by AJ Collins
~
It’s getting dark and raining heavily when we emerge from the terminal. Cars whoosh, announcements echo, security officers yell at people for parking where they shouldn’t. I pull my jacket close as we line up for a taxi. When it comes, the driver is one of those chatty types. He wants to know where we’ve been, what we’ve been doing. Harry keeps him happy with glossed-over snippets of what it’s like working on a cruise. It staggers me how he sounds so casual. I’m counting the minutes until I can curl up with a hot chocolate in my own bed. If I still have one. Maybe it’ll be the couch.
~
Winter has taken root in Harry’s apartment. While we were away, it insinuated itself into the fabrics and furnishings, the walls even. Icy. I go straight to my room. My room. How odd that sounds now. I open my suitcase and start stuffing in as much as I can. Where am I going to get boxes for the other stuff? I’ll have to ask Harry to lend me his suitcase. I turn to find him standing in the doorway watching.
He looks weary, his hair hanging in his eyes, hands shoved in pockets, shoulder leaning against the door. How is it he still manages to cut through to my heart?
‘You can leave it until morning, you know,’ he says. ‘It’s late. It’s pouring out there. One more night won’t make any difference.’
I’m torn, bone weary and hungry. I suppose he’s right. I just don’t want to drag out the torment.
‘Stay,’ he says. ‘I’ll order pizza.’
I’m too drained to argue. ‘Okay.’
He leaves me, and I sit on the bed, wishing Mr Pink were here to cuddle. He probably thinks we’ve deserted him. I get up again and continue to sort things into piles, trying to figure if I can fit everything into two suitcases. When I can’t do any more, I sit and wonder. What now? Tomorrow I’ll be back to ‘normal’, whatever that is.
The doorbell rings, and Harry fetches the pizza. Eventually, I wander into the kitchen. He holds up a bottle of champagne, looks at me questioningly. ‘May as well use it, hey?’
I’m surprised he’s offering me alcohol after all that’s happened. ‘Sure. Why not? We can toast our demise.’ My laugh is forced.
Harry doesn’t smile, just hands me a glass and holds his out. ‘Truce,’ he says.
‘Truce.’
It’s hard to eat pizza when you’re sad. Deeply, cruelly, incurably sad. It sticks to your throat and sits like a heavy lump in your stomach. Harry watches me refill my glass but doesn’t say anything. Am I going to feel guilty every time I have a drink in front of him? Then again, maybe there won’t be any more times.
He clears his throat. ‘So, listen. I just want to say one thing.’
I wait, biting my knuckle.
‘I want to apologise. I should have been more supportive ... about that guy touching you. You were right; he was out of order. I should have understood. I was just thinking about not losing our jobs. I didn’t get it, and ... I’m really sorry.’
I take a shuddering breath, clinch my fingers on my glass as I focus on the champagne bubbles rising in narrow columns, then whisper the first honest thing I’ve said in weeks. ‘I tried to stop him.’
‘I know. If I’d seen it happen, maybe—’
‘No. I mean Samuel.’
~
Snap is blooming. He grabs me in a bear hug before I’m inside the door. ‘OMG, girl, how are you? Thank god you’re back. I’ve put on ten kilos since Granny’s been cooking for me, and she piled lashings of food in the freezer before she left. If I start wearing stretchy pants, kill me, will you?’
I wrestle myself free. ‘OMG yourself, your slur is nearly gone. And look at your face! It’s nearly back to normal.’
‘I knooow right? A miracle, isn’t it? Granny helped. Pushed me every day with the speech therapy.’
He helps me carry my cases to my bedroom. I look around. Everything is neat. Snap nudges me with his hip. ‘So, where’s that man of yours? Not stopping to say hello?’
‘No. He’s got stuff to do.’
Snap tries to examine my face, but I turn away. ‘Come here,’ he says, hugging me again. ‘You’re so skinny! What have they been doing to you?’
‘Nothing. I’m fine.’ I grin to prove it.
He calls my bluff. ‘So,’ he says, ‘Trouble in paradise.’ He’s savvy enough not to push me, ‘Okay, well what do you want to do?’
‘Let’s talk about you. What about your man? The flower pot guy? Ben, yeah?’
He rolls his eyes in delight, claps his hands like a happy child. ‘Now there’s a subject I never get tired of. Follow me, I want you to meet someone.’
