by Naomi Fraser
The water is eerily choppy, murky with hidden depths. I think of how awful it would be to fall into the sea. Kind of like dying, a blanket of wet nothingness closing over me.
To disappear forever. Glug, glug, glug. Gone.
The sun glows, mild and pink in the sky, spreading direct fingers through the clouds. The wind picks up speed, and gusts blow my hair everywhere, freezing the tips of my ears. When we’re all shivering, Cal frowns over my insistence to stay. He calls it a night and then motors back home.
He drives us back to Bethany’s house with old 80’s tunes playing on the radio, and then Bethany and I discuss what we spotted while cruising up and down the coastline.
I’m sunburnt already.
Cal promises to keep a look out at his end of the coast, and we can borrow the boat to have a cruise around the cliffs where I live anytime I want. We say our goodbyes, and then Bethany hugs me gently, which I appreciate because of my chest. I trudge up the stairs to my house, drop my backpack on my bed and then head for the shower. I’ll sew up my skirt later. I have a few spares in my closet that’ll do in the meantime.
When I get out of the bathroom, the TV’s blaring, and Mum’s home from work. Wonderful woman has bought Chinese for dinner. The fragrant scents of chicken and sweet corn soup, special fried rice and honey chicken waft through the house. What kind of dreams I’ll have consuming that much MSG, I don’t want to know, but I set up the table and eagerly devour the steaming soup.
“Hey honey, how was your day?” Mum asks, eating honey chicken and rice. She swishes around the kitchen in her pink pyjamas with fluffy kittens all over them. “What did you and Bethany get up to?”
“Oh, we went to see Cal. He’s one of her relatives at Oyster Point. She needed some research papers from his house.” The lie trips easily off my tongue, but Mum nods and eats her dinner. I feel guilty and defensive at the same time.
“Nice area around there. I think Carrie mentioned those relatives to me,” Mum says, talking about Bethany’s mother. “Fishermen, aren’t they?”
“Yes, we had a drive around the town, too.” There’s no way I’m going to mention the boat ride. Mum might get angry at the prospect of me being out on the water again.
She smiles into my eyes and sits down at the table. “That’s OK, honey. It’s wonderful you’re getting out more, experiencing the good side of life. You can invite your friends over here anytime you like.”
I nod. “Thanks, Mum.” My thoughts go to the asthma puffer in my bedroom. Maybe I should have it on me? No pockets though, and Mum would notice an odd bulge in my bra.
“Now, I know you’re back at school, and it’s going to be hard,” Mum says. “But anytime you need anything, just let me know. If you want to go out with your friends and need money, tell me how much. I have a good job, and we can afford it.”
“I can get a part-time job,” I offer. “A few nights a week. I’ll write up a resume.”
Her smile is wide and beautiful. “Of course you can. That’s a great idea. Anywhere you want to start?”
“One of the shops? Retail?”
She leans forward, her arms across the table. “There are community courses in IT going on at the local library, and I know that they also have one on customer relations. Or the community college for night courses. How about we download a prospectus and check it out? It’ll last for a few weeks or months, and you’ll meet more people your age. If you do courses, it’ll give you a chance to recuperate.”
“Sure.” I’d been thinking about working a few hours at K-Mart to earn some play money. “A course would look better on my resume.”
She claps her hands and beams. “You’re great at music, or there’s painting and illustration for comic books. It’s never too early to think big. Remember you can do anything. Spread your wings and try things while you still can. I’ll pay for the cab fares to take you there and back if I’m working.”
A gleaming bubble of hope rises within me. Looks like Mum meant it when she said she’d let me try new things. I push away from the table, rinse out my bowl and spoon in the sink and then stack the utensils in the dishwasher. My appetite isn’t what it used to be. Fatigue sets in quicker after a long day, and if I’m lying on my bed, I can relax enough to calm my lungs and breathe slowly. That’s an art form, for sure.
“I’m off to bed.” I kiss her on the cheek. “Non-night.”
She wraps an arm around my waist, squeezes and kisses me back. “Sleep well, honey.”
