Laura’s death was an accident. It was two days before her fifteenth birthday and she was driving with her mum, Susan, sitting in the middle of the backseat when their car was hit by a semi-trailer. The middle seatbelt in Susan’s car was very loose, it had been stretched out and the retractor had stopped working so whenever we travelled in it, the two people on either side would loop the belt through theirs to tighten it. On this occasion though, Laura didn’t have those two people on either side of her and the belt was left loose. On impact Laura had slipped out of the seatbelt and flown forward, she hit her head on the windscreen and that was it.
It was Dad who told me Laura had died. It was a Sunday and we got the phone call in the morning. Laura’s dad, Robert, had been the one to tell us. The best and worst thing about my friendship with Laura is that once we became best friends, so did our families. Our parents bonded over their childhoods in South Africa and Henry always played with Laura’s younger sister, Dani. When Laura died it shocked our entire dynamic, my mother was torn between comforting her daughter and her best friend; in the end it was Susan who needed her the most. At first I thought my mother regretted spending all her time with Susan and not me. In my own selfish way I believed my mother’s actions to be driven by compassion, but sooner or later I realised that my mother was actually relieved Susan demanded all of her attention. I thought it was because she thought my grief was somehow unimportant when compared to Susan’s, and I wasn’t about to tell her otherwise; I’d never seen someone so desolate, inconsolable and lost as Susan Bewick when mourning the death of her daughter.
I was wrong about my mother though, yet I only learnt it years later; when I was learning to drive and almost had an accident with her in the car. She’d begun to cry and ended up sobbing that she was terrified I’d die the same way Laura did. In the days after Laura’s death my mother had been unable to even think about me because that was all she could imagine. I suppose she thought that her revelation would make me feel better, and in a way it did; it reminded me that my mother did care about me but it didn’t erase the fact that when I needed my mother the most she wasn’t there.
I got through Laura’s death though; I had my dad, Peter, Mel and Josie. Dad was incredible, as was Peter. They were both there when I needed them and when I didn’t. Peter held my hand at the funeral and I’d cried, not just because of Laura but because all the fighting I’d done with Peter over the years suddenly meant nothing.
It may now become clearer to you why I still consider Mel and Josie my best friends. Out of the three of us Josie took Laura’s death the hardest, but I didn’t resent her for it. In fact I found her grief cathartic. To be honest Laura’s death had left me completely numb, I had no idea how I should act or behave. Just thinking about her just made my heart ache to the point that I felt physically sick. Helping Josie through her grief, and even Mel, became my way of mourning Laura.
I don’t exactly recall when we all accepted Laura’s death. I think it was when we could think about her and be happy, instead of sad, letting happiness resonate from our memories instead of the aching loss. Susan, Robert and Dani all moved away a few years after Laura’s death; the year she would have graduated high school with us. They’d moved to Adelaide, but we’re still in contact; they never forget my birthday. Laura’s death had nothing to do with the Blackhole though. As devastating as losing my best friend was, I still remember being happy after Laura died. Why Alison thought she was connected with the Blackhole was beyond me. Yes my best friend had died but who hasn’t experienced death? I wasn’t a unique experience; death was perfectly indiscriminate.
Alison was still levelling me with her steely gaze and I was becoming more hostile the longer I matched it. Eventually she broke the tension. ‘I think Laura may have some impact,’ she stated and I tried to move past her matter-of-fact tone.
‘Why?’
‘I’m not referring to grief in this case. If you say her passing has no connection then I believe you, but what I think you haven’t considered is that since Laura’s death, you’ve never really allowed yourself to be truly open with anyone?’
My God, you’re brilliant. I continued to stare at Alison, ensuring my face made abundantly clear how utterly unimpressed I was with her skills as a psychologist.
‘What I mean to say is you don’t talk to anyone as yourself anymore. You’re always putting on this act and shielding yourself, you’re repressing your true feelings. What you haven’t realised is that in doing this you’ve effectively buried yourself in the Blackhole. You admitted yourself you have nothing, now whose fault is that?’
