by Ky Lehman
Then it hits me head on. It’s because they can see I am struggling. It’s because they can see my defiance. It’s because they’re not sure if I’ll use the knife to cut the rope, or cut my wrists.
But, rope or wrists, I need to be free of where I am, of who I am this day: a terrified, scatty eighteen-year-old girl who is expected to make one mother of a choice that could make all the difference in the world.
A choice that will be made with one step: one step forward to fight or one step backward to flee?
But even if I decide to fight for a day or run for eternity, sitting here uselessly bound, gagged and knifeless, I’m completely screwed.
How I can I make them see that I don’t want cut myself free of my choice? That I need the damn knife to make it?
At the very least, I need it to hack through all of the bullshit to get a glimpse of my truth.
I’m pacing. I’m seething. Mike with his huge arsenal of secrets refuses to give me the one tool I need. Instead, he’s having sneaky bathroom conversations now scheming in French is no longer an option...
I wince as my new character flaw slaps me across the face. Maybe it’s not so new, but maliciously allocating blame is fast heading to the top of a very long list.
I pull the one blade I do have a firm grasp on out of Mike’s back and point it at the culprit. It doesn’t waste time cutting to the quick. It seems I should move selfish bitch to the top of the list too.
It’s hard to believe that only two short days ago, we all had our own version of a life. Every conversation wasn’t about what is going to happen to Ren next. Mike could be hiding away in there so I’m not hovering over his shoulder while he catches up with his parents or one of his mates. For all I know, it could have been Alyssa “I’m back!” Lloyd on the other end of the line.
It surprises me that the thought of Mike talking to Alyssa doesn’t infuriate me the way it once did. Strangely, the idea of him finding temporary solace in a conversation with a normal, sane, uncomplicated girl actually alleviates a smidge of the remorse I’m still yet to fully understand.
It’s like that painful stitch, I always believed was guilt, I get in the pit of my stomach when Mike falls off the grid for a week or two. Even though the big, dark bear always comes back to me fresh faced and smiling, I can’t help but hound him, asking him if he is alright, if something, someone, pushed him into wanting to be on his own, and his response is usually the same, “Ren, just because I was alone doesn’t mean I was lonely.”
I always thought he meant he wasn’t lonely because he was busy being alone with a girl. Just another example of how he hasn’t spelt it out for me and I’ve managed to get it completely wrong.
The mere thought of being on my own for a day or more makes me feel lonely: lonely, empty, lost and terrified. Mike and I can see the world so differently. Where I see grey, he sees blue. What I see to be the darkest and coldest of caves, he sees a place of peace.
Maybe he needs to hibernate now? God knows he must be sick of the sight of me. Twelve lifetimes of snapping me out of my amnesia, dealing with my temper tantrums and me relentlessly hen-pecking him with my “Why’s?” “Where’s?” “Who’s?” and “How’s?” would be enough to make anyone want to fall into a three month coma.
I go back to fossicking through my chest of drawers, desperately hunting for some decent summer clothes and something monotonous and painless to focus on. But, it doesn’t take me long to uncover a small curiosity and an even smaller pair of denim shorts.
How long he has had that water running for?
Our near-dead hot water system would be well and truly drained by now and that shower water must be freezing. I think of how athletes bath themselves in ice sometimes. Maybe Nordic showers are a new part of his footy training regime? Or maybe he has slipped and hurt himself? Curiosity, and, of course, concern, is quick to overtake my respect for his privacy.
I fling open my bedroom door, sprint down the hallway, and bang on the bathroom door. “You OK in there, Mike?” I call out.
“Fine. Why?” he calls back over the patter of the water.
I didn’t hear the shower screen slide across. Is he showering with it open? Does the idiot like mopping up puddles?
“It’s just you’ve been in there a long time and the water must be cold-”
“God, Ren! Can’t a man have a shower, cold or not, in peace!” he shouts.
“OK,” I squeak back, embarrassed and sorry that I can’t seem to leave him alone for more than a few minutes. I scurry back to my bedroom.
