by AJ Collins
12. Divulgence
‘Mmm.’ Fish and chips. I suck the last bit of salty grease from my thumb. So good. A picnic rug on Harry’s lounge room floor, a good feed of junk food in our stomachs, and French champagne. An impromptu birthday party.
Harry tips the last dribble into my glass. ‘That’s it for that one.’
‘Ta. I’m still annoyed. I can’t believe I forgot. I would have organised something nicer for you. A night out with your muso mates maybe?’
‘You’ve got enough on your plate. I’ll catch up with them when I get back. This is good. Plush carpet, cushions, crystal. The candles are a nice touch.’
‘Ripped paper, sauce bottle, paper towels. You’re turning twenty-one. You deserve something better.’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know ... lobster?’
‘Do you like lobster?’
‘Mmm, not really, but we wouldn’t have to eat it, we could just look at it.’
‘Spell profligate.’
‘I don’t even know what that means. Oh. Wait!’ I get up and run to my bedroom. When I return, I settle next him and hold out my hand. ‘Look.’ It’s the tiny dictionary he gave me as a parting gift. ‘Immoral. Wasteful. Nice.’
He takes the dictionary from me and flips through its miniature pages. ‘You kept it?’
‘Of course.’
He’s looking at me with a sexy smile, and now I’m embarrassed. I point to his glass. ‘Another bottle?’
‘Pass. Early flight tomorrow. But you go ahead.’
‘No. I’m fine,’ say. It’s probably not a good idea. I’ve only had two glasses to his three, but it’s hitting me hard. Still, I don’t care. I need to unwind. Between visiting Snap, my job and learning a bunch of new songs so I can do gigs with other musos after Harry leaves for his cruise, I’m dead on my feet. So, so freakin’ tired. I could fall asleep right where I’m sitting. I hold up my glass. There’s a tiny swish of bubbles in the base.
‘Another toast. This one’s to you and me surviving more than three months without killing each other.’
‘Has it only been that long?’ he says.
I poke out my tongue. He’s right: it seems longer, more than months – maybe years. No, not years. I’m drunk. God, I wish life would slow down, even a fraction. It’s too much. I’m a character in one of those flipbook stories, where drawings whip into life with each flick of a page. A boy in my class at school used to make them, only his were all about boobs and dicks.
‘To hump month.’ he says.
We chink glasses.
‘Let’s see if we make it to seven,’ I say.
He screws up his face. ‘Isn’t that years? Seven-year itch or something?’
‘Whatever. Months, years. Same thing.’
We settle into a quiet comfortableness, and I think my brain finally switches off. This is what it must be like to be a guy, when they do that not-thinking thing. I like it.
‘Hey.’ Harry kicks my foot. ‘While I’m away you should visit Freda. See a movie together, or something.’
‘Like I don’t have enough on my plate.’ There’s a hint of sarcasm in my voice.
‘It’ll do you good. Get your mind off things. Have a girls’ night out.’
I kind of like the idea: a thirty-something girlfriend – not a mother figure – who isn’t all about boys, clothes, make-up and tweeting gossip. Someone with life experience who isn’t going to lecture me or make me feel like a kid if I ask about awkward stuff. Someone who doesn’t know me and doesn’t give a crap about my past. But there’s her intuitive thing. That’s plain weird.
‘She’s a bit scary.’
Harry laughs. ‘You’ll be fine.’
Secretly, I think she’s kinda cool, in a freaky way. I wonder if Freda can teach me how to read people. It’d be awesome to tap into that kind of thing. That’s if it’s not hereditary or something. Listen to me. I’ll be riding unicorns next. I shuffle my butt across the floor until I can lean against the couch. Harry joins me. ‘That’s better,’ he says. ‘My back was killing me.’
Side by side, we sit looking at the empty fireplace. We should have lit it. It’s cold enough, and it’d be nice to have flames to stare at, to mesmerise us. But I don’t mention it because, at this moment, it might bring up a conversation I don’t want to have. A memory of another fireplace I’ve tried so hard to put behind me. Still, something is eating at me. I want to know what Harry knows, what he thinks. What might be waiting for me back in Wineera. Blame?
