A Shadow's Breath

by Nicole Hayes

  Jack and Yuki are waist-deep in the waves, clinging together and shrieking at the cold. The pull of the surf drawing them even closer before pushing them back, forcing them apart only so they rush into each other’s arms again, the sun glistening against their skin, laughter turning their faces upwards, towards each other.

  ‘They’re pretty cute, hey?’ Lara’s tone is light, the same careful lightness everyone else uses around her, as though even the slightest hint of gravity will unsettle her, shatter her resolve. She isn’t entirely sure they’re wrong.

  Despite the cruel twist in her heart, she nods. ‘Yeah. They’re great, actually.’

  Lara stretches out beside her, her long tanned legs, fair hairs catching the sunlight, a fine gold chain around her ankle. ‘It’s hard to forget, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘He really admired you, Tess,’ she says.

  A flush rises to Tessa’s cheeks. She trains her focus squarely on Yuki, fighting the urge to pick up and run.

  ‘I mean, he loved you. He was completely in love with you.’ Lara’s voice catches, and Tessa remembers what Zane said. ‘But more than that, he thought you were so strong. So together. You know? Capable.’

  ‘Little did he know.’ She still struggles with the past tense, the simplicity of it, as if is becoming was is all a matter of a vowel and a consonant. As if it’s a word, two words, and no more.

  ‘He thought your art was amazing,’ Lara says. ‘I do too.’

  Tessa’s fingers dig into the sand between them. Tiny granules sticking under her nails. She digs deeper, feels the packed damp sand beneath, wants to smash it with her fist except she’d probably break a bone.

  ‘How’s it going?’ Lara says. ‘Your painting. Nick had mentioned something about a course? A program at the retreat, wasn’t it?’

  Tessa shrugs. ‘I’m not really into it anymore. It was just a phase.’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ Lara snorts, her pretty nostrils flaring, the sound surprising coming from her.

  Tessa stands up, wipes the sand off her fingers and smiles stiffly at Lara. ‘I need a swim.’

  The water is cold and shocking. She lets the wave close over her head, curling her feet beneath her, spinning her around and over. The feeling of surrender is delicious, and she tastes salt and grit when her face meets the sandy bottom. She doesn’t surface immediately but holds her breath, her heart hammering in her chest. The temptation to stay under the water, in the wild of the ocean, powerful, like a promise, or an answer. But almost at the instant she thinks it, she bursts through the foaming swell, gasping for air, half crying, half laughing. How could she? The words she least expects to hear, startling and sharp, accusatory.

  How could she even think it when he had no choice? When it was taken from him.

  A shuddering sob moves through her as she stands, the waves punishing her as she struggles back to shore, Lara and Zane, Yuki and Jack, watching, up to their waists in whitecaps, heading out to meet her, steady and determined. Not urgent at all.

  They trust her. They trust that she won’t add to their loss, enormous and unfathomable as it already is.

  And she decides then that she won’t let them down.

  ‘Here,’ she says to Yuki, who’s flicking through a magazine. They’re sitting around the kitchen table, cold glasses of lemonade in front of them. She holds Yuki’s phone out to her, shows her a screenshot of a film school application. ‘You need to start rehearsing.’

  Yuki looks up. ‘I’m not going to NIDA.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Yuki laughs. ‘Because we’re going to Melbourne, like we agreed. Because there are film schools there.’

  ‘Yuke. No.’

  Yuki cocks her head. ‘What is going on, Teresa Gilham?’

  Tessa sits up and looks at her best friend. Her most loyal and constant companion, from before, all the way through, and even now, after. ‘This is where you want to go. I know it is. You don’t want to let me down.’

  Yuki frowns. ‘You flatter yourself, sunshine.’

  ‘Really?’ Her voice dry as sandpaper.

  ‘It’s across the country. Miles from here. Miles from Melbourne too.’

  ‘So? Are you afraid?’

  ‘Let it go, Tess.’

  ‘No. You wouldn’t for me.’

  ‘It’s not the same.’

  ‘It’s exactly the same.’

  Yuki stands up and heads to the fridge. Opens the door and leans on it. ‘Mum!’ she calls out. ‘Any milk?’

  Tessa laughs. ‘Seriously? You’re staring inside it.’

