The Pause

by John Larkin

  ‘Seriously?’ I say to Dad. ‘Nine hours in the back of a car with Hypo Girl so we can see some burping rocks? Are you friggin’ kidding me?’

  ‘They’re responsible for all life on earth. You should be grateful.’

  ‘I’ll send them a thankyou card and some chocolate brownies,’ I reply and Mum totally loses it.

  ‘Okay,’ says Mum, trying to contain herself. ‘That’s one for Disneyland, one for Paris, one for Hong Kong, and one for the burping rocks.’

  Dad begins to lose what little cool he has, which isn’t much. ‘They are not burping rocks!’

  Mum and I can’t control ourselves.

  ‘I get no respect around here.’

  ‘Diddums,’ says Mum, and I crack up again.

  ‘You shouldn’t be laughing at Daddy,’ says you-know-who.

  ‘We’re not laughing at him,’ I say to Kate. ‘We’re laughing at his farting stones.’

  ‘They’re not …’ Dad bails out – but it’s too late. Mum and I are snorting so loudly that people at other tables are looking over at us.

  ‘I change my vote,’ says Kate. ‘I want to see the burping rocks, too.’

  ‘Thank you, Katie Bear,’ says Dad, and he’s so pleased that his comrade is on board he doesn’t correct her about the burping rocks.

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Well, in that case, I vote for Hong Kong.’

  Mum looks at me and winks.

  ‘Two all,’ says Dad. ‘And as I get the deciding vote, it looks like we’re off to see the stromatolites. Pack light, people. It gets hot over there in January.’

  I glare at Dad as he and Kate give each other a high five. ‘Why the hell do you get the deciding vote?’

  Mum piles on. ‘And if you even think about saying it’s because you’re the man of the house, then you’ll be sleeping on a park bench for the rest of eternity.’

  ‘It’s because I’m the oldest,’ says Dad, case closed.

  ‘You’re certainly the baldest,’ I offer.

  ‘No casting vote,’ insists Mum.

  ‘So how do we settle it?’ says Dad.

  Mum looks at me and smiles. It’s clear that we’re going to Hong Kong no matter what Dad says. ‘Easy. You and Kate go off and see your regurgitating rocks, while Dec and I go to Hong Kong.’

  ‘Fine!’ says Dad. ‘If that’s your idea of a family holiday.’

  ‘Don’t get all narky, Shaun,’ says Mum in barrister mode. ‘You’re obviously not going to give in and neither are we, so it’s the perfect solution.’

  ‘Okay, Katie Bear,’ says Dad. ‘Looks like you and me are off to do some exploring.’

  ‘Yay,’ says Kate, but she doesn’t sound too convincing.

  ‘C’mon, Shaun,’ says Mum when she sees Kate’s reaction. ‘Are you seriously going to drag her across the country to see a bunch of flatulent boulders? You’ll have DoCS after you.’

  Dad looks at Kate and realises Mum’s right. ‘You know what, Katie Bear? I’ve changed my mind, too. I’d love to go to Disneyland.’

  ‘Really?’ screeches Kate, practically peeing her pants.

  ‘The original one,’ says Dad. ‘In America.’

  ‘Then it’s settled,’ says Mum.

  Kate looks like she’s ready to explode with excitement.

  Dad stares at the mess he’s made in his bowl. He signals a waiter over.

  ‘Yeah?’ says the waiter.

  ‘Yes,’ says Dad. He gives me a look. ‘Could you get me a knife and fork, dor je-eee-h.’

  I look at Dad and roll my eyes. Disneyland’s welcome to him.

  ‘Two please,’ says Kate. Her, too.

  ‘And a beer,’ says Dad.

  Mum and I clink glass and cup. Dad and Kate go over to investigate the free-range lobsters.

  It’s the last school day of the year. My final day of year eleven. We have a six-week break before the HSC work really begins, though the rest of my year group has been into it since the start of term four. I’m still playing catch-up, though my teachers at the school have been incredible. They know – and in their own subtle way they have told me – that compared to what I’ve been through, the HSC is practically irrelevant. I do want to get into uni and study history and politics – I wouldn’t want to miss out on that – but there are many ways to skin that particular cat. What I have to do is take care of myself and let others take care of me when I need it.

