A Shadow's Breath

by Nicole Hayes

  ‘You’re glowing,’ he said, quiet surprise in his voice.

  Her hand went to her flushed cheeks. ‘It’s hot.’

  ‘It is.’ He kissed her so swiftly that she barely registered what he was doing before it was over.

  She felt the sting of tears at the backs of her eyes and turned away so he wouldn’t see. She cleared her throat, shook herself mentally. Get it together, Tess! She had a job to do, and she would bloody well do it. She headed towards the canvas section, not daring to look at Nick.

  The canvases stood against the back wall, every combination of size and shape, as well as directions for how to customise. She knew she could have ordered online, but she’d wanted to feel them, their texture, their thickness, their give. She ran a finger along the surfaces of the floor stock, felt the patterned bumps and microscopic crisscross, others already primed and smooth. Double-coated. Triple-coated. Double thick. Triple thick.

  ‘I’m assuming this all means something to you,’ Nick said beside her.

  She laughed. ‘No! Hardly.’ But that wasn’t quite true, and she smiled then. Sure again. Sure of herself.

  She flipped through the stack leaning in the far corner and chose four canvases, then studied the easels. She found one that seemed the right height, and looked at the price. She sucked in air at what it would mean for her savings.

  Fuck it. She was doing this.

  The coffee was bitter and too hot, but it was as good as they were likely to get in Beringal. She decided to let it cool and bit into her chicken-and-avocado focaccia. A chunk of avocado slipped out and landed on her plate. She shoved it back in and got a better grip on the focaccia. Nick was oblivious, demolishing a toasted ham-and-cheese sandwich, washing it down with great gulps of chocolate milkshake.

  ‘So. You and Lara are good friends.’ She said it as lightly as she could, hating herself a tiny bit anyway.

  Nick raised an eyebrow. ‘Sure. I guess.’

  She’d started now. No point going back. ‘It must be weird … you know … seeing her.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You dated her, didn’t you?’

  Nick sat back. ‘We went out twice.’

  ‘Right. So it’s weird.’

  His lips curved. ‘It’s a small town, Tess. Smaller now that there’s one school. That’s going to happen.’

  She nodded. She knew all about how small the town was. ‘So why only twice? Lara seems really nice. Everyone likes her. And she’s … really pretty. Gorgeous.’

  Nick tilted his head. ‘She is really nice.’

  ‘And gorgeous.’

  ‘Yes. I guess.’

  ‘You guess?’

  He blew out air. ‘She’s gorgeous. Fucking gorgeous. Is that better?’

  No. Not at all. ‘I’m just saying …’

  ‘What? What are you saying?’

  ‘I just don’t understand.’ Why am I doing this?

  ‘You’re asking why not her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Lara is great, but …’

  Tessa waited, not sure what she wanted to hear. Not sure if anything could fix the race in her pulse, the twist of her chest when she thought of them together. ‘But?’

  He shook his head. ‘She’s not you.’ He laughed shortly, as though no clearer on this than Tessa. ‘No one is.’

  Tessa stands perfectly still, the only sound the pounding of her heart in her ears. She closes her eyes, ignoring the wooziness that descends, straining to hear beyond the noise inside her body.

  Birdcalls, thin and sharp. The crackle and snap of distant movement – more birds, perhaps? Other animals. Nothing that sounds even remotely human, though this isn’t surprising. The bushfires that had ravaged the landscape two years before meant that the old paths had been sealed off, deemed impassable, and the tourists had stopped coming ever since. That had been why she’d thought of it – this place. In those moments when she’d craved escape, couldn’t think beyond getting away. She knew this part of the national park would be deserted. It always was when she’d come here with her family, with the Frasers, when she and Yuki were little girls. That perfect peace, the clarity of an open sky, the anonymity of the wild, unforgiving bush. It called to her, reminded her of what family felt like.

  The sharp stab in her chest is just an extension of her ruined shoulder, she tells herself. Not the raw hurt that threatens, even now, to overwhelm her. But the look in her mum’s eyes … Was it hours or days before? That rage alive and deep inside her when she thought of them together.

