A lifetime of small moments I’ll never have collide into a meteor shower, until the ache of my loss is more than I can bear. More than anyone could possibly bear.
Twin headlights pierce the night as a car rumbles past and I shield my eyes from the blurry glare. I push away from the staircase and instead walk towards the headland.
My mother loved me when I was too small to love her back. Why have I never cried for her? I want the chance to love her, but it’s one more thing I will never have.
Tears run down my face and into my hair as I look down the cliff at the foamy sea smashing itself against the rocks. Is there anything to stay for, anything but loss?
I wrap my arms tightly around myself and pick my way along the hollow cliff face as the endless pounding of the Pacific calls to me.
The glare bounces off the sand as the sun brings a new morning. My body feels as ancient as the sandstone hollow that has housed me through the long, shivery night. I brush sand off my jeans.
I’m desperately thirsty. I wrap my arms around my legs and watch the swell roll in. Perfect little barrels, carving a path of neat curls through the ocean.
I focus on the horizon. It keeps going even if you chase it all the way round the world. Today, I have two choices: stay here bereft of everything, or head home to the place where food is plentiful, water comes at the turn of a tap, and a soft bed with sheets waits for me.
Home.
I walk the cobblestoned path to the front door and press the bell. My hair is dishevelled and sand-flecked in the dappled glass of our front door. After a moment, a dark blur enlarges behind it.
Marcella opens the door.
‘Bel …’ She takes in my messy hair, crumpled clothes. ‘My darling, where have you been?’
She doesn’t know I’ve been gone.
She steps backwards as I cross the threshold and cast my eyes up the stairs to Mum’s watchful gaze at the top. The smile on her lips seems to be welcoming me home.
I lie in bed all afternoon. When Marcella comes in with a cup of coffee, I turn my back on her, bury my face in a pillow. She hovers a moment, then leaves.
I don’t bother drawing my curtains. I watch the lacy shadows deepen along the floorboards as grey clouds are suffocated by the thickest black. A storm is brewing over the Pacific. A storm that will toss yachts around like toys.
I wrap my arms around myself. Micah wants me to disappear, to pretend I never entered his world. That he never touched mine. It’s a lie I cannot live.
4th April
Dear Micah,
I can’t un-know you. Can’t forget you exist. Even if you can turn away and switch me off in your brain, I can’t switch you off. You consume my thoughts every minute I’m awake, and when I sleep, I meet you around every corner of my dreams.
You don’t want me to write, but it can’t end like this.
There’s no way to fix what happened to Dutchy. I have nothing for you, except a word that’s not enough. Sorry. I’m aching inside, which is exactly what I deserve, because you are aching too.
I never meant things to turn out like this.
Please write. I’m worried about you.
Tell me you still feel something for me.
Bel xxx
12th April
Dear Micah,
It’s been weeks and no word from you. The silence is painful. Every day I wait for the postman on his bike. He delivers mail, but it’s never from you.
I don’t use my phone anymore. The reporters have stopped asking for interviews, but I can’t stand the idea of sifting through their messages.
I also can’t stand the idea of going back to school, but they’ve given me some time off. Actually, I haven’t left the house in over a week. Strange how the place that never felt like home is now the only place that can protect me.
Micah, I want you to know that the protest was only ever meant to help you. I thought we might even get your sentence commuted if we lobbied hard enough. How stupid of me. Naïve.
If there was a way to fix this, Micah, I’d do it in a second.
Please write. Even just one line to tell me how you are. It would be enough, I think.
I could say goodbye if I just knew you were okay.
Love Bel xxx
P.S. I have set you up a bank account through the prison. I’ve linked it to the YouTube clip I made about you all. I hope people will donate and the money will help to make life a bit more comfortable. I’ve included some food with this letter. I hope you get it all.
I’m sealing the envelope when Marcella comes in, balancing two mugs of black coffee.
‘Coffee is for two,’ she says. ‘Drinking alone in your room, it’s no good, Bel. It makes me worry for you.’ She pats her heart.
‘I’m okay,’ I say.
She passes me a cup of coffee and sits down alongside me. ‘In my country, drugs is a big problem too.’ She makes a large circle with one hand in the air. ‘A huge problem.’ She shakes her head sadly. ‘My cousin Jorge, when he was a young boy, young like you, he try to make money off the drugs. And, still now, he break his mother’s heart.’
I swivel my chair towards her. ‘Is he …?’
‘In prison. A wasted life.’ She clicks her tongue.
‘How many years did your cousin get?’ I ask.
‘Twenty-five,’ she says. ‘In Peru, there are many poor people, people with no money for clothes or school. Some look for the easy way, yes? But there is no easy way.’
I sip my coffee. ‘So what do they do?’ I ask. ‘Are they just meant to endure it?’
She smiles. ‘Yes, we must endure. And find another way. One life,’ she holds up her index finger. ‘One short life. We make it good, yes?’
We finish our coffee, and she updates me on her grandson, who is now fat as a plum, who laughs at her and sits on his own and claps his hands.
This time, it feels good to talk about new life, life that’s yet to be tarnished.
