Rewriting the Ending

by H P Tune

  “No, not at all. I’m good, really good.”

  A knee-jerk panic overcame her. “Have I, done something? Have I done something incorrectly?”

  “No, no. I didn’t mean anything like that. Relax,” Mia said quickly. “I just wondered…Well, I’m reading this book, and I suppose it’s making me think a little. Do you still have parents?”

  “Oh.” Janet squirmed back on the single recliner and crossed her legs. “I do, yes. My parents live in Ireland now, not far from Galway.”

  “Do you have a good relationship with them?”

  “Yes, I do. I always have, and it would be great to see them more often, but it’s a way to go, and it takes time and money.”

  “Do you think that people either become…someone, I suppose, because of their parents or despite them? That’s what this book is talking about at the moment, the idea that although there are so many variables and different aspects, that essentially, who we are is because either we were supported, encouraged, and directed by our parents or because we looked at who they were and resolved to become someone entirely different.”

  The concept came out a little disjoined and unclear, and Janet guessed that Mia was thinking about the meaning of what she said even as she tried to articulate it. She gave her a nod and another small smile. “That’s a reflective book that you’re reading,” she said. “It makes some sense, I suppose. How can we not be influenced by the people who raised us—whether that’s a negative or positive thing?”

  “I was raised to be a very specific person, to have the opinions that I was told to have, to believe what I was told to, and to live within the rules that were already established for me. And when I couldn’t really do that, it all fell apart.”

  Janet’s eyebrows rose. It was the most frank Mia had been with her since she’d arrived. In fact, it might also be the greatest number of words Mia had said to her at one time. She felt herself take a sharp little intake of breath as she decided what to say.

  “From what I’ve seen,” she said hesitantly, “the world gets a little bit of a shock when someone acts a certain way for a long time and then suddenly draws a line that they can’t cross. It’s like someone suddenly saying ‘no’ when they’ve spent their life saying ‘yes.’”

  “I was meant to be a trophy wife who withstood whatever was thrown my way.”

  Janet cocked her head. “And what happened when you didn’t?”

  Mia sighed heavily and drew her bottom lip into her mouth. “It all fucked up.”

  Though the language surprised Janet, she didn’t show it and just nodded slowly. “The way I see it, for what it’s worth, things will always…” She hesitated almost imperceptibly. “fuck up—to everyone everywhere. It’s what you do next that counts.”

  “I’m trying,” Mia whispered, a stray tear tracking down the side of her nose until it curved in over her lip.

  Janet gave a sad smile, although Mia was oblivious, eyes focussed on the closed book in her lap. She’d heard stories from a still-furious Martin about the things that had happened here to Mia. She had an inclination to tell her, You got fucked over is what happened. But Janet needed this job, and it was perhaps safest to pretend for now that she didn’t know.

  “Yes, you are,” was all she let herself say. “I can tell.”

  * * *

  Wandering through the centre square of Bruges for the fourth time since she arrived, Juliet kept an open umbrella close over her head. She was wrapped from head to toe in a number of layers—gloves, scarf and boots all included—and it was doing a fine job keeping away the slight drizzle of rain. Her internal dialogue as she dragged her feet from puddle to puddle was edging on a panicked self-criticism. The idea that she would arrive in Europe and be inundated with great ideas and a fluidity of writing had been spectacularly destroyed. Over the past two weeks, it had exploded into a mass of miniscule pieces. Just remnants of her hopes and dreams now lay discarded around her messy, barely secure apartment.

  But she had to somehow keep herself trying. She didn’t have a choice. She no longer had a home to return to, no job to reinstate. Failure wasn’t an option. Yet, she felt as if she were precariously close to a complete meltdown. She would probably end up in a mental health facility, rambling incoherently about a book she had to write, about the writer she once was.

  Juliet shuddered and forced the thought away; it was just a little too close to home.

  So she stopped at a corner pub, with its promise of mashed potato and German sausages and a bottled Duvel. The facility was warm and dry, though filled with an odd combination of loud tourists and seemingly quiet locals.

