“What? Altogether?”
He nodded.
I sat on the grass beside him. “Why don’t you go part-time for a semester, or-”
“Abby,” he interrupted. “It’s not a time thing. This place just isn’t right for me.”
I twisted the button on my cardigan. “Is this because of me?”
“Geez, Ab. Not everything is about you.” Matt ground his cigarette into the dirt. A pigeon hopped past us. “Do you want it to be about you?” he said after a while.
I shrugged dumbly. Matt touched my knee: a leftover reflex from the past. My body reacted with its own sudden reflex of desire. I flinched.
“Sorry.” He looked me in the eye. “Abby, this break-up was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.”
I nodded.
“But looking at where we both are now, I can see that we made the right decision.”
“We?” I repeated. “I don’t remember it being a we decision.”
“Of course it was,” said Matt. “You chose music.” His voice was calm and even. Stating a fact, not passing judgement. “You were totally amazing the other night,” he said. “Your concerto was phenomenal. You’ve really got a chance at this thing. I’m not going to be the guy that ruins it for you.”
“My teacher doesn’t think I have a chance,” I said.
“Your teacher’s wrong.”
I couldn’t help a smile. “Thanks. I really needed to hear that.” Tentatively, I touched his arm. “I miss you. Even though I know you’re right; that we don’t work together, I miss you anyway.”
“Yeah, I miss you too, Ab. But music’s your everything. I get that now.”
Music is my everything. I’d been telling that to anyone who would listen for longer than I wanted to think about. But coming from Matt, it suddenly sounded so pathetic. And if I was going to have a chance at the concert hall, it would need to continue being my everything. I couldn’t see another way.
“You know I could learn a little from you,” said Matt. “I didn’t get my composition folio in on time. That’s a giant fail.”
“You failed comp? But you’re an amazing composer!”
He laughed bitterly. “Apparently that doesn’t matter if you can’t meet a deadline.”
“That’s why you’re dropping out? Because you failed comp?”
He sighed. “It’s not the time, or my comp mark, or you. I just don’t belong here. I’m not a classical musician. And you know how oppressive this place can be.”
I picked up a twig and poked it into the grass. “What about your music? What about Standing Waves? What about all that stuff you told me the night we got together?”
“It’s not going to happen. It’s just some bullshit dream. We both know Standing Waves was never going to go anywhere.”
“That’s crap! Look how far we got this year! I can’t believe you’d just give up like that!”
“You gave up on it,” Matt reminded me. “I never found another violinist to replace you.”
“I’m sorry,” I croaked. “You just have so much talent. I don’t want you to waste it.”
Matt rubbed his eyes and pushed his dark hair off his face. “Talent. I thought I had talent til I came here. Then they taught me you can’t make a career out of composing and I owe them ten grand in uni fees for it.”
“Well.” I stood up. “I hope you keep writing.”
He picked up a fallen leaf and twisted it around his fingers. “You know, the Con puts so much emphasis on perfection, that it makes you forget that you’re supposed to enjoy music as well.”
I nodded in agreement.
“And I think,” he said. “That when that happens, you need to go back and find the reason you started playing in the first place.”
“You spoke to Matt?” Jess snorted, carrying our dinner plates into the kitchen. “What’d he have to say for himself?”
“What’s with the tone?” I asked. “Since when do you have a problem with Matt?”
“Don’t you? After his little effort the other night?”
I paused. “What happened the other night?”
“Oh…” Jess scraped our leftovers into the bin and turned on the kitchen tap. “Nothing. Just, you know…” She started to hurl dishes into the sink. I reached across the bench and turned off the water.
“Tell me. What did he do?”
Jess hesitated. “He slept with Clara,” she said finally. “I’m sorry, Ab. I thought you knew.”
“Clara?” I spat. “Matt hates Clara!” I sunk onto the couch. My thoughts were fuzzy and knotted. “When?”
“After the concerto competition. A group of them went out and I guess one thing just lead to another…” She dried her hands and sat beside me.