As I walk downstairs with the envelope and my empty mug, the doorbell rings. I look through the glass, then pull back the door.
‘Hey, Bel,’ Eli says, a towel flung over his shoulder. He’s wearing a shirt and boardies. ‘I was just, uh, heading down the beach for a swim. Want to come?’
I hesitate. Scan the hedge that surrounds our front drive. Is there a photographer waiting to snap my picture? Is somebody taking a photo right now? I can already see the headline. Justice Minister’s Daughter Gets Inmate Killed, Then Sunbakes.
‘Go, my darling.’ Marcella is craning her neck from the lounge room, watching me. ‘Go.’
I bite my bottom lip.
‘We can head out the back way,’ Eli says. ‘You can’t hide forever.’
‘I’ll come. Just give me a minute to get changed,’ I say.
I leave Eli at the door and take the stairs two at a time, rummaging through my drawers for my swimmers.
As we cross the road, Eli fiddles with the edge of his towel. ‘I’m sorry everything got so messed up.’
I squint at the horizon.
‘I feel responsible too, you know.’
‘You?’ I frown.
‘I made the thing go viral.’
‘You only did what I asked you to.’
‘Hey, Bel …’ His hand rests on my shoulder, his voice is soft, but whatever he wants to tell me, I don’t want to hear it.
‘The water’s so blue today,’ I say. ‘How can it be murky one day and pretty the next?’
He hesitates, and I don’t wait for anything more. I leave him hovering at the top, as I head down the gritty stairs.
I reach the sand a moment before Eli does, and stop to take in the calming hush of the sea. It’s quiet today, little shore waves breaking gently, like they know how fragile I am.
Eli drops his towel and strips off his shirt. That’s when I see it. On the left side of his chest, right near his heart. A crouching tiger inked black against his skin. Instinctively, I reach for it, then retract my hand when I realise I
’m touching his chest.
‘Memento from Thailand,’ he says, looking away. ‘When I was drunk.’
‘Bang Kwang,’ I whisper. ‘It’s Big Tiger.’
‘It’s not.’ He scowls lightly. ‘It’s a Muay Thai symbol.’
‘Of?’
‘Fearlessness.’
We’re silent, but I can’t tear my eyes from the tiger.
Eli pulls me towards him.
‘Bel, I’m sorry everything turned to shit. But you’ve got to stop being so hard on yourself. You don’t allow even a millimetre of error. You’re just a human like the rest of us.’
I lean into his chest, and he holds me. For that moment, the ache disappears. The warmth of his arms give the illusion that everything will be okay.
He runs his hands lightly down my back, and my body yearns in response. A flashback to our night in the bungalow. I can’t go there. I still remember what he said when he was drunk. He’s not going to be that guy, the one I run to when it all turns to shit. I don’t want him to be that guy, either. He’s worth far more than that.
‘You ready to swim?’ I say, stepping away.
‘Race you in.’
We jog into the water. The icy rush of it is shocking and cleansing. And for just this moment in time, here with Eli, I can forget about Thailand.
I dive beneath a wave, the salt stinging my mouth, and when I push through the other side, Eli’s behind me.
‘This one’s yours, Bel,’ he calls, pointing.
I turn around, but the wave lifts me, propelling me forward, into Eli. He catches me and we go tumbling through the whitewash together. As the wave peters out, he reaches for my hand. I look up at him and laugh, gasping for air, as he pulls me from the dragging water.
We wade back through the breakers, the midday sun drenching us in light so bright there’s no room for shadows.
10th May
Dear Micah,
A whole season has changed since I saw you. Back when it was summer and everything was warm. Now it’s like you’ve disappeared. I guess you have. Not a single letter. Not one word.
Even Dutchy’s dropped out of the news. New tragedies have replaced his. And things have changed here. Dad managed to get a new law made in honour of my mother. It’s called Rachel’s Law, and it means everything to him.
I’m back at school now, the same old school, but the girls treat me differently. There’s a kindness to it. Like I’m a dandelion that could fall apart with the slightest breath.
I’ve realised lately that nothing stays the same. When I catch myself in the mirror of our dorm, I look different, too. Older. I’m nearly eighteen now. The old Bel’s never coming back, but life goes on so I must go on with it.
I am granting you your wish, Micah. This is my last letter.
I always understood why you felt you had to end it. But now I know you were right.
We were torturing ourselves, but, worse than that, I was torturing you. It wasn’t fair. The simple fact is, I’m free and you’re not. I never meant to mess with your head, but I did. I gave you hope for things that can never be.
Just know that I will forever hold myself accountable for what happened to Dutchy.
I’ll stop writing to you now, but I’ll never stop loving you. And helping you – in whatever ways I can.
You just focus on survival now, okay? Like you said, it doesn’t matter how much we want things to be different, they can’t be. So I’m respecting your decision to cut me out.
This is my goodbye. I’ll never forget you, Micah, as long as I live, but after today I’ll never write your name again.
Love Bel.
I catch the tears before they splash onto the page. Tears come too easily now, and if he sees evidence of them, he’ll know what this letter cost me to write.
I fold the paper, running my nail along each fold to make them sharp.