  Yuki yawns. ‘I didn’t sleep last night.’

  ‘I know. I heard you. All that sexting with Jack.’

  ‘We weren’t sexting! We were talking.’ But Yuki’s face is flushed and she’s grinning evilly.

  ‘Please. Will you look at it? Read the application. At least think about it.’

  Yuki groans. ‘Fine. Whatever.’

  ‘So,’ Tessa says, picking up her bag, ‘tomorrow we start rehearsing?’

  Yuki shakes her head. ‘I said I’d consider it!’

  ‘You want to be good, don’t you? Want to be the best? This is NIDA – you have to be outstanding. And it’s still no guarantee.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. I’ll be there.’ Yuki smiles then, a quiet, careful smile, very un-Yuki-like, but also Yuki all over. ‘You’ll be okay, Tess.’

  Tessa crosses the space between them and wraps Yuki in a hug. ‘I’ve got your back,’ she says into Yuki’s hair. She’d dyed it back to her natural colour over summer.

  ‘And I’ve got yours.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘It’s not like you’re moving away forever.’

  ‘No. Not yet.’ She heads to the front door, with Yuki in tow. ‘See you tomorrow?’

  A huge, dramatic sigh from Yuki. ‘Yeah, yeah. See you tomorrow.’

  Tessa gets off the bus and heads for the house, her duffel bag slung over her shoulder. The cool, lush green of the yard is perfect and even as always. She hurries up the steps, feeling light-headed and a little afraid.

  Mrs Kostas answers before she rings the bell. ‘Tessa.’

  ‘Hi, Marina.’ The shyness between them disappeared the moment the Kostases arrived at the hospital, carrying them through the funeral and the days after. The shared grief and confusion bringing a rawness to how they dealt with each other. No pretence, no lies. Just the truth of loving the same boy and losing him in a single, heart-wrenching moment. The sense that all they’ve lost they’ve lost together.

  She met Nick’s brother, Alex, at the funeral and saw him again before he headed back to Melbourne. Fairer and slightly shorter than Nick, he had the same eyes, the same dark lashes and a quick, easy smile. She gave him Nick’s watch, although he tried to dissuade her. Both of them staring at the white face, the brown leather band, before he cleared his throat and thanked her. Then he invited Tessa to visit him and his girlfriend in Melbourne some weekend soon, and one day she might. Nick’s dad, though, can barely look at her, so she’s kept her distance, except when she can be sure Marina is alone. Like now.

  ‘I can’t stay – I have some stuff to do. I was just hoping you’d be home.’

  ‘And here I am,’ Marina says, smiling.

  Inside, Marina clasps her hands in her lap as they sit on two lounge chairs, facing each other. Tessa hesitates before extracting a sketch from her bag.

  Marina draws a sharp breath. She doesn’t move for a long minute before she reaches out with a shaky hand and holds the picture of Nick, the one he thought was an outline, unfinished. After the beach, she’d considered it anew. Saw the openness of the lines as truer, somehow, in representing who he was, the softness around the edges accentuating the sharp, thoughtful look in his eyes. She’s proud of it, feels closer to him when she looks at it.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ Marina whispers.

  ‘It’s for you.’

  Marina’s eyes glisten with tears, a sad smile creasing her face ar
ound her eyes. And then she’s crying softly, and Tessa wonders if she should’ve come.

  ‘I’m sorry if it upsets you,’ she says. ‘You don’t have to take it,’ she adds, and reaches for the frame.

  ‘No,’ Marina says, shaking her head. ‘It’s … It’s him. I love it.’ She sets it aside then, as though it’s too bright to look at, and kisses Tessa’s cheek. ‘Thank you.’

  As Tessa rises to leave, Marina clears her throat, and she turns back to face her.

  ‘Nick was so proud of your work. I can see why.’ She steps closer, forcing Tessa to look her in the eye. ‘You need to do whatever you need to do. I understand that. And maybe it isn’t art. Maybe it isn’t university. But promise me something.’

  Tessa lifts her chin, frightened of what Nick’s mum is about to say.

  ‘Promise me you’ll make it matter.’

  Tessa fumbles with her bag, hoists it onto her shoulder. ‘I’m not special. I can’t change anything.’

