Sam closed his eyes.
'Your daughter nearly drowned,' said Clementine again. 'And you feel responsible.'
Sam raised his eyes to the ceiling and exhaled. 'I don't have post-traumatic stress syndrome, Clementine. Jesus. That's humiliating. That's pathetic.'
Clementine took her phone out of her jacket pocket.
'Don't Google,' pleaded Sam. 'Trust me. You're always telling me to stop Googling. It never tells you anything good.'
'I am so Googling,' said Clementine, and she felt her breath quicken, because she was suddenly seeing all his behaviour ever since the barbeque from a different angle, through a new lens, and she thought of her father saying the other night, 'He isn't quite right in the head', and how she hadn't listened, not really, not the way you'd listen if somebody had said, 'Your husband is sick.'
'Symptoms of post-traumatic stress syndrome,' Clementine read out loud. 'Replaying the event over and over. You just said you do that!'
'I'm glad you're so happy about it,' said Sam with a ghost of a smile.
'Sam, you're like a textbook case! Insomnia. Yes. Irritability. Yes. Solution? Seek treatment.' She was speaking facetiously, ironically, kind of idiotically, as if all this was a great joke, as if none of it really mattered, as if her stomach wasn't twisting, as if she didn't feel that this was her only shot, because lately his mood could change in an instant, and in another hour he might refuse to talk about this at all, and he'd be gone again.
'Look. I don't need to seek treatment,' began Sam.
'Yes, you do,' said Clementine, her eyes on the phone. 'Long-term effects: divorce. Substance abuse. Are you abusing substances?'
'I'm not abusing substances,' said Sam. 'Stop reading that stuff. Put your phone away. Let's go back to class.'
'I really think you need to talk to someone, to a professional someone,' said Clementine. She'd turned into her mother. Next thing she'd be suggesting 'a lovely psychologist'. 'Will you please talk to someone?'
Sam tipped his head back and studied the ceiling again. Finally he looked back at her.
'I might,' he said.
'Good,' said Clementine.
She rested her head against the lockers and closed her eyes. She felt a sense of inevitability, as if her marriage were a giant ship and it was too late to change its course now - it was either going to hit the iceberg or not, and nothing she said or did right now would make any difference. If her mother had been observing this interaction, she'd tell Clementine she was wrong, that she needed to keep talking, to say everything that was on her mind, to communicate, to leave no possibility for misinterpretation.
If her father were there, he'd put his finger to his lips and say, Shh.
Clementine settled for two words.
'I'm sorry,' she said.
She meant, I'm sorry this happened. I'm sorry I didn't see you were going through this. I'm sorry I maybe haven't loved you the way you deserve to be loved. I'm sorry that when we faced our first crisis, it showed up everything that was wrong in our marriage instead of everything that was right. I'm sorry we turned on each other instead of to each other.
'Yeah, I'm sorry too,' said Sam.
chapter eighty-one
'So in effect, Harry saved Ruby's life,' said Oliver.
Erika and Oliver were walking around the block near her mother's house. The moment she'd remembered what had happened, she'd wanted to share it with Oliver and she certainly didn't want Sylvia to overhear, so she'd insisted Oliver go for a walk with her.
'Yes,' said Erika. 'And no one ever thanked him. I don't think I even looked up again at his window.' They walked by a young husband and wife pushing a baby in a stroller and Erika shot them a dismissive flick of a smile to let them know there was really no need to comment upon the weather and how great it was that the rain had finally stopped.
'He would have seen that we got her out,' said Oliver.
'I hope so,' said Erika. 'But no one ever told him that Ruby was okay. No one ever went over and said thank you. He must have thought that was rude. He always thought everyone had such bad manners and he would have died thinking that was pretty much conclusive.'
'I guess he could have come over and asked us,' said Oliver. 'If he was worried.'
They both jumped over a glistening brown puddle that took up most of the footpath.
'It took me a while to work out that it was Ruby,' said Erika. Her mouth felt momentarily full of marbles. 'I thought it was an old coat floating in the fountain, and I was just staring at it. I had this illogical, weird idea that Harry wanted me to clean up the fountain. Ruby was drowning while I stared right at her.'