I pause before I’m about to walk out the dining room, breathing in the scents of coffee and Chinese food. She hasn’t said anything at all about the three teenagers who Dr. Farrow mentioned before I left the hospital. Maybe the psychiatrist told Mum not to say a word.
“Mum?” I begin.
“Mmm . . . ?” She grins. “Yes, darling?”
“Something happened to me. I didn’t do it. You know I wouldn’t.” Tears heat my eyes. “Never.”
Her face pales, but I turn to slip down the hall.
10
MY APPOINTMENTS WITH Dr. Farrow are on Mondays at 3.20 p.m. Mum’s appointments are on Fridays at 2.30 p.m. I have to leave school ten minutes early to get to the hospital on time. Love that. Mum used to drive me as she’d asked her work to have those afternoons off, but now I catch a taxi.
Dr. Farrow seems more open than usual, but when I broach the subject of the three guys who died, she replies the police have asked her not to say any more.
I’m sitting on the brown chair in her rather small office at Redlands Hospital. I don’t know how she does it, but I’m crying most of the time.
It’s a release valve, and she’s pushing me toward it with every probing question. I can do it, let out all the pain, because I don’t have to be tough here. No masks. No façade. No one’s watching, except for her. When I think about my past I recall horrible things: what happened to me, my father, how I woke up and everyone believing I’d done something so awful. Finding out others had drowned and the gut wrenching fear of amnesia. Then it’s easy to cry. It’s therapeutic.
Dr. Farrow has short blonde hair, a small pixie face and a pointed chin. She wears cream-coloured jeans and a light blue blouse, which reminds me of the scrubs surgeons use to operate in. My computer chair at home is better than hers, but she probably can’t fit a decent one inside her office.
She wears those brown loafer things on her feet. With socks.
Today she has the shakes under better control. “Did you just give up cigarettes?” I ask.
“No.” She frowns and straightens. “What makes you think that, Eloise?”
“You chew gum and have candy. Never mind.” I shrug. Me and my big mouth. “Looks like nicotine withdrawal. My mum went through the same thing. She stopped smoking after my dad died and ate eucalyptus lollies.”
“It’s not from cigarettes,” Dr. Farrow says cautiously and flicks her thumb across the edges of a stack of paperwork on her desk. “How are you handling everything back home?”
“It’s fine. I’m fine.” Talking about emotion makes me want to disappear.
Tissues rest in my lap, and I tear out another thin square from the box and dab the skin under my lashes. I’m likely getting raccoon eyes. Waterproof mascara only means when you want to take it off, you’ll have lots of trouble. The mascara will still run if you cry hard enough.
Why is reality so tough? Why does it seem that everything is in a constant state of flux, and I have no choice but to go with the flow?
“I’m having strange dreams about the water still. I don’t know what they mean,” I confess since Dr. Farrow will listen. It’s her job. How she gets her pay. “I normally wake up and brew a cup of herbal tea.”
“I thought those dreams would have stopped by now.” Her eyes narrow on me. “Have you started a journal about them yet?”
“No.”
“Well, I’d like you to keep a diary and write in it as soon as you wake up.” She reaches across to her desk and pumps the dispenser o
f a ginormous moisturiser bottle. She rubs the cream into her hands, arms and elbows. “Keep going.”
The pungent scent invades the room. I wrinkle my nose and stare at the goop she paints on her arms.
“Yeah, that’s it,” I say. “What kind of lotion is that?”
Her gaze flicks to the bottle with no label. “Just a generic one. The air-conditioning dries out my skin.” She looks at me, but doesn’t say anything. Minutes pass by, and she’s still rubbing in the cream, still staring and then she asks, “Is there anything that bothers you about your home life now? After your father’s death made you so angry?”
“No, Mum is great.” I pause. “Home is OK. You know Father’s Day wasn’t that long ago.”
“That has to be hard. You must miss him.”
I nod and twist my hands together. “I find myself wanting to talk to him, to hear his voice when I have good news to share, but I can’t tell him anything.”
“Perhaps you could write those thoughts in your journal as if he could read it.”