  Marina tilts her head, that same sad smile on her lips. ‘I disagree, Tess. But that’s not what I mean. I’m not asking you to change the world, just to be your best self.’ She shrugs. ‘That’s all any of us can do.’

  The familiarity of the room, the smell of paint and varnish and canvas, welcomes her like a hug. The house is quiet, empty. She turns on her phone and scrolls through the messages. She has a new one now, but the girl at the outlet in Beringal transferred all the data over for her, and afterwards she’d read the messages from that day, the ones from her mum that she’d ignored.

  She finds them now and reads them again.

  Tessa – don’t go home. It’s not safe.

  The same text three times in a row, then a long gap before the final one, right before Tessa and Nick arrived at the pub, right before she’d believed the worst.

  Doug is on his way. Stay where you are.

  Her mum had been telling the truth. She slides the phone into her pocket and stands at the easel. The brush feels like a caress in her hand, the paint glistening and silken under her fingers as she rubs and blends. The colours glow as she covers the canvas, streaks of yellow and pink, violet and mauve, filling the edges.

  ‘Hey.’ The voice startles her, even though she knew she wouldn’t be alone for long. Her mum hovers in the doorway.

  ‘Hey.’

  ‘I … wasn’t expecting you.’

  ‘Me neither.’ She sets down her paintbrush and looks at her mum.

  Ellen offers a crooked smile, puzzled but waiting.

  ‘The house looks good.’ All the work Ellen had done is nearing an end. The lawns are neat and the gardens have picket-fence edging. An explosion of summer wildflowers have bloomed under the windows out the front. The inside of the house has been painted a crisp, clean white.

  ‘I’m glad you came,’ Ellen says into the silence. She sees Tessa’s bag, and lifts an eyebrow.

  Tessa nods as Ellen approaches the easel. Both of them stand before it as if it holds an answer to a question neither has voiced.

  ‘I think I owe you an apology –’

  But Ellen holds up her hand like Nick does. Like Nick did. ‘No, you don’t.’

  Tessa isn’t convinced, but she knows there are lots of ways to apologise. There’s plenty of time for that. ‘How do you do it?’ she asks, her voice little more than a whisper.

  Ellen seems to be waiting for her to continue, and Tessa wonders if she’ll have to find the right words, when her mum sighs quietly. ‘One day at a time, I guess.’

  Tessa glances out the window to where the shed used to be. Ellen had demolished it finally. Gave all the furniture away, threw out everything else. She’d asked Tessa first and she’d agreed. It was a new start for them both.

  ‘The swings look good.’ Freshly painted in bright primary colours, stark against the faded lawn.

  Ellen follows Tessa’s gaze. ‘I thought I’d clean them up a bit. Give them to somebody with kids. Maybe the Kesslers.’

  They both stare into that distance, the empty spot filled with too many unmentionable things.

  ‘It gets easier,’ her mum says. ‘It won’t go away – not completely – but it will get easier.’ She spreads her arms in a kind of surrender. ‘I’m probably the last person to ask.’ But she stands taller, because she’s trying. ‘It gets easier with time.’

  Tessa has no idea how an ache as large as a mountain, the shape of a whole person, can fade or lessen when it feels so total and fixed.

  ‘It’s amazing, really –’ Ellen’s smile is a little awed – ‘the way we do it, day after day, with no good reason except, well, for me, it was you. Which was a great reason – the best reason – although I wasn’t up to it. I hope I can be now.’

  Tessa shifts on her feet, feeling the weight of the words settle around them like a blanket, thick and heavy but, also, reassuring. This is it, she realises. The moment she can choose. ‘You did fine, Mum. You’re doing fine.’

  Ellen’s forehead furrows, not quite ready to accept that. ‘Still,’ she says, ‘it’s quite beautiful when you think about it.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Living. Life. Knowing what might lie in the shadows. Or not knowing. Every day we do it, and every day we get better at it. Even though it could end at any second.’

  Somewhere a dog barks, and Tessa feels a cool breeze against her cheeks, the faintest tickle of air. She hugs herself, rubs her arms. ‘I’m not sure how to do this.’

  ‘No. Me neither.’

  ‘But I’m going to try.’

  ‘Okay.’

