Almost Grace

by Rosie Rowell

  ‘Do you want us to come and fetch you?’

  We? I cannot face Theresa. Oh my god Grace, you swallowed a tray of pills? Your poor mum. ‘No, don’t worry, it’s fine.’ I try and cover the misery I feel.

  ‘You don’t sound fine. Tell me what’s going on.’

  I start haltingly, but I am too tired to lie and soon the whole story is out. Helen waits for me to finish. ‘So another average day, then.’

  I laugh. Helen is my Ariadne and my angel in the sky. ‘Exactly.’

  ‘We’re coming to get you. Brett will drive,’ Helen continues.

  ‘Brett? Didn’t he take Louisa back to Cape Town?’

  ‘Nope, Louisa’s dad came to pick her up. They seem to have sorted everything out … Don’t say anything to Louisa, but I think you had a point. She knows it too, that’s why she got so upset. Anyway, Brett wouldn’t leave while you were AWOL. How do we find you?’

  Brett wouldn’t leave without me? The words spread around my body like a warm current. ‘I’m in a nature reserve, Gamkaskloof, in the Swartberg mountains; sitting under a sign that says Die Hel.’

  Helen laughs. ‘You couldn’t make it up.’

  ‘Helen’s coming to get me,’ I call to the torchlight walking towards me. I am surprised at the happiness in my voice. ‘Phone works.’ I hold it up when Spook emerges. He has brought with him a plastic crate holding pots and tins and a rolled-up foam mattress. Under his other arm is the gas canister.

  ‘You not up for a night under the stars?’ he replies, leaning forward and brushing a piece of hair out of my eyes. I look at him. This was my dream, I realise with a shock; we weren’t lying on a raft, we were in the bush. ‘See, that’s the problem with your generation. No basic life skills.’

  I feel sad looking back at him. Beneath the bush-coloured eyes and the grin that makes you want to be in on his joke, there is a part of Spook missing. He is not quite whole. You’re the one lacking the life skills, not me. ‘I think I’ve learnt enough life skills for one day,’ I reply. ‘We could give you a lift back if you want?’

  ‘Nah,’ replies Spook. ‘Marvin is coming for me in the morning. But your friends are going to be a while. Might as well have some chow while we wait.’

  ‘This stuff was in the boot of your other car. Do you carry it with you wherever you go?’

  He straightens up. ‘Of course.’ He digs around in it and pulls out his navy jersey. ‘You’re going to need this,’ he says, ‘Trust me.’

  I almost laugh out loud at how ludicrous that sounds, but I don’t yet feel sure of which Spook is standing in front of me, so I pull it over my head.

  ‘We need firewood before it’s completely dark,’ he carries on. After a moment I realise it is an instruction rather than an observation.

  ‘How much darker can it get than this?’ I call as I wander about the rocky ground, clutching the few dried-out twigs I can find without having to disturb whatever lies hidden in the bushes around us.

  Behind me is a loud crack and Spook appears with two thick branches. ‘Three a.m. dark,’ he replies. He looks at my collection and tries to hide a smile. ‘Haven’t you been camping before?’

  ‘Not like this,’ I reply. Mum’s idea of getting back to nature involves rustic cottages with no electricity. I shiver despite Spook’s jumper – the mountain air has taken over.

  ‘You need a drink.’ He reaches into the crate and pulls out a bottle of Three Ships whiskey and an old thermos cup.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re probably right.’ He downs the whiskey in one glug and pours another.

  I watch him unpack his bits and pieces and prepare the fire, breaking up and tearing off bits from the pile I collected with a nimbleness that reminds me of pick-up-sticks. He is quiet until it has a healthy glow.

  ‘You thought they were coming after you,’ I say as he fusses over the flames.

  He sits back and looks at me. He picks up the thermos cup again and has a sip. ‘There was a misalignment of expectations.’

  ‘So they may still come after you?’

  ‘At some stage. Maybe today; maybe tomorrow. Next year. It doesn’t really matter.’ How funny, I realise: he is the opposite of free.

  ‘Why don’t you report them?’

  Spook shakes his head. ‘It doesn’t work like that.’

  ‘It could. You could go away somewhere, it’s not like you’re leaving anything behind.’

