Cherry Beach

by Laura McPhee-Browne

  ‘I didn’t know there was a pool there?’ I said.

  Hetty didn’t hear me or didn’t want to answer me, and picked up her peanut-butter plate. She started to whistle as she moved towards the bin and put the toast in; then she left the kitchen.

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ Dill moved his hand through his hair, worrying the strands. ‘She’s not making sense.’

  ‘I know…I don’t know.’

  Dill was still pulling his hand through his hair, his other one tapping the table. ‘I mean—her boss isn’t dead, is she? And even if she is, it’s not because Ronnie’s is diseased? And talking about going swimming at the Eaton Centre is just—’

  He stopped and stood up, walking to the sink, where a window looked out onto the street.

  ‘There just aren’t any swimming pools at the Eaton Centre.’

  I nodded. It was scary to have seen Hetty like that, all gently wired and full of sadness and plummeting towards complete nonsense. I didn’t want her going out with peanut-butter fingers to walk magically around the Eaton Centre talking about swimming pools and her dead boss, and asking people for a job.

  I told Dill I didn’t know what was happening but I would try to sort it out, and went upstairs to talk to Hetty.

  She was busying herself in our bedroom, talking to Whitney as she picked out something to wear. On the bed lay three of her dresses—butter blue, red wine, teal. I sat down among them, picking up the blue one to smooth its crinkled collar. Hetty didn’t iron things; she had never needed to. Her face suited the extra creases. I took a deep breath into the bottom of my belly. I needed to try to tell her that she wasn’t making sense, to see if she could try to.

  ‘Het, can you sit down a minute?’

  She was over at the chest of drawers scrambling through jewellery. All hers—I didn’t own anything other than a pinecone brooch my mother had given me when I turned twenty-one and a best-friend broken-heart charm from Hetty. I was wearing the charm, and brought my hand up to finger it. I loved to feel along the jagged edge where the heart had been broken in two. Jagged but smooth, like our friendship. Hetty’s half said Best and mine said Friend. It had always seemed appropriate.

  ‘Ness, can we talk later? I need to get going.’

  ‘Where are you off to?’ I wanted to hear her say something different, something less strange.

  ‘I told you! The Eaton Centre.’

  ‘But Het, you don’t want to work there, do you, really? You hate how they have no windows, and the trays everyone eats their meals off in the food court.’

  We had sometimes visited Eastland Shopping Centre in Ringwood when we were younger and boredom got the better of us. It was a basic, unworldly sort of a place—Hetty couldn’t stand it. I liked to feel the cool of the artificial air and walk slowly around not really looking inside any of the shops, buying cinnamon donuts and eating them from their pink bag, wiping my sugar fingers and letting the crystals fall free onto the shiny floor, but Hetty became unruly in there. She seemed to claw at the air, and she pulled at where her clothing met her neck. She hated everyone—other shoppers, sales staff, the guards out the front. Hetty didn’t usually hate people, especially not straight away. I remembered she had said she would die if she ever got locked in there.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ she said shortly, as if she didn’t have time for such questions. As if her truth was waiting. My heart was still rapid; something was still wrong.

  ‘Hetty—I have to go to work today, But I can come with you to the Eaton Centre tomorrow?’

  She sighed heavily, picking her floppy bag up off the floor.

  ‘You could just rest today? You seem so tired…’

  She looked at me coldly. Her eyes were mostly white, as if I was someone she barely knew, didn’t know at all.

  ‘I’m not tired. I don’t need to rest. The early bird gets the worm,’ she added, with none of the light irony I would expect, no curving up of her lips to make a smile. Her face was long and smooth, with no lightness or lines.

  I let her past, noticing that she had blushed her cheeks so much it looked like she’d been burnt across her cheekbones, like she was about to turn into a clown.

  A strong scent of alcohol—bourbon, maybe, with that hot, sweet smell it had—lingered in the room after I had heard her clomp down the stairs and slam the front door. She hadn’t said goodbye to Dill, who was still in the kitchen, and who she loved. I knew she loved him, but this wasn’t Hetty.