I didn’t speak another word to Alison after that. I just quietly picked up my bag and left her office.
I didn’t realise how late it was until I walked out the door and saw the sky was black; we’d been talking for more than two hours. It was raining slightly when I got on the bus and by the time I reached home’s front door, I was considerably damp; enough so that my mother insisted I take a shower. In all honestly I did need one. Drying myself off I noticed tiny little cigars of rolled skin collected where I rubbed my towel as dead skin peeled off, and looking at my hairy legs I felt like I was twelve again and still oblivious to the fact I’d soon have to start shaving them. A knock at the door made me jump and quickly cover myself with the towel, though the door didn’t open.
‘Mum wants you to come to the dinner table when you’re done.’ The voice was Henry’s and I rolled me eyes.
‘Okay,’ I answered. I heard his footsteps thudding back down the hallway and I made my quick dash across to my room. Despite how unappealing the shower had been I did like the feeling of being clean, even if it only meant I could now wait another whole other week before showering again. I pulled out my old high school track pants and pulled an old jumper over the top. The pants teetered on the edge of my hips and I had to tighten the drawstring to stop them from falling down. I hadn’t realised I’d lost that much weight. My decrease in body mass explained my mother’s insistence on my presence at the dinner table. In my spot was a plate of reheated risotto and it looked nice; pity I still felt sick from my session with Alison.
‘Did you see Alison?’ my mother asked immediately.
‘Yes.’ She didn’t need to know I was referring to today, instead of our scheduled appointment yesterday.
‘Good.’ That was our entire exchange and I was soon left alone at the table. I threw my risotto, minus three spoonfuls, in the bin and retreated back to my room. Considering the day I’d had I was surprised that I didn’t feel tired, the opposite in fact. I was jittery and agitated. My mind was frantically jumping from one thought to another and thinking about things I thought I’d forgotten.
Laura.
In my mind Laura never aged, I think it’s because I’d never imagined what life would be like were she still here. It was almost like my life was split into two parts: the part with Laura, and the other without, only a fraction of a second between them. Laura’s life ended when I was still concerned with the things all fourteen year olds are concerned with. I couldn’t place her in my world now because I didn’t know how. How did I know she’d still be the same person? How did I even know we’d still be friends? That question suddenly made me very still.
How did I know we’d still friends?
Realistically I’d say that’s a question impossible to answer, but what did I know about realism? The past few years of my life had been lived so beyond the realm of reality that the only reason I could give for answering the question with “I don’t know” is the fact that I knew the answer, I’d just never thought about it.
Laura would hate me.
Well, not me exactly. Miranda and the Blackhole she’d hate, but considering that’s all I was she’d be left with no choice. My best friend would hate me because I wasn’t “me” anymore. I’d lost myself somewhere along the way. Whether I’d been swallowed up by the Blackhole or just let Miranda consu
me my identity; I no longer knew the person I was, all I knew is that I desperately wanted to be her. My eyes began to burn as tears slowly melted down my face.
Miranda was stupid.
Miranda didn’t know anything.
Miranda wasn’t happy.
Miranda wasn’t me.
Miranda was just some stupid childish ideal, the thing that I believed in and the thing I’d trusted to hold my hand. God, I’m such a hypocrite. The Blackhole began to boil inside me and I wanted to scream; I tried. I opened my mouth and tried to scream all the rage that filled my body out of it. I wanted to let the Blackhole flow out of me in an endless gushing torrent until it finally trickled away and I’d be left with just the empty space inside. Nothing came out. Nothing just poured out of my gaping mouth as I tried not to choke on the snot dripping down the back of my throat until I realised that my jaw ached and the nothing was gone. Nothing had escaped from nothing and there wasn’t much left. Just an exhausted girl who’s dirty dishwater hair matched her eyes.
And a name.
Her name.
My name.
That was the one word I was repeating over and over again out loud to myself.
My name.
I said it louder and then again, repeating it until the letters began to blur together and it sounded alien.
