The Beginner's Guide to Living

by Lia Hills

  “So, what are we going to do now?” she sighs.

  The front door closes. Shit, must be Adam. “Listen, my brother’s just got home and I don’t want him to know.”

  “Sure. Can’t wait to see you.”

  “Me too…” I whisper, but she’s already gone.

  * * *

  Dad and Adam are in the living room dissecting the late news. Outside the moon’s so clear, but my room’s jagged with shadows. I collapse on my bed and undo my zipper. As I think of Taryn, the tang of her skin, the way she tore off her dress, I can feel it all the way up my spine, my butt muscles tightening, a twinge in the small of my back, my breath pacing toward the finish, harder, faster, my whole body coiling in on itself as I throw my other hand across the bed to seek her out. But there’s nothing there. Only my own muffled voice.

  * * *

  There’s this legend from Plato about love. It says that once man had four hands and four feet, and one head with two faces that looked in opposite directions, and a round body. But mankind was strong and challenged the gods. This angered them, and Zeus decided that to weaken mankind he would cut them in half.

  After the division the two parts of man, each desiring his other half, came together, and throwing their arms about one another, entwined in mutual embraces …

  So ancient is the desire of one another which is implanted in us, reuniting our original nature, seeking to make one of two, and to heal the state of man.

  I go to send Taryn this quote from Plato, but instead I send her one from a Russian playwright called Anton Chekhov. It says: Perhaps the feelings that we experience when we are in love represent a normal state. Being in love shows a person who he should be. And I send a photo I took in our garden, of a bush my mother planted last spring.

  * * *

  Beautiful. White jasmine is the Hindu symbol for love and commitment. Did you know that?

  ♥ Taryn

  * * *

  No, I didn’t.

  Or maybe I did.

  * * *

  Memory.

  I am fifteen and at the movie theater with my mother. Dad didn’t come—he doesn’t like movies, they give him a headache. Mom sees me looking at a blond girl. The lights go dim. She leans over with her box of M&M’s, pours some into my hand, and whispers, “She’s cute.” I blush, but I don’t think she can see that in the dark. “I remember,” she says, “the first time I was really in love. It was like waking up.” We both eat M&M’s till the box is empty. When we leave the theater, the girl has already gone.

  KNOW THYSELF

  “SO, WILL. WHAT DO YOU WANT TO DO WITH YOUR LIFE?”

  Adam’s stabbing at his peas. Since Dad’s defaulted even on his minimalist level of parenting, I think Adam feels he should step up. My first instinct: tell him to get lost. When I was five, I was going to be a volcanologist, spend my days dodging pyroclastic flows and collecting igneous rocks, but now my future seems as full of holes as pumice. Before Mom died, there was this loose agreement about me going to university and studying math—Dad liked it because he thought I might end up working in finance like him, but I was thinking more about the theory of it, going beyond to where things blur. Quantum stuff. I remember Mom laughing, saying, “I want to know God’s thoughts; the rest are details.” She said it was a quote from Einstein, and after that it was all settled—Will’s future off the agenda. But now …

  “Well?”

  Adam’s moved on to his steak. I could ask him the same question, what he wants to do with his one, outrageously short life, but something about the way he’s peeling a piece of sinew away from the meat stops me. Anyway, a month ago, if someone had said I’d be tracking down philosophers and having sex, I would have told them they’d got the wrong guy.

  * * *

  Imagine you’re in the middle of the city, sitting on the concrete steps opposite the railway station, where the backpackers and office workers hang out. They’re all sunning themselves and eating their lunch, when this guy comes up to you. He’s kind of stubby with a fat gut and a squashed nose, and he sits down next to you on the step—let’s even imagine that he’s wearing a toga. He throws the dust-rimmed end of it over his shoulder, leans closer, and asks, “Is war bad?”

  “Of course it is,” you say, moving away along the step a bit. (I reckon he’d smell like damp sheep.) “People get killed.”

  “People get killed crossing the street. Is crossing the street bad?”

  “That’s different,” you say. “That’s an accident.”