  She happily settled into a small booth by a window and peeled off a few outer layers. She shouldn’t be eating out; she knew that. She should be skimping on money, making cheap meals at the apartment, and focussing on writing. She should be keeping herself alive with instant coffee and marmalade on bread, the fantasy she’d had when making her plans. The thought that she would arrive and literally not be able to write hadn’t really occurred to her other than as a running joke with her editor and with Mia. The idea hadn’t been real.

  At the thought of Mia, Juliet withdrew her phone. She’d texted Mia her new number a few days ago but hadn’t heard much from her. Her finger lingered over the keys, yet she put the phone away before she typed anything. Mia needed her space, to have her time out from the world and do whatever it was she planned to do. She didn’t need Juliet, the crazy nomad that she had accidentally stumbled across in an airport for two days, texting and complaining at her.

  Juliet sighed and shook her head. She needed to get a grip and fast.

  * * *

  Curled up on her side near the edge of the king-size bed, Mia was buried deep beneath sheets and heavy blankets. If she rolled onto her back, she would be precariously balanced on the mattress, risking a two-foot fall to the plush white carpet below. She was enthralled in Juliet’s book, tears steadily flowing over the bridge of her nose and falling to the feather pillows she was propped against.

  She finally released a shuddering breath when she found herself staring at the blank inside page of the back cover. Slowly, she closed the book and tucked it under her arm, squeezing her eyes shut and crying.

  The book had remained loosely held in one arm when she awoke later that night, the lamp still on and illuminating the large room with an eerie glow. Placing the book on her bedside table, she gave it a tired, lingering glance before she switched the lamp off.

  She had questions for Juliet.

  CHAPTER 4

  Such an intense action movie should have succeeded in distracting Mia. The scenes played across the flat-screen television mounted on the wall in the lounge room, but even the brilliance of Quentin Tarantino couldn’t manage to hold her focus.

  Flicking at the screen of her iPad, Mia started a game of spider solitaire but quit after two minutes. She tried looking through her photos, but they were nothing that she hadn’t spent hours staring at over the past few months, and she eventually returned to her mail. She was thrilled that Pamela Anderson wanted to offer her diet secrets, and couldn’t be more pleased that a long-lost relative from an oil reserve in Saudi Arabia had left her a trillion dollars. Thrilled.

  Juliet had sent her a short e-mail the day before, and it was simple and polite but lacking in the kind of connection that they had seemed to form while travelling together. So Mia hadn’t responded straightaway, just waiting as she pondered what it was that Juliet’s novel had created in her and how she would go about asking Juliet about it. It had stirred so much in her, but she had to stop herself from inundating Juliet with her unfiltered reaction.

  She cast her eyes over the e-mailed text, rereading.

  Hi Mia,

  I’m trying to trick myself into thinking that if I’m e-mailing you, than it’s not actually an avoidance strategy. Because obviously, I’m on my computer, so I’m being productive. Right?

  How are you? How are things going in Scotland? Free
zing cold?

  Things are fine here, nothing too exciting to report. I can’t say I’ve managed to get the writing happening, but I’m not panicking yet. Any news to report from your side?

  :-) Juliet

  Mia’s fingers lingered over the keyboard imagery. She had to admit that one of the better skills she had learned throughout her thirteen years of private school education was an ability to touch-type, although her aptitude in multiplying matrices and using vector products were slightly less useful. She was sure she had managed to acquire other useful knowledge; it was just that nothing else was coming to mind. She had certainly developed an ability to be an absolute conniving bitch if she needed to, and in that environment, with a school of spoiled girls who were immeasurably talented at creating havoc, that skill was needed. Wearing the wrong nail polish in eighth grade had cost Mia a place on the equestrian team. Or, rather, it was her invective retort to the teasing echoing throughout the classroom that had cost her the spot.

  Now she could smile at the memory. Impassioned was one thing she had always been, though she had probably learned to contain the feeling—or had been forced to learn to contain it.