It was my name, the one thing I’d let the Blackhole take from me willingly because I hadn’t wanted it. I hadn’t wanted to be me. Now it was the thing I was left with and the only thing I wanted. I wanted my name and I wanted to be worthy of it. The nothingness had vanished and I was all that was left.
17
It was strange not having the nothingness that was my Blackhole in me. What’s left when nothing is gone? I’d thought the Blackhole was nothing but really the Blackhole was something; without it I had this emptiness in my chest and when I woke up I had the insatiable desire to fill it. It couldn’t just be with anything though. I wanted to fill it with beauty, with things that made me happy; even if I didn’t know what they were right now, I think it was time I found out.
‘You’re up early.’ Peter closed the fly-screen behind him. He was dressed in old burgundy track pants and a black hoodie, his eyes still puffy from sleep.
‘So are you,’ I replied as Peter sat himself stiffly down into his wicker chair, the same chair he’d seemingly never moved from since arriving home and whose cushion had moulded to his backside. A few moments passed in comfortable silence before Peter blew out a deep sigh which made his slim body sink lower into his chair and he began to tap his hands on the inside of his knees. He joined me in studying the bleak landscape that lay beyond our porch; the rolling and disruptive patches of dull greenery interrupted by the sluggish river and finally to the distant port docks. What had started in a sleek darkness had slowly revealed itself as the first pale wisps of light broke upon the sky with the rising sun. A thick blanket of clouds was lumbering over the ocean towards us and the day would be overcast. Already the ocean had become a mass of grey and murky sludge, moving in lazy ebbs as the tide tried to break the heavy surface. The ships docked in the port looked like they were sitting on rotting jelly whilst the clouds were still yet to choke out the sky. We were bathed in the weak white luminance that only the winter sun could bring, casting everything in an unflattering light; an impossibly honest light that made the world appear exactly as it was: raw, cold and alive. It was depressingly beautiful.
‘It’s beautiful.’
I snapped out of my study as Peter spoke my thoughts aloud.
‘What?’ I asked.
‘The sky.’ Peter nodded his head lazily. ‘The clouds, they’re beautiful.’ He mistook my silence for misunderstanding. ‘Maybe beautiful isn’t the right word.’
‘No, it is,’ I said softly and felt Peter’s eyes quickly steal a look at my half obscured face before they settled back to stare at the lumbering cumulus.
‘It’s strange when you think about it,’ Peter began.
‘What?’ I asked.
‘The clouds; you can see them coming, you see them blocking out the sun and people just sit and watch. People still go about their lives like nothing else matters and just put up with it.’
‘Normal people don’t care about clouds, Pete,’ I said, unable to stop a slow trickle of sarcasm polluting my tone.
I could sense Peter smile. ‘What I mean is, people still manage to live and enjoy all the crap the world throws at them because they know it can only last for so long.’
I turned my head towards him. ‘What are you going on about Pete?’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Nothing, just the weather.’
We once again allowed the silence to swallow us and watched as the horizon slowly began to mist over with distant rain. Cars became more frequent and we could hear the regular hissing of the buses as they accelerated to budge over the hill. The world was waking up and the quiet consumed by something much more alive.
‘Are you okay?’ Peter’s voice was penetrating and dripped with a sincerity that was impossible to overlook. This wasn’t a morning pleasantry or harmless inquiry that required a thoughtless reply.
“Do you want to tell him?” I heard myself ask.
‘I don’t know.’ The sound of my own voice surprised me. It was clear and calm, not frantic or bewildered; I truly didn’t know if I was okay and that was spectacular. I may not be happy, but I wasn’t unhappy. I was perfectly okay and that was brilliant.
‘You don’t know?’ Clearly Peter didn’t grasp the subtle clarity of my reply. A weak twitch of my lips pulled them into a small smile.
‘You know, I am actually okay.’
‘You sure?’ Peter asked again, and I turned my gaze at my brother.