  She looks at her painting, the beginning of something bright and new but also unknown. There is possibility in that, and mystery too. She doesn’t know what it will reveal to her, whether it will work or end up discarded in a heap. Whether it will open new doors, or test her patience, or erode her passion. Or do all of the above. She decides then that if she painted her life it would be all of the colours – an intricate blend of the brightest and boldest, the shades in between, glimmering and shifting in the dazzling light.

  Her mum leans in, considering the canvas. ‘I love it. It feels so …’ She smiles. ‘I don’t know exactly.’

  ‘Alive?’ Tessa offers.

  ‘Yes. Alive.’ Ellen laughs and runs her fingers over the tub of paints on the easel ledge, the tubes clinking against each other, some half full, some almost empty, others almost bursting. ‘I’ve always been a little envious, actually,’ she says after a moment. She looks at Tessa shyly.

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘You and your dad drawing, painting … When you’re doing it you’re so completely lost in it. So peaceful. So full.’

  ‘That’s what Nick used to say.’

  Ellen gently tucks a strand of Tessa’s hair behind her ear. Leaves her hand resting against Tessa’s cheek. ‘Yeah. He was a smart kid, that one. Really special.’

  A tightness constricts Tessa’s throat, but the tears, for now, don’t come. She’s grateful because they wear her out. ‘You should try,’ Tessa says.

  ‘Painting?’ Ellen’s hand drops. She shakes her head. ‘No. It’s your thing. I didn’t mean to interrupt.’

  Tessa straightens. ‘You didn’t interrupt. I was going to stop anyway. I need to unpack.’ There’s a flicker in Ellen’s expression at these words, and Tessa is glad she said it out loud. Small pieces. This she can manage.

  She reaches for the painting with both hands and sets it against the wall to dry. It’s not done, not yet, but there’s time. She doesn’t know where it’s going, or what it might be, but it’s ready when she is. And she’s looking forward to that time.

  She takes a blank canvas, feels the smooth woven fabric across it, the thick varnish, and sets it squarely on the easel. Then she holds out a clean paintbrush.

  Ellen waves it away. ‘I wouldn’t even know where to start.’

  ‘That’s the best part. You get to make it up.’

  ‘Do you mean now?’

  ‘Yes, now.’ She places the brush in her m
um’s hand and shows her how to hold it, how to rest it across her fingers so she can feel the ridges of the canvas when it touches the surface, the angle it needs to ensure each stroke is even and clean.

  Her mum hesitates, but Tessa holds her hand steady, cupping it, and together they touch it to the palette. Then Tessa lets go and steps back, while Ellen holds the tip near the canvas, as though asking for permission.

  Tessa rubs her injured shoulder, still stiff from the surgery. It’ll be a slow road to recovery, but it’s already better, the ache beginning to fade, each day a little closer to being whole again.

  ‘Go on, Mum,’ Tessa says, smiling, determined to give it one more try. ‘What are you waiting for?’

  I’m going to start with my ever reliable, always patient editorial team at Penguin Random House Australia, specifically Zoe Walton and Catriona Murdie, owners of the sharpest eyes and most judicious pens in all the land. Thank you for shepherding this book from vaguely formed idea to published novel. I couldn’t do it without you. To Dorothy Tonkin, Zoe Bechara, Suzannah Katris and the whole marketing and publicity team for the work I know you do and all the stuff I never see. A special thank you to Christa Moffitt of Christabella Designs for the stunning covers that have graced all three of my novels so far – artworks that could easily be hanging on gallery walls – and thank you again, Zoe, for ensuring each one has come together.

  To my friend and agent, Elizabeth Troyeur, for always knowing when to hold my hand, when to nod sympathetically and when to kick me in the backside.

  The Australian writing community, particularly the YA folk, are about the most generous, thoughtful and collegial bunch of people I’ve ever known. There is simply not enough room to list everyone who’s helped me – even in the last year – so here’s a heartfelt thank you to the keepers of the flame: librarians, teachers, booksellers and the whole #LoveOzYA crowd, especially Sue Osborne, Miffy Farquharson, Connor Borchard-Burns and Fran McKechnie. Most of all, though, thank you to the readers who continue to embrace our Australian stories.