“Well are they still… I mean, are they together?”
Jess sighed. “I doubt it. But if you ask me, they deserve each other.”
I chewed my thumbnail. I had felt something between Matt and I when he had visited me before the competition. A closeness. A connection still intact. Just a few hours later he had been in Clara’s pants. Or in her snooty black dress anyway. I felt like my insides had been scraped out. Sickened by my own naivety.
Jess hugged me. “Are you okay?”
“I guess.” I stood up. “I suppose I should go do some practice.”
I closed the door of my bedroom and picked up my violin. I stared blankly at the score. My brain was compartmentalised. The focusing-on-music section was switched off, while the trying-not-to-imagine-Matt-screwing-Clara compartment worked overtime. The whole thing just gave a sinking finality to Matt and my relationship. He had moved on. I needed to as well.
My mobile rang and I dropped my violin like it was scalding hot. I pressed the phone to my ear.
“Hey, Abby. It’s Nick.”
I fell suddenly speechless; a million things trying to get out of my mouth at once and none of them succeeding.
“Thanks for not hanging up,” said Nick.
“Yeah well funnily enough I’ve been kind of worried about you! Since you took my roommate’s money and pissed off! How could you just disappear like that? I was afraid you were dead! You stupid, selfish arsehole!” I hurled abuse at him for a while and he took it without speaking. I finally stopped when I was out of breath and beginning to sound scarily like Sarah.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” Nick groaned. “I’m really sorry.”
I sat on my bed. “Where are you?”
“I’m back in Acacia Beach,” he said. “I’m calling cos I wanted to tell you I’m cleaning my shit up. I’ve been good lately, Abby. Honest. Dad told me Sarah cut you off and I feel real bad about it. So I’m getting clean. I’ve been going to this meeting and everything. Even got a new place.”
“Whatever,” I scoffed. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“Yeah,” said Nick. “About that. You have to come home this weekend.”
I paused. “Why? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. You just have to come. I can’t tell you why, but it’s really important.”
“Okay.”
Nick paused. “Okay? You’re coming? Just like that?”
Just like that.
“Jesus, I had this whole spiel planned to try and convince you!”
I lay back against the pillows. “I’ll need to stay with you though. Mum won’t have me.”
“Yeah I know,” said Nick. “I got a couch with your name on it.”
I smiled.
“So you’re at uni now, right?” my brother asked. “Are you okay to skip it?”
“It’s fine.”
“Great!” Nick dropped his voice. “Hey listen, I don’t suppose there’s any chance you will, but don’t tell Mum and Dad I told you to come, okay? Just say you came home to visit.”
I frowned. “Why?”
“I can’t tell you yet.” He paused. “You’re really coming, yeah? You’re not just screwing me round?”
I began to gnaw my nails. “I’ll be ther
e.”
PART THREE
THIRTY-SEVEN
I’m the last one off the plane. I want to spew up the sliver of toast I forced down for breakfast. Coming back is even harder than I had imagined. I suck in my courage and step onto the tarmac. Even the air smells the same; thick and salty. About to rain.
Despite my nerves at facing Acacia Beach again, I had felt a huge relief when the plane left Melbourne. As the suburbs grew tiny, I broke free of the stresses of the Con. Shook off the consequences of my decisions. I wanted to stay in the air forever.
On the other side of the gate, Nick catches my eye and waves. He’s clean-shaven and his hair is tied back in a loose ponytail. His eyes are bright, without their underlying shadows. I rush through the gate and hold him tightly.
“You look really good, Nick, you massive tool. You stayed off the smack, didn’t you.”
He smiles at me and takes my violin case. In spite of everything, I hadn’t been able to leave it behind. Almost as if it’s a part of my body. I follow Nick into the car park and climb inside his rusty Falcon, kicking aside empty Coke cans and chip packets. He starts up the engine.
“I’m getting married,” he says.