  I stare out at the sea of faces – students, parents, grandparents – and find Mum sitting with Dad. She sees me looking at her and jokingly gives me the finger by pretending she’s got something in her eye. I smile and rub my nose with my middle finger. It’s always been our little joke: to try to make each other laugh in inappropriate situations. And if there’s ever been a more inappropriate situation than this then I can’t think of it – and that includes Aunt Mary’s funeral, when Mum wanted to tap dance on her grave.

  I notice Ed Chiu coming in through a side door and taking a seat along the wall. It was nice of him to come. Although there’s a squadron of butterflies in my stomach, I feel better for seeing Mum, Dad and Ed.

  I’ve come a long way since hospital, when I shuffled along the corridor with my food tray like a hundred-year-old sloth, and sat in my first group session and cried in Sharon’s arms. I think about Sharon, about her posse, and I feel a twinge of regret. I never got to see her again once I was told that I was going home. I never got to thank her. I never got to say goodbye. I wonder what happened to her. Did she go back to her home, back to her life, back to her husband? Or did she throw herself off a cliff or under a train, or chase down a bottle of pills with some vodka?

  I think about that moment on the station when I paused. Had it not been for that pause, the end-of-year assembly would still be going ahead. The only difference would be that it would be going ahead without me. Everyone’s life would have carried on. I’d barely be missed now. And although what I’m about to do absolutely terrifies me, had it not been for that pause, what was left of my body when the train had finished with it would now be rotting in the ground somewhere, or else my ashes would be fertilising a shrub or a rosebush. So as scary as this is, it’s so much better than being dead.

  Surveys have shown that when it comes to humanity’s greatest fears, people would rather die than speak publicly. Clearly those who tick the ‘Death’ box have never been at the crossroads. Have never had that pause. Now that the miasma of depression and anxiety has started to clear and the rest of my life with all its possibilities and wonder and moments stretches out before me, I know which I prefer.

  Mrs Morelli sits down next to me. ‘You okay, Declan?’ Mrs Morelli is the deputy principal but also our year adviser. She came to see me in hospital – several teachers did. When she walked into my room, she never said a word. She just marched over to my bed, plonked herself down next to me, and hugged me.

  ‘I’m fine, Mrs M.’ But who am I kidding? This was her idea and I only agreed because she helped me. Helped me like so many others did. And I guess it’s time to give a little something back. When she asked if I would speak to the school to remove the elephant in the room, I didn’t think she’d approve of what I wrote. She took one look at it and said, ‘Go for it.’ But now that I’m about to deliver it, I’m having serious doubts and would rather be anywhere else, with the possible exception of linedancing.

  ‘Actually,’ I say, ‘that’s a complete lie. I’m packing it.’

  ‘The secret to public speaking,’ says Mrs Morelli as she squeezes my hand, ‘is to imagine that every single member of the audience is sitting on the toilet trying to pass a house brick.’

  I actually snort when she says this. You just don’t expect it from your deputy principal.

  ‘No one is superior to you if they’re sitting on the loo. No one.’

  The assembly starts and we all stand and sing the national anthem. We embarrass the principal and the local MP by staying silent during the line of the second verse that goes, ‘For those who’ve come acr
oss the seas, we’ve boundless plains to share.’ At least it’s not as controversial as the student council’s original plan, which was to replace the line with, ‘For those who’ve come across the seas, we’ll lock you and your kids behind razor wire.’

  When everyone is seated and the uncomfortable silence falls across the auditorium, Mrs Morelli walks over to the lectern. No matter how gently she introduces me, there’s no getting past the butterflies squirming around in my stomach that are now in some sort of mating frenzy.

  My friends have been amazing since I returned to school, but everyone else has given me a wide berth. It’s just too much to deal with. I’m kind of like a social leper. Most guys (both students and teachers) go the long way round just to avoid me, and if they spot me walking along the corridor towards them they make it look like they’ve forgotten something in the other direction, turn around and race off. And I get it. Blokes don’t do this stuff very well, but to compare, teenage boys are so clenched up we make our fathers look like Oprah.

  ‘… Ladies and gentlemen and students,’ continues Mrs Morelli. ‘It’s my absolute privilege and honour to introduce Declan O’Malley.’