I plonk down on the bed and throw my burning face into my cold, trembling hands. I am so conscious of him now! I am constantly wondering: What is he doing? What is he thinking? What is he remembering? What is he feeling? I beg for my memory to catch up, so Mike and I can get back on the same page, or at least on the same chapter.
I hear his lowered voice echo through our paper thin walls and I sit bolt upright. Irked by my knee jerk response to be still and extend my hearing, I slap myself on the thigh, hard. Going against every fibre in my being, I go back to packing and trying to tune him out.
Listening. Ignoring. Listening. Ignoring.
Feel it. Fight it. Feel it. Fight it.
My internal tug of war completely scrambles my moral compass.
Then, I hear him laugh.
And with one blow, the war is over.
I turn on my stereo, crank up the volume and grab the remote. I put on a dance track with a heavy bass that shakes the walls and I bolt for my bedroom door. I slowly open it just enough to slide through it, leaving it ajar so he won’t hear the latch click back into place. Then I tiptoe down the hallway and wait by the bathroom door.
“Ren! Will you turn that shit off?” Mike yells. He hates techno music with a passion.
Repressing a snigger, I turn the stereo off with the remote.
“Thank Christ for that,” I hear him say. I have to clap my hand over my grin.
I compose myself and silently stand with my ear to the bathroom door. I can hear his footsteps. It sounds like he is pacing.
Minutes pass.
The water is still running.
He is still pacing.
I am still waiting.
It seems my eavesdropping is a complete bust, but it has proven that I need to take a serious look at my growing stalker tendencies. I shamefully turn to head back to my bedroom, but freeze mid-step when I hear the buzzing of a phone.
“Hello?” I hear Mike say.
“Mike?” the other male voice asks.
Speaker phone! Yes! He has always said that holding the phone up to his ear for too long gives him a headache, so he must think he is in for a long chat…
“Fizz?” Mike asks
Fizz? I’ve heard that name before...
He snorts and says, “Yeah, man. It’s me.”
“You on a secure line?” Mike asks.
“Yep. I’m on a throwaway,” Fizz answers.
“Same here.” Mike says, perking up. “Holy crap, it’s good to hear your voice. How are you, mate?”
“I’m good. You?”
“Getting there.”
“Happy to hear it.”
A noticeable pause.
“It’s been too long, brother,” Mike says.
“Yeah. Yeah, it has. No one has called me Fizz in ages,” the increasingly familiar male voice says chuckling. “On that, how are your olds?” Fizz warmly asks.
Olds is right. Mike’s parents are nearly as old as Georgie Pa. They were trying to have a baby for years until their wish finally came true when Mike’s mum, Paula, was forty eight and his dad, Stuart, was fifty two.
Thinking of Paula and Stuart Kuldey and the name “Fizz” reminds me of a story they once told me about a practical joke Mike played on one of his mates: something about a shower, stolen clothes and the poor guy only being left with only a roll of toilet paper to dab himself dry, and thinking it was just him and Mike in the house, he hurried, in his birthday suit, to t
he linen closet to get himself a towel only to stumble in on Paula’s Saturday afternoon book club, and one of the old duck’s sitting by the door smilingly handed him the bottle of bubbly in her hand to shield his privates from a room full of shocked stares and gasps.
“That would be enough to make any guy lose his fizz,” Stu sniggered when he retold the story and that’s how this guy’s nickname came to be.
“They’re good. Besides a bit of arthritis, Mum is still the same. Dad turned seventy a couple months back, but he’s still chopping wood for the fire,” Mike answers with smile in his voice.
“That’s great to hear, man,” Fizz says. “I miss them.”
“They miss you too. But, thanks to you, they finally own a computer.”
“Yeah? I’d like to see Auntie Paula trying to work it,” Fizz sniggers.
Auntie Paula?
That’s right...Fizz!
Fizz is Mike’s cousin! The one who used to come and stay with them every other summer when Nanna and Georgie Pa used to take me up to Uncle Merv’s farm...
