Sixty Seconds

by Jesse Blackadder

  ‘It’s OK, Jarrah.’

  Something in his voice told me it really was OK to fall apart, and I kind of crumpled with my face on his shoulder. Wanted to hang on to him, like it was me drowning. Forced myself not to grab him and hang on. I was OK until he patted my back. Lifted my head and his face was closer than I expected.

  Had no control. Kind of lunged at him. Somehow, without planning it, I was kissing him.

  It took about two seconds for my brain to realise what was going on. Threw myself back from him, my mouth off his mouth, my body away from his, oh fuck, what had I done? He stared at me, wide-eyed, and I wanted to die with shame. Swung around and ran away from him fast as I could, breath still heaving. I’d fucked everything up. I was a total fucking disaster.

  The wind shoved me down the beach and I didn’t care if I ran till I dropped dead.

  BRIDGET

  It’s done and signed. The sale will be settled in six weeks, a few days after the end of the school year. You’ve given in and taken the rational course, and you carefully hold the devastation of this choice at bay.

  Finn suggests dinner together so you can break the news to Jarrah and plan your next steps. But as you wait on the verandah, Finn nursing a beer and you a glass of wine, dusk falls. Jarrah is nowhere and not answering his phone.

  ‘Is he often this late? Should we start worrying?’ you ask.

  ‘He is often this late,’ Finn says carefully. ‘Now he’s got a girlfriend. And he runs with Tom in the afternoons. He’s almost never home straight after school.’

  ‘Can you call Tom?’

  Finn pulls his mobile from his pocket, squints at the screen, presses slowly with his big fingers. He greets Tom and there’s a long pause as he listens.

  ‘Hang on. You left him where?’

  You have to put the glass down because your hand starts to shake. You grip the front of the chair, sink your fingers into the cushion, strain your ears to make out what Tom, in his tinny voice, is saying. You can’t afford to lose another son.

  ‘Christ.’ Finn gets up fast, stabs at the phone. ‘They had an argument or something. Tom’s driving around looking for Jarrah, but he can’t find him. Over on the bloody beach.’

  Acid scrapes the back of your throat. In a moment you’re back, kneeling on the edge of the pool, Finn standing in the water on the step so your faces are level, Toby lying face up on your lap, limbs slack. As though asleep, except for his terrible, open eyes.

  ‘I’ll get in the car,’ Finn says. ‘You stay here in case he comes home.’

  ‘But how will you know where to look?’

  ‘I can’t just sit here.’

  He goes for the keys. You check the sky. It’ll be dark soon. Jarrah’s nearly sixteen but he’s a kid. He’s not street-smart. Anything in the dangerous world could snatch him and smash him.

  Finn is coming back out the door when the gate clicks and you both turn. Jarrah crosses the lawn barefoot, in unfamiliar shorts and T-shirt, his tread heavy, his head down. You try to restart your breathing so it’s something resembling normal. Finn puts a warning hand on your arm before you can speak.

  ‘Jarr. We were getting worried.’ His voice artificially casual.

  ‘Sorry.’ Jarrah’s is low and flat.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’

  ‘Running.’

  ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘Yep.’

  Jarrah’s face is chalky. He hasn’t been running, not in the last half hour. You want to speak, but Finn tightens his grip, feeling it in you. Does he think hiding your worry is a good thing? He must, and so you bite your lip.

  ‘We’re going out to dinner,’ Finn says. ‘Want to shower and get dressed?’

  ‘Got homework,’ Jarrah says in that same flat voice.

  ‘We’ve got important things to talk about.’

  ‘Can’t we do it here?’

  Finn sighs and his body sags. ‘Yeah, I guess we can do it here. I’ll call in a takeaway.’

  If Jarrah says whatever you’ll scream, but he just nods. He comes up the steps, past you and inside. His legs are covered in sand. In a moment he’s disappeared.

  ‘I’ll let Tom know.’ Finn types a text so laboriously you want to snatch the phone from him and do it yourself. Instead you sink back down onto the chair, shaking with the sickening aftershock of adrenaline. Jarrah’s safe, but you’ve never seen him look so shut down. Not even after Toby.