‘You’ve surprised me, you know,’ Harry says.
‘Hmm?’
‘You’re a lot stronger than I’ve given you credit for.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Snap. You’re there for him. No matter what.’
‘He’d do the same for me.’
‘You sure?’
‘Hell, yes. He’s supported me from the start. Helped me get a job, found somewhere for us to live, taught me not to take crap from anyone. He’s had my back. And besides, I’m the whole reason he’s in hospital. If he hadn’t spoken up for me, it wouldn’t have happened.’ I cross my arms and add, ‘Though I never asked him to.’
‘You don’t know that. It sounded like that douche already had an issue with Snap being gay.’
Harry shuffles closer, and heat blossoms where our shoulders connect. Oh, how I’m craving for that fireplace to distract us. Suddenly Harry’s finger is tracing the back of my hand. ‘No-one’s ever thrown me a fish and chip party.’
My heart. How can one small touch, skin on skin, be so loaded with sensitivity? It’s enticing, but strange. Scary. I pull my hand away, overwhelmed. What’s going on with him? A week ago, he said we were all business, nothing else. Now he’s getting all up close. Too close.
‘I guess fish and chips are pretty original for a twenty-first. Are your parents going to give you a proper one? When are they back?’ I feel as if I’m making conversation for the sake of it, ignoring what’s really going on.
‘Who knows? They’re more into saving the world.’ There’s an aftertaste of bitterness in his words.
‘Huh.’
‘Huh? I’m sensing disapproval,’ he says.
I wave my arm to encompass the room. ‘Look around. Look at what you’ve got. And you think your parents don’t care?’
‘They care. They care about lots of people. That’s what they do. You know they sponsored Freda as a child? Helped her come to Australia? She’s effectively my big sister.’
‘That’s so cool.’
‘Yeah. They’re generous souls. Always volunteering for worthy projects. For other people.’
‘Huh.’
‘Again, with the huh?’
‘Where exactly are they?’
‘Who knows? Everywhere they’re needed except here.’
‘You’re being a big baby.’
He laughs. ‘Maybe. It’d just be nice to know someone is there for you.’ He takes my hand and holds it in both of his. ‘Like you’re there for Snap.’
There’s that tingle again. ‘Like I said—’
‘I’m going to miss you,’ he murmurs.
And there goes my heart again. Why do I want to be near him but further away at the same time? He’s watching me. Too closely. His breath is savoury with wine and salt. He squeezes my hand. ‘I need to tell you something.’
I tense. I knew something was going on. I’m just not sure I want to know what it is.
‘And now comes the hard part,’ he adds.
I turn to look at him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘The part where you either hate me or forgive me.’
Now I’m scared, but I’m too tired and tipsy to imagine what might come next. Please don’t be something awful. Something that’s going to ruin everything. Life feels too fragile right now.
‘Promise you won’t get mad.’
‘At what?’ I try to move away so I can see his face clearly, but his grip tightens. Is it that bad he thinks I’m goi
ng to run away? I steel myself.
‘It’s about home.’
There it is. Nightmare City. The inevitable has raised its ugly head. He’s right to hold onto me. All I can do is pretend this isn’t happening.
‘I’m just going to say it, okay?’
I nod. Get it over with.
‘I didn’t find you by accident.’
‘What?’ I purse my lips, wait. Everything I’ve been trying to avoid is looming, like an ominous, unstoppable wave. And I can’t outrun it because my legs are in one of those dreams where you’re all weighty and cumbersome.
‘You know Gran volunteers at the hospice where your mum is. I mean you left a message for Gran as well, right?’
I nod.
‘Well, she managed to track the number. I mean, who else would be calling from Melbourne? It wasn’t hard to find the pub. She sent me to find you. She’s been worried sick.’
I can’t look at him. My voice trembles. ‘Are you going to dob me in?’
‘For what?’
I bite my lip. ‘The house,’ I whisper.
‘Are you kidding?’
I stare at the fireplace. It’s cold, empty but it’s not hard to imagine the flames. An ember falling out, the carpet catching alight ...
