he would tell me that he had hoped he would find me waiting for him.

  Rough, he said, searching for conversation but only finding that one word.

  I know, I said, equally devoid of anything to say.

  Salt clung to the tips of his eyelashes, white on black. Seaweed still curled around his wrist.

  How are you feeling? he asked, and it was the kind of question I would expect from him. General. Floating. Failing to alight on what was at hand.

  I told him I was fine, and as I moved to walk past him, he put his hand on my arm.

  Can’t we talk? he asked. Not today, Louise is at home, but tomorrow?

  His fingers, still icy from the sea, were wrapped around my wrist, heavy and cold. I moved away. I took one step back and I told him I was busy tomorrow, I had a funeral to go to, I had nothing to say.

  And as the waves slapped against the path, he tried to tell me how sorry he was. He tried to say he had never wanted this to happen, but each sentence seemed to drift off, useless words carried away with the breeze, until finally he just said he was sorry again.

  And I could see he was.

  But it didn’t mean much. Coming this late.

  He moved to go and I watched him walk away, just for a moment, until he disappeared around the bend in the stairs, and I turned back towards the ocean, towards the pool.

  twenty-six

  Vi has always believed that you should talk to young people as adults, that you should treat them as equals.

  I have seen her with children, young children, answering their questions with an earnestness that makes no sense to them.

  Why? they ask, over and over again, and Vi will explain, in detail, usually managing to slip a political message into her answer.

  As we got older, she thought it was important to keep up to date with what interested us: music, films, books. She would try to ask questions. She would set aside time to get to know us.

  I could not bear it. When she made an effort. To relate.

  What’s this you’re listening to? she would ask, putting her head around my bedroom door.

  Music, I would tell her.

  And she would respond with equal sarcasm. Really?

  Although Simon also saw through her attempts, he would usually try harder. He would tell her who it was. He would even get out the cover and show her, or perhaps play her something else. She would sit and listen, occasionally tapping her foot in time to the beat, nodding her head in appreciation, until after a few moments it was clear that she was bored and wanted to get back to work.

  Vi tried with Mitchell. To enter his world. To talk to him on his level.

  And it was excruciating.

  I could hear her as I let myself into the house, her voice deep and earnest, echoing from the kitchen up the long dusty corridor, and I cringed.

  They were back from the beach. United by sunburn, sand and the sea, they barely noticed I was there.

  Saved you some, and Simon glanced up for a moment as he pointed at the fish and chips, cold and greasy, spread across the kitchen table.

  Evie was kneeling on her chair with her clothes stuffed up her T-shirt, pulling faces at Simon and Mitchell. Vi was leaning against the cupboard, her hair awry from swimming, a hint of colour in her face, as she rolled another cigarette and asked Mitchell about his interests; her face intent and serious as he told her the bands he liked, as he listed them for her.

  I knew she didn’t know any of them, but she nodded all the same, knowledgeably, occasionally turning to Simon, You like them too, seeking confirmation that she knew what Mitchell was talking about.

  It was when she asked him if he was interested in a career in music that he grinned, the white of his teeth startling against the tan on his face as he thought about the combination of those two words, ‘career’ and ‘music’.

  Don’t know, he said, the possibility of it opening up before him. Exciting him. How? he asked.

  Vi wasn’t stumped. What about some of the community arts access programs in your area? There have been some excellent ones started up by this government.

  Mitchell looked at her blankly. Sure, and he winked at Evie who was silently mouthing each of Vi’s words, imitating her with her unerring accuracy.

  Still by the door, out of Vi’s sight, I rolled my eyes at Simon, who looked away quickly. Quelling the laughter.

  It might be worth finding out more about them. I’ve come across a few kids who started young rock bands that way.

  When? I asked, louder than I had intended, so that they all turned.

  And as Mitchell looked straight at me, I blushed, hating myself for the slow rush of colour that began near my ears, moving across my face, forcing me to look down, away from him, away from all of them. Because I was sure they could see. They must have been able to see.

  You, a famous movie star, and me, a rock star, he stared at me. Why not?

  Exactly, and Vi glared at me.

  Later, Simon and I were imitating her, Vi, and her knowledge of music.

  Your mum’s not so bad, Mitchell said.

  I told him she was a dickhead.

  Nah, she’s pretty cool.

  We were putting away the dishes. Mitchell, unable to simply take plates to the cupboard, was spinning each piece of crockery in his hands, twirling cups on one finger, throwing bowls in the air and catching them, drumming spoons on the table edge, so that I found myself holding my breath with each dish I handed him.

