The Beginner's Guide to Living

by Lia Hills

  Two seasons.

  She would never see autumn again.

  And what would I have said to her that afternoon, if I’d known that she’d soon be dead? Something about love? I like to think I would have made sure that every moment counted, because it was bringing us closer to our last.

  I reach over and pull a book out from the pile beside my lamp. It’s a collection of poems by William Blake we’ve been studying in Lit and there’s one I have a sudden need to read. I flick through the pages, past the “Songs of Innocence” and “Songs of Experience,” until I find what I’m looking for. I go into the study and send Taryn this:

  * * *

  Hey beautiful,

  He who binds himself a Joy,

  Does the winged life destroy;

  He who kisses the Joy as it flies,

  Lives in Eternity’s sunrise.

  William Blake

  ♥ Will

  * * *

  Let’s be like that, Will. Let’s kiss the joy as it flies.

  ♥ T

  * * *

  BY THE WORLD FORGOT

  A WOMAN’S LAUGHTER WAKES ME. And there’s music. My legs take a while to obey me. It’s cold out of bed. There’s a sapphire light coming from the living room, like some alien invasion, but no laughter anymore. Adam’s sitting on the couch, his face blue.

  “Hey. What’re you watching?”

  “The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.”

  He hands me the cover. On the front, there’s a man lying next to a woman with blue hair, on cracked ice. I collapse on the couch next to Adam. He’s wearing pajama pants, his face transfixed, the sinews on his arms defined by the blue light. The guy in the movie has just discovered that targeted memory erasure is possible, at least in his world. Adam shifts his eyes to me. “Mom lost a baby.”

  “What?”

  “Between you and me. That’s why there’s such a big gap between us.”

  His face returns to the screen. The guy’s collecting up all the mementos that might remind him of the woman with the blue hair, the memory he wants to erase. He’s filled two green garbage bags. The doctor in the movie’s saying that there’s an emotional core to each of our memories. That the erasure will feel like a dream upon waking.

  “How come you know this and I don’t?”

  “I remember it. Dad took care of me for weeks. I think she was pretty sick.”

  Adam hugs his knees into himself, and reaches for the blanket at the end of the couch. The guy’s wearing some bizarre kind of memory recording device, like an old-fashioned hair dryer. It’s meant to make a map of his brain so that they find the right memories to erase. The guy is focused on the woman, remembering her, in all her beauty and her fury, in order to forget.

  “Was it a boy or a girl?”

  “Don’t know.”

  Adam tucks the blanket under his feet, the light flickering on his face. Mom always wanted a girl. If she’d had one, I might never have been born. Even conceived. Would they have called it Will if it was a boy?

  The world forgetting, by the world forgot.

  Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!

  —ALEXANDER POPE

  The shopping mall’s out of control, too many kids throwing tantrums, women asserting themselves with strollers. Dad’s given me money to get new jeans. I buy some sushi, chicken teriyaki, and at one of the long, slatted tables I mix plenty of wasabi into the soy. A woman storms past with three kids. One, a small boy in an Incredible Hulk T-shirt, trails behind, then halts in front of a baby shop. A huge blue teddy is on display, guarding a stroller that looks like it could take you to the moon. I had a brother or sister who died two years before I was born. Adam remembers Mom being pregnant, the swelling of her stomach, his own ambivalent thoughts. The void when Mom was gone.

  “Aidan. Hurry up!”

  It’s the kid’s older sister, hands on hips. Next to the baby shop, a guy wearing a baseball cap shoves money into a drinks machine, but it goes straight through. He keeps collecting the rejected coins, thrusting them in the slot, over and over. He should be careful—more people get killed by vending machines falling on them than are eaten by sharks. And that kid, Aidan. What’s going to happen to him—will he drown in their pool one day when his big sister isn’t watching, or make it to ninety-five and croak in his sleep? All these people, every one of them, will one day no longer exist.