  ‘No!’ she says out loud, her eyes flying open, her voice cutting through the quiet, startling herself and a nearby flock of cockatoos. The sky fills with birds shrieking their protest, white against the stark blue of the sky, the panicked whoosh! and thump of flapping wings fighting for space amid the chaos of their hasty retreat. Her breath catches and she leans against a scrawny eucalypt, its papery bark hanging in shreds from its trunk.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Nick says, his bloodied, swollen face proof that it’s anything but.

  She shakes her head. ‘It won’t stop,’ she whispers.

  ‘One thing at a time,’ he says, echoing his mantra.

  One thing at a time. She rubs her eyes and nods. ‘I’m okay.’

  He smiles. ‘I know you are.’

  A sudden anger takes hold of her. How dare he tell her how she feels! He’s half the reason it’s all so messed up. She wants to yell at him, scream into his face, Why you too?! After everything we said, why you too?

  Except he might answer. He might tell the truth. And that’s more terrifying than the thought of dying here.

  She turns away and tucks her wrecked arm more comfortably into its sling, stalling for time. She pictures the crazy inside her, gives it the form of a wolf, rabid and howling, focuses on the image of it being corralled into a cage, the cage door shutting, a huge padlock in place, and suddenly it’s so quiet she can hear the blood in her veins. Except, she realises abruptly, it’s not her blood she can hear. She closes her eyes again, strains forward –

  There. As distinct as the cockatoos’ cries. Quiet and distant but clear as glass …

  The river.

  His lips tasted of Coke and his breath had the faintest hint of garlic, but his mouth was velvet and cool, as firm and safe as anything she’d known, so there wasn’t a thing she would change. Not one thing.

  She pressed against him, feeling his whole body respond. They were curled together on his couch, in the family room, his arm around her. The TV was tuned to The Decade in Review, and Tessa could hear the faint tones of Lorde and Disclosure harmonising on ‘Royals’ as Nick found her mouth again, and they were lost in an endless kiss. Her whole body was on fire and all she wanted was to vanish into the bliss of being loved.

  She ran her hands along his spine, snuggled deeper into the shape of him, her skin singing, the thump of her heart impossibly fast. Impossibly loud. Could he hear it? Hear what he was doing to her? And then she became aware of his rapid heartbeat against her chest, and knew he felt it too.

  She settled back, let the floatiness carry her, until something else took over – a picture in the recess of her mind, buried in the darkness. Purples and browns, black and foreboding. She couldn’t make it out, but it closed in on her, forced its way forward, filling her head, even as it refused to reveal itself. Something moved deep in her gut, so cold she began to shiver. Sudden, inexplicable, suffocating. The air like a blanket pushing her down, the walls and ceiling moving towards her, the world closing in. Fear sliced through her body.

  Tessa gasped and pushed Nick off her. She blindly rolled away, scrambling to her feet, almost tripping over her own shoes.

  ‘Tess?’

  She turned around to face him, colour drained from her cheeks.

  ‘What happened?’ He didn’t look angry, as she’d expected, but worried. ‘Did I hurt you? God, Tess, I’m sorry.’

  Tessa swallowed and tried to slow her breathing. What could she say? Images she couldn’t
identify had flooded her mind? She was having bizarre feelings she couldn’t explain? ‘No. It’s not you.’ She closed her eyes, but the colours filled the darkness, and she had to open them to clear her head. ‘I don’t feel … well.’ The queasiness in the pit of her belly as real as anything else she was feeling.

  ‘Do you need water?’ he asked. ‘Or maybe sit down?’

  She shook her head, felt another wave of nausea. ‘I’d better go.’

  He stepped back, nodded, an uncertain line to his lips. ‘I’m really sorry.’

  She touched his cheek. ‘It’s not you. Really.’

  He kissed her then, his lips a whisper against hers, silencing her and thrilling her at once. He pulled away, eyes crinkled and sad. ‘I’ll take you home.’

  ‘Let’s go.’

