Aftershock

by Alison Taylor

  And yet.

  She was aware that he was aware that she was watching him. She looked away every time he glanced over.

  Oh so nonchalantly, whistling silently, Farzan changed the music: eighties indie Brit rock, totally undanceable, still the most convincing ploy yet to get her back on her feet. Her ass had grown roots in the couch, though, and she stood her ground. Sat her ground. She mouthed words about feeling dead while you’re still alive, and her foot twitched to the murky rhythm. But she stayed put. The others were all yelling out lyrics, and again Declan opened his arms wide to Jules, tried to get her up. Jules laughed but shook her head. At this point she was a bit afraid that if she tried to get up, she might fall over. Best not to find out the hard way. She leaned her head onto the back of the couch and watched her friends and Declan through slitted eyes, expecting the show to continue, reliable as TV. But Declan stopped, dropped onto the couch next to her and pulled an ashtray onto his knee for his current smoke. Drew had said he was the only one ever allowed to smoke in his house, and only on special occasions. Jules didn’t think tonight was so special. But it wasn’t her house.

  It’s the mixture that makes you lethargic, Declan said.

  The music was loud. Jules had to play back the words in her head.

  Oxy and alcohol, he said.

  I’m not lethargic. And my neck still hurts. So, without that . . . She spread her hands to indicate the dire possibilities, hoping it would ward off the oncoming judgment.

  I have to tell you. He smiled, but sadly. You’re ripping yourself off.

  He leaned into her as he spoke, and Jules knew she was supposed to ask what he meant, but she knew what he meant, and she didn’t want to talk about it. She could tell by his persistent exuberance that he wanted to tell her to embrace life, to try to feel more, not less, and she didn’t want to go there. Not with him, not at all. That was the whole point. She’d watched her own mother’s slow decline, trudging from one night shift to the next, weighed down by the chronic pain of bad hips, bad knees, borderline poverty, relentless life. This, without question, was better than that.

  The couch on her other side caved in as Drew sank into it. He took a small box out of a drawer under the coffee table, removed from it a tiny plastic bag filled with white powder and a mirror the size of Jules’s cellphone. He leaned his bulk over the coffee table and began to divide some of the powder into skinny rows like tiny banks of new snow.

  In her final years, Jules’s mother had joined some sort of independent evangelical church. A week after her final stroke, the one that killed her, Jules had gone to the sparse room in the nursing home, with its picture of her church leader on the dresser, and gone through the skinny file of financials, only to discover her mother had given away basically all of her money. She liked to make offerings, the nurse told Jules. Apparently, she thought it would help her recovery.

  Drew handed a short straw to Declan, who gave Jules a twinkling smile and said, What the fuck, as he put it to his nose and inhaled a line.

  Jules shook her head, thinking of her mother’s sagging single bed, the lone frayed armchair, the grey, grey room. This is it? she’d asked the orderly. Where’s all her stuff? The orderly had shrugged, embarrassed. She hadn’t had much. What she’d had, she’d given away. It was exactly what Jules had been working her whole life to avoid: being old and sick and alone. She hadn’t said it aloud, but something must have shown on her face. You can’t take it with you, the orderly had said.

  Carpe diem! Farzan said, snorting the third line of coke. He handed Jules the straw, moved the mirror closer to her. She hesitated. Not only had she never done cocaine, she’d never snorted anything. She knew Drew did this kind of thing all the time, but this was the first time he’d pulled it out in front of her. He reached over now and squeezed her knee.

  Trust me, honey, this’ll kick Oxy’s ass.

  The burning in her sinus lasted mere seconds. She felt like she could do anything.

  Sink.

  I woke up choking in a panic, my tongue crazy-glued in place, gums swollen, throat blocked, I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t call for help, I lashed out wildly and blindly—and woke up with a frantic gasp.

  Daylight.