‘Yeah, I’m okay,’ I said, nodding my head. Whether it was the simple act of telling the truth or realising that it was the truth, my smile grew wider and like a secret, I buried it into my chin into my chest until I could no longer contain it. I lifted my face towards the dull world, my smile a perfect ray of light.
‘What are you smiling at?’ Peter inquired.
‘Nothing.’
‘That’s good.’ I looked at him and saw him grinning.
‘That I’m smiling because of nothing?’ I asked.
‘Smiling for no reason is the best one of them all.’
‘Since when are you Mr Sunshine?’
‘Since always.’
A tiny bark of laugh rushed through my lips and Peter chuckled. We were silent for a moment before Peter spoke again. ‘Can I ask my question now?’
‘What?’ I was confused.
‘That night, after you’d had your fight with Doug; we agreed to ask each other one question and get an honest answer. I never got to ask mine,’ Peter elaborated.
I’d forgotten, and the question loomed threateningly. Peter could ask anything and I’d be forced to answer truthfully. I swallowed. ‘Yeah, go ahead.’
‘Are you still angry at me?’ Peter asked. Jesus. I almost laughed. Way to use your question, Pete. I looked at him quizzically.
‘Why am I angry at you? For calling me a bitch? No.’
Peter gave a short uneasy laugh and leaned forward. ‘No; for coming home.’
My smile disappeared. ‘What does it matter if I’m angry or not?’
Peter turned his head and held my gaze before he threw himself back against his chair. ‘I don’t know.’ I looked at him awkwardly and he pretended not to notice.
‘I’m not angry with you, Peter.’
‘Then why’d you get so mad when I told you why I wasn’t studying?’ he accused.
I looked down. ‘Because I was disappointed,’ I admitted and Peter lolled his head to look at me.
‘Well that’s fucking worse, isn’t it?’ His tone was defeated, hurt.
‘Why does it matter so much to you what I
think?’ I asked.
‘It doesn’t,’ he snapped and I felt anger spike in the pit of my stomach.
‘Don’t you fucking give me that, Pete; you asked me the question and I gave you my answer, don’t get all shitty with me just because I was honest.’ I crossed my legs away from him and pulled my head back in an attempt to distance myself. I hated it when he did this. When he sulked like a spoilt child, it genuinely infuriated me.
‘That’s why it matters,’ Peter stated.
‘What?’ I replied indignantly.
‘Because you’re honest.’
I turned my head back towards him and found him looking at me. ‘You’re the only person I know who’s honest with me, hell with everyone about everything. You don’t indulge, you don’t bullshit. You are perfectly adept at realising a person’s capabilities within a moment of meeting them and from that moment you expect them to achieve it. The reason why it matters is because if you’re disappointed in me… well, I must’ve really fucked up.’
I had no idea what to say, luckily Peter continued to talk.
‘Mum and Dad, they’re far too worried that saying anything at all will make me unhappy so they don’t, and my friends don’t care,’ he finished.
‘Are you saying I don’t care whether or not you’re unhappy?’ I asked.
‘No, what I’m saying is you know exactly what happiness is and don’t tolerate any bullshitting around it. If a person’s cheating themselves out of happiness it upsets you.’
Yeah, it really does.
‘Why does it upset you?’ Peter asked.
Because I know what it’s like without it.
‘Because it makes me sad.’
***
Peter and I didn’t really end our conversation. We drifted into a prolonged silence and in the end he had left me on the porch sitting in my wicker chair. The day was overcast and grey; its infant beauty slowly evaporating as reality settled in. It was hard concentrating on the emptiness inside me where once there had been a Blackhole. I wanted to build a wall around the emptiness; to protect it and prevent anything I didn’t want falling in. I wanted the space to mean something because I wanted to mean something. I just needed to discover what. A faded red car pulled up on the footpath that ran parallel to our street and I watched Josie’s head pop up over the roof. Seeing me on the porch dressed in my pyjamas she gave an energetic wave and I winced as she slammed her car door shut.
My Bed is a Blackhole Page 18