  ‘I could,’ he says, nodding, ‘I could.’

  ‘Indonesia.’

  ‘Yup.’

  But I feel he’s only agreeing with me to make me stop talking. He pulls a heavy silver penknife out of his pocket. It folds out to expose different sized blades and screwdriver heads. Who needs a gun when you have that?

  The bush beetles and crickets magnify the quiet.

  Spook unpacks a beat-up tin pot. It has a lid buckled to it. As he detaches it I realise it doubles as a plate. Inside the pot are a tin cup, a spoon and fork.

  ‘That’s clever.’ My voice sounds unnaturally loud.

  He looks up with his skew smile. ‘Normally it’s dinner for one.’

  The words and the little-boy look tug at me but this time I could scream in frustration. He is made up of too many contradictions. ‘I don’t understand how you can love the sea so much and be killing it at the same time.’

  Spook sniffs but doesn’t reply.

  ‘Your lifestyle doesn’t seem to make you particularly free,’ I say. ‘I can’t make up my mind whether I should report you.’

  Spook looks up sharply. ‘For what?’

  ‘Uh – poaching?’

  ‘Jesus – that’s fine thanks for saving your life.’

  ‘You didn’t save my life.’

  He looks at me. ‘I bloody did. You would have drowned, Grace.’

  I glare down at my feet. The blue polish on my toes has turned dark purple in the firelight.

  ‘So what did happen last night?’

  Last night? I feel much older than the girl standing in front of the mirror. ‘I needed to sleep.’

  ‘Why?’ asks Spook.

  ‘Why?’ I repeat with a hiss of anger, like one of the logs spitting in the fire. ‘Because I was alone and I was scared that your gangster – sorry, poaching – friends would turn up again!’

  ‘I don’t think that was the only reason.’

  ‘It was.’ The Energade seems to have jump-started my stomach, and although I’ve been trying to ignore it, I need the loo. As I get up and walk past him, Spook glances up but says nothing. Night follows me as I walk away from the fire. I can’t be more than a few metres off but I squat, holding onto a clump of nearby grass reeds to steady myself. I can feel darkness pressing into the earth and I am suddenly scared. I want to call to him, just to hear his voice, but something between Spook and me has shifted. All I am is my heartbeat thumping in my ears. All I see and feel and taste is darkness. Slowly the blood leaves my ears and my eyes start adjusting to the dark and shadows become bushes. Night grows louder and deeper as my heartbeat drops – rustling, a few crackling branches, the screek of crickets. Everything is hidden. Here even I am hidden.

  So, what was that? asks a voice.

  What? That was a beetle or something.

  No, I’m talking about that.

  The voice feels familiar. It could be internal or external because at the moment I can’t tell the difference. The anger has left me vacant for the night to move in. But the voice tugs at me, I know it from before. It belongs to the other me behind the mirror in the bathroom. Oh God, not again. Now that she knows I know, she asks again, what was that?

  Well that depends, are we talking about the bathroom and the pills, or the anger? The anger and I are old acquaintances. I have grown to need it. It has a bitter taste but it feeds me. Up until now. But it is the last thing I have to cling onto and I don’t want to let go.

  I shiver. ‘I don’t know,’ is my truthful answer to the question. I don’t know why I swallowed those pills. I d
on’t really know who I am, what I’m supposed to be. But if I have learnt anything from meeting Spook, it’s that you can’t stop searching. And you can’t run away.

  Back at the fire, Spook is stirring something in his pot. ‘Dinner is ready.’

  ‘Dinner?’

  ‘Spaghetti a la tin.’ He hands me the plate with a mess of tinned pasta with chopped-up Vienna sausages.

  I hold the plate away from my body. ‘I can’t eat that.’ I say, trying to keep down the panic. How can a guy who is such a snob about his coffee eat tinned spaghetti?

  ‘Rule number one of the bush: things you’d never eat taste amazing around a fire.’ He hands me the fork. The strips of spaghetti are bloated, the tomato sauce a fusion of chemicals and artificial colouring. I don’t dare look at the sausages.

  ‘I’m waiting.’