  The dream was a variation on a theme, something terrible happening that I couldn’t stop, I couldn’t get a breath, couldn’t get a grasp, and there were voices, too distant to help, too busy to hear. There was a time my parents had sent me to a psychologist, who’d spent a series of Tuesday mornings talking about childhood traumatic grief and survivor guilt, while I, at age seven and a half, lay on his couch thinking about hockey. Even then, I knew the spiel: the baby had simply died, no one knew why or could have prevented it, and no one could or did blame me for anything. I thought it was more complicated than that: something was broken in our house and I didn’t know how to fix it.

  But I also knew—now—that it was simple. I had control issues. Abandonment issues. Parental issues. Who didn’t?

  Which is why, after following a metallic racket to find a gunk-blackened David over a clogged drain in the kitchen, giving him a wide berth and going in to use his computer, I fired off an email to Jules that said—

  In Christchurch. Plane didn’t crash. Chlo.

  —in the full expectation that Jules would not even notice the hostility, because she never listened.

  Conversely, it was also why, when I opened David’s web browser, I set up a user shell, so I could browse privately. No history, no trackers. Nothing flagged. Not because I was worried about David looking at what I had been doing. I doubted he even had the skills to trace my interweb activity. No, it was because of Jules that I was diligent about using stealth online. Privacy settings meant nothing where she was concerned. She paid sporadic attention to what I did, but just that she could see anything and everything—and had, once, by prying into my Socialink account, an unbelievably creepy violation that still made me seethe—was enough to instill paranoia.

  It was, incidentally, how she’d found out about Jill, after which she’d fought hard to put a tracker app on my phone. I’d flat-out refused, but the discussion resulted in a hole in the drywall roughly the size of my foot. In retaliation, she forbade sleepovers at our house, even though I stayed over in Jill’s basement bedroom most weekends. Guess that’s over, I thought, as a memory hit me in the chest like a basketball: sitting face to face with Jill on her bed as she stripped off her tank top, her tube-thin freckled arms and chipped black nail polish, her wicked mischief grin in the light of a dozen candles.

  Not under my roof, Jules had said, claiming Jill’s gender had nothing to do with it. She might as well have said, Not while I’m home, though, since there were always hours after school when I had the house to myself, and Jill came over every day. We would smoke a joint and fool around on the living room couch, watch whatever videos were going around on Socialink, do our homework together and fool around some more. Then she would go home for dinner, and by the time Jules came in the door, I’d be watching TV in my pyjamas, or in bed with my laptop. But it didn’t matter now. That was over too.

  My Socialink newsfeed informed me that my ex-girlfriend had been tagged in “Rachel H’s Photos.” I clicked on the first thumbnail, which was how I learned that Jill had already moved on, because there she was, shimmying up behind the improbably pretty Rachel—both hands on Rachel’s hips, Rachel’s butt pressed into Jill’s pelvis, two big grins hamming for camera. Jill in her favourite Led Zeppelin T-shirt. It was a bit much.

  But it wasn’t a surprise. I knew Rachel. She’d gone to our high school, and even though she typically dated guys from her own, extremely fashion-conscious social set, I had been convinced for the last year that she and Jill had a crush on each other. They were both ridiculous flirts, which Jill would try to use as proof that that’s all it was. But I just knew there was more to it than that. And when I found out Rachel and Jill would be going to the same university, I kind of lost my shit. I didn’t mean to be like that. I hated be
ing the jealous girlfriend. But all of a sudden Jill was texting with Rachel, talking to Rachel on the phone, going for coffee to talk about what it might be like at their new school. And I found myself going through her phone when she was in the bathroom, jumping to conclusions when she was fifteen minutes late, unable to stop myself from drilling her with questions when she finally showed up. I even followed her once, not believing she just had a dentist appointment. (She did.) It was mid-August when Jill finally told me that Rachel had invited her to be roommates, and that Jill had agreed. I was suspicious, but not surprised.

  Isn’t that a bit last-minute? I’d asked her.

  She said, No, not really, but she’d looked so pained, so scared and guilty, that I just knew:

  You’ve been planning this the whole time.

  I wasn’t sure—

  When did you decide to be roommates?

  I didn’t want you to be mad.

  You registered for residence in May. Did you know then?