  Finn’s phone pings and he glances at it. ‘Tom says thanks for letting him know.’

  ‘Wonder how Jarrah got back here from the coast.’

  ‘He’s home,’ Finn says. ‘I think we should leave it alone. He’s got enough going on, Bridget.’

  You want to snap at him: How do you know? Not just in anger, but as a genuine question. How does he know what’s happening to your son? You have no idea how to enter Jarrah’s world, how to ask him a question, how to manage the fact that he’s not a child any more, but not an adult either. It was all so simple before when the biggest problem was his crush on that girl at school. A crush you were pretty sure had no chance of going anywhere.

  You don’t want to leave it alone. ‘What could they be fighting about?’

  He shrugs. ‘They’re boys. Could be anything.’

  ‘Tom’s not a boy.’

  ‘He’s only nineteen.’

  ‘He drives, drinks, votes and works, Finn. He’s an adult. Maybe he’s not a good influence.’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake!’

  At the anger in his voice you jump.

  Finn visibly controls himself. ‘Jarrah needs a friend. Leave it alone.’

  Your glass is empty and it’s an excuse to walk away from him. ‘You’d better call the takeaway,’ you say over your shoulder. In the kitchen you pour a large second glass of white and down half of it. Maybe that will stop your hands shaking. Maybe that will let you sit down to a family dinner like you could be normal again.

  Standing in the kitchen, hearing Finn ordering pad thai, red duck curry, spring rolls, jasmine rice, your head spins. The rush of fear that something had happened to Jarrah has set off memories stamped in your cells. You want something to hold onto, one stable thing, and you’ve just signed away your home. Right now, all you have is hoping that when you creep outside tonight, in the dark, and lower yourself into the water, Toby will still be there.

  ‘Bridget?’

  Finn has come into the room behind you. You can’t answer him. You’re shaking so hard you can barely stand.

  You feel his hand on your shoulder, the other one at your waist. ‘Please,’ he whispers, ‘let’s stick together on this.’

  You begin to break. ‘All right.’

  He wraps his arms around you. You lean back into him, let him absorb your body’s shuddering, and to your surprise you feel something. Some inkling of kindness. Maybe you can do this.

  FINN

  Finn wanted to do it properly. Not plastic takeaway containers on the table; not tonight. He decanted the food into china bowls and laid them out. Bridget set the table with placemats and napkins, lit candles. Once, their shoulders brushed in passing and she didn’t pull away from him. He allowed himself to feel a moment of hope.

  He had to call Jarrah twice before the boy padded downstairs in clean clothes, his hair slicked down over his blank face.

  No television. No devices. The three of them sitting in the soft light as dusk fell outside. The warm smell of curry and coriander and jasmine rice, the hint of sesame oil in the stir-fried noodles. Finn felt a wild urge to fold down his head, shut his eyes and pray out loud. He hadn’t said grace before a meal since he was a boy. But this was a night to ask for help, even if only in his own mind.

  They busied themselves with serving, passing the dishes hand to hand. Outside the wind picked up, tossing the palm leaves and ripping through the old gum on the street by the gate. It wasn’t a familiar wind; Finn didn’t know it like he knew the salty south winds of Hobart, carrying their hint of ice. But it was a win
d that whispered of summer, a wind he sensed might blow for days.

  ‘Jarrah. I know it’s a bit sudden. We’ve sold the house.’

  Jarrah swallowed his mouthful. ‘Yeah, Tom told me.’

  ‘Oh.’ Finn’s insides sank at the shut-off tone of Jarrah’s voice. ‘I’m sorry. We thought you had enough to deal with. And the offer came very suddenly today. We had to decide straight away.’

  Jarrah shovelled in another mouthful.

  ‘We don’t belong here,’ Finn said. ‘We need to be with family and friends.’

  They both looked at Jarrah, who glanced up, then dropped his eyes.

  ‘We want to decide the next step together,’ Bridget said. ‘The three of us.’

  Jarrah shrugged and shovelled in another mouthful.

  ‘I promise things will be better once we get home,’ Finn said.

  ‘How the hell can you promise that?’ For a second the adult Jarrah blazed out of the boy’s eyes, all violence and anger.

