Regret

by Max Henry

  “Observation, is all.”

  She dumps the liquid and dishcloth beside the sink, and turns to me, one hand propped on the edge of the counter. “You know, most people have this thing called a filter. It stops them saying stuff that isn’t crucial to the succession of the day, snide little remarks about things that don’t matter like, oh I don’t know”—she taps a finger against her lips—“where somebody keeps their dish washing liquid.”

  I lift both hands, walking toward her. “Just trying to make your life easier, is all.”

  “Appreciated, but it’s really not necessary.” She steps aside, giving me clearance to set up.

  “When is the next show after tonight?” I ask, feeling a change of topic is in order while I wait for the water to run warm.

  “Thursday. We only do five a week: Thursday night, two on Friday, and two on Saturday. It amazes me we can manage to pack most of the shows out, considering there aren’t that many people around here.” She chuckles. “But I guess we all like a little escape, right?”

  “Yeah.” I dump a healthy dose of liquid into the water and swirl it around to create bubbles. “I guess.”

  Except when I escape reality, it’s to a place infinitely more horrible. The kind of landscape that nightmares and horrors are made in.

  The kind of landscape that once wasn’t simply a bad dream.

  It was my reality—my every day.

  My life.

  THIRTEEN

  Mariana Harwood ran a shaky hand through her long brown hair and sighed. Six weeks of doing this dance, and it never got any easier. Her fingers snagged in a knot, the brittle ends of her hair reminding her how long it had been since she took a day to look after herself.

  Yet she wouldn’t begrudge the reason she hadn’t. Her children were her life, especially after her husband of fifteen years had up and walked out when the kids were still young. Oftentimes, their hugs and whispered words were the only thing that held her together on the toughest days.

  Which is why it was only fitting she returned the favour and did everything in her power as a mother to soothe the pain her oldest son was in.

  “They let me know that you’re being discharged next week.”

  Her baby boy—not that he was much of a baby, or a boy anymore—rolled his head to face her. “Yeah. They said.”

  “How do you feel about that, Duke?”

  He didn’t reply. He simply shut his eyes and rolled his head to the face away once more.

  She had thought receiving the phone call about his injury was the hardest moment in her life. But she’d been wrong. Having somebody tell you in a clinical baritone that your child would be returning home on a medical flight caused pain, sure. But nothing wounded her as deeply as the cold distance that accompanied Duke when they wheeled her boy off that plane.

  Gone was the laughing joker she would curse out as he sprung another prank on her while she tried to organise dinner for the family. Gone was a boy she remembered giving his little brother grief because at four years old, Cody didn’t quite have the same level of coordination to jump his BMX as Duke did.

  No. Instead, the army returned a shell of a man to her. One who sounded like his father: bitter and jaded. One who looked like the boy she loved, but acted nothing like the Duke she’d held tight when he’d broken the news to her that his turn to deploy had come.

  “I thought perhaps we could take some walks on the beach. Ease you into regular exercise again.”

  His chest heaved with a sigh, the hospital sheet doing nothing to disguise the steel rods that they had inserted into his leg to keep the femur steady while his skin healed enough to withstand surgery.

  “Let’s get through one day at a time, okay, Mum?”

  “Okay.” Mariana reached out and took her son’s hand, offering comfort the only way she knew how. Her words didn’t matter to him anymore, her actions redundant when he showed no interest in the special arrangements she’d made so his recovery at home would be as pleasant as possible.

  No. The only thing that still got through to her boy, that still made his breathing slow and his lips lose the permanent scowl, was her touch.

  The simple tune slipped from her lips without a second thought as Mariana hummed the notes to “Somewhere Over the Rainbow”. She tore her gaze from the turning leaves on the oaks outside and smiled as her son’s brow smoothed, and his lips twitched in and out of a smile—minute, but enough that a mother could still tell.

  Recovery had just begun, but in her heart she knew that all she had to do was hold tight and everything would be okay.