  Chlo, she’s the only other person I know that’s going there.

  So that’s a yes. Have you had sex already?

  What? No!

  The rest of the summer was grey with the tension between us. We went off to our separate schools and, after a few weeks of ugly unravelling, broke up.

  Wallowing in misery but refusing to cry, I clicked through her photos, looking for the moment when things had somehow slipped out of place, our connection misaligned. At what point had I stopped trusting her?

  I clicked on a picture from earlier in the summer. We’d done mushrooms and spent an afternoon wandering along the Mountain Brow, the edge of the hundred-metre escarpment that split our hometown in two. We’d sat on a low stone wall smoking joints, the whole of downtown laid out before us and Lake Ontario beyond, and watched the fires from the few still-active steel foundries in the north end make tracers on the sky above, the lights of the handful of skyscrapers blinking secret messages at us as dusk crept down. We had laughed so hard my cheeks had cramped, my stomach muscles ached. Everything felt loose and easy, our connection even more psychic than usual, the world within our grasp and our mistakes without consequence. In my memory it was almost dark as we floated back through the residential streets to Jill’s house. Jill’s parents had been away, her sister out at some party, and we’d had hours of raucous, hilarious sex on the living room floor. All in all, one of the summer’s best days. One of our last best days together.

  But I did the math: she’d already known, that day, that she’d be rooming with Rachel. Did she already think they might get together?

  There were other pics, and I clicked through them in a daze. But I knew what I knew.

  I shut down the computer. Thought, not for the first time, Fuck you, JJ.

  So apparently I also had girlfriend issues. Ex-girlfriend issues.

  DAVID’S HEAD WAS still under the sink as I slipped out the sliding doors to the patio. I slumped on a bench at the picnic table. The backyard was at least fifty metres deep, loomed over on all sides by an army of carnivorous-looking plants that threatened to consume the tent someone had pitched at the back, a human infringement in an alien world. A blue child-sized car was abandoned in the middle, like the Mars Rover after the mission had returned to Earth.

  The late sun was a searing red ball. I leaned my elbows on my knees and stared at nothing.

  You must be Chloe, then.

  Flip-flops and ropy legs, sharp bike-short tan lines, glaring pale thighs and tighty-whiteys. A large brown bottle in one hand, two glasses in the other. A smoke between his teeth.

  Chlo, yeah.

  Lance, he said, stepping up to sit on the picnic table. I moved up to sit beside him and get his balls out of my face. He handed me a glass of beer, and as we clinked our glasses together I remembered Amanda saying her friend had lost his house in the earthquake. And his wife.

  So that’s your tent?

  Yep. He lit one cigarette from the stub of another and nodded slowly. Till my house is rebuilt.

  I recognized him then. Not him, but the tone of his voice, the slackness of his face. I took a deep, slow breath, felt my chest inflate with emptiness. I wanted to say more but knew the triteness of words.

  The world tilted.

  I lurched to catch my balance, grabbing the edge of the table as it started to shake, the beer bottle shuddering across it, a deep rumbling like an underground train threatening to burst through the surface. Lance caught the bottle. Something smashed in the kitchen behind us.

  Just a glass! David called out.

  It was over in a matter of seconds. My heart pounded, my whole body flooded with adrenalin like I’d slipped on a cliff edge and almost gone over it.

  Fuck. So I guess that’s an aftershock?

  Ah, your first one! Lance said.

  He produced a joint from somewhere on his brief-clad person—it was best not to think about where—and licked it.

  Feels like the end of the world, hey, he said, lighting up.

  Yeah, kinda. I tried to laugh, still catching my breath.

  Lance drew in smoke and held it.

  In fact, I’d spent weeks feeling like my world was crumpling in around me like a paper bag, and this moment, following actual planetary shaking, was one of exhilaration and relief, vertigo turned to glee.

  Chlo! The high voice preceded running footsteps, and Amanda’s louder voice.

  Lance! For god’s sake, put some pants on.

  Amanda came out of the house with a shopping bag. Char came running up to me, then got suddenly shy and stopped, staring at us. Lance had disappeared his joint and raised his glass to me.

