The First Third

by Will Kostakis

  Monday was the first day of the exam timetable. I didn’t have a test until Wednesday and I made a deal with myself – if I studied in the morning and evening, and all day Tuesday, I could go on a lunch date with Hayley.

  I had intended on sticking to the studying in the morning part, I really had. I was sitting at my desk with a past paper and everything, but Yiayia called. She wanted someone to go with her to buy bed linen, and with Mum at work and Peter at school, I was the only person she could turn to. When I asked if it was really urgent that she go buy bed linen, she insisted that it was and that, again, I was the only one she could turn to.

  Guilt trip noted.

  I said I’d be there in an hour.

  ‘Thirty minutes,’ she corrected.

  I’d be there in thirty minutes, then.

  ‘I want new shits,’ my grandmother said. ‘High quality shits.’

  Yes, I could have just helped her find them, but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to make at least one member of the floor staff feel incredibly uncomfortable.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ he stammered.

  ‘Shits. Where I find the shits?’ She exhaled and turned to me. ‘Yiati yelas?’ She wanted to know why I was laughing.

  ‘Sheets,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, shits.’ She couldn’t hear the difference.

  ‘No, sheets.’

  She threw one hand in the air. ‘Bah!’ She tapped the worker’s arm gently. ‘I look. Thank you, darling.’

  He couldn’t get away fast enough. I sighed. Priceless.

  Yiayia leaned against the closest bargain bin filled with fabrics. She ran them between her fingers and assessed the quality with the eagerness of someone who’d transformed her garage into a sewing den in the late ’80s and never looked back.

  I caught my second wind and started laughing again.

  ‘One day,’ Yiayia said, shaking a fistful of fabric at me, ‘someone will laugh at you and you no feel good.’

  ‘Oh, but it’s funny,’ I said.

  She shrugged.

  ‘Sti zoei mas, ehome tria . . . komatia.’ Greek for, ‘In our lives, we have three . . . pieces.’

  She must have been in an imparting-wisdom kind of mood. It was obviously important, because she switched to English, not trusting my Greek.

  ‘In first part,’ she said, ‘your family embarrass you. Then – pff – they die.’

  I couldn’t tell whether she was trying to teach me something or make me feel bad for laughing at her.

  She focused hard, like she was having difficulty summoning the correct phrasing. ‘In number two, you find agape, you find love, you make baby, you want to have family like before.’

  I thought of Papou. I thought of Mum.

  Yiayia snatched up a polka-dotted piece of fabric and slowly started to stretch it. The elasticity disappointed her. She dropped it back into the heap and rested her hand on the edge of the bargain bin.

  ‘Then, one day, you old. You try to give, and your family,’ Yiayia shrugged, ‘they embarrassed. And then – pff – you die.’

  It was the circle of Greek life.

  ‘You see, one day,’ she added. She swayed slightly. She hardened her grip on the bin and steadied.

  ‘You okay?’ I asked.

  She ignored me. ‘One day you say, “Shits,” and everybody laugh.’

  I was pretty certain that there would never come a day when I’d pronounce ‘sheets’ like she did, but that didn’t stop my heart aching. Mission to make me feel bad for laughing, accomplished.

  ‘Come,’ she said, pushing off the bargain bin.

  Yiayia hadn’t regained all of her strength yet, so our excursion didn’t last much longer. After she had acquired all the high quality shits she needed, I drove her home. I walked her back inside and she groaned as she relaxed into her recliner lounge chair.

  ‘Ti?’ I asked.

  She readjusted herself in her seat and took a staggered breath. ‘I need sleep,’ she said.

  I didn’t know whether it was just the light, but she seemed a little pale.

  ‘You sure?’

  She nodded.

  It was just the light.

  ‘Where you go for lunch?’

  The plan was to meet Hayley at one o’clock. I’d just hopped out of the shower when she texted to ask if we could push it back to three. I didn’t mind. It gave me some time to study (read: watch an online video of a cat fighting a lampshade over and over).

  We were meeting at Wirtshaus, a German pub in Rockdale. Everyone called it Worst-house. Lucas raved about the restaurant on the second floor. I’d never been.

  I was there early.

  My phone vibrated at five-past three. I know this looks bad, but I’m definitely coming.

  It was twenty-past when she appeared at the top of the stairs. She was wearing a pair of denim cut-offs and a fashionably ripped white tee. I had no idea how. I was so well insulated that if somebody ran into me, they’d bounce.