“That’s a good idea,” I admit.
She clears her throat. “How are your lungs?”
My head rears back in surprise. How on Earth could she know? From the other doctors? It’s a bit left field, but then again her office, this hospital and my death is all totally left field. “I’ve been meaning to go to the doctor to get another check-up. I’ll see him soon anyway. They know I have trouble breathing.” And will probably give me the condescending stare again when I tell them the whole truth.
“I can write you a prescription for an asthma puffer if you’d like?”
I chew a corner of my bottom lip. Then realise what I’m doing and smile. “I already have one. Thanks, though,” I say through the sharp scent of her moisturiser.
She taps her pen against her chin. “Well, I will see you again next week. Before you leave, let’s run through those relaxation techniques one more time.”
≈≈≈
THE TECHNIQUES ARE all about visualising my muscles tightening and then loosening them one by one. I work all the way from my toes to the top of my head before Dr. Farrow gives me affirmations to say and, bizarrely, some are written in Latin and Norn, both ancient languages.
She says a bit of culture never hurt anyone.
If she’s talking about culture like those brown loafers, then I disagree.
But the truth is—I love kooky crap like positive messages written in foreign languages. Life’s too short to be dull. I’m glad she’s given me something to laugh about while I feel so low. I have to search the Internet for nearly all the pronunciations, which ends up with me spending far too long surfing the net when I should be doing homework.
High school = Assignments.
I laze on my bed, drifting away, but persist through all the affirmations after my relaxation session. I need to repeat them three times and then I can go to sleep. It’s so close to an exercise routine, I have force myself to finish, but for some reason afterwards, I always feel safer.
When I wake up, tired and unprepared to face the day, I check my calendar. A big, black unhappy face circles the date with ‘maths exam’ and ‘swimming trials’ marked on the square.
Oh. Surely I can miss the trials? I’ll get Mum to write a note. I still can’t breathe properly.
But when I head for the kitchen to see Mum, she’s gone and there’s a message on the table, saying Bethany’s mother called in sick, so Mum had to start work early. I call her on her cell, but no answer. Which means she’s had to turn it off while working. There’s a fifty dollar note on the table and prospectus print outs from different community colleges not too far away.
She is trying so hard . . .
11
THE SUMMERY SCENT of salt wafts from the school pool rather than the sharp stink of chlorine bleach. I shiver in my black swimsuit as a gust of cold wind sweeps the open area. Some of us line up single file. We can wear what we want, but I haven’t gotten around to buying anything different. Bigger things to worry about—like my life and death.
Bethany rocks up in an emerald green suit, which perfectly matches her eyes. Though I try not to look too closely at anyone else. Parts of students I never wanted to see are on full display. I hope they return the favour and avoid looking at me. I frown down at my body. It wouldn’t be so bad if I could hold a tan. I might glow in the dark. A beacon in the hallway, lit up like the moon.
The girls gravitate toward Lakyn, limbs slinking, wide gazes glued to him. Straight fringes and eyelashes flutter in the stiff breeze. They flash wide, eager smiles, laugh and then extend fake tan-tinted limbs. Finally, they squish up against each other, leaning in with their shoulders, angling to get closer and be the one he talks to. The one who receives his smile. Flowers awaiting the sun.
I picture them as a manic horde, or screaming fans with placards, their hands clenching the edges, waving and hollering his name. “Lakyn! Look at me, I’m the one you want.” A movie star. A singer. Someone who has it all together.
But all they really hold is their hearts in their eyes, ready to be pancaked by life.
“Lakyn,” they say, “I love your shorts. Where’d you get them from? You’re so tanned. I’m having a party . . .”
Everything they say, I want to say.
“Lakyn.” Not to be outdone, Ashly Ferguson pushes forward. Who knew saying ‘hi’ could be a contact sport? “What are you doing after school?” Her chin dips, and her long blonde hair sweeps her waist. “I have a massive pool. You should come by later for a swim.”
The ocean spreads out behind mine. The dark and dangerous sea.