“Now she has finally figured it out, you can’t get her off it. She says she only gets on the internet to see how you’re doing, but I’ve caught her on the Keith Urban and Michael Buble sites a few times,” Mike chuckles.
Holy shit…
I’ve seen Paula scrolling through Syzygy’s website a few times...
Fizz is her nephew...
Fizz is Mike’s cousin...
I sink to the floor.
Fizz is...
Josh.
Oh…my…God…
I go from sitting to lying down.
Josh laughs out loud. “Sounds like the old girl has turned into a cougar.”
“Hey, now,” Mike growls. Josh keeps laughing.
“So, you’re both coming to the Castle?” Josh’s tone suddenly turns serious.
“Yeah, we are. We’re leaving tonight.”
“So are we.”
“The guys coming?” Mike asks.
“Teddy is coming with me. The others will make their way over soon after,” Josh replies.
“So, you’ve got your passports in order then?”
“Yeah. And our wigs too,” Josh scoffs. “You?”
“Yep. No wigs though.”
“Lucky you.” A pause. “So, how is our Rose holding up?” Josh asks.
“Confused. Curious. Narky. The usual,” Mike says with a snort, “but, surprisingly, this time round has been the easiest yet.”
Josh and I both gasp in unison, one mentally, one verbally.
“Really?” Josh says out loud for both of us.
“Every lifetime, she amazes me more and more,” Mike says.
“And every lifetime, you fall in love with her more and more,” Josh states.
“Yeah.” Mike sighs. “Yeah, I do.” A pause that seems to go on forever. “Soon you’ll see why. She’s incredible.”
“So I’ve been told,” Josh tonelessly says.
“You really don’t remember her?” Mike asks.
“No. Nothing. Nothing at all,” Josh answers, still flat.
“What about everything else?”
“Connections with certain people and places, but so far that’s it. They’re throwing everything at me, but not much is twigging. They’re hoping me meeting Serenay will do the trick, even though I doubt it.”
“Why?”
“Because the people, the places, as soon as I see them I know that they were once important to me. And I can see who they used to be in my head...it’s kind of like déjà vu in slow motion. I’ve seen so many photos of her and I can’t remember her...at all.” Josh loudly exhales. “Does she look the same as she did back then?” he asks.
“Very similar. But fairer. And even more beautiful.”
“I keep looking at the recent pictures of her, but I’m not getting a flicker of anything, except appreciation. She’s a looker. Beautiful, unusual eyes.” Josh says.
“I know. She’s always had them. Up close they’re a mix between gold and amber,” says Mike.
“Tell me more about her.”
Mike inhales, pauses and says, “She’s smart. Calculating. Always thinking, you know. She feels, everything, and she shows it, even though I’m sure she doesn’t realise how much sometimes. She’s impulsive. Passionate, but obsessively focused when something snags her attention. She’s doesn’t know how to do anything by halves. And, her tinkling laugh has never changed. We have these little Blue Wren’s where we live and her giggle kind of sounds like their song. It’s one of the reasons why I call her Ren.”
“Wow, man. That’s deep. Not corny at all.”
“Piss off,” Mike growls.
Josh laughs and so does Mike.
“One of the reasons?” Josh asks.
“You do know her name is Serenay, right?” Mike throws back.
“Yes, dickhead. That much I had figured out.”
“Soon, you’ll see what I mean. How she looks small and delicate, even though she is anything but. How with her, it is all or nothing, no in-between, even though getting her to settle on middle ground every once in a while would be nice,” Mike scoffs. “How she thinks she is ordinary. Nothing special. A common bird with plain colours. She has no idea of how simply beautiful she is. Beautiful. Graceful without trying to be. But strong. And wilful. And stubborn. I mean, really stubborn. Not to mention, fiercely protective of those she loves. Don’t give her a reason mate, or she will tear you to shreds,” Mike explains.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Josh murmurs.
“Scared?”
“Shitless.”
Mike chuckles. “Don’t be. Because if you don’t meet her, you’ll be missing out. We all will.”