  The more she concentrates, the louder the sound of running water, eclipsing everything else. She can see it as though it were in front of her: the clear river gurgling its path over black, slick pebbles, gathering bark and leaves on the way. The bright green moss on the edges, on broken branches and smooth boulders, trapped forever in the damp, fertile bush, a luscious haven amid the vast expanse of drought-stricken bracken and scrub. The vision of water fills all the space in her head, plugging the gaps that allowed the darkness in. Her thirst overwhelming, the need to feel the cold trickle of moisture against her tongue, her skin, her burning scalp, threatening to drive her mad. A great burst of energy pushes her forward so that her feet move faster, one after the other …

  She’s jogging now – an awkward, jolting gait – forcing her way through the jagged growth, the green darkness ahead calling to her. She checks behind her, sees Nick stumbling along with similar urgency. That long, loping stride wobbly from his injured knee, but the look on his face as sharp and hopeful as hers.

  She eases up then, seeing the pain in his face, knows it reflects her own. And yet the pull of water is so powerful she feels like she could fly. She reaches out to Nick, grabs his good hand and pulls him along. Loose pebbles and rocks roll underfoot. Fast, desperate, letting gravity take them down that ever-sloping mountain.

  And then the ground disappears beneath her feet, the rugged earth turns to air, and they’re falling, soaring through space and time, until the hard reality of the dusty path greets Tessa head on with a thump.

  The ice blue of a pale wintry sky, clear and cheerful but, in its glare, weak. Insipid. The knowledge that she was doing something she shouldn’t. Grass under bare feet, damp and soft as she sprinted across the park. It didn’t stop her, though. She was used to being shoeless, even in winter, mud and dirt between her toes, the earth like clay, the colour of rust.

  Anger bit at her heels, burned deep in her bones. This was what drove her on, the thing behind her, not the thing ahead –

  Tessa’s eyes flew open as she gasped for air; the taste of metal and something foul in her mouth. She took a long minute to gain her bearings.

  Heat radiated from the east-facing window, her room already uncomfortably hot. Sunlight spilled through the curtains, pooling in the middle of the floor, glancing off the tired floorboards. Tessa pulled the sheet higher, to her chin, trying to shift the dream that woke her from her mind, unsure of what it had meant. Instead, she focused on the memory of Nick’s kiss from the night before, the feel of his body against hers, the desire that had coursed through her, the love. Until.

  Until.

  Until she’d freaked out for no good reason.

  He’d dropped her off, apologised again, breaking her heart even as he melted it. His thumb tracing her lips as they’d stood on the rickety porch, the light on, welcoming her. She couldn’t remember the last time that light had worked, yet there it was, bright and new, a halo of bugs around it. She’d stood on her toes and kissed him again, whispered her sorry, then they’d taken the art supplies inside, Nick returning to the car for her mum’s drycleaning, which she hung on the laundry door. It was late; her mum’s door shut, the house quiet.

  They’d stood inside the front door, everything back where it needed to be, both of them searching for something neither seemed able to name, and then he’d said he should go, hesitating as though expecting her to argue. She wanted to. She wanted him to stay the night. Felt it in her bones. But as she kissed him again, the darkness closed in and she knew that it wouldn’t let go. He left, and the house felt so empty and cold that she was tempted to wake her mum just to hear her voice. But she didn’t. She could do this without anyone else. She’d done it before.

  Tessa peeled back the sheet, stretched as she stood. It was a new day. And she had a brand-new studio to work in. She pulled on a pair of shorts, tugged her white singlet loose from the waistband and slid on her red slippers.

  Tessa considered the blank canvas. The sunroom was bright and overly warm, but at least there was space now that the furniture had been stacked in one corner. She had half the room for her work, and it’d already taken the shape of a studio, with a faded sheet for a drop cloth, the old dresser with two missing drawer handles littered with a range of brushes. She’d moved the wonky table to her side to rest the palette on, and spare canvases were propped against the wall.

  She was ready.

  She squeezed paint onto the palette, small globules of colour: indigo, white, grey. Mixing, blending and smoothing before turning to the canvas. She let her hands guide themselves as if from memory.