  Hello Juliet,

  It’s great to hear from you! You can’t just e-mail and say that things are “fine.” Tell me about Belgium. Have you eaten some chocolate and had at least a pint or two of beer? I know you told me that your apartment had a bed, but what’s it like? Is it okay?

  I could just keep firing questions at you, but you probably wouldn’t find that too enjoyable! So I’ll be good.

  Things are pretty good here, though it’s taking me some time to get used to the weather. I forgot how crazy making barely any sunlight and just constant drizzle is, not to mention the snow and sleet and ice. No wonder people get that depression thing over here, what’s it called? Seasonal Depression or something?

  I’ve been focussing on relaxing, long soaks in the bath and watching movies. And I’ve been doing heaps of reading, picked up some new stuff to get stuck into. Actually, I picked up your book…I think I’ve almost stopped crying. :-) Where was my heads-up?

  Amazing, by the way. Oh, and there’s a lovely owner of a B&B a couple of hours from here who is quite the fan. She’s promised us a week-long break there if I can get her a signed copy. What do you think? Up for a mini-break in the snow? It’s an incredible spot, actually—by the water…Not great for swimming, but views to die for. I’m not really making it sound appealing, am I? :-)

  Hope to hear from you soon.

  M xo

  With her fingernail tapping the screen, Mia pressed send.

  * * *

  Juliet slumped in the makeshift desk chair, shoulder blades draping themselves over its black plastic frame as her head dropped back and her eyes closed. She groaned loudly and then again. She couldn’t figure out why she hadn’t even considered the possibility that Mia would seek out her book. And not for the first time since she wrote the thing, Juliet cursed the fact that she hadn’t used a pseudonym. Her editor had told her it was silly and unnecessary, and that in this age of the Internet and YouTube, she would never be able to do an interview or media tours if she really didn’t want people to ever find out who she was. The publisher would have pulled its deal or reduced the number of copies printed if she’d insisted on it.

  She should have lied to Mia. She should have said she was an administration officer or worked in publishing. Her fallback fictitious job was always that of a non-specific office worker, but then Mia had asked, and the truth had flowed from her mouth without a second thought. She had no idea why that was. She hadn’t had any difficulty making up inconsequential lies to any other woman she had taken home. And she had never seen them again, so it hardly mattered.

  But she didn’t sleep with Mia.

  And she wanted to see her again at some point.

  She grunted—a long, varying noise, drawn out until she had no breath left. She wanted to see Mia again.

  Now, where the hell had that thought just come from?

  Motionless for a few minutes, Juliet stood up and walked to the corner of the living area where the small kitchen was. She stood at the two small benches in the corner that made up the entirety of the kitchen and switched the kettle on. It hummed into life. Once, it was possibly an automatic device, but now it just whistled until she came over and switched it off. She supposed if left alone, it would eventually burn off the water and then blow up in a display of smoke and, potentially, fire. It would probably burn the entire apartment block down, including her computer, which had nothing useful on it anyway. Maybe that wouldn’t be so disastrous?

  “Just make your tea, a nice peppermint and relax,” Juliet told herself, directing her words at the white plastic kettle. “And stop talking to yourself,” she added, finally laughing at her idiosyncrasies and tendency to panic. Not about anything major, though. With huge life dramas and disruptions to travel or health issues, she would barely bat an eyelid. But come to anything resembling emotional connectivity or someone having access to the part of her she kept in a tight vault, or someone seeing her faults, her failures? Well, that elicited the craziest of thoughts.

  Screwing up her face at the kettle’s offensively loud whistle, she turned it off and poured the boiling water into a large mug. She toyed with the teabag for a minute, tugging it up and down through the water until a pleasant odour started to permeate her senses. She tossed it into the trashcan under the sink.

  Returning to her laptop, she sat the mug aside to cool and contemplated Mia’s e-mail again. She had to respond, and she wanted to. But she wasn’t going to sit around for two days trying to figure out what to write.