  One day, her Duke would come home.

  FOURTEEN

  Duke

  War wages within me as I stand in the middle of Cammie’s living room, my elbow propped in my hand while I rub my fingers over the growing stubble on my jaw.

  She said to kick back, relax, and do nothing while she was at work. But this woman knows nothing about me, and if she did, she’d realise how ludicrous that sort of suggestion was.

  Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.

  Her décor is simple, understated. Yet, the longer I’ve spent with her, the more I’ve come to know one crucial thing about Cammie: she’s no more of a neat freak than I am a social butterfly.

  She hides her shit well, literally and metaphorically. Open her cupboards and you’re greeted with piles of seemingly useless junk, hoarded and treasured, yet not precious enough to be on display or utilised. Open her mind and I’m sure you’d find the same, a mess of a woman who can’t let go of things that hold no purpose anymore.

  I shouldn’t. She’ll flip a switch if I do, but the thought of sitting around watching television all day has me looking for the nearest bridge to jump off.

  Just a little—she won’t mind too much.

  I delay the inevitable by heading to the fridge and pulling out a Pop Top bottle filled with apple and blackcurrant juice. Sipping the sweet drink, I wander through the living room to the hall, figuring I may as well take the opportunity to venture farther than the three rooms she’s already shared with me. Maybe then I’ll find something to do, some task I can keep occupied with that’ll help her out, show my thanks for her hospitality?

  There was something panicked behind her eyes when she left for work this morning. “Help yourself to anything in the kitchen. Chill out in front of the TV. Maybe go for a walk.” Almost as though she was trying to direct me.

  She seemed determined to give me suggestions on how to fill my time, to the point where it’s reignited my curiosity about how exactly this woman came to be living on her own, save for a closet full of child-size skeletons and ghosts.

  The last of the drink slurps through the Pop Top with a loud gurgle as I veer left in the hallway and head toward the bedrooms. Cammie’s is the one on the left, adjacent to the living room. I figured that out the first night.

  Her door is open just a crack, not quite enough to see what’s on the other side, but enough that I get the idea her room is decorated much like the rest of the house: void of colour.

  Pulsing the empty drink bottle in my hand, I concentrate on the crackle of the plastic as I crush the container in, let it out, and repeat. The sound grounds me, bringing my fledgling paranoia into check as I stand outside her door, wondering where to go next.

  Cammie doesn’t strike me as the type to take advantage of another person, but the walls she holds around her definitely set me on edge. People who avoid the truth are those who are afraid of what reality will bring.

  I know. I deflect and redirect with the best of them, steering conversation away from anything that skims too close to the heart of who I am.

  I head toward the room at the front of the house. It’s closed off; the heavy timber door is stained an ominous dark walnut. To the left is the spare room, completely empty save for a dozen or so packed boxes of odds and ends. Past that is the bathroom, and then the laundry and toilet. I mentally map the house in my mind.

  The front room has to be ano
ther bedroom.

  Walk away, Duke.

  My hand burns to open that door. Fuck, does it burn. But she’s shut the room off for a reason, and if there was a spare bed in there I’m sure I would have seen her open it before now.

  I make my way back through to the kitchen to bin the empty juice bottle. The lid on the trashcan rings out as it slams shut, yet my focus is on the car that makes its way up the driveway.

  Late model coupe. Yellow. Probably female then. Clean and basic. No modifications, as though it’s just rolled off the factory line. Older person.

  The occupant gets out as I open the front door to greet whoever has come to visit. A short woman with silvery hair pulled back into a high ponytail steps toward me, a smile lighting her face.

  “You must be Duke.” She holds her arms out as she closes in for the kill.

  I go stiff as a rod as she clamps both hands down on my biceps and leans in to place a chaste kiss to my cheek.

  Get off … get off … get off …

  “I’m Clara.” She backs up a step, giving me room to breathe again. “Cammie’s mum.”