  Before today I’d have chucked it in the bushes but he’s watching me from across the fire, holding the pot and spoon. Already the sauce is separating into its various indigestible ingredients. I lift a tiny forkful to my mouth. It is the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted. I could eat bucket loads of it. I shrug and rest the plate on my knees.

  On cue, the familiar argument in my head bursts back into life. One more forkful. Then I find I’m about to put another in my mouth and the panic starts and I put the fork back down. I sneak a glance at Spook who is already scraping the bottom of the pot. Imagine being able to eat a meal without thinking about every mouthful. I look back down at my plate and feel exhausted at the thought of all the meals that lie ahead, every day for the rest of my life. Spook puts the pot down and sighs in satisfaction. ‘What happened with Louisa?’

  ‘Ag.’ I shrug. I eat another forkful of food, but it has lost all flavour. My stomach churns at the glutinous texture. I stare at the plate, blinking back the threatening tears. I get up and take the plate back to the pots. The mention of Louisa makes my heart contract. Her core is made of steel; the same strength that makes her brave also makes her utterly unforgiving when you cross her. I’ve seen it happen with other people. I never dreamt I’d ever feel it.

  As if he can read my thoughts, Spook says, ‘You’re not a child any more. Grown-up relationships are different. Nothing is permanent, not even your parents. If you make it too difficult for someone to stay, they will leave. Trust me.’

  ‘What makes you so very wise and still alone?’

  Spook laughs. ‘When you fuck up often enough you begin to see a pattern.’ He falls into a silence. From the way his eyes flicker about, I suspect he does not enjoy looking at his pattern.

  ‘Can I give you some more advice?’

  ‘Don’t accept tequila from strangers?’

  He laughs. ‘You have to let go, Grace.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘All that crap in your head. It’s bullshit.’

  ‘What am I supposed to do?’

  ‘With what?’

  ‘With this long, empty life ahead of me? Where am I supposed to go?’ The words burst out.

  Spook looks at me, his eyes crinkled up against the flickering flames. His two-day-old beard makes him look like a wild mountain man. He shrugs. ‘You try one thing and then you try something else.’

  ‘That’s working really well for you,’ I snap. ‘Normal people have a plan. They have goals. Timescales.’

  ‘Fuck normal people,’ says Spook.

  ‘Oh OK – so I’ll just keep on keepin’ on,’ I say sarcastically.

  Spook considers this. ‘Sounds about right.’

  I watch him build up the fire. As he’s rolling a joint, he glances up and catches me watching him. He gets up and comes to sit behind me. I lean back into him and let the cloying sticky smoke numb my exhausted brain.

  ‘There are leopard in these hills,’ he says when I think I’m already asleep.

  ‘Bullshit,’ I say loudly. I’d not even considered the possibility of leopard. They hunt at night. I shift closer to the fire.

  ‘It’s true.’ He tops up his drink. ‘But you’re far too skinny. They won’t bother with you.’

  The approaching headlights wake me up. Spook is holding up his torch to hail them down. ‘Are you sure you want to stay here?’ I ask Spook.

  ‘Hey, I’m good. Grace – before you go, I just want you to know.’

  I turn to him.

  ‘Meeting you has been … important for me.’

  ‘Important?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  I smile at him. I have a feeling that although I’ll probably never see Spook again, he’ll be someone who lives in my head for a long time. Meeting him has been important.

  I crawl into the back seat. It feels like crawling into a womb.

  Spook leans in through the open window. ‘Evening, folks,’ he says to Brett and Helen. ‘You guys were much quicker than I expected.’

  ‘Nothing stands in the way of the mighty Ford Fiesta,’ replies Brett.

  Spook hands me my phone and wallet. ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘OK, then.’

  He smiles. ‘Fly on.’

  When I turn back Spook is mock-saluting as Brett drives away.

  Helen turns around and gives my hand a squeeze. ‘We brought you a pillow and a duvet, my love.’

  ‘Helen, I can’t begin to describe how good it is to see you.’