  “So war’s bad because people kill other people on purpose?” he says, shading his balding head.

  “Well, yes.”

  “Is there ever a case when it’s okay to kill somebody on purpose? When it might even serve some good?”

  Your sandwich is curling at the edges, so you figure you might as well show him you can give as good as you get. “Sure, when the person has done something really bad. Someone like Hitler, for example. The world would’ve been better off if someone had put a bullet to his head.”

  “Anybody?”

  “Well, yeah, he was so bloody evil.”

  “So it’s all right to take a gun to someone’s head if you believe them to be evil?”

  “Sure, as long as that person really is bad. Everybody knew what Hitler was up to. How could anyone have not wanted him dead?”

  “Plenty of people believed what Hitler was doing was good.”

  At this point you’re wondering what a guy in a toga would know about World War II.

  “But to get back to your argument—so long as many people accept that what someone is doing is bad, it’s okay to kill them? Is that not what we ask soldiers to do? To destroy a perceived evil on our behalf?”

  “So you believe war is a good thing?”

  “I’m not saying that. I’m merely trying to get you to think clearly about your own beliefs. Enjoy your lunch.”

  By now, you’re wondering who the bastard works for—whether he’s a market researcher or some pro-war nut—though he’s sown a seed of a thought, Maybe the whole war issue isn’t so clear-cut.

  You look around to see where he’s got to. He’s hassling some Japanese backpacker three steps up and she’s starting to blush. Maybe her English isn’t that good. Maybe where she comes from it’s strange to be harassed by balding men wearing togas while you’re eating your lunch. But that’s what Socrates did. Hung around public squares in Athens interrogating strangers to help them work out what they believed, and how to know themselves truly. Got him into shitloads of trouble, but I like it—a rebel philosopher.

  * * *

  I don’t wear a toga. I pretend to look at the electronic announcements skidding across the wall of a nearby building, while I work out who to ask first. From here I can see the pub where the barman with trunks for arms nearly hit me, and now I’m about to hassle some random person I’ve never met. It’s also Friday and I should be at school, but they are cutting me a lot of slack because of Mom. Things have been weird lately, but sometimes you have to go with it. Socrates must have had some nerve. Not sure why I’m doing this; maybe I’ve got rebel blood.

  There’s a girl not much older than me in a short skirt, trying to cross her legs and eat a salad without showing too much. She’s wearing a necklace with a red plastic heart. I sit on the step next to her, not so close she’ll think I’m trying to pick her up.

  “Excuse me?” It’s the girl with the red heart, freckles bridging her cheeks.

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you looking for something?” she asks.

  “Sorry?”

  “I thought you might be a tourist.”

  It’s now I notice that she’s pretty. “Oh, no, I was … um, wondering…”

  “Yes?”

  “Well … if life ends with death?”

  “Oh.”

  She looks down at her crossed legs and I wonder how many times Socrates got punched or made people cry. She’s obviously working out the best way to tell me to
get lost. But she says, “My boyfriend died six months ago. Climbing accident. We used to eat lunch on these steps.”

  Shit. “Look, I’m sorry you don’t have to…”

  “It’s okay,” she says, her hand fiddling with her necklace inside her shirt.

  “Did he give you that red heart?”

  “No, my grandma did, when I was a kid. She’s dead too.”

  This is not what I expected. I try to think of something consoling, but the only words I can conjure are She’s safe now, thanks to my tragic great-aunts.

  “You know something weird,” she says. “I used to think it was a shame my grandma never got to meet Sam, but now I imagine that they’re both together, sort of watching over me.”

  A woman walks past, and there’s something about her that reminds me of Mom. That’s been happening a lot. The girl tucks the heart back into her shirt. “You know, I never told anyone that before. What’s your name?”

  “Will.”

  “I’m Laura. I should be getting back to work.” She starts walking down the steps, but at the bottom she turns back. “So, I guess, I believe life doesn’t end with death.”

  And then she goes, waddling; you can’t take big steps in that kind of skirt. Waddling past a clown juggling firesticks, through a horde of Asian tourists, to the tram stop, all the way holding on to her heart.