  I needed to figure out what to do to bring her back. I wasn’t upset that she seemed to hate me all of a sudden, though it hurt to have her gone like that. I just felt like I needed to keep her out of the world until she was herself again. It was as if she had been worked on in the night and put back together wrong. If she was out there among strangers too long, something bad would happen. I could feel it.

  I was late for work and texted Minnie to tell her as I left the house. This is fine, take your time x she replied quickly, so I let myself move lightly as I walked down our street. I would tell Minnie about how Hetty had been and see what she thought. She was calm, and erred on the side of caution, clarity, taking the time something needed before coaxing it out or making a decision about it. She cooked like that, worked like that. I could see the pleasure she gave our few customers with her grace. I imagined she would have sex like that, would kiss like that—carefully, without even the notion of bodily violence.

  Then I remembered Faith and looked down at my phone, imagining how happy I would be if there was a sudden text there from her telling me she missed me, or asking me to see her again soon. There was nothing.

  My walk to work had changed over the past few weeks, in the green and pink of the flowers and grass and leaves of the trees. It was a red, brown, yellow walk that crunched, and I felt like autumn was what I had needed. The air no longer had that tired drench to it and the faces of those I passed appeared drier, more contained, less flushed with heat.

  I took a photo of the same tree every time I walked this route: a young horse chestnut near the part of Beverley Street where the park became the art gallery. It had been slim and leaf less the first time I saw it, back when I started at Cafe Art Song and had just moved into Marjorie. Five months later it had a full head of leaves, and they were now blushing, curling, almost ready to fall.

  I hadn’t shown Hetty any of these photos, though I was proud of them, proud that I had chosen to concentrate the lens of my phone on such unpredictable, quiet beauty. Faith had loved them when I showed her, flicking through the photos with my thumb on her bed one night. She had told me I was an artist and only laughed a bit before putting her fingers inside me one by one until I was up against the bedhead, gasping.

  It felt stupid to take the photo today but I did anyway, in the hope that things would be back to happy, to normal again soon. As always I took it quickly, not wanting those walking by to notice me and think something of me. The leaves were swaying that day in the wind.

  By the time I had reached the corner opposite the gallery, a block from work, I wondered if it would be okay to call Hetty to see where and how she was. I stopped myself from putting my hand into my pocket for my phone and stood there counting the amount of seconds it took to fill my body up with air, and how many to empty it.

  There wasn’t any point calling her now. She would be at the Eaton Centre wandering around, being surreal. Why would things have changed in the hour since I had seen her, stormy and yet so clear about her mission, leaving Marjorie with a plan she would bash down anyone to see through? I wondered what the sales assistants were thinking as she entered their shops thrusting her résumé at them, not in the mood for small talk, not even in the mood for being herself: Hetty, so charming and employable. She could look wild and mean when she didn’t smile, which I’d always appreciated. I imagined her at her wildest and meanest, over there in the climate-controlled mecca of the Eaton, putting off the perfectly put-together.

  Minnie was sitting out the front of the cafe and seemed t
o have been waiting for me. Her black hair was pulled back with a soft black bow, and she was tapping at a calculator and pencilling numbers in a notebook. She looked up and gave me that smile, so disarmed and gentle.

  ‘How are you, Ness?’ She picked up a small napkin and dabbed one side of her mouth, watching me. I saw that there were a few small bowls beside her work, filled with fringed vegetables, tiny crisp fish and sprouts.

  ‘I’m okay.’

  ‘Sit,’ she said, and pulled out the chair beside her.

  ‘Oh, I better go in and get ready to start my shift,’ I said, hoping she might insist that I didn’t do that just yet.

  I wanted to tell her about how Hetty had been that morning and share my worry with her. The day seemed long ahead of me while Hetty was anywhere doing anything in the same body with what seemed like a different mind. I wanted to pick her up and take her back to Marjorie, lock her in our bedroom until I could work out what to do. Minnie would at least empathise, hold some of the weight for me through this day.