I don’t want to put it in an envelope and seal it. The last one. It feels so final. But I will.
Tash should be here to mark the occasion, but she’s somewhere better – on a date with Alex, one of her brother’s friends. She’s had a secret crush on him for ages, but he was two years older. It used to seem like a big deal, but she’s eighteen now and I have a good feeling about them.
I open the drawer beneath my desk, and rummage for an envelope.
I find one and pull it out, but it’s already been sealed. Etched across the front are the words, To Mum.
I still have Micah’s last words to his mother.
10th May
Dear Mrs Rawlinson,
My name is Bel, and I met you at the protest I staged against the death penalty.
As you know, I was writing to Micah and got the chance to visit him in prison back in January.
After I met you in Hyde Park, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I want you to know I passed on your message to Micah – that he’ll always be your son – but I’m not sure what he’ll do with it. He thinks he’s protecting you by keeping his distance.
When I went to see him, I thought I was giving him a gift. It’s taken me this long to realise that I wasn’t what Micah needed. You were. He needs his mother and his family.
It feels wrong that he was writing to me, while you heard nothing. You deserve all the moments I’ve had with him.
A while back, Micah sent me a letter to give to you. He told me to send it if things didn’t work out, if the worst happened. I’ve been holding onto it, but have decided to send it because I think he needs you more than ever now that Dutchy is gone.
I’ve also included two open-ended tickets to Thailand. One for you, one for Sam. I hope this means you’ll get to see Micah again, face to face.
Visiting the prison isn’t easy. It will be even harder for you. Please call or message me if you want to ask anything before you go. My number and email are on the back of this letter.
And, if you can, would you mind telling Micah something for me? Tell him I’ll never stop caring.
Best of luck,
Bel
I don’t allow myself to feel guilty on our last day of school. All of us senior girls dress in pyjamas and play games from our childhood like Ring a Ring o’ Roses. The only time my breath catches is when we sit in a circle and play ‘I wrote a letter to my friend and on the way I dropped it’. But even that I power through.
I’m determined to make my last memory of school a pleasant one.
Airlie must feel the same, because she’s almost nice. Like it no longer matters whose father holds what position, or who got a scholarship. On our final day, everybody’s differences melt away, knowing we will never be together as a group again. No more school. Nothing but our final exams left, and after that, the big world outside.
Back at home, I throw myself into study. Every time Tash comes by to see me, she brings her mother’s baklava and green smoothies. Says it’s good brain food. Tash updates me on Alex. They’re not talking about love yet, but then Tash has always been more cautious than me. I’ve told her not to jump in too fast.
For my eighteenth, I don’t have a big party. Instead, Tash, Eli, Dad and Marcella come to celebrate with me at Quay Lime. They’re all I need. A small part of me still hopes for a birthday letter from Micah, but, of course, it never comes. I don’t think he knows when my birthday is anyway.
Then just after my birthday, the dreaded anniversary rolls around, as it always does. The turnstile of my life: I entered, she exited. But instead of taking me to go stand in forlorn silence at my mother’s grave like we usually do, Dad hires a boat and we sail around Sydney Harbour. Apparently, it’s something he used to do with her. I can barely imagine it, but doing something she did, and loving it like she did, makes me smile.
Afterwards, we come home to play darts.
Dad swigs from his tumbler and more whisky slides down his throat. I wonder if he’s drowning his sorrows, but it’s only one glass so far and he seems light today. It’s the happiest anniversary we’ve had, so I sip the gin and tonic he’
s made me and take another stab at the dart board. Watch the feathers fly through the air and hit the wall next to the board.
‘You enjoy this, huh?’ I say to Dad. ‘Having an easy victim.’
He nails a bullseye. ‘I have no idea what you mean, sweetheart.’
‘Show off.’
‘I think everyone in the Government is entitled to show off tonight – if the results from the latest polls are anything to go by.’
‘Those polls are as fickle as the weather, I wouldn’t be getting too cocky. You’re still a month shy of E-day.’
‘Thank you, dear daughter, for bringing me back down to earth. And just so you know, we’re still going to celebrate your birthday properly at some point.’
I fiddle with my dart. ‘I told you I don’t want a party.’
‘I was actually thinking we could go on a holiday together. After the election, I’ll be a bit freer. Maybe we could go overseas?’
Overseas. My heart tumbles at the thought. I throw a dart haphazardly through the air. ‘Yeah, sure.’
Totally non-committal.
Dad clears his throat. ‘Chin up, sweetheart. We’ll get through this.’
I’m not sure if he means the words for me or for him. Maybe he’ll never fully recover from his wounds. Maybe he just has to bandage them up and move on.
‘Anyway it’s, uh … it’s good to see you looking a bit better, healthier.’
‘You mean fatter,’ I say.
‘Well, you needed some meat on your bones, Annabelle. Last term break, you looked sick. It’s for the best the Thailand thing stopped.’
I stab my next dart at the board, and it embeds itself deeply. ‘I don’t really want to talk about Thailand.’
‘All right,’ he holds up his hands. ‘No more talk of places that lie in the south-east of Asia. In fact, for our trip, I was thinking Europe.’
Inside the Tiger Page 24