  * * *

  Across the road, in St. Paul’s Cathedral, people are taking photos of the stained glass windows by the entrance: fractured wings, a hand holding a plume. I’ve got Mom’s camera with me but I don’t feel like playing tourist. Mom brought me in here once when we were in the city, to listen to the choir. It’s the only time, apart from now, I’ve been in a church.

  A woman is kneeling into the back of one of the pews, her head buried in her hands, but I can’t tell whether she’s sleeping or praying; maybe God will tap her on the shoulder if she nods off. Who knows, if I sit here long enough, with these elevated ceilings and gold mosaics, even I will hear the voice of God.

  Outside, a tram bell breaches the hum of traffic. An American tourist at the gift shop asks, How much is this angel? and the praying woman gives a sob. Guess she wasn’t asleep. Against the side wall, there are three rows of lit candles and I go over and choose one from the brass bowl—Mom was sort of a Catholic, so I guess I’m allowed. I light it from one of the others and place it in the top row. The flame shifts and I can feel the heat of the candles on my face. I lean closer and stick my finger in the wax; it’s hot and liquid and clingy, but it doesn’t burn my skin. I do it again and watch the molding of the wax on my finger, a thick layer of it like a cast. If I bend it, it cracks, turns opaque, and peels away from my skin. My fingerprints are embossed in the congealing wax.

  A lady beside me frowns. I didn’t notice her arrive, but I stare at her now as I run my finger over the flame. If I could read her mind I know it would say, Delinquent. The remnants of wax begin to melt and my skin starts to burn. It hurts but it’s manageable. I can choose to stop if I want. Not yet. I can still stand it, the smell and a feeling beyond pain. Shit. I jerk my finger out of the flame and plunge it into my mouth.

  The woman’s gone. She left the same way she arrived, almost supernatural. She probably went to find someone to chuck me out. I wouldn’t blame her. This is a place of devotion, of paying respects; I don’t belong here. Maybe I should cross the road to that pub, the one with the pig-faced barman, and let the bastard finish me off.

  * * *

  Dream.

  Our house shrouded in flames. They rise into the dark, annihilating my voice. My family is inside. Every time I get close, the fire repels me. At the window, I see my mother’s hand.

  * * *

  In the morning Dad asks me what I did to my finger. I tell him I burned it trying to save some toast.

  * * *

  Once Adam and Dad have gone out I head down to the station to take the train. To Half Moon Bay. Mom used to take us there when we were kids, trailing buckets to load with treasure from the sea. I wanted to bring Taryn but she’s gone for the weekend on some family thing. In my backpack: my mother’s camera and her blue dress.

  As I stare out the train window at the stream of graffiti on people’s back fences, so many different tags, I think about Socrates, and how he never wrote anything down. Plato recorded most of what we know about him.

  Imagine if Adam was in charge of writing down my life. He’d probably call it The Kid Who Thought He Knew Everything, or The Mad Bastard, depending on how generous he was feeling. If Dad wrote it he’d call it … actually I have no idea. And, me, I think, I’d call my autobiography The Book of Questions. But which one of these versions would be closest to the truth?

  A seagull swoops close to the window. In my notebook I write:

  10. Who’s responsible for the story of my mom?

  Memory.

  The rocks rise in layers of gold beneath the sun. They’ve been shaped by the wind. Water has left its mark like trickles of dark blood. My mother disappears into the deep shadows beyond the sign that warns of falling rocks—I can only read the picture—and I want to follow her in but I’m scared. When I call her, the wind takes off with my words. I know there are places she goes to, parts of her, which I can’t yet understand. I wait with the sun, for my mother to return.

  LIFE IN A GLASSHOUSE

  I FOUND A BOOK in the local library by a philosopher called Wittgenstein. I borrowed it because it’s full of diagrams and equations, a language I know. The only problem is, Wittgenstein explains in the preface that he believes he has found the solution to the questions of philosophy, but that his book, he says, shows how little is achieved when these problems are solved.