  1. tangerine

  2. Shame

  3. Jesus

  4. small hills

  5. attendants

  6. Ladies

  7. open country

  8. Hell

  9. caracal

  WEDNESDAY

  When I wake again, I’m lying in the middle of a double bed. Blue blinds block out the sunshine as best they can, but by the strength of the light shining around them, it must be afternoon. This is not Louisa and Brett’s bed though – I suppose I must be at Helen’s. Under the white fluffy duvet I am still wearing yesterday’s clothes, including Spook’s jersey. I sniff it. Wood fire and something else, more cloying. Sick, I realise.

  When I venture into the rest of the house, it seems empty. There is a note stuck to the wall outside my room. Gone to shops. Have a shower. See you soon, Hels. Next to the words ‘have a shower’, Brett has scrawled, ‘for all of our sakes’.

  I smile and pull the note off the wall. In the bottom corner of the page Helen has written PS PTO. I turn the paper over. One of those guys we met at that restaurant is a doctor. He’s coming over later if there is anything you want to ask him.

  The house is similar to ours but more expensive. The passage is lined with blown-up photos of Helen and her family on various summer holidays. The shower in the bathroom could fit three people. My feet are encrusted with multiple layers of grime. My hair has returned to its original dirty brown colour. I stay under it for as long as I dare, washing myself over and over.

  As I walk into the sitting room, wrapped in my towel, I feel a dread of the conversations that will have to happen. At least I still have a little while before they get back to think of something to say.

  Helen’s house has a similar view of the beach to ours, but theirs leads directly onto the beach. The living room opens onto a deep, shaded stoep1 with a red-and-white striped sofa and chairs and steps leading down to a sandy lawn. The wind today is nothing more than a teasing breeze. The sea is a dazzling blue. I feel the beach calling to me.

  ‘Nice, huh,’ says a voice behind me.

  I spin around. Theresa sits up and stretches with the lazy grace of a cat in a coral bikini. She had been lying in the sun, hidden by one of the chairs. She puts on her sunglasses and takes a sip from a two-litre bottle of water.

  ‘I thought everyone was out,’ I say at last.

  ‘I offered to stay behind. Brett has brought some of your clothes over. They’re in that bag in the sitting room.’

  ‘OK.’ I turn, grateful to have a reason to escape.

  ‘Grace,’ she says.

  I stop, already regretting what I feel might slip out any moment.

  Theresa bundles her ha
ir into a top-knot. ‘I spoke to my mum this morning,’ she begins.

  You little cow, you self-satisfied bitch. The worst of it is that I’m standing in front of her in nothing but a towel.

  ‘And I told her we’d spent yesterday and the day before on the beach. All of us,’ she says slowly, looking at me.

  ‘What?’

  ‘She was worried about how you were getting on but I told her she was being silly.’

  ‘Thank you, Theresa.’

  ‘Now go and get dressed – with nothing on but that tiny towel, you’re causing a sensation on the beach.’

  Brett has brought me the hot pants Louisa bought and a T-shirt. As I’m leaving the room I glance back at Spook’s jumper and pause. A part of me wants to put it back on, to hide inside it. No. Today I want to feel the sun on my skin and the salt-heavy sky.

  Helen and Brett arrive back, laden with Woolies bags as I reemerge from the bedroom. ‘It’s the sleeping beauty,’ says Brett.

  ‘Ha ha,’ I reply. I feel a knot of anxiety as I search for words. I want to explain myself to them, it is the least I can do. But I don’t know how to start. ‘Thank you,’ is all I seem to manage. ‘Thank you,’ I repeat uselessly.

  Helen scoops me up in a boob-heavy hug. ‘Don’t be silly. Louisa has decided that perhaps the sky is not about to fall on her head and has persuaded her long-suffering father to drive her back up this afternoon.’ She gives me a last squeeze and then lets go.

  As she turns to the shopping bags Brett catches my eye and winks.

  ‘Now,’ says Helen, ‘are you hungry, my love?’

  ‘Nah,’ I reply automatically, then stop. You have to let go of all that bullshit in your head. ‘Do you know what, Helen? I’m starving.’

  1. porch

  NOW

  It was weird going home to Mum. At the moment our relationship feels a bit awkward and fumbly. After being ‘absolutely fine’ around each other for eighteen years it is hard to be anything different.

  I let her have her way. I agreed to do the three-month programme for emotionally disturbed adolescents. I decided to do a Spook and ‘try something and if that doesn’t work try something else’.