  I’m offending sensibilities. Hey, Char-bar, he said, and she climbed up to sit between us, held on to his arm. She looked like a zombie who’d feasted on someone’s chocolate throat.

  Did you have some ice cream? Lance asked her.

  Char gaped at him in astonishment. Yeah! How did you know that?

  Someone swam all by herself today, Amanda told us with an expression that was both wry and proud. She let go of the side of the pool and made it the whole way across.

  Aw yeah! That definitely deserves ice cream!

  It’s been a thing, Amanda said to me.

  But how did you know about the ice cream? Char had grabbed Lance’s leg and was leaning way up into his face. I appreciated her tenacity.

  It’s all over your face, I told her.

  Char turned away from Lance as she remembered I was there, and scrutinized me for a long moment, leaning in close.

  What’s on your face? Char countered, trying and failing not to smile.

  Uh, my nose?

  Char’s eyes went wide and she looked at Lance to see if he’d heard it too. He was grinning at her. She looked back at me with a big smile and laughed like a maniac.

  Here, Chlo. Amanda handed me a small package. Is that the right kind? But she didn’t wait for an answer, she went back into the house to reprimand David for the mess.

  What’s that? Char asked.

  It’s a SIM card, I said. I turned the packaged phone chip over in my hands. It’s so I can use my cellphone in New Zealand.

  It was exactly what I’d requested, but after seeing Jill’s photos, I didn’t want any contact with my former life. Not even a little bit.

  A fat bee flew by my chin, circling. I reflexively planned a route to the EpiPen in my toiletry case.

  So, how long you here, then? Lance asked.

  I rolled my eyes and shrugged. Not too long.

  Heh, said Lance, like he knew exactly what I meant.

  I tracked the bee as it bumbled from bloom to bloom, down past the tent at the back of the yard.

  Chlo? Char was searching my face for something, who knew what.

  Yes, Char?

  Wanna see my room?

  Porch.

  Drew had a backyard with a pool, dry now for the season. Motion activated lights as they stepped outside. Summer had sent a damp breath from the past, and leaves plastered t
he wooden deck. Somehow Jules found herself standing next to Declan, very close, as he passed her a joint. Their fingers touched.

  Now the health expert smokes, he said quietly.

  Totally different, she said. Medicinal.

  Drew caught her eye and winked at her. He and Farzan had pulled out a couple of chairs from the patio table, and Farzan had his feet on Drew’s lap.

  Better than that other shit, for sure. What doc is even giving you that?

  My, um . . . Rod. You don’t know him, she added, cringing inwardly. Her mouth had gone dry. She told herself it was from the pot and the coke and took a deep drink of her wine.

  Rod? Not Rod Scott? Julie—

  That’s her boyfriend, Drew interjected, and Declan closed his mouth and nodded.

  Jules. It’s Jules. Boyfriend? Really?

  Amidst laughter, Declan put up a defensive hand.

  My bad, he said. Julie doesn’t have a boyfriend. Jules got a lovah.

  Sounds so dirty when you say it like that, she said.

  The truth was, Rod’s bashful and restrained bedside manner had become, in the context of actual bed, more annoying than comforting, like he thought she was some fragile paper sculpture that he might crush. But Jules had a hard-enough time feeling, and his delicate touch just made him seem far away, like a timid knock on her fortress wall. It also didn’t help that, if she was honest about it, Rod wasn’t really the same person she’d met two years ago.

  Do you love him, though? Declan was asking now.

  Jules blinked at the sudden turn from joking to probing. She shrugged. I don’t know. He’s okay. I don’t know yet. Why are we talking about this?

  There was an awkward beat during which Jules started to sweat again, and then Drew was leading Farzan by the arm into the house.

  Jules’s daughter just left to go backpacking, he said over his shoulder as they passed. She has an empty nest.

  Jules thought about Chloe, the previous morning, dragging her ridiculous duffle bag out to the car. Her gaze drifted up into the void beyond the glare of the porch light.