Oliver said nothing for a moment before he spoke. 'I always felt bad that when it happened I was hiding out in the bathroom, just looking at myself in the mirror,' he said. 'I think we've all got something to feel bad about that afternoon.'
'Except for Harry,' said Erika.
'Except for Harry,' agreed Oliver.
A middle-aged woman in unflattering 'active wear' came bouncing past. 'Isn't it lovely to see the sun again!' she said rapturously, and she slowed down as if she wanted to discuss the sun further.
'It's fantastic!' agreed Oliver, he and Erika both upping their pace by unspoken agreement. 'Have a nice day!'
'Do you think I should tell someone?' said Erika. 'About what I remembered?' Now that she had the facts straight in her head, she felt an overwhelming desire to set the record straight, to submit an amended report to the authorities.
'Well, I don't see who you would tell,' said Oliver. 'Or how it would help.'
'I could tell Clementine,' said Erika, although she had absolutely no intention of doing that.
'No,' said Oliver. 'You can't tell Clementine. You know you can't.' They had completed the block now and were nearing her mother's house.
'Oh for goodness sake,' sighed Erika.
'What?' said Oliver.
'She's actually in the skip bin now.'
chapter eighty-two
It had stopped raining. Finally! At last! Dakota could hardly believe it. Everything about her whole life and the whole world felt entirely different.
'This is going to be so much fun,' said Dakota's mum as they opened the front door and stepped onto the front veranda.
'I don't see why we can't drive there,' said Dakota's dad for about the millionth time. 'Why do we have to walk through the streets to get there? Like homeless people.'
'Because we're so lucky to have a beautiful walk less than ten minutes away from our front door!' said her mum. She was holding Barney's leash while Barney jumped about snapping at the air, trying to catch an invisible fly.
Her mum was 'practising gratitude' lately. (Her dad said she would get over it soon, hopefully.) She had a special jar called a 'happiness jar'. You were meant to write down your happy memories on pieces of paper and then put them in the jar and then on New Year's Eve you went through the jar and realised all your blessings, or something. It was October so they had to get their skates on and collect a lot of happy family memories.
'But we are also lucky to have a Lexus,' pointed out her dad. 'We shouldn't take our Lexus for granted.'
Her mum had discovered that there was a beautiful bushwalk through a national park in their very own neighbourhood. Only a short walk away! This was a very big deal for some reason. It was like having a window seat. Apparently Erika and Oliver from next door did this walk 'all the time' and they were amazed that Dakota's mum didn't even know that it existed, and her mum had felt embarrassed by this, or so she said, although she probably hadn't, because Erika and Oliver were nice geeky people and nobody felt embarrassed in front of nice geeky people. That's why they were relaxing to be around.
'Maybe I'll meet you girls there,' said her father. 'I have some errands to run after. Important errands, you know.'
'No way,' said her mother. 'Move it, move it. Jeez Louise.'
Her mum was putting her dad on a health kick. (He had a giant fat hairy belly, but he could ma
ke his belly as hard as a rock if he wanted, and then he'd invite Dakota to punch him. 'Harder!' he would roar like some sort of maniac. 'Are you a man or a mouse?')
'What do you think, Dakota? Wouldn't you prefer to drive, eh? Much better? Much more comfortable?' said her dad. 'We can stop and have ice-cream after?'
'I don't mind,' said Dakota. 'As long as we're back by three o'clock.' She was going to a Hunger Games party this afternoon, so none of this seemed that relevant. It was her friend Ashling's party, and Ashling's mother got really serious about themes. Presumably no one would actually die, she wouldn't go that far, but there would probably be some really cool archery or something.
As they walked down their driveway towards the street, they heard someone call out from Harry's old house. 'Hey there!'
'Barney!' said Dakota's mum as the dog nearly yanked her arm off, straining at the leash, jumping about excitedly and barking. If Dakota could translate dog language she reckoned he would be saying, 'Another human being! How great is this!'
Her dad stopped in his tracks. 'Hello!' he shouted. Like, literally shouted. Like he was calling across a mountain range, not a front yard. 'How are you? Cracker of a day, isn't it?!'