  What’s your mum called? Evie asked him, looking up from where she was colouring in at the table.

  I watched as Mitchell put down the saucers he had been piling too high in his hands. One by one. Silent for a moment. Pausing before answering. Looking out the window as he spoke. My mum’s dead.

  And I was surprised.

  No she’s not, I said, because I was sure he had mentioned his mother the night before. The flat where she lived.

  Simon kicked me and I glared at him, wanting to protest, wanting to say that it wasn’t true, his mother was alive, but I didn’t. I didn’t want to mention the conver
sation I had had with Mitchell, just the two of us, out there on the steps.

  And I was confused. I didn’t know what was truth and what wasn’t.

  When? Evie asked, and with her face turned towards him, she waited for an answer.

  Simon and I also waited. All of us waiting for him to speak.

  He didn’t.

  When? she asked again as he leant forward, and she pulled back, uncertain for one instant as to what he was about to do.

  All of us uncertain.

  Wanting her to shut up.

  But she wouldn’t. Not Evie.

  When? she giggled, as he seized her in both hands, as he picked her up and put her on his shoulders, her textas clattering to the ground as she screamed in delight.

  And when he finally spoke, his words were not an answer to her question.

  We’re outta here, he told her.

  Outta here, she agreed.

  The noise in his throat like the throttle of an engine, slowly building to a roar, he ducked low under the back door, and then was off, gone, racing Evie out across the night black of the back garden, while Simon and I watched, both of us staring out through the cracked glass of the window.

  See, I said.

  See what? Simon didn’t look at me, his eyes still fixed on the pair of them, only just visible out there without us. He seemed to have barely even heard me.

  I opened my mouth, I was about to speak, about to explain that Mitchell hadn’t even told us when she had died, that she wasn’t dead, but then I stopped myself.

  It doesn’t matter, I said, knowing he hadn’t heard me, knowing he had already forgotten what I had been talking about.

  And I let it go.

  Until later, when I brought it up again.

  We were playing cards. Pontoon in their bedroom. Simon, Mitchell and I. Evie with her own deck, dealing anything to herself as she imitated our game. Hit me. Hit me, until she had a pile in front of her.

  Mitchell had brought in the rest of Vi’s wine from dinner and we drank from the bottle, passing it round, each taking long slow swills.

  You can’t bet all your matches, Simon told me as I pushed the pile forward.

  Why not?

  Because if you lose, you’ll be out of the game.

  He was banker, cautious, slow, building a pile. I had already been bankrupt three times, borrowing from him, borrowing from Mitchell, feeling the flush of the wine on my cheeks as I kept on bidding, up and up.

  You can’t keep borrowing, he protested. It makes the whole game pointless.

  Why? I asked, belligerent with the alcohol.

  Evie was now curled up at the foot of Mitchell’s mattress, her thumb in her mouth, the deck of cards scattered around her. She stirred as we argued, shifting in half-sleep, until Simon picked her up and carried her through to the other room, leaving us alone.

  For just a moment.

  And we sat on the floor under the bare light of the globe. Side by side, facing the space where Simon had been.

  Neither of us sure what to say.

  Until, too confident from the alcohol, I spoke without thinking. Why did you lie about your mum? I asked him, dividing my matches up into piles and then re-dividing, smaller and smaller.

  He wouldn’t look at me.

  I watched him butt out his cigarette, grinding it into the saucer. He was squinting, perplexed and awkward, jiggling his knee up and down, up and down. I could see where the ash had stained his finger, smudged grey across the white of the scar. I could see the smooth line of his calf muscle, the fall of his hair across his cheek, the full width of his mouth.

  And I was aware of the strangeness of his silence. Because it was not like Mitchell to be this quiet.

  But I didn’t stop.

  I told him I didn’t understand. What he had said about his mother’s flat. The night before. It made no sense. I told him he could tell me. I told him I wanted to know. I kept talking, not realising, not straightaway, that it wasn’t impossible. To talk about her flat and for her to no longer be alive.

  And then I closed my mouth. Mid-sentence.

  I saw his face, and I looked away.

  Outside, the evening breeze was lifting the leaves in the courtyard, sending them scuttling across the stone flagging and in through the open door, brushing against our backs as we sat side by side, our knees almost touching, our elbows almost connected, our eyes on the carpet, unable to look at each other.

  And as I was about to speak, as I was about to try to tell him I was sorry, I heard the sliding door between our rooms, the glass rattling for a moment and then still.

  It was Simon.