  The sky came first. The insipid wintry sky, captured in arctic-blue as it filled the edges of the canvas. She didn’t know what it meant – this sky, the feeling of floating, this dream that she now knew she’d had before. But the colours came to life under her hand, the sense of place and time forming as she worked. It was a memory, she realised, and instead of stifling it, pushing it away, she let it rise to the surface. The image was too sharp and overwhelming to ignore any longer.

  Tessa stopped and opened the bottle of paint thinner, the smell reaching into her belly so that she had to steady herself against the easel. The images crystallised, stark against the dark of her mind. She leant in, touched paint to canvas, the brush shivering in her hand. She checked her grip then pressed the tip to the palette, examining the fine bristles before applying them to the canvas, this time with the steady hand of a surgeon.

  The sun moved to the other side of the house as the day wore on. Dust motes floated around her. Outside someone was mowing their lawn. The motor caught abruptly, hiccupped and choked, then roared back to life. She could feel the heat against the window, her eyes finding the shed. The door seemed warped and tilted to one side. Stuck there from when she’d opened it. The bottom hinge was skewiff, a bolt having come loose. The temptation to straighten the door, to fix the hinge, powerful.

  She shook it off and returned her focus to the palette. Squirted out a blob of titanium white and, through the blue, she wove in some feathery clouds, fine wisps that could only be seen up close, streaking their edges with the faintest silver, layered subtly without blending. It was all about the timing, ensuring the paint was the right level of dry, the white just wet enough to sit atop the background colour, the silver so fine as to nestle beside it rather than on top. Careful that the paint wasn’t so thick that it had texture or density. She wanted the clouds to be felt more than seen, like the rumble of dread before it’s taken hold, the sense of it beginning deep in your gut. Like tears at the backs of your eyes –

  Or drying on cheeks still puffy with baby fat that she wouldn’t outgrow for another year. Anger blurring her vision as she sprinted home, no idea of what awaited her –

  Tessa jerked her hand away and stepped back.

  ‘The room looks great!’

  Her mum’s voice startled her, and she stared at Ellen for a beat too long, before she dipped her head behind the painting, feigning deep and intense interest in an imagined smudge. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Is it too hot? I could get a fan? Maybe pick one up in Beringal after work on Monday.’

  Tessa looked at her mum, feeling that same complicated
twist in her chest. Frustration at past loss mixed with the burning ache of hope: what might be and what can’t be wrestling for control. ‘It’s okay. Maybe after Christmas.’

  Christmas. A day she’d come to fear. What would it look like this year? Next year? She could barely remember Christmas before her dad died; the last few years blurred into one another. Was that the time she got the bike? Or was Gran still alive then? Her dad had helped her adjust the seat – she remembered that. But was that before he was sick, or just one of his good days? Or had she made that bit up? Perhaps he’d never fixed her bike at all.

  ‘Let me know if you need anything,’ her mum called out as she headed back to the kitchen, the creeping sense of this new normal feeling less foreign, less forced, with each day. Her mum hadn’t hesitated in the doorway this time, just stepped right in. She’d smiled openly and commented as though confident Tessa would listen.

  Tessa set down the brush; she was done for now. She finished tidying up and went to her bedroom, where her phone was lying on her bed. She picked it up, swiped through her contacts to Yuki, her friend’s crazed smile staring up at her by her number – the photo taken mid-crazy, her eyes bulging, her face contorted. Tessa smiled. Yuki must’ve changed it at school when she wasn’t paying attention. She tapped her number.

  ‘Hi, Tess.’

  ‘Hey.’

  ‘God. Can’t believe we have school again,’ Yuki groaned. ‘This VCE crap is full on.’

  Tessa sprawled out on her bed and settled in. ‘So … what’s up?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Yuki said quickly. ‘Just the usual.’

  ‘Is someone there, Yuke?’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘You’re acting weird.’

  ‘Oh, Mia keeps storming in, demanding I make her a hot chocolate.’

  Tessa laughed. ‘So be a good sister …’

  ‘Yeah right.’

  Tessa wanted to go there and make Mia her drink, slump on Yuki’s bed with her while they laughed at Catfish or stupid cat memes. But her silence was odd and felt forced, and she wasn’t sure she’d be welcome.