Her dad was as excited as Barney to see another human. Seriously.
A man wearing a pale pink buttoned-up polo shirt and very bright white shorts came over towards them, carrying something in his arms. There was a big clean-up going on at Harry's house today. It had been strange to see pieces of furniture carried out: an old couch, a tiny television, an old, yellowing stained mattress. Dakota had looked away. It was like seeing Harry's underwear.
'Hello,' said the man, sounding breathless, as if he'd run over. He spoke to Dakota's mum. 'We met the other day. Steve. Steve Lunt.'
'Vid! Pleased to meet you!' said her dad. 'We're off for a walk, you know. We're just walking straight out our front door.' He made a karate-chop motion with his hand. 'That's how we roll. We are outdoorsy people.'
Dakota squirmed.
'Hi, Steve,' said her mum. 'How's the clean-up going? This is our daughter, Dakota, by the way, and our crazy dog Barney.'
Dakota lifted her hand in the tiniest possible movement to make up for her dad's bigness and loudness. She tried not to make eye contact so he didn't feel obliged to get all chatty and fake-interested ('What grade are you in at school?').
'Hi, Dakota,' said Steve. 'Actually it's you I wanted to see. I wondered if you would like to have this old globe. Might look nice in your room?'
He held up an old-fashioned world globe on a wooden stand. It was a golden biscuity colour and it had curly writing like something from an old pirate treasure map. Dakota was surprised to find that she actually wanted it very badly. She could already see it sitting on her desk, glowing gold and mysterious.
'That's really beautiful,' said her mother. 'But it looks like an antique. It might be worth something. You might want to get it valued.'
'No, no. I want you to have it. I want it to have a good home,' said Steve. He smiled at Dakota with nice white teeth and handed the globe to her.
'Thank you,' she said. It was heavier than she'd expected.
'Just don't rely on it to do your geography homework,' he said. He touched it with his fingertip so that it spun gently. 'It shows Persia and Constantinople, instead of Iran and Istanbul.'
'It is very old indeed then,' said Vid. 'It's a very precious thing for you to give Dakota. Thank you.'
Persia. Constantinople. Dakota hugged the globe to her.
'I think it belonged to Harry's son,' said Steve. He lowered his voice and turned his face slightly towards Dakota's mother, as if to avoid Dakota hearing, although that just made Dakota listen more carefully. 'It looked like his son's bedroom hadn't been touched since the day he died. My mother thinks it was at least fifty years ago. It was the eeriest thing I've ever experienced. Like going back in time. There was a book.' His voice got all wonky with emotion. 'Biggles Learns to Fly. Face down on the bed. All his clothes still in the wardrobe.'
Dakota's mother put her hand over her mouth. 'Oh God. That poor, poor man.'
Great. Now her mother would feel even guiltier about horrible old spitty Harry.
'We took photos,' said Steve solemnly.
Dakota thought that was kind of inappropriate. Was he going to put the photos of the dead boy's room on Instagram now?
Dakota's dad was getting restless. He rattled his house keys in his pocket. 'Let's put that beautiful globe safely inside, eh, Dakota?'
'Thank you,' said Dakota to Steve again. 'Thank you very, very much for this.'
'You're very, very welcome,' said Steve. 'I'm sure Harry would have been happy for you to have it.'
'Old Harry was very fond of Dakota,' said her dad. This was such a big fat total lie, Dakota could hardly believe it. 'He just maybe didn't always show it, you know.' He looked at Steve. 'Mate, do you need a break? Do you want to come in for a coffee? Something to eat? We've got -'
'We're going for a walk, Vid,' interrupted her mother.
'Oh yes,' said her dad gloomily. 'I forgot for a moment.'
chapter eighty-three
The day of the barbeque
Harry climbed the stairs, hand over hand on the railing, like he was climbing up a rope. It was unacceptable that a man couldn't even climb his own stairs without his legs aching like they did. He'd once been as strong as an ox, and he'd always taken care of his health. He was interested in health. He kept himself up to date with things. As soon as the surgeon general released the report about lung cancer and cigarettes, Harry gave up smoking. That same day.