  One look in those familiar eyes and I know she speaks the truth. “Nice to meet you.”

  Clara runs her eye over me while I stand there, hands jammed in pockets, not sure what she wants me to do next. Do I invite her in? It seems odd given she’s probably been here a thousand times more than I have.

  “I won’t stay long.” Her blue eyes snap back to mine as her smile widens once more. “Cammie just asked that I pop over on my way into town to see if you needed anything. She said you don’t have a car at the moment.”

  “I think I’m okay.” Her long flowing cardigan, leggings, and tall boots remind me so much of her daughter. “Would you like to come in?” Seems the only polite thing to do.

  “That would be lovely.” Clara claps her hands together and heads for the door. “I’m dying for a hit of caffeine.”

  Her ears hold small gauge plugs, a tattoo peeking out from the collar of her shirt at the back. She’s eccentric in her style, definitely not confined to the “normal” standards most women her age are.

  I like it.

  “Tell you what,” she calls over her shoulder as she breezes through to the kitchen. “I’ll make the drinks. You do me a favour and see what biscuits my daughter has in her pantry.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I close the front door behind us and pull in a deep breath before joining her.

  Nothing to worry about. Sure, she’s the fifth new person I’ve had to deal one-on-one with in as many days, but shoot, she’s no more of a threat to me than her daughter.

  I’ve got to stop panicking at everyone and everything. I need to trust.

  Just trust …

  Clara gives me another warm smile as I round the corner to the kitchen, the coffee canister already laid out on the counter before her. Clearly she knows the quirky places her daughter keeps things.

  “Knowing Cam,” she says with the lilt of a laugh, “she’ll have some Tiny Teddies or other childlike rubbish. Have a dig on the top shelf, to your left. She might have something better up there collecting dust.”

  I locate the biscuit tin on the middle shelf, and sure enough, it’s filled with Mini Bites, coated in pink icing and sprinkles. The search for something else comes up empty, so I pull out one of Cammie’s plastic princess plates and set the pink-iced biscuits out on it.

  Nobody can know I did this. May as well pack up my balls and hand those over, too.

  A chuckle escapes Clara as she looks between the plate and my mortified face. “Oh, stop it. It’s not as though all that pink is going to suck the testosterone right out of you now, is it?”

  Can she be sure? “Good thing I’m hungry, huh?”

  Her eyes crinkle at the corners before she bursts out laughing, shaking her head as she turns back to the mugs of coffee. “How do you have it?”

  “White with none, thanks.”

  Clara finishes the drinks in silence as I set the plate down on the counter and take a seat on one of the bar stools. She brings the steaming mugs over and sets them down beside the plate, choosing to remain on the opposite side of the counter from me rather than take the other stool. Her necklace rattles as she leans forward and props both elbows on the surface, resting her chin on one hand. “So your car’s broken, huh?”

  I peer across at her over the rim of my mug. “Cammie’s filled you in then?”

  “A little.” Her lips curl with mischief. “What do you do for a job, Duke?”

  She didn’t tell her that much, then. “I don’t have one at the moment, just a hobby that keeps me busy.”

  “What did you do before, then?” She reaches out and snags a tiny biscuit, popping it delicately into her mouth.

  “Labourer. But it didn’t work out.” I take two biscuits at a time to at least pretend I’m eating something a bit more satisfying.

  “Oh.” Clara’s eyebrows lift as she takes a casual sip of her coffee. “Cam said you were in the army.”

  “A little”, my arse.

  “That’s right.”

  “Medically discharged?” Her eyes narrow in on me, the light and airy nature of her voice sinking to something more take-no-shit like.

  I nod.

  “Well”—she straightens—“I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Not as sorry as I was to do it.

  Her gaze drifts to the living room, and to the spare blanket folded on the arm of the sofa. “Don’t tell me she has you sleeping on the couch.”