  The phone rang from inside the cafe. Minnie placed her hand on my shoulder.

  ‘I’ll be back soon. Eat some of this, will you?’ She pointed at the tiny bowls.

  I could see the glisten of sesame oil on some of them. I loved sesame oil. Beneath the sick of Hetty, my tummy growled and then the nausea became a wave that rolled over the small hunger, crashing it down and away.

  I watched Minnie through the window and placed a small slither of zucchini in my mouth with my fingers. She was on the cordless and was pacing, just slightly. Then she looked out at me, took the phone from her ear and pressed at it with her finger.

  ‘Sorry, Ness,’ she said after she had sat down next to me, the floppy bow slightly lower in her hair from the interruption. She placed her hands in her lap and look out across the street.

  ‘Are you okay, Min?’

  She didn’t answer for a few breaths and then pulled her eyes away from the road to me. ‘Yes, sorry. Yes,’ she said loudly. ‘Have you eaten?’

  Minnie and food.

  ‘I’m fine, Min. Thank you, though.’

  She smiled. ‘You seem tired, Ness. Anything wrong?’ She smoothed her hair with the fingers of one small hand, and watched me. ‘How is Hetty?’

  It was becoming obvious that I wouldn’t just be able to work a normal day and smile and laugh and sneak pieces of roasted seaweed or cheese when the customers weren’t looking like I usually did, knowing Hetty was out there, lofty and unaware.

  ‘She’s not good.’

  I told Minnie about Hetty announcing that Elaine had died and that she wanted to work at the Eaton Centre. Minnie was confused, and even paused to try to remember whether in fact there was a swimming pool at the Eaton Centre, which we agreed was an impossibility—a sort of wonderful untruth—and a sign that Hetty was unravelling.

  ‘It wasn’t even really the content of what she was saying, though I know it’s weird to say that you’ve been swimming at the Eaton Centre,’ I said, picking at one of my nails with another one, hoping the bit would come off without pain. ‘It was the way she was talking, and her eyes. They were wild, Min. It sounds weird, but they were wild.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound weird. It sounds like she’s really unwell.’

  Hearing it from Minnie hurt. She was a thoughtful person who wouldn’t make drama where there wasn’t some already.

  ‘I don’t think she has any idea what’s happening to her. I mean, neither do I, but it’s like she has no idea what she’s doing, or how different she’s being. It’s scaring me, and usually I’d tell her about it but I can’t just—’

  I stopped. Talking about it was making it worse. Nothing bad had happened, not really.

  Minnie was nodding. ‘I know, Ness. I know.’

  ‘What should I do?’

  ‘Has she ever been like this before?’

  I shook my head, then thought about it. Hetty had been like this before, actually. She had been like this for splotches of time ever since I had known her, though never so boldly, or with such apparent disdain for her own safety, her own wellbeing.

  I remembered the holiday we had taken the year after we finished high school, to Fraser Island, and how Hetty had climbed out of the tent early one morning to ‘see the volcano’. There was no volcano, she had whispered when she got back, hours later and burnt red, and she was confused about why she had thought there was.

  I remembered when Sean died and Hetty had told me she was Mary Magdalene after drinking half a bottle of vodka in the park near her family’s house in Heathmont—late summer, no shoes, her cheeks glowing from the evening sun. I had thought it was grief and pain, but maybe it was more about her brain slowly changing.

  My phone moved in my pocket and I heard the ring.

  Minnie moved her eyes and nodded.

  I didn’t recognise the number, but that wasn’t unusual. I only had a few numbers saved in my second-hand Blackberry. I hoped it was Hetty, somehow, and that she was herself.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Ness?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s Elaine.’