  The roof in this place is high, like a cathedral, but the whole feel is artificial. It’s easy to imagine it empty, filled only with the ghosts of things—naked mannequins, empty hangers, vacant tills—and, hovering somewhere up near the ceiling, the memory of all these people that in one hundred years from now will be gone.

  I separate my chopsticks with a snap, dip the sushi into the sauce, shove it whole into my mouth, my nostrils flaring, the wasabi’s so hot. I love when that happens, it makes me feel clean, like all the crap’s been seared out of my brain. It allows room for clear thought, a whole new range of questions.

  12. How will I die?

  Memory.

  My pop’s dead. He had bowel cancer. I’m six. I think about how he always slipped me an extra scoop of ice cream when Nan wasn’t looking, and how his arms looked like lizard skin. I thought he was some kind of reptile till Mom said he wasn’t—I remember she didn’t laugh when she explained this to me.

  I find my mother crying in different parts of the house. She keeps a hanky in her pocket and, when I draw it out and hand it to her, she asks me if there’s anything I want to say. I think for a minute before I answer, “Don’t worry, Mommy, he’ll be back for Christmas. Who else will hand out the presents?” My mother absorbs her tears and stows her hanky away.

  Christmas comes, but no Pop. Nobody mentions him; Dad hands out the presents instead. I get a huge truck from my nan but, when nobody’s looking, I take it outside and bury it in the sandpit. Nan gives me an extra scoop of ice cream, even though I don’t finish my lunch.

  CELEBRATION

  TOMORROW WOULD HAVE BEEN my mother’s fifty-second birthday. It is five weeks since she died.

  Over noodles, which Adam cooked, which aren’t half bad, I make a suggestion. “I think we should celebrate Mom’s birthday. Go out for a meal.”

  Dad: “Adam, what do you think?”

  Adam, chopsticks poised, takes a sip of his beer. I get ready for him to shred my idea. “Sure. What about that Thai place in the shopping strip. I’ll call and book if you like.”

  So, maybe I do believe in miracles.

  “Thai. Sounds good. All right with you, Will?”

  “All right with me, Dad.”

  The two of them go back to their noodles. The only sound, the click of chopsticks as they tap the insides of their bowls.

  * * *

  There are heaps of kids at the restaurant so it’s raucous, but the smell wafting from the kitchen reminds me how much I love Thai. A woman the size of a child shows us to our seats.

  “Looks good,” says Adam, checking out the menu. “Been a while since I had a good pad thai. Got sick of the stuff in Bangkok, but now I kind of miss it.” He’s being so cheerful I wonder what he’s saving up.

  “I don’t want anything too hot,” says Dad. “I think I’ll go for the tom yum soup. Nice place, Adam.”

  The waitress yanks the cork out of our bottle of wine; it takes most of her strength.

  “Guess it won’t hurt,” says Dad as she fills my glass, “you’re almost eighteen. Here’s to…” He pauses, like he’s forgotten something.

  “Here’s to Mom,” I say.

  “To Anna.”

  “To Mom,” says Adam under his breath.

  Dad smiles, runs his finger around the base of his wineglass. “This guy at work, John Braithewaite … Will, I think you met him at the staff picnic.”

  “The short guy who kept making jokes about penguins?” I grin.

  “Yes, that’s him. He’s just found out he’s got cancer. They’ve given him three months to live, poor guy. He’s
only forty-two.”

  Adam’s been making some sort of origami with his napkin, but he looks up now. “This was meant to be a celebration. Can’t we talk about something else?”

  “Adam’s afraid that if we mention death we’ll bring it on.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “Wasn’t meant to be.”

  Dad: “Keep your voice down, Adam.”

  I take a deep breath. “So, why did you decide to move back after Mom died?”

  “You looking for a confession?”

  “No. Just a little truth.”

  “We don’t all have to be like you, Will, analyzing everything to crap.”

  Dad cuts in: “Adam, that’s enough.”

  “I’m just sick of him…”

  “I said that’s enough! Whether you like it or not, this is Will’s way of dealing with what happened to your mom.”