He spins and heads towards his closed bedroom door. Oh geez, please tell me he’s not here. I’m not ready for meeting boyfriends. I close my eyes, do the deep breath thing, then plod on behind him. I can do this. It’s Snap. I’ve got to be happy for him.
He turns the doorhandle, cooing. ‘Here, sweetie. Daddy’s here. I want you to meet someone special.’
God save me. Is that how he talks to his boyfriend? He gently pushes the door open, and a little black nose appears in the gap, then a long, shiny brown face attached to a wiggly body comes tearing out. It’s a sausage dog!
‘Meet Charlie.’
Snap’s face sparkles as he sits in his favourite chair while Charlie tries to lick his face off. While he half-heartedly fights off his fur-buddy, he tells me how Ben and Granny have turned him around. Granny is no nonsense, and Ben – the donor of this blessed little munchkin – is sweet, attentive and a rock for his creative soul. I listen and smile where it’s appropriate, giving words of encouragement. I’m happy for him, but some tiny, ugly part of me is resentful. Which is disgusting, because Snap is my best friend, and no way would I want to go through what he’s been through. Still, I wonder. Have I been replaced?
‘Umm, I think I’ll take nap. I’m falling asleep here.’
‘Kitten, it’s only eleven, and I’ve got morning tea ready.’
‘Just give me an hour. I’m beat.’
~
It’s hard to be sad when you’re woken up by a doggy face wash. I push Charlie and his pink tongue away. ‘Thanks, matey.’ He sits back and waits. If sugar could be moulded into something brown-furred and wiggly-tailed, this is what it would look like. So smooth and silky soft. I can see why Snap fell for him: those big, shiny trusting eyes daring you not to love him.
Snap’s in the kitchen pottering. The sound of contentment. I sag, knowing we’re going to have to have ‘the conversation’. But this won’t be so bad. It helped opening the wound last night. Now it needs to drain. I can do this. Charlie agrees, his whole bottom wiggling in affirmation. God, he’s cute.
Snap’s prepared a feast to ‘put some meat on my skinny bones’. The coffee from his new espresso machine is good and hot, liquid gold. We sit opposite each other at the kitchen counter, Charlie at Snap’s feet ready to catch anything he might not-so-accidentally drop. We glance at each other between mouthfuls, exchanging smiles. It’s good to be back.
‘So?’ he says.
I put my fork down and slowly finish chewing my smoked salmon and benny egg on an English muffin.
I swallow, look up at him. ‘I fucked up.’
25. Ingress
There’s rain spattering the dust on the windshield, and Jack Johnson is on the radio, singing ‘Better Together’. I think he’s right. Harry takes one hand off the steering wheel and squeezes my knee. ‘Hang in there.’ I wish I could take his comfort, suck it down inside me and use it to quell my simmering nausea.
I look back to Snap who’s fallen asleep on the rear seat with Charlie on his lap. His head lolls to one side and a string of dribble is suspended from the weak side of his mouth. I resist a motherly urge to reach back and wipe it away for him. Let him rest. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Instead, I lower my window and let the wind cool my face.
Mum’s dead. The words keep circulating, trying to find a place to land, to take root and become something real in my mind. Dead. Dead. D
ead. I’m officially an orphan.
Jack’s song finishes as we pull up outside a milk bar in some town I haven’t noticed the name of. It’s Sunday afternoon, and the shopping strip looks deserted. Harry picks up his wallet from the console. ‘Thirsty?’
I nod.
‘Maybe some Lucozade or something? You’re looking peaky. Still not hungry?’
I mumble negatives and shake my head. When did I last eat? Lunch yesterday? Probably. My stomach has been a clenched fist since Harry turned up on our doorstep. I thought I’d forgotten something at his apartment, and he was returning it. That was until I saw his face. And his words made everything spin in my head.
Harry gets out the car. ‘Leave it with me.’
The slamming of his door jars. Every noise, every sensation, feels amplified. I should offer to drive some, but my limbs are leaden from lack of sleep. Or fear. I rest my head against the window.
Next to the milk bar is one of those old-fashioned hardware-gift stores with handyman tools in one window, and homey gifts like candles, tea towels and kitsch plastic trays in the other. Maybe I should get some plastic flowers for Samuel’s grave. You’re welcome, arsehole.