“You’re what?” My mouth drops open.
He laughs. “Yeah I thought you’d be surprised.”
“Surprised? Of course I’m surprised! Who are you marrying? I didn’t even know you had a girlfriend!”
“Her name’s Marina,” says Nick. “I met her through one of the guys on the farm. You’ll love her.”
“How long have you been together?”
He shrugs. “Long enough.”
I let out my breath. “Wow.”
Nick catches my eye. “You can’t tell Mum and Dad.”
I laugh. “You’re getting married and not telling Mum and Dad?”
“Would you want Sarah at your wedding?”
“I suppose not. But I’d want Dad there.”
Nick shrugs. “Can’t have one without the other. Anyway, Marina and I are heading off afterwards. Best if they don’t know where we are.”
“Heading off? You just got back. Where are you going?”
“Anywhere,” says Nick. “Wherever the wind shall take us and all that shit. What’s the point in staying here?”
“You’ve got no idea where you’re going?”
“We’re going to head south,” Nick says vaguely. “See what happens. That’s why I wanted you to come up so bad. I don’t know when I’ll see you again after the wedding.”
“Well keep in touch this time,” I say, knowing it’s rich coming from me.
We drive down the highway, past patchwork paddocks and sugar plantations. The world I had forgotten, abandoned, is just as I had left it. My eyes have seen so much more than they had the last time I was here. Had I expected that to change what they saw? To see Acacia Beach in a different light? I’m not the child I was when I left. In those lessons with John at the Con, in my unit with the op shop couch, and nights curled up naked in Matt’s arms, I was sure I had reached adulthood. But now, as my childhood drizzles over me, I’m not so sure.
Nick pulls up outside an old house opposite the beach. The weatherboards are covered in cracked yellow paint and wobbly awnings cover the windows. The doorstep is littered with work boots.
“So this is my new place,” says Nick. “What do you think? I know it’s not a palace or nothing, but it’s better than the alternative. We got the lease for another month so you can stay here after me and Marina leave if you want.”
I follow him through the house and into the back yard. A square of long grass is fringed with a tangled daisy bush. The roots of a tree fern are pushing up the tiles of the patio. I sit in one of the plastic chairs on the veranda and lift the ashtray off the arm. I can hear the sea. It’s kind of nice. Nick ducks inside and reappears holding hands with a tall, thin redhead.
“This is Marina.”
She flashes me a broad smile. Her ears poke through the waves of her hair. She is wearing long, beaded earrings that dangle onto her shoulders. Her bell-bottom jeans are frayed and she wears an off-the-shoulder peasant top.
She kisses my cheek. “It’s so great to meet you. Nick’s told me heaps about you. A musician, hey? That’s pretty cool.” She speaks with a slight lisp and waves her hands around when she talks. I can tell Nick finds it amusing because the corners of his mouth turn up and he kisses her on the chin.
“Are you laughing at me?” Marina sings, and I know it’s an old joke. I’m glad my brother is happy.
I take my things into the lounge. Nick has made a half-arsed effort at packing. A couple of boxes lie beneath the bare bookshelves, but the only things inside are a few DVDs and a handful of loose photos. For a second, I want Nick’s life: a life of bare bookshelves and empty boxes. A life of throwing everything in the back of a car and heading off wherever the wind will take me.
I drop my bag onto the couch and stare into the mirror. My reflection has changed. My straggly brown ponytail has been cut in layers and I wear it flowing over my shoulders. I had never worn make-up in Acacia Beach, but before I had left Melbourne, I had spent twenty minutes in the bathroom underlining my eyes, blotting my lips, covering the pimple that had sprouted on my chin. And I’m surprised at just how much weight I’ve lost this semester. I can feel the bottom of my hipbone, without the little cushion of flesh that has always covered it. My stomach is hollow under the bodice of my sundress.
When I come out of the lounge, Nick is pottering around the kitchen. The windows are steamy.
“Wow,” I say. “You even cook now?”