  Adam’s frown morphs into a smile as he turns to me. “And don’t think you’ll find the meaning of life in some book Samara gave you. She’s such a bloody cliché, with her Indian clothes. The only place you’ll find truth in that house is between Taryn’s legs.”

  “You asshole,” I spit. I want to crush him, splinter that grin on his face.

  “Either you apologize, Adam, or you leave,” says Dad, a fist tightening around his napkin.

  “It’s about time somebody told him a few home truths,” Adam sneers and stands up. I stand too, taller than him, feeling the flow of anger course down the back of my hands.

  “Is everything okay?” It’s the miniature waitress standing between us with the bottle of wine.

  “Fantastic,” glares Adam as he leaves, knocking his napkin to the floor.

  Dad bends down to pick it up but the waitress beats him to it. She pats it as she lays it on the table in front of Dad.

  “It’s not easy for him, but there’s no excuse for acting that way. You okay, Will?”

  “I could kill him…”

  “Yeah, well, let’s not ruin a good evening,” he says, folding Adam’s napkin, following the original creases, a man trying to make order of things, and I feel something slipping away from us so I grab at it before it’s too late. “Dad?”

  “Yes, Will?”

  “What’s the worst thing about Mom dying?”

  For a moment it’s like I haven’t spoken, but he looks up from the fresh wine stain he’s been running his finger over. “That I didn’t die first.”

  * * *

  Dad drinks too much so I drive, even though it’s not allowed. The moon has an anemic glow that taints the stars. Adam doesn’t come home.

  * * *

  After what happened at the restaurant last night, Taryn and I take refuge on her bed. Nobody else is home. “How could that guy be your brother?”

  “Yeah, sometimes I wonder myself.”

  “I bet he’s jealous he’s got no one to love him.”

  It’s been a while since Adam had a girlfriend as far as I know. He had one at the university though he never brought her home.

  Taryn straddles me. “You know, I can’t imagine not being with you.”

  “Things change,” I say.

  “I know that, Will.”

  Her knees nudge my ribs as she changes position.

  “Sorry. Not much of a romantic, am I?”

  “I think you are, but not in the usual way,” she says, her finger settling on my lip. “There are plenty of ways to love.”

  * * *

  Adam doesn’t come home for two days, no phone call, nothing. I’m in the kitchen cooking dinner Saturday evening, when he finally gets back. “Where’ve you been?”

  “At a friend’s place.”

  “You could’ve called.”

  “Could’ve.”

  “Bit adolescent, don’t you think?”

  Adam gets a beer out of the fridge, twists the top off and chucks it at the small garbage can on the counter near the stove. It misses. I reach over and throw it in. “Didn’t know you could cook curry,” he says.

  “Taryn showed me how.” I give him a warning look.

  He goes back to the fridge and takes out a second beer, opens it and hands it to me. I take a swig. “Well, just make sure it’s good and hot.”

  “Dad doesn’t like it spicy.”

  “Dad doesn’t like anything spicy. A little change won’t kill him.”

  “Maybe not.” The smell of the curry reminds me of Taryn’s house and I smile to myself.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” says Adam, his lip a skeptical curl.

  “I doubt that.” I turn the gas down on the curry. “Can I show you something?”

  “Sure, as long as it’s not tarot cards.”

  I laugh. For some reason I’m immune to him tonight. “It’s in my room.”

  Adam follows me, carrying both our beers. “What you got hiding in there?”

  “Sit down,” I say, pulling the box out from under my bed. “I found it in Mom’s stuff.”

  Adam drops down next to me on the bed, moving a pile of books to the side. “If Dad catches you…”

  “He won’t.”

  The photo I hand him is in black and white, a close-up. It’s of Adam and me—I’m a baby so Adam must be about six. He’s holding me in his arms, looking at me like I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He taps the photo with his finger. “I remember this.”

  “I found it with a bunch of old letters.”

  Adam glances at me.