‘Lauren, it was an accident. You don’t blame yourself, do you?’
‘But I—’
‘It wasn’t your fault. It was the chimney. A blockage, maybe a bird’s nest or something. Gran told the police she was helping you clean up, burning some old papers in the fireplace.’
‘She did that?’
‘God, Lauren. You should have stayed. You hurt Gran so much. She cares a lot about you.’
My throat clenches. ‘I’m sorry.’
I’ve got my eyes closed now, tears brimming. I’m trying to weigh everything up in my head: consequences, possibilities, the law, Snap, Harry. I can’t think.
‘It’s okay,’ he says. ‘You’re fine. Don’t stress. You’re not in trouble.’
He lets go of my hand and puts an arm around me, drawing me in. I let him. I’m still trying to absorb everything he’s said. ‘I’m sorry for not coming clean,’ he says. ‘But when I saw you in the pub you looked thrown, panicked. I was surprised you even agreed to meet me later. I thought I’d frightened you off. You did almost make a run for it. Remember? You were grabbing your bag when I met you in the café?’
He kisses my forehead, grazing my nose with the roughness of his beard. ‘I wanted to tell you sooner, but things got too far down the track. And now ...’ He takes my hand again, threads his fingers through mine. ‘I’ve grown feelings for you ... and I don’t want to start anything with a lie between us.’
Oh hell. I’m snotting all down my face. Where’s his hanky when I need it? I pull myself lose and wipe my nose on a paper towel.
‘You okay?’ he asks.
I nod, blow my nose, then rest my hands in my lap, stare at them. I’m lost. There’s so much to take in. ‘I’m so stupid. This is the moment I’ve been dreading. And it seems ridiculous. All that worry eating at me, all this time, for nothing.’
‘You’re not stupid,’ he says. ‘You were sixteen and scared, dealing with Samuel’s suicide. And your mum wasn’t there for you ... and neither was I.’
‘That wasn’t your fault.’
‘Yes, it was. You deserved better. I could have been there, if I’d really wanted to.’ He lifts my chin. ‘You hear me? You deserve better.’
I sniff. He doesn’t know what I deserve. Doesn’t know I would still have run. Doesn’t know everything. That I couldn’t stay in that town.
‘You are amazing,’ he says.
‘I am?’
‘And beautiful.’
I laugh. ‘I’m a mess.’ I wipe my nose again.
‘Yes, you are,’ he says. ‘You’re beautiful. I can’t believe I never told you that.’
I’m blushing, heat in my cheeks. He’s staring. I’m staring back. His gaze drops to my mouth. I’ve never wanted to be kissed so much, and yet so not. I hug him to avoid the moment, but his mouth reaches a sensitive spot on my neck instead, and I shiver.
‘I could get used to this,’ he whispers.
‘What? Fish and chips?’
His chuckle is muted by his mouth against my skin. ‘Us.’
I can’t answer. My breath has disappeared somewhere. I want to join it. Escape.
‘I wish you were coming with me,’ he murmurs.
‘Me too.’
Then he’s kissing me, his mouth is warm and salty. I’m responding, as if this is what I’ve been missing, needing, craving. There’s us and nothing but us. He reaches behind me, positions a cushion on the floor, and eases me back. I let myself go. His mouth is back on my neck, his hand on my chest, and something stirs in me. Something deep. My breath quickens. Is this longing? Is this what lust feels like? Whatever it is, it’s urgent, needy, and I want him closer, even though I can’t believe I’m doing this. But if it’s to happen with anyone, I’m glad it’s Harry. If I trust anyone, it’s him.
But as the weight of his body presses on me, my body suddenly changes tack. The longing strengthens, tightens, deep down in my stomach ... and switches to nausea.
‘Stop!’
‘What’s wrong?’
I push him off and scramble to my feet. ‘I need some water.’
‘Lauren?’
I flee to the kitchen, put my palms flat on the cool stone bench-top and rest my forehead on it, waiting for the heat to dissipate. What’s wrong with me? It’s as though my body is rejecting everything my mind and heart wants.