He laughs. “I do something that vaguely resembles cooking. Is spaghetti okay?”
“Sounds great.” I pick up a fork and stir the bubbling pot. “I had no idea things had gotten this good for you. I guess I’ve been worrying unnecessarily.”
Nick doesn’t answer straight away. “It’s nice that you worried.”
“So,” I say. “You’re clean?”
“Mostly.”
“Mostly? What the hell does that mean?”
He sighs. “Don’t give me that up-yourself tone, Abby. You know what it means.”
“You told me you were giving it up! You lied to me!”
“Calm down, okay. I knew you wouldn’t come if you thought I was still using. And I really want you here for this.”
“Does Marina know?”
Nick gives a short burst of laughter. “What, you think she’s never touched it?”
“That’s great,” I say. “Fantastic.”
He puts down the jar of pasta sauce and sighs. “Look,” he says. “I’m happier now than I’ve ever been in my whole life. Things are finally working out for me. So what if I take some stuff every now and then? I don’t need you being all fucking judgemental.”
I don’t look at him.
“Things have changed for me, Abby. Can’t you tell?”
I don’t reply. I can see the difference in my brother; the colour in his face, the light behind his eyes, but I don’t want to admit it.
“I’m not addicted,” he insists. “I could stop if I wanted.”
I scoff loudly.
“I thought you’d be happy for me.”
I rub my eyes. “I am,” I say flatly. “It’s just been a long day. Let’s just go eat, okay.”
The storm hits in the early evening. We sit on the back veranda and watch the silver sheets of water fall from the sky. Nick and Marina roll cigarettes and drink three beers to my every one. Marina climbs out of her chair and kicks over a cluster of empty bottles.
“Can I read your aura?” she asks me.
“Can you what?”
Before I can stop her, she is waving her hands over my head, a cigarette dangling from her fingers.
“You’re being corrupted by impure energies,” she announces, ashing onto my lap.
I suggest I’m not the only one, but I don’t think she hears me over the rain.
The rest of the night passes in
much the same manner; Marina crapping on about my imbalanced chakras and Nick half asleep in a banana lounge. Then they stumble off to bed and go at it like dogs in a car park.
I put my headphones on and scroll through my Ipod in search of something to block out the pandemonium. Each track I pass has a bitter connotation. This song played at Julian’s party. This, a piece I played with John. The next, a track from a Standing Waves gig. I haven’t heard or played a note of music since the concerto competition heats. I toss the Ipod into my bag and slip out of the house.
I stand motionless. The rain has passed and the night is still. I haven’t come so close to silence in a long time. It is almost frightening, but in a way it is perfect. I wander down the middle of the glistening road. I feel disoriented, lost in time. If I listen hard enough to the quiet I can almost believe the last two years never happened.
I realise I’m walking towards my parents’ house. I need to see it. I feel the sight of home will anchor me somehow, even if it’s a home I’m no longer welcome in.
When I reach the caravan park, I see that Psycho George’s haunted house has finally been torn down. I gaze up at the pristine white units that occupy the block. I had hated Psycho George’s. I don’t know why I’m sad.
I face my parents’ house, staring up at its wooden awnings and the vine covered lattice around the drainpipe. A couple of cars crawl down the driveway into the park, gravel crunching under the tyres. It is all as it had been the day I left for Melbourne, clutching my violin and praying for a new life.
I try to imagine what would happen if I waltzed up to the house and knocked on the door. For a moment, I’m tempted, but then I back away slowly.
A cicada starts to wail and I begin the walk back to Nick and Marina’s. They’re guaranteed to be passed out by now. In the block where George’s house had stood, the vibrant white units seem to glow in the dark. In one room, a light shines through heavy purple curtains.
“So you reckon they’re haunted or what?”
I hear Justin’s voice and for a second I’m afraid to turn around. His tanned face is forced into a smile. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up and he digs one hand into the pocket of his jeans.
Music From Standing Waves Page 22