  “I didn’t read them. It was wrapped up in this.” I let a blue silk scarf fall from my hand to his. He holds it up like an artifact.

  “I’ve never seen the scarf before, but this photo, it’s the day of your christening.”

  “I was christened? Nobody ever tells me anything.”

  “It’s probably the only time you’ve been in a church.”

  I think to tell him about the day in St. Paul’s with the candles, and that time with Mom, but I don’t want to sidestep his thoughts.

  Adam smiles. “The priest, when he sprinkled the water over your head, you gave him this filthy look. I swear. I remember being proud of you. I remember thinking, this baby is my brother. It was kind of weird—I’d waited a long time to get one, especially after Mom lost the other baby.” He wraps the photo back in the scarf. “You know, we need to keep an eye on Dad. He’s been working too hard.”

  “Active laziness.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Yeah, I guess you’re right. Maybe we could do something together. Something fun. Not like the other night.”

  “Yeah, sorry about that. I’d had a shit of a day.”

  “Jealousy’s a curse,” I say, looking at him sideways as I sip from my bottle.

  He frowns, and then he gets it. “You talking about Taryn?” He shoves me hard, but he’s laughing. I slam him back, nearly push him off the end of the bed. He barely manages to save his beer.

  “We could all go away, maybe for a weekend? Go camping,” I say.

  “You mean, do a little male bonding?”

  “Jesus, Adam, can’t you drop the sarcasm for once?”

  He grins. “If you insist. God, it’s been ages since I went camping.”

  “Dad always liked it, remember, it was kind of our thing.”

  “As long as you’re sure you can bear to be away from Taryn.”

  “For Christ’s sake.”

  “No, I’m serious,” he says. “I remember what it’s like. You two seem pretty close.”

  “Yeah, we are.”

  “So, stop moping around trying to solve the problems of the universe. Enjoy what you’ve got.”

  “Yeah, maybe you’re right,” though there’s something about the word moping that pisses me off.

  “I know I am. You want another beer? Dad won’t be home for a while. Anyway, these days I don’t think he’d care.”

  “Sure.” I put the photo back in the box as Adam gets up. He’s wearing a new pair of trousers with a sharp crease down each leg; he m
ust’ve bought them while he was gone. “Adam?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you reckon everything’s going to be all right?”

  * * *

  Memory.

  Adam and me having a fight. I’m about seven, Adam thirteen. He’s got me against the wall and he’s shouting, “Shut up!” He wants to hurt me, I can see it in his face, the way his lip curls. Mom steps up beside us, says, “Adam, let go.” The tremble of his hand as he grips my shirt and stares at her. “Let go,” she repeats, “that’s Will’s way. He’s different from you.” “He’s crazy,” my brother says. He lowers his face close to mine and releases me, strides off in disgust. My mother’s arms circling me.

  WHISPER

  THE GIRL AT THE COUNTER is wearing a fluorescent green T-shirt and a nose ring that sparkles as her nostrils flare. Some bald man’s looking for an opera CD she’s obviously never heard of and she’s giving him her best get-lost grin. Seb’s in the Goth metal section, next to a guy who clanks when he walks. It’s like a fancy dress party in here. I pull my jacket around my uniform and head for the Bs.

  They’re playing Disturbed over the system and it’s good and loud. I find B and start sorting through the discs—there’s a lot of shit in here—and then I find what I’m looking for.

  “What’s that?” asks Seb, like I’m holding a dead baby in my hand.

  “Jeff Buckley. A live recording.”

  “Jeff Buckley? Are you kidding?”

  “It’s not for me.”

  I can see the frown behind his veil of hair. “Who’s it for, then?”

  “This girl I know.”

  “Which girl?”

  “Her name’s Taryn. I met her at my mother’s wake.”

  “That’s weird.”

  “Well, actually I saw her there … doesn’t matter.”

  “She’s got crap taste in music, whoever she is.”

  I put the CD back in its place. “She’s got long hair,” I add. Like that explains everything.