  You slipped that in nicely, Mia. Very sneaky. Having someone you know read your book is a bit like standing naked in front of your greatest enemy. Awful. ;-)

  Sounds like things are going really well for you, though? You’re sounding kind of relaxed, and I have to say, I’m fairly jealous of the bath. There’s nothing better than a few candles, some music, and soaking in a steaming bath for an hour. I don’t know if I ever quite got the essence of this six-month break? Is relaxation the big goal?

  I’m with you on the weather thing. Cold weather always seems like a better idea in theory than in reality. It’s pretty cold here too, although I wouldn’t think anywhere near as chilly as you have it. And to answer your questions—I have, as a matter of fact, had a number of beers, classic Belgium, of course, and a few chocolates. There’s this little shop in town, and the chocolatier makes the absolute best white chocolate pralines. They are…Well, I’m not sure I have the words. Melt-in-your-mouth orgasmic bliss.

  The apartment is okay. I mean, it’s not the Taj Mahal or anything, but it’s quiet and clean. I really need to get out and buy a decent desk chair, though; I’m just using one of these plastic seats from a dining setting, which is about as comfortable as sitting on a line of pins. I think that’s my only complaint, really. I’m in Europe—what’s not to like, right?

  I might try and do a few days of writing and then catch the train down to Paris for the day as my reward. I can go and buy a coffee and stare at the Tour Eiffel. I’ve never actually seen it with snow, so I should try and time it for that. I’ll make sure I send you a photo! :-) Jealous? You may have a bath, but…

  Okay, I better get back to ‘work’. (Can you read my non-verbals from there?)

  Take care, Juliet :-)

  * * *

  It was late in the afternoon when Mia read Juliet’s e-mail, though she worked her way through every word three times before she set her iPad aside. The e-mail was positive enough and polite, while somewhat casual, but it lacked an authenticity Mia couldn’t quite put her finger on. Juliet had skilfully avoided Mia’s subtle hint to bring up some talk about the book, and she supposed it wasn’t surprising. Juliet hadn’t been particularly forthcoming with details about her life, and neither had Mia. With time, Mia could see herself telling her entire life story to Juliet, but she wasn’t sure that was reci
procated. And maybe she was just reading too much into an e-mail. It was a crappy form of communication at the best of times. Still, it was all they had. She left the reply until the following morning.

  When she awoke the next day, curled up in bed and not at all interested in facing the cold, Mia thought briefly about the vivid dreams she’d had throughout the night— bright images and loud noises that had awakened her multiple times, her subconscious playing tricks on her. In one dream, she had been running at full speed and effort down a long corridor, checking every wall for a gap, and frantically turning door handles, each one locked. And still the infant’s crying she could hear in the distance had become louder and more distressed, even as she felt herself pulling further and further away.

  Pushing an extra pillow up behind her, Mia shifted herself on the bed, covers pulled up to just above her waist. She wore a thigh-length black camisole, bought not long after her marriage had ended, a rebellious act almost. He had always wanted her to wear one for him, and she never would. Wearing it made her feel empowered now.

  Good morning Juliet, it’s great to hear from you!

  I have to confess that though it’s nine in the morning here, I’m still in bed. And I only really just woke up—crazy! I don’t think I’ve ever slept in this long; I’m loving it. Had some super-crazy dreams last night, and I hadn’t even had a nightcap. Bizarre!

  Relaxation is pretty much the goal, to answer your question. Things have been…Hmmm, how should I phrase this? I’ve been through a bit of a rough time. Lots of stuff has been happening, and I had the opportunity to do this. So I thought, why not? It’s gotten me away from things, given me some space, and for the first time in ages, I feel like I can breathe again.

  I’m not sure why you would think that someone reading your book is awful? I mean, Juliet, it was incredible. You should be standing on street corners and selling it—I don’t know how these things work, but you should somehow tell the world that this is a book they need to read. And I hear it’s up for some awards. When do you hear if it’s been shortlisted?