“I’ve heard that, more than once.” Josh pauses. “But...feeling about her the way you do...how can you be so cool about all this?”
“Because if you and Ren rediscover what you had the first time around then we will all know for sure if the time is now,” Mike gulps, “and I will finally know for sure where I stand.”
“After thirteen lifetimes, you’d think she’d know how she feels about you,” Josh states.
“She won’t let herself. Even before she remembers who she was, we can all see that she torn between where her heart beats and where it was born: between the world she loves and the world where that love began. And that’s why she always keeps me safely at an arm’s length...in the friend zone,” Mike explains.
“Oh, no,” Josh sympathetically chortles.
“Tell me about it, mate. But over the lifetimes, I’ve had plenty of company. She hasn’t given herself to anyone that way, well, since you.”
“God…if only I could remember her,” Josh groans.
“Actually, I’m rapt that you can’t. We’ve got to level the playing field somehow, and you’ve already got the celebrity thing on your side,” Mike says gruffly.
“I don’t think that’s really going to help me in this situation, mate.”
Mike sighs. “True.” A pause. “Look, I’ve gotta know. Have you fallen in love with any of them, Fizz?”
“I have,” Josh boldly answers.
“Really?”
“Yes! Why so shocked?”
“I don’t know. But I am. Anyone I know?”
“No.”
“Don’t feel like talking about it?”
“Not really. Do you want to keep talking about the love you keep letting slip through your fingers?” Josh asks, no longer joking.
“No. I think I’ve said enough. But, I will say this. My love for her has withstood time, space and distance, but I need to know if it can withstand you. And even though she doesn’t know it yet, so does she before she can wholeheartedly give herself to one person,” Mike says, resolute.
“My bet is that’ll I end up taking your place in the friend zone.”
“We’ll see.” Mike pauses. “You have met her before you know?”
“Yeah. Apparently, once when we were kids. Hey, here’s a s
hocker. I can’t remember that either.”
“Josh, you were six. The only thing you had eyes for back then was your Luke Skywalker light sabre,” Mike says, chuckling.
“You’re not wrong,” Josh says, chuckling too.
“You know, she was there at the Cloverleigh festival, the first time you and the band performed in front of a crowd,” Mike says.
The line goes silent.
“Josh?”
No response.
Did they get disconnected?
“Josh? You there, mate?”
“Yeah. I’m here,” Josh finally answers.
“You alright, mate?”
Josh clears his throat. “Yeah.”
“You sure?”
No response.
“Josh?”
Josh clears his throat again. “Look, man. I’ve got to go. See you both soon, alright?”
“Alright.”
“Have a safe trip.”
“You, too.”
The line drops out. And seconds later, so do I.
Chapter 10
The impact of what I had overheard may have cruelly snatched away my consciousness, but on the way down I was still mortifyingly aware of where I was and why.
As I slowly come to, the other half of that mortification is the first sting I feel. One by one, my senses disgracefully catch up, and even though the flickers of light dancing behind my clenched eyelids try and goad me into opening them, I’d rather stay holed up in the neon-speckled darkness.
Phantom voices mimicking Mike’s and Josh’s soon infiltrate my quiet hiding place, and as their clarity rapidly grows, so does the heat of my shame. It bubbles, boils over and streams hot and salty down my cheeks, but this outpouring is not strong enough to drown out the truth of their words.
Desperately needing to escape, and fully aware that on the other side is a whole other different kind of hell, I will myself to wake, fully expecting to get an eyeful of our hallway forest-green shag carpet and a woolly mouthful to boot, only to find that I am tucked up in my bed, warm, comfortable and face up.
Slowly lifting myself from the flat of my back, onto my elbows, and then up onto each hand, I eventually manoeuvre my leaden body and head into a sitting position. I blearily scan my room to discover that I am only one in here, even though my luggage has been packed and it is waiting for me by my bedroom door. I notice a small navy book with a familiar silver insignia on the front cover propped up against the suitcase handle. The thrill of realising what it is hauls me out of bed to go and take a closer look.