He knew about that food pyramid. He followed it as best he could. He did regular exercise. He took a multivitamin as recommended by his GP, who looked like he was still in high school and maybe he was still in high school, because the multivitamin was a waste of money. It had no effect whatsoever. Every day he felt a bit worse. The manufacturers of that vitamin were laughing all the way to the bank. Harry was considering writing a letter of complaint. He averaged two to three letters of complaint a week. You had to keep corporate Australia accountable. When he was in the corporate world there were standards. People cared about quality. The shoddy workmanship these days was a disgrace.
He stopped halfway for a rest.
This was why old codgers had to move out of their homes into those god-awful retirement places - because they couldn't make it up their own bloody stairs. What a joke. He wasn't moving anywhere. They could carry him out in a box.
He could still hear the music from next door. Very selfish, bad-mannered people. He would call the police if necessary. He used to call the police all the time, when the son had those parties while the parents went off on their bloody river cruises in the south of bloody France. The son with the long greasy hair like a monkey. Disgusting creature.
But those people weren't there anymore, were they? He knew that. Of course he knew that. They moved out about ten years ago. He knew that perfectly well. He did a Sudoku puzzle every day. His mind was fine. It was just that he sometimes got fuzzy about time.
It was the big Arab guy or whatever nationality he was. Probably a terrorist. You couldn't tell these days. Harry had his mobile number. He had all his details carefully recorded just in case he ever needed to pass them over to the police. He kept an eye on him. The wife had said they would turn down the music but Harry strongly suspected they'd turned it up. What could you expect from a man who wore a bloody bracelet? The wife wasn't bad to look at but she had no class. She dressed like a whore. That girl could have learned a thing or two about class, about elegance, from Harry's wife. Elizabeth would have set her straight.
Their kid reminded Harry of Jamie. Something about the shape of her head. And something else: a kind of stillness, like a birdwatcher, as if she were studying the world, carefully working it out. Jamie had been a thinker. It made Harry furious to look at that child. How dare she look like Jamie? How dare she be here when he wasn't? It enraged him. Sometimes when he
looked at her, he literally saw red. Like a fire glow.
He kept climbing the stairs. One hand after the other on the railing. Harry used to run. He was a runner before running became trendy. This body used to run. He didn't recognise his own withered old legs anymore; looked like they belonged to someone else. Why had no one invented a drug to stop this happening? It couldn't be that hard. It was because the researchers were all young and they didn't know what lay ahead. They were oblivious! They thought their bodies were theirs forever and then by the time they found out, it was too late, they were retired, and their minds were all fuzzy, although Harry's mind wasn't fuzzy, he did Sudoku.
'Don't run, don't run!' Elizabeth used to shout at Jamie when he ran along the bush tracks. She was worried he'd slip, but he never slipped. He was nimble. They used to walk out the back door with a packed picnic lunch and be at the waterfall within the hour.
Now Harry was marooned in this house, like he was marooned in this body. He didn't even know if that walking track was still there, the track where Jamie used to run. He could find out, but if it was under a shopping centre he'd be angry and if it was still there, if other kids were running along it while their mothers shouted, 'Don't run! Don't run!' he'd be angrier still.
He was at the top. What a palaver to climb a flight of stairs. Now, why was he up here? What did he need?
His mind wasn't going. Sometimes he couldn't find the right word for a thing, but he remembered that sometimes Elizabeth couldn't find a word, 'Where's the thingamajig?' she'd say, and she'd been so young, so beautifully, gorgeously young, she had no idea how young she was, and he had no idea why he'd come upstairs.
He could still hear the music from next door. Even louder now. Who did they think they were? Pretending to be artsy-fartsy types. Elizabeth used to love classical music. She played the violin at school. She had more class in her little finger than that little two-bit whore had in her whole body. She'd have shown her a thing or two. How dare they play it so loud? Inconsiderate.
He imagined calling the police and telling them the neighbours were deafening him with bloody Mozart. Wasn't Mozart the deaf one? No wonder he wrote such crappy songs. Elizabeth used to laugh at his grumpiness. Elizabeth had a good sense of humour. So did Jamie. They both used to laugh at him. Once they were gone nobody laughed at him ever again. All his funniness flew away with them.
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