  Standing there and looking at us.

  I moved away, shifting my leg from where it touched Mitchell’s, as he, too, moved as he stretched, knees cracking as he pulled himself up from the floor.

  All of us speaking at once. Asking Simon to deal. Asking me to move over. Mitchell’s voice louder than either of ours as his words crossed over, as he asked Simon where the dope was.

  Here, and Simon tossed the bag to him.

  Let’s go. He turned to Simon. Speaking to him alone. Take this, waving the bag in the air, another bottle, and check out the scenery.

  I watched as Simon started putting on his shoes.

  I watched as Mitchell licked the paper flat on a joint.

  And I watched as they made their way to the door.

  Leaving me alone. Surrounded by cards and piles of matches.

  See you. It was Simon who looked back into the room. Just for a moment. Not even long enough for me to say goodbye. And as the front door clicked softly behind them, I was still there, on the floor, next to Mitchell’s bed, knowing that I had been left once again, that even if I had attempted to follow, it would have soon been made clear that I was not wanted. That this was different. That I would not be able to rely on Simon’s goodwill. That something had changed.

  I got up slowly, my head pounding from all we had drunk, and I slid the glass doors between our rooms open. Trying to be quiet. Trying not to wake Evie. Stumbling towards my bed. Closing my eyes and wondering if Mitchell would knock on my door later that night, hoping that he would. Hoping that I hadn’t wrecked everything. Whispering my name in the stillness. Just he and I.

  Because if he did, I knew I would go out there again. I knew I would follow him out to the step. I knew that I wanted to kiss him. And I wished I hadn’t been so stupid. I wished I hadn’t kept talking about his mother.

  I wished I hadn’t upset him.

  twenty-seven

  Once when I asked Vi why she hated it when people called her a lesbian, she had looked at me, incredulous.

  Because I’m not, she had said.

  But you live with Mari, you love Mari, you sleep with Mari, I had protested, and she had simply shrugged her shoulders.

  So? she had said.

  Her ability to shift categories, to place that line wherever she believed it should be and then to justify it with utmost vehemence used to infuriate me.

  Now I sometimes find myself envying it.

  I wish I could just say: This is the way it is. This is right and that is wrong.

  But I can’t. I just do not know. I stand weighted by the possibilities, the endless justifications that could be used to tip either side of the scales, the infinite definitions that could be given to a single term.

  There is no right and there is no wrong.

  That is complete and utter rubbish, Vi would tell me, the spark from the end of her cigarette flying out the open window, brilliant for a moment, and then dissolving into ash. That is what life is all about. Taking the plunge. Drawing the line. You have to, and she would look at me, fierce, concerned, intense, before being distracted by the telephone ringing somewhere inside the house, or perhaps a knock on the door, or a note she suddenly remembers that she wants to write.

  This is the way Vi lives her life. She marks up her territories and she refuses to even glance across to the other side once the fence has been
put up.

  Now as I try to understand her, as I try to come to terms with decisions that I now know she may have made, I am constantly confronted by this fundamental difference in who we are.

  I make my choices but I always seem to have one leg still hanging over the other side of the fence, one eye turned back to what I might have done, what could have been, a cloud of possibilities trailing, twisting, behind me. I think of the decision I made just before the funeral and I have to stop before I am lost in the myriad of options I could have taken, maybe should have taken.

  I am different from Vi.

  I cannot look back and feel certain. I cannot even define what has passed and is unchangeable. I cannot say, That is what it was. I am filled with doubts. Perhaps it was something else, perhaps it could be defined in another way?

  Do you think about him often? Simon had asked me.

  And I had told him I did.

  Sometimes. And then months would pass before he slipped, stealthy, sure, into my consciousness.

  I stood by the window of my flat and found myself trying to say his name out loud. Mitchell Jenkins.

  The long grass twisting up around his calves, arms folded across his chest, looking out towards the dusty road and then back to me, daring me to follow him, challenging me to jump down and run after him.

  He had killed himself.

  Mitchell Jenkins killed himself.

  I watched myself form the words, my reflection in the window mouthing each syllable, salt smeared across the glass so that my face was cloudy, indiscernible, as I tried to gauge what that sentence actually meant to me.

  And I didn’t know.

  I just didn’t know.

  I once told Marco about Mitchell. Years ago. We were swapping stories. First loves. Remembering the twists and curls of my stomach, small tendrils of delight, when he had looked at me. Remembering the slow brush of his hand along my leg. Remembering this and not the rest.

  Because I had made up a new Mitchell.