Lakyn’s hair lies flat in a smooth, wet slick, and sunlight kisses his cheekbones, highlighting the angular line of his jaw. Blue and yellow light refracts in tantalising ripples across his bare chest. Rivulets trail down his neck, over ripped abdominals and then strike the cement. He must have already done his warm up laps. The sheer size of his shoulders has never been in more contrast with all the other guys his age. He’s huge. Muscled, tanned and not an inch of fat on him anywhere.
How does he hide a body like that under his uniform? I want to kick myself for being so unobservant. Not having the courage to really look at him when he was beside me in class. My stomach flip-flops as I recall his smile. Warmth pools in my lower belly, and my breathing quickens. He is incredibly hot, but I will not go over there and be one those girls. Lay myself bare like that? Never. I can tell he’s not attracting them on purpose. Does the flame mean to incinerate the moth?
Their wings still get scorched. The girls speak his name until it becomes a chant.
He doesn’t even look at most of them. As gorgeous as he is, this kind of adoration must happen all the time.
Thinking that irritates me for some reason, but reaffirms my reasons for staying away.
He flexes his biceps and stretches his sinewy arms. His hands meet above his head, his biceps bunch, and those big pectoral muscles flatten and widen in his chest. My gaze roams lower down his torso, to his V line and lean hips. Wow. He has an eight pack, and his fluorescent blue board shorts sit comfortably at his hips, the wet fabric moulding legs of pure steel.
No way does a grade eleven guy have a body like that. Yet, he does.
“I wish my glasses took photographs,” Bethany breathes beside my elbow. “Holy moly. Hotness at twelve o’clock. Look at him. I wonder if he’ll marry me.”
I laugh, but can’t look away. Why not? Heat rushes down my throat, belly and legs, turning my knees to jelly. “He’s all right,” I mutter.
“All right?” Bethany asks, turning to me. “All right? Are you blind? Sick?”
He spins around at the sharp note in Bethany’s voice, his eyes an aloof blue. He frowns, and then his gaze smashes right into mine and stops.
I can’t breathe, my lips burn. I freeze but heat whirls in my cheeks, sending shivers all over my body. He caught me ogling. And I’m probably drooling a second pool.
His lips curve slowly at first, and th
en he smiles so wide, his teeth gleam in the light. He shouts, “Eloise!” and cuts through the group of girls, heading straight for me.
“What? Beth?” My stomach dives to my feet. “Beeetthhh,” I repeat in a croaking whisper, tugging at her arm.
“Oh, my God. Is he . . . ? He’s coming over here,” she squeaks. “He’s looking at you. What did you do?”
“I can’t . . . nothing . . .” My lips buzz with raw energy, and at the sharp nip in my lungs, I gasp and turn away. I breathe in carefully, forcing my lungs to take in a tiny amount of air. Not to panic at the lack of oxygen.
Someone slips into line beside me, their hot skin brushing my elbow. Heat spirals up to my ears. I can’t move over or turn around yet, the pain is too paralysing. Bethany stands on my left, and she steps closer, her cold fingers firm around my elbow. Damn, she must be working out.
“Beth, I’m gonna need that arm later on,” I rasp.
“No way,” she whispers right in my ear, too low for anyone else to hear. “You wouldn’t believe . . .”
My heart shuffles, chest too tight to breathe, and I dig inside my swim bag to reef out the puffer. I take a few tokes and then drop it back inside. Hopefully, no one else is watching, and Lakyn left once I spun around. Nothing like a girl showing her back to repel a guy’s interest.
“What?” I finally gasp, looking up at her with streaming eyes, but she’s searching in her own swim bag. In the strange silence, I turn and discover everyone is staring.
Snap.
Black hole—swallow me now.
Ashly Ferguson, miss beauty queen herself, glares at me from the other end of the line. My heart sinks at the venom in her gaze. What have I done now? Is it illegal to stop breathing? You think I’d be doing her a favour. I hear a click and realise Bethany’s taken a photo of me with her iPhone.
“Oh, do not post that online or tag me. I will totally kill you,” I say breathlessly.