  “It’s fine, honestly. I’m thankful for the help.” For some reason, I feel as though I need to defend the situation. I guess it’s the tone Clara took when she made the statement, much like one my own mother used when she was mad at some ridiculous idea Cody and I had decided to execute without proper consideration for the consequences.

  “No.” She shakes her head, coffee poised halfway to her lips. “You tell that daughter of mine that a couch is no place for a fully-grown man like you to be sleeping.”

  “She did offer to swap, to let me have her bed and she’d take the sofa,” I explain. “But I said no. Honestly, it’s fine.”

  “It’s not.” She snorts. “She has a spare bed; she can use it.”

  “Does she?” The closed door. I was right.

  “Yes, she does.” Clara takes a sip, her eyes hard as they stay connected to mine. “She simply chooses not to use it.”

  I stare down at the mug between my hands, wondering what exactly I’ve stumbled into here. More so, why I care. I could heed the warning and stay out of it, sleep on the sofa and not say a damn thing to Cammie about what her mum has to say. I could fly below the radar and bide my time until the HQ is fixed and I’m on my way.

  But I can’t get the trail of clues out of my head: the plastic dinner set, the food, the closed off room, the pictures she avoids at all costs … the ex.

  This girl’s dealing with something greater than what she can control, and I want to know if I’m right in thinking what. I want to know if anything I can say, I can do, can help ease the burden she carries.

  Clara sighs, setting her empty mug in the sink. “I take it by the look on your face she hasn’t explained much about her situation to you.”

  “Not really.” I push my drink aside. “But then, is it my business?”

  She shrugs. “I guess not. But at the same time, somebody neutral might be the ear she needs.” Her gaze drifts out the window, her brow furrowed. “She doesn’t talk to us about it: her father, me, her friends …” Her head drops as she sighs. “She needs to talk to someone.”

  There’s no way out of this. I accepted Cammie’s offer to help thinking her life out here was peaceful, uncomplicated. But I see it now. This house is her oasis, a clearing in the middle of a raging forest fire.

  “What happened, Clara?”

  She swings her head my way, her hands braced on the edge of the sink. “I can see you’re a smart man, Duke.” A sad smile graces her lips. “I’m sure you c
an work it out.”

  FIFTEEN

  Cammie

  “Everything’s fine, love.” My mother’s voice echoes around the confines of my car. “When I left this morning, he was thinking of taking a walk. He seems trustworthy.”

  “He didn’t get abrupt or anything?”

  I sent Mum around to case Duke out for me while I was at work. Not that I don’t trust him, exactly. Simply that I wasn’t sure of my ability to judge a person after the way he flipped out at the park and then acted as sweet as pie last night.

  “He was perfectly lovely,” Mum says with a little too much enthusiasm. “Not a bad-looking man, if I do say so myself.”

  “Eww, Mum. He’s young enough to be your son.”

  “So?”

  I shiver, bracing my hands on the steering wheel a little tighter. I do not need to know about that part of my mother’s life.

  Ever.

  “Why are you making such a strapping young man sleep on the couch, Cam?”

  I grit my teeth at her question. She damn well knows why.

  “It can’t be good on his body to be cramped up like that,” she presses. “He’ll end up with a crook back by the time he leaves.”

  “He doesn’t sleep on the sofa, Mum,” I clip out. “He sleeps on the damn floor, so if he gets a bad back, that’s his problem.”

  “On the floor?”

  “Uh-huh.” I slow the car and turn into the drive. “I’m home now, though, so I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Thanks, Mum.”

  “Love you, Cam.”

  I press the red button and end her call as I glide to a stop in my parking spot. She wants me to put him up in the second bedroom. Is she insane? Why would I let him in there to … to move things and sully the place with his smell, his presence? Why would I do that?

  My head pounds, and my hands still ache at the coiled rage over it all when I step out of the BMW and head for the house. I barely make it two steps before I veer off course and walking toward the strip of lawn that runs down the side of the house, out to the driveway. What the hell?