  Finn was shoved back in his chair with the force. ‘I …’ he managed.

  Jarrah scraped back his chair and started to rise. Finn rose too, reached out his hand, stopped before touching the boy.

  ‘Wait. Please.’

  They stood in a frozen tableau for a moment, then Jarrah subsided. Sat again, rested his elbows on the table and hunched over his meal.

  ‘Let’s just eat together,’ Finn said. He gestured. ‘Look at this beautiful food. Eat!’

  But it was no good, he knew. The food was now heavy and greasy in his mouth, the taste overblown and garish. The three of them chewed methodically.

  ‘If it’s Hobart that’s the problem, we could go somewhere else,’ Finn said.

  ‘I thought you were going to jail?’ Jarrah said.

  Finn lost his hunger suddenly. They were falling to pieces. What hope did he have of trying to hold them together? For a moment he saw the scene from outside his body. The three of them hunched over the scattered, messy plates. Jarrah, set, adult, closed off. Bridget, silent and struggling. Himself, desperately feeling them slip from his grasp.

  And somewhere, floating around beyond them, Toby. A wisp. A hint. The thing that kept them all together.

  ‘We don’t know that,’ Bridget said. ‘It’s only a small chance, and even if it happens, it won’t be for – oh, one or two years. You don’t have to worry about it at the moment.’

  ‘Two years?’ Jarrah looked shocked.

  ‘You might be finished school by the time the case gets heard, for all we know,’ Bridget said. ‘It doesn’t affect this decision.’

  ‘Why does it take two years?’

  Finn sighed. ‘That’s just the process. It’s crazy. I go to court for the first mention tomorrow. That’s just a few minutes, entering a plea, setting a date. Then there’s a thing called a committal hearing in a few months. That’s when they decide if the case will go ahead. It might all be over then, but if not, then—’

  ‘I get it!’ Jarrah interrupted. He turned to Bridget. ‘Do you really want to go back?’

  Finn saw Bridget’s face working. She didn’t want to go, still. At night she left him and went into the water and he had no idea why. It frightened him.

  ‘Your dad wants to go,’ Bridget said finally. ‘We need to stick together. What do you want?’

  ‘You didn’t answer my question.’

  ‘I want us to do what’s right for everyone.’

  ‘Well, let me know when you’ve made up your minds.’

  ‘We’re asking you,’ Finn said. ‘Tell us what you want.’

  Jarrah shoved his chair back again and stood. ‘I don’t want anything,’ he snapped. His voice rose. ‘You don’t know anything! You don’t know fucking anything!’

  Before Finn could react Jarrah stormed out of the room, thundered up the stairs and slammed his bedroom door so hard that the house shook.

  Finn dropped his face into his hands. They’d lost Toby and now they were losing their other boy. The Jarrah he’d known was disappearing. The Jarrah he’d known never swore at his parents.

  ‘Now what?’ Bridget said. ‘What do we do now?’

  Finn rubbed his eyes and looked up. ‘I have no fucking idea.’

  BRIDGET

  You and Finn go to bed in silence. You hate how far away Jarrah has gone, and your inability to reach him. You hate being so helpless. You hate the thought of leaving.

  Perhaps, in the pool, you might find an answer. Or at least a reprieve. Ignoring Finn, who’s lying wakeful and silent an arm’s length away, you rise and tiptoe downstairs and out to the pool, drop your robe, lower your feet into the water. The afternoon’s wind howls through the evening. If anything it’s picked up, blowing away the clouds, leaving a haze across the stars. It roars across the pool, rippling the surface, turning your skin to goose bumps.

  You lower yourself, gasping at the slow creep of water up your thighs. You take a breath and drop into it, and the feeling floods you. You and Toby, submerged, entwined, one.

  Away from this, during work hours, you doubt the experience and you doubt your sanity. But in here there’s no doubt at all. It’s true and you’re floating in it. In here, you can almost love Finn. Or at least remember loving him.