  * * *

  Seb’s sprawled on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, straight into Thom Yorke’s eyes. Radiohead posters cover every surface in his room, except for a photo of him as a baby hung next to his door. He cut a deal with his mom—one baby shot against a roomful of posters. A T-shirt with the words Insane citizen printed on it in white is draped over the photo.

  It’s Tuesday after school. I have a shining desire to tell him about Taryn, but I hold back. Seb flops over the side of the bed and turns the volume on his stereo down from disfiguring to loud. “So, how is it at your place?”

  “You mean with Adam home? Yeah, all right. You know how he is.”

  “Been giving you a hard time?”

  “The usual.”

  He turns the music down even further. “Remember that time I stayed over at your place and he turned us in for stealing matches? Man, what an asshole. You know, I reckon Adam’s always been jealous of you.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, the way you were with your mom. Anyway, I thought he might go easier on you now, considering.”

  “I guess.” I grab a comic from the pile on the floor, with a picture of some kind of mutant warrior on the front. Seb does comics, not me.

  He rolls over onto his back. “I was talking to Mom about … about how I could help.”

  “Help?”

  “I never had a friend whose mom died before.”

  “So, what did she say?”

  His feet beat out a rhythm but it’s not the same one as the music. The song’s “Jigsaw Falling into Place.” “She said that I should say that I’m sorry, about what happened. And that if there’s anything you need I’m here.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “I haven’t got a clue.”

  Seb’s waiting. I know all he wants is for me to say it’s okay, that one day soon our old life will reassert itself, but I can’t.

  He heaves his hand through his hair. “I was trying to work out what I’d want you to do if Mom died, but every time I think about it I get this kind of buzzing in my head.”

  I look down at a drawing of a guy getting it in the neck with an ax. “When’s she getting home?”

  “Who? My mom? Not till after five. Why?”

  I lean over and turn the music up, so
loud it blocks out the possibility of thought.

  * * *

  On my way out, Seb’s mom, Jackie, pulls into the driveway. She gets out of her car and her heel catches on a crack in the pavement. For a moment I think she’s going to fall.

  “Will, it’s good to see you. How have you been?”

  I thrust my hands deeper into my pockets. “Yeah, good, thanks.”

  “And your dad? Would it help if I brought over a lasagna?”

  “It’s okay. We’re learning how to cook.”

  “I know I said it at your mom’s funeral, but if there’s anything I can do. Anything at all.”

  Her hand reaches out. I pull my school bag higher on my shoulder as her wedding ring catches the light and I want to slap her hand away and shout, Well, yes, actually, why don’t we do an exchange. I’ll have my mother back, and Seb can be the poor kid without a mom.

  “Will?”

  She touches my sleeve. The hairs stand up on my arms and my legs go limp. I’m going to drop right here on the driveway, a stretched-out pathetic heap, for the entire world to contemplate and come up with their own neat little theories on how it is we survive. Except I don’t. I feel a resurrecting force instead, a pulse surging up from my feet, all the way to my head.

  “I’m late,” I say, and I go, down the driveway, past the oak tree that drops helicopters in autumn, all the way to the end of the street. And by the time I get there I’m running.

  * * *

  Memory.

  My mother’s necklace. A silver bell. It bangs against her chest as she moves. I lay my head on her breast and hold the bell up to the light, jingle it, listen to the tiny silver clapper as it hits the sides. It is the sound of sanctuary.

  * * *

  When I get home, nobody’s there. I think about calling Taryn but go into my parents’ room instead. The sun makes zebra stripes through the blinds across the bed.

  I open the top drawer of the dresser. Everything is neatly sorted, though Mom was more a chuck-it-in-there type; artistic with housework she would say. I guess Dad’s been tidying up. All her things—underwear, a drawer liner, socks. I pull the liner out and the scent of roses, suggested more by the design on the paper than any lingering smell, is enough to conjure that Saturday afternoon. The one when Dad took me shopping to buy her a present for her birthday. The indecision, the companionable secrecy, and then the next day the unreadable expression on her face as she opened the drawer liners, her cheeks still creased with sleep.