Something catches my eye: a crow settling on the edge of a garbage bin. Its spidery claws clutch the rim as it pokes through the rubbish. It stops and tilts its head, one shiny eye glaring at me. I know what you’re doing, it seems to say. Crows. With their oily feathered bodies. Aren’t they harbingers of bad news? Bad omens? He’s a bit late.
I think I’m going to be sick. I push my door open. The crow flutters, then resettles. I swing my legs out and rest my elbows on my knees, head down. I’ve got nothing left to purge. Why won’t the nausea go away? I breathe deeply and let the air out slowly. Again. It helps. I pull my legs back in and relax into my seat. My movements have disturbed the crow again, but it continues to perch warily.
I close my eyes and think of what’s ahead. What will I say? What exact words will I use? Maybe something short, sharp and subtle that causes confusion and a realisation that this is not a homecoming. That this is not a prodigal daughter come to speak at her mother’s funeral. Or shall I go for the jugular and tell them all how it really was?
I picture myself walking up the aisle, standing at the lectern, facing the congregation. I speak slowly, clearly. ‘Let me tell you a story.’
Exactly, the crow says. Tell it exactly like it is.
I open my eyes and stare back at it. ‘I will.’
And then what?
‘What do you mean?’
Nothing will have changed. He’ll still be who he was. You’ll still be who you are.
‘No. You’re wrong.’
Am I?
I want to knock it off its perch. What does it know? And then I remind myself this is Mum’s funeral. Not Samuel’s.
Harry opens his door, startling me, and drops heavily into his seat. ‘Here.’ He passes me a bottle of lemonade and a chocolate frog with hundreds and thousands on it.
‘Thanks.’
‘Who’re you talking to?’ he asks.
‘No-one. Myself.’ I slam my door, and the crow takes flight. I close my eyes, trying to ease the nausea.
Harry’s Coke bottle fizzes as he twists the cap. He gulps a few times, then quietly burps. Polite.
‘You know we can turn back?’ Harry says. ‘Anytime you want.’
‘Yeah. I know,’ I say, eyes still closed.
He’s watching me. I can feel it. Can picture the concern on his face. He knows me now. Knows it all. I owed him that much. I hated seeing the pain on his face, but he told me he needed to hear it. He’s something, is Harry. Doesn’t have to be here, but his presence is all that’s keeping me together.
He taps my arm. ‘Drink something at least. Get some liquid and sugar into you. You’ll feel better.’
‘Okay.’
I force a few sips of lemonade down, and he’s right: once the sugar fuels me, the nausea eases. Snap has woken with the door slam. Harry hands him a drink and a packet of chips. I don’t have to turn to know that little Charlie is all expectant eyes and open mouth. Are you going to eat that? I smile for the first time in hours.
Another hour on, and we’re into Mallee country. Endless fields of wheat and barley-sown fields struggling through a dry winter. The few drops that do fall are lucky to penetrate the crust of the topsoil. The farmers will be doing it tough again.
Rihanna’s ‘Umbrella’ comes on the radio. The whine in her voice grates on me. No, you can’t be my umbrella. I need to feel the rain.
~
Mary’s porch. You’d think I’ve come back from the dead the way she grabs and holds me tight. ‘Oh, my girl. Oh, my girl.’ It’s all she can get out.
‘Don’t cry,’ I mumble, trying hard to take my own advice, sinking into her familiar bulky softness. She’s still wearing that old apron with its stupid-coloured fruit and leaves.
Fred is hanging around in the background, shuffling, hands in pockets. When Mary lets me go, I give him a kiss on the cheek. ‘Good to see you,’ he says.
I step back to let Harry greet his grandparents. Snap is still back at the car, putting a lead on Charlie. He stands and squints across the road to the remains of Samuel’s house. I turn away. I don’t want to see it. Not yet.
Mary ushers us inside to a Christmas-like spread on her dining table. I smile. Feeding people is what she knows. She questions us on where we’ve been, what we’ve been up to.
‘I was so glad to hear you’re both making a go of music.’ She winks. ‘I always hoped you two would end up together.’
Harry and I exchange looks. I shove a big piece of ham in my mouth, appetite suddenly returned. Actually being here doesn’t seem as bad as the thought of being here. What was I so worried about? I’m surrounded by people who love me.