My mobile rings from the lounge room. I listen to Harry’s voice, muted by the walls between us, then turn to grab a glass as the soft thud of his socked feet draws closer, up the hallway.
‘Lauren?’ He’s in the kitchen doorway now. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yep.’ I nod, gulping water.
‘It’s the hospital,’ he says, holding up my phone.
Vertigo hits, blood draining from my face, my limbs. No-one calls this time of night unless it’s bad news.
Harry’s smile is tentative. ‘He’s woken up.’
13. Recrudescence
The taxi is quick to arrive. I grab my purse and jacket. Harry says he feels bad he’s not driving me. I tell him he’s drunk too much, and it’s wet outside. ‘Besides, you need to get some sleep. You’ve got an early start tomorrow. Don’t wait up for me.’
As I open the front door, he touches my arm. ‘Wait. Tell me you’re okay.’
I turn back and look him in the eye. ‘I’m okay. We’re okay. Just ... later.’
He nods.
I hold my bag over my head to fend off the rain while I run for the taxi. We drive through dark, slick roads, streetlights refracting in the water drops on my window, like so many diamonds. I’m trying not to think about what’s just happened, but my mind is playing back a film-reel of moments, snippets of words, movements, touches, trying to decipher the meaning of it all. Snap. Think about Snap. I hope the crappy weather isn’t a bad omen – that Snap is still in one piece, his mind whole.
It’s after hours at the hospital, so I have to press an intercom button to gain entry. I hug my jacket close. Freakin’ autumn. It was warm yesterday. A voice that sounds as busy as hell answers the intercom, and I’m buzzed through.
Snap’s room seems different: there’s a static motionless about it. His chest rising and falling is the only movement, and even that seems shallow. It’s then I realise they’ve removed his noisy breathing tube. Now he’s got one of those thin, spaghetti-like oxygen tubes wrapped around his ears, the little nubs positioned under his nostrils. The light above his bed is on, and his blankets have been folded down a little to free his arms. That’s new too.
I stand beside him, just watching for a moment. His bandages have been removed, and there’s a bald patch on the right side of his head with an arc of spidery black stitches, which start in front of his right ear and curve above his forehead.<
br />
His eyebrows twitch. Both his eyes open. He’s looking at me, expressionless.
‘Hi, stranger,’ I whisper.
He looks puzzled, and when he tries to speak his voice sticks. He grimaces, making a claggy noise as he clears his throat. I hold his hand, trying to encourage him. When he finally speaks, his voice is hoarse and his words are slurred, dragged out.
‘Whooo yooo?’
I’m startled even though I’ve been warned this might happen. But as I stand dumbly petrified, a slow smile spreads across the half of his face that still works.
‘Yorrr hair’s mmmess,’ he says.
‘You bastard.’ I lean across his chest and awkwardly hug him. His arms feel frail, like a child’s, clinging to my back. A funny gurgling noise comes from his chest, and I realise he’s laughing while I’m crying. I extract myself, and he gives a rattly cough.
I try to sort out my hair with my fingers. ‘You don’t look so good yourself, you know,’ I say.
He half-shrugs, and I regret the words because he really does look terrible.
‘Maaake a goood exi ...’
I frown, trying to figure out what he’s saying. ‘A good what?’
‘Exxxiii.’
‘Exit?’
He nods.
‘Ah, I get you.’ I chuckle. ‘You made the best exit ever! Do you remember the last thing you said to me?’
He shakes his head.
‘You said, and I quote, “I am not camp, I am dramatic.”’
He gurgle-laughs again.
‘How are you feeling? Your chest sounds terrible.’
‘Fffkin hung-reee.’
I laugh, taking a seat by his side. ‘Not surprising. You’ve been living on soup through a tube the past couple of weeks. I pick up his call button. ‘Pizza with the lot?’
‘Nooo! Wwwatching myyyy waaayt.’
I’m in awe of his humour; his body is gaunt. He tries to lift his arm again, to wave a finger at me, and it takes all his effort, he’s drained.
‘Well, some tea might have to do for now,’ I say. ‘Maybe some cheese and bickies if they can dig them up.’