  When Mrs Morelli has finished her introduction, I walk across the stage to the lectern. Mrs M smiles and winks at me as we pass.

  ‘Remember,’ she whispers, ‘they’re all on the bog.’

  I smile at her and my tension is eased, but only momentarily. The audience doesn’t seem to know if they should applaud or not, so they opt for silence.

  I take a deep breath and unfold my note on the lectern. I look over at Chris and Maaaate, who are sitting in our usual spot. Chris gives me the thumbs up, but Maaaate doesn’t see me. He’s too busy ferretting around in his pocket for the remnants of a Mars Bar or Krispy Kreme or KFC to cram in his hole. He’s got an entire end-of-year assembly to get through and badly needs a sugar hit to help. You’ve got to love Maaaate. Before, I thought he was hiding behind his food, withdrawing. But now I can see he’s happy as he is. He just enjoys food and doesn’t give a crap what anyone thinks about it.

  I lean into the microphone and try to think of the toilet thing. It doesn’t work.

  ‘I never left a suicide note,’ I begin, ‘because I didn’t plan on dying that day; it was a spontaneous act of insanity. Of stupidity. Of course people will miss you when you’re gone, but you won’t know because you no longer exist. You’re not proving any point, you’re not spiting anyone, you’re just slipping into oblivion and there is no return. I never left a suicide note, but if I had it would have gone something like this:

  ‘I’m sorry. Sorry for the pain I’ve left behind. Sorry for the unanswered questions. The absence. The hole in the air where I once was. I’m sorry to my friends, particularly Chris and Maaaate, who didn’t see it coming and wouldn’t have known what to do even if they had. I’m sorry to you, my teachers, who might have blamed yourselves and wondered why you hadn’t spotted the signs – signs that simply weren’t there, signs that only became apparent to me after it was too late, after I was gone. Signs that I’d learnt to hide from everyone – myself included. I’m sorry to you, my fellow students, for putting the idea in your heads that suicide is an option, when all it does is consign those you leave behind to a lifetime of hell. Of emptiness. Of sheer agony. I’m sorry to my family, but mostly to my parents, who gave me the greatest gift of all – life. A life that I tossed away on a whim, so carelessly, so needlessly, so pointlessly. To all of you, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’

  I fold up my note and am about to walk away when there’s a slight trickle of applause from the student council, who are on the stage with the teachers. Students sitting down the front join in and soon the applause builds and spreads throughout the auditorium until everyone is on their feet clapping and cheering and whistling. I look over at Mum who is bawling her eyes out. Dad’s got his arm around her. I gulp down my tears as if I’ve learnt nothing from this whole experience. But I have learnt from it, so I end up letting them out. The tears fall freely and I don’t try to hide them. Mrs Morelli hurries across the stage and hugs me, tears streaming down her face. And now I’m starting to feel that I can let everything go – the pain, the darkness, the emptiness, Aunt Mary.

  The principal gets up and comes towards the lectern to quieten things down – the local MP is with us after all – but I decide to go for it anyway. I tap the microphone with my hand, and sound booms around the auditorium. Silence quickly returns. Mrs Morelli stands beside me.

  ‘I want you to do something for me,’ I say into the microphone. ‘Actually it’s not for me. It’s for you.’ I have them. They’re in the palm of my hand. Everyone is looking at me. Even the principal has stopped mid-stage, which sort of makes him look like a bit of a jerk. Which is fine, because he is.

  ‘I want you to turn to the guy next to you, whether you know him or not, shake his hand and say this: “Stick around. You’re worth it.” And then when you’ve said that to him, turn around and say it to the guy on your other side, and the one behind you, and the guy in front. Say it to everyone around you. Got it? Okay. Go.’

  Everyone is cautious at first – we’re not used to expressing stuff like this, but I guess this is the point of what I’m trying to show them, what I’ve learnt since it happened – but a couple of groups start it. They’re laughing and being self-conscious about it at first but they’re doing it anyway. And then they’re all at it. Bedlam overtakes the auditorium. It’s borderline anarchy, kids standing on chairs and seeking out their mates, their brothers, but they’re doing it. They’re all doing it. And they’re doing it because they’re worth it. Because the guy next to them is worth it. Because we’re all worth it.