Snap asks Mary about a recipe for her lamb cutlets. After we’ve all had a giant slice of Mary’s cream sponge, topped with ridiculous amounts of homemade strawberry jam, the conversation turns to the funeral.
‘I hope Wednesday suits you all?’ says Mary. ‘I figured you’d want a couple of days to think about who you want there, who you want to speak, flowers, all that sort of thing?’
‘It’s fine,’ I say, wishing it was actually today so we could get it over with.
‘I wasn’t sure if you wanted an open casket, that sort of thing.’
I breathe out. ‘No. I don’t think so.’
‘Whatever you want, sweetheart. She was your mum, after all.’
I niggle at this. I know she was my mum. I don’t need to be reminded. Guilt. Mary is just trying to make things easy for me.
The guys retreat to the lounge while Mary and I head to the kitchen. Her odd fruity apron doesn’t annoy me anymore. She hands me another, one with rosebuds on it, and we stand side by side at the sink, me washing, her drying. The afternoon sun is streaming through the window, and the backyard looks exactly the way it did when I left. I’m surprised a dog named Toto isn’t sitting at my feet.
Mary doesn’t say anything when one of my tears falls into the dishwater, or when I finally tell her about Samuel. She just listens, like she knew all along. And it makes me wonder why I thought it would be so hard. And I wonder too, what will happen to the dead space inside me, now that I’ve let the air in.
‘I’m here,’ Mary says.
What is it with older women being mind-readers? She tells me to take care of myself because sometimes these things have a way of sneaking up on you when you’re not expecting it, that there’s no shame in asking for help – professional help, that I might still have sad moments, scared moments, but to pick up the phone when that happens. No matter where or when. Always.
‘God,’ I say. ‘I feel like I’ve been angry my whole life.’
~
Harry and I sit on Mary’s front porch. The funeral was exhausting, but good, as funerals go, I guess. Snap is in the kitchen with Mary, trying to steal some more recipes. I keep glancing across the road.
‘Time for a stroll?’ Harry asks.
‘Maybe.’
We sit a while longer, watching a couple of noisy miner birds scratching underneath a straggly lavender shrub. Slim pickings. Along Mary’s fence line, orange rosehips, like spherical lollipops, cling to the ends of dead-looking branches. The chill of the wind is familiar here, but the anger and disillusionment have slipped away. Coming back isn’t what I thought it would be; I’m not sure what I was expecting – a confrontation? With whom?
So much time wasted. I have to start putting things right in my life. I look at Harry in his cosy wool jacket, his five o’clock shadow darkening his chin.
‘I’ve been trying to sort my head out,’ I say.
Harry nods. ‘Hmm.’
‘Harry?’ He turns to me. ‘I want you to know that I’m grateful for all you’ve done.’
He smiles, takes my hand. His face is so open, concerned, so beautiful.
I know what I want now. But I struggle to get my voice out. ‘This music thing. What if it’s over?’
Harry looks away. He doesn’t want to hear. But he has to.
‘I’m not sure I have what it takes.’
He shakes his head. ‘Don’t say that. You’ve got more talent—’
‘It’s not enough.’
‘But—’
‘Shhh. Let me finish. Yes, a good voice, but I don’t have a fire inside me, and it shows. Yes, I love to sing ... but I’m scared of putting myself out there. It hurts. At least ... at the moment.’
I wait. There’s a muscle twitching in his jaw. His eyes are focused straight ahead.
‘You could learn.’
I sigh. ‘I have other things I need to learn first. But you. You’re the one with real talent. I’ve always said that. You have to keep going. Keep writing. Finish your degree.’
‘Uh huh.’
‘And Harry?’
He won’t look at me. His face is set. Steely. I bite down on my lip. ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Let’s take that walk?’
He doesn’t say anything, but he stands, still holding my hand, tighter. We walk down the steps, through the garden and head out the gate.
Samuel’s place. I can see from here that there’s not much left. Mary said most of the wreckage was cleared – a danger for inquisitive kids. As we get closer, I keep my eyes on the road, the loose gravel at its edges, the dandelions in the nature strip, the footpath, until we reach the gate. I look up. Another false expectation: I thought the ground would still be blackened from the fire, but seasons and nature have rubbed away the ashes. A few scorched bricks, the cement steps, bits of unrecognisable rubble sit in the red dirt.