  So she was still alive, not gone like Hetty believed. I could see her leaning against the bar, those fierce scars licking the insides of her pale arms, her short hair scraped back. She suited the practicality of managing a beer barn—lifting and tossing and pushing people out the door. Telling them no when they’d had too much and wanted more.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Look, I’m calling about Hetty. She’s quit and something’s not right with her—I don’t think it has been for a while, actually, and I guess you’re the one who might be able to help, or—’

  She stopped, and I could hear the small din of music in her background. Ronnie’s wouldn’t be open yet, but she was definitely there, getting ready for another night of pulling ale into glasses in that cave.

  I waited. I wasn’t going to fill up her silence. I was sick of helping other people find their words.

  ‘I think she’s really lost it.’

  I nodded, but didn’t make a sound. I wasn’t scared of Elaine now. I realised she might have been watching Hetty all along.

  ‘Are you there?’

  I could heard the flint in her voice.

  ‘Yep, I’m here,’ I said.

  ‘I wonder if you’ve thought about helping her to go see someone? Like a psychiatrist? My sister saw one through the government program and it can be helpful, I guess.’

  I waited, hearing the push and pull of her breath through the speaker before I replied. ‘I think that’s a good idea.’

  ‘So you’re worried too?’

  It was strange to hear Elaine say the word worried. I flinched briefly at her solemnity. It was scary how far Hetty had let herself spill. This confirmed it.

  ‘Yep, I am. Leave it with me.’

  I hung up the phone, not waiting for Elaine’s voice again. Things seemed sped up and slightly slowed down, and I didn’t feel like I had time to care about goodbyes and thank-yous.

  I told Minnie I had to go. If Elaine was worried and I was worried and Dill was worried, then I needed to try to find Hetty and work something out. Minnie bundled me out the door with a salted-chocolate macaron wrapped in tissue paper.

  Walking quickly across and down towards the Eaton Centre, I remembered something I’d wanted to ask Elaine for quite a while. I pressed the green phone button on the last number and waited.

  ‘Ness.’

  ‘Yeah, hey.’

  I felt like I was getting to know Elaine pretty quickly, something I had never wanted or imagined. But she was reliable, and easy to communicate with, in a way. She didn’t mind me just saying whatever it was I needed to say, and that was helpful.

  ‘What’s Hetty been using?’

  There was a pause, and I couldn’t hear her breath this time, or any music. I wondered if she’d cut out.

  ‘Like, drugs?’ she finally asked.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well, I don’t kno
w everything. A bit of speed, I think. And she keeps buying mushrooms from my friend Tom. And she was high at work a few weeks ago, I think from them. Bit my arm and told a customer to stop reading her mind.’

  I felt anger yell inside me.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell someone? Tell me? That’s crazy!’

  I hadn’t known Hetty had been behaving erratically all over the place. I hadn’t known she was buying mushrooms over and over and using them before work. I hoped I would have done something if I had. I was sure I would have tried.

  ‘Yeah, I know. But she was normal the next day. The same old Hetty. And she was embarrassed when I told her, couldn’t remember it. Said she did that when she was tired, and that she had a really low threshold for hallucinogens.’

  I scoffed.

  ‘I don’t know what I would have done, even if I had done something. But I’m sorry I didn’t let you know. She loves you. She tells me you’re her guardian angel.’

  There was an ache at the end of Elaine’s voice and I felt it land in me. I was Hetty’s guardian, the way she had once been mine. I felt my eyes become wet and swallowed the crying down so Elaine wouldn’t hear it. I didn’t want to see how far this tender part of her could go.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘I know it’s not easy. She’s not easy.’

  We both said nothing for a while, then let each other go. Elaine asked if I could keep her updated and I agreed, asking the same of her in return. In that moment I felt like we understood each other, at least in relation to Hetty, and it felt right to type her name next to her number in my phone and press Save.

  POOL

  a quiet place in a stream

  It was cold in the Eaton Centre. I called Hetty after I’d walked through the revolving door, past three different women sitting with containers for money in front of them, their faces towards the ground. I dropped a loonie in each of their cups, trying not to seem condescending as I did it. There were so many people desperately needing help in this city, I thought, as I stood there next to them, listening to the sound of my phone calling Hetty’s.