  Images, memories, dreams wash around you. You remember first meeting Finn, dragged to some gallery opening by your artistic friends and watching him across the room, burly even then, back when he was young and lighter and had more hair. There was always something of the village blacksmith about him. Those craggy hands you wanted to be cupped in. The slow smile. The broad chest to measure yourself against. When you started to sleep together, your mind-whirring insomnia vanished. He brought you to your body, and to rest, and you slept like a dog, deep and twitching.

  You remember, as though Toby is somehow putting thoughts into your head, sex with Finn one night down in Tassie. Jarrah was safely asleep. You shut the lounge-room door, turned off the light, lay down with him on the rug by the fire and fucked in the flicker of flame and heat, the skin facing away from the fire chilled by the cool air. You were both hot for it that night; you fucked like teenagers. He cupped his hand around your mouth so you didn’t wake Jarrah and you cried out into his palm as he pierced you, as he moulded you, as you fitted around him, as you came shuddering and hard.

  You feel a flicker of Toby laughter and understand. You made him that night. You’d never believed those women who knew they’d conceived while having sex. It wasn’t physically possible – it took longer than that for sperm to join egg. But now you know Toby’s conception.

  You roll onto your back and float in the inky water. The house creaks in the wind and leaves flutter into the pool. Water laps at your hairline, reaching into your ears when you tilt your head back, muffling the wind. Underwater sounds bloom.

  Don’t think.

  If your scientist’s brain gets a grip, you’ll reason Toby out of existence. It’s dangerous to analyse. Safer to breathe, to close your eyes, to feel him. You submerge, feeling the water close over your head, letting in the underwater world again. The wash and whoosh of it against your eardrums, the sound of oceans and tides, the pull of the moon.

  You open your eyes and look up. Above you, the trees toss wildly against the sky. The sound of the wind has followed you underwater and you can’t rid yourself of it. It blows louder and louder and louder.

  JARRAH

  An hour or two after I’d stormed out of the kitchen, Dad tapped on the bedroom door and said my name softly. Paused. Went away when I didn’t answer. A bit later I heard the faint sound of my phone pinging out in the hall. Got up and silently opened the door. My schoolbag was resting against the wall. Tom must have dropped it off, I guess, and Dad had put it there. I brought it in, shut the door again, got back into bed, put the covers back over my head. The only safe place in the world. I couldn’t face people again. Not Tom, not my parents, not Laura.

  Shame. Shame. Shame.

  And Toby was gone: Toby, the only one who could ha
ve helped me through this. Without him we were falling apart. Mum going one way, Dad going the other, me in the middle without a clue. Every option was siding with one of them against the other. Every option blew someone’s life away. Stay – and be ashamed every single day. Go – and end up right back where I was in Tasmania. Or try to make a new start somewhere different, all over again, without Toby. I couldn’t do it. Murwillumbah had been my new start and I’d fucked it up. No way out now.

  Every time I remembered that moment on the beach my insides shrivelled. Didn’t even know how it happened. One moment I’d been crying, the next trying to kiss Tom. There was no way he could mistake it. Christ.

  If Toby had been alive, I could have crept down the hallway into his room. He would have patted my face, asked me to weed it. He wouldn’t have cared how fucked up I was.

  Except.

  Toby should care. Because all the things they said were true. I was a fucking faggot. The moment I forgot everything and lunged for Tom’s lips was the first time I’d ever let myself go. And look what happened. As soon as I lost control, I was gay.

  That wouldn’t even be so bad – I could maybe even cope with being gay – if it wasn’t for Toby. Because what did it mean about how I loved him?

  Groaned again and rolled into a tighter ball. I thought loving Toby was pure. The best thing in my life. Now I didn’t even have that to hang on to. Like losing him all over again. No way through this. I couldn’t even cry.

  The idea slipped into my head so easily, like it had always been there. There was a way out. Get it over with. Go and find Toby. If there was anything afterwards, then he’d be there, wouldn’t he? Maybe he’d forgive me. And if there wasn’t … well, I wouldn’t know about it anyhow.

  The more I thought about it, the better the idea was. I knew Mum and Dad were pretending to be united. Without me, they could just go their own ways. They could deal with two years of court. I’d be with Toby. Laura would be sorry she’d told me to fuck off. Maybe Tom would understand I’d made a mistake and I was sorry.