  ‘Declan,’ hisses the principal, joining me by the lectern. ‘You were only asked to speak to the student body, not start this, this, this …’ Having failed to find an appropriate noun, he gestures to the audience and the general this-ness that’s going on in front of his – and the local member’s – very nose.

  I turn to him and smile. I offer him my hand. He looks awkwardly back at the local member but realises he has no option but to take it. ‘Stick around, sir,’ I say to him. ‘You’re worth it.’

  Kate and Dad left for Disneyland yesterday. We saw them off and did the photo thing before they went through customs. Dad tried to put on a brave face for Kate’s sake but he had a bit of a hangdog expression when he and Mum hugged. They’re not going to last. I could see it in their eyes and their hug. They grew up and grew apart. While we were little, I guess Kate and I were the glue that bound them. But now I’m bound to Mum as Kate is to Dad and there’s nothing but history keeping our little unit together.

  Like me, Mum’s a bit of a greenie, so although we all took a taxi to the airport, we caught the train home. It was the first time I’d been on a train since … (When I started back at school, Mum took some time off work and insisted on driving me to and from school.) And now, having emerged from the darkness, I know which side of the wheels I’d rather be on. Mum held me around the waist as we got off at our station – at the station. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. I reached over and kissed the top of her head as we made our way up the escalator.

  Mum wanted to take me to try this new restaurant which generally has lunch queues milling outside. At night it’s a bit quieter. Luckily we managed to get a table fairly quickly, which I was grateful for given that, by the time the waiter showed us to our table, I was so hungry I could have eaten the quack out of a low-flying duck.

  We studied the menus but it wasn’t an exhausting task. This was one of those restaurants where the chef has only a very tenuous grasp on reality or else thinks he’s just too cute to kiss and offers up dishes like pureed bat’s testicles served on a bed of natural henna that has been curing under the armpits of an old Ukrainian woman for seventeen years. The food is generally served on white plates the size of tractor tyres with the portions so small you need a microscope or homing beacon to find them. The menu
s were made of compressed plywood and the options written with candle wax. Mum and I looked at each other and tried not to snort at the pretentiousness of the place. Mum grew up in the Western Suburbs and is a bit of a class warrior.

  ‘Do you have any specials?’ asked Mum.

  The waiter leered at Mum. ‘This is a fine-dining establishment, ma’am. We cater for certain … tastes.’

  After giving us a few minutes to consider our choices, the waiter reappeared and loomed over us like a sentinel, with an air of practised superiority.

  He looked at Mum, contempt etched across his face for no discernible reason. ‘And what has ma’am decided on?’

  Mum looked up at the snooty git. ‘Ma’am has decided to go next door for a pizza, because ma’am has a growing teenage son who needs feeding and will get precious little nourishment from’ – she looked back at the menu – ‘quail and alfalfa chowder. Especially not for twenty-eight dollars.’ Mum handed the waiter his wooden menus and we stood up to leave.

  ‘As you wish,’ said the waiter, a leer creeping across his face.

  ‘And take the silver spoon out of your arse: you’re a bloody waiter, not the Duke of Kent.’

  We practically stumbled into Angelo’s Pizzeria giggling like a couple of nuns who have inadvertently wandered into a male strip show. I watched on proudly as Mum spoke to Angelo in fluent Italian and ordered us a family-size seafood pizza with extra prawns, which we took home and scarfed down in front of the TV. Barrister or not, she’s a working-class hero. She’s my hero.

  I gaze out the window and notice with increasing alarm that the wing wobbles as we taxi towards the runway. I didn’t know they did that. I don’t know much about engineering and aeronautics but I thought wings would be rigid. When I think about it, though, I suppose they need to be unstable in order to function properly. I’m not sure I get that, but I kind of like it.

  As the plane waits for take-off clearance, I try to distract myself from the wobbling wings and imagine Kate being let loose in Disneyland. If Dad buys her a soft drink and some candyfloss, a switch in her brain will flick and she’ll end up tearing around like the Tasmanian devil in those old Looney Tunes cartoons. Little kids might even mistake her for a ride and try to leap on her as she goes spinning past. Poor Dad. Poor Disneyland.