  The restaurant was packed. Her eyes swept the room. She noticed me before I’d thought to wave.

  ‘Sorry, sorry, I’m the worst,’ she said.

  ‘House,’ I added.

  ‘Clever!’

  I’d half-risen out of my seat. She angled her cheek towards me. We apparently greeted each other with kisses now. Not that I was complaining or anything.

  She dropped her bag by the table and we both sat down.

  ‘Rory has this lingering cold, right? They sent him home from day care so I had to find someone to look after him. My neighbour usually does, but he was iffy because Rory was all mucousy, then Mum came home early.’ Hayley sighed. ‘And now I’m here. So, what’s new with you?’

  Well, I set Mum up with my best friend’s uncle. It went well, but she’s not going to pursue it. It wasn’t all bad though, because on the same night, I set my best friend up with a guy he liked. They hit it off, and so he revenge match-made me with the wrong girl, which made me realise how much I wanted to give us a go.

  I shook my head. ‘Nothing much.’

  ‘How boring.’

  She smiled and I could feel my heartbeat thumping through my clothes.

  My phone vibrated. It was Lucas. How did it go?

  I had told him about meeting up with Hayley, but not about the delayed start time. He probably thought I’d be done by now.

  I didn’t reply. I switched my mobile off instead. I didn’t want any distractions.

  Hayley was gathering her hair into a ponytail. ‘Don’t mind me, I’m still, like, getting ready,’ she said, twisting the ponytail into a bun. She scowled as she tinkered with it, but when she eventually let go, her hair stayed up.

  ‘It’s all good.’ It really was.

  A waitress was standing beside us. ‘What would you like?’ Her accent was thick, like insensitive-movie-stereotype thick.

  ‘Two menus, please.’

  ‘Look at the wall!’ she barked, leaving to take somebody else’s order.

  The outburst had come from nowhere, and it was all I could do not to laugh. Hayley couldn’t stop herself. She folded over, laughing in rapid-fire bursts.

  I summoned my best impersonation. ‘Look at the wall!’

  Hayley threw her head back and cackled.

  It was the closest I’d come to recapturing what I’d felt at the New Pavilion. I wanted to pile joke on top of joke forever. I imagined other things our tough-love German waitress could say. ‘I am not your mother and I am not your friend.’

  She tried talking over her own laugh. ‘Stop it.’

  ‘You’re the one who’s losing her shit over an accent,’ I said.

  ‘It wasn’t just that.’ She cleared her throat and regained her composure. ‘Your face, it was priceless.’

  ‘It was so sudden.’

  ‘You looked like you were about to wet yourself.’ She was grinning. ‘Right, what do we want?’

  Hayley twisted around in her seat and examined the menu. We both settled on the schnitzel. It tasted great, b
ut it shouldn’t have taken us so long to eat. We couldn’t stop talking, and when one of us did, the other snuck in a, ‘Look at the wall!’ And that only got funnier as time went on – Hayley kept ordering drinks.

  I knew it had gone well when Hayley suggested we kick on in the courtyard downstairs. I didn’t have my fakie, and even if I’d brought it, I didn’t look anything like the guy on it.

  It was as if she’d read my mind. ‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘They won’t card you.’

  They didn’t, but I didn’t push my luck. Hayley ordered our drinks while I waited in the courtyard. ‘When did it get dark?’ she asked.

  She took her seat and handed me a schooner.

  ‘About an hour ago.’

  After lunch, we only had thirty dollars between us, so we were pacing ourselves.

  Hayley adjusted her top.

  ‘Aren’t you cold?’ I asked.

  ‘Nope.’

  I loved the way she drank. She slurped her beer and smacked her lips together like nobody was watching.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ She was almost shouting to contend with the Bavarian folk band playing inside.

  ‘Sure.’

  Her brow furrowed. ‘What’s it like growing up without your dad?’

  She was asking about me, but I knew she was really talking about Rory. I had to answer carefully. ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘Really?’

  I nodded slowly.

  ‘Don’t you notice it?’

  ‘Sometimes, yeah, but you forget, and there are so many people that –’

  ‘I can’t hear you.’

  I leaned in and made sure to enunciate. ‘You make do,’ I said. ‘I mean, would my life be easier if I had a dad around? Yeah, sure, a dad. But would it be easier if I had my dad around? I don’t think so. I don’t know. I don’t know him anymore.’ I pulled back. ‘But it’s fine.’

  She was frowning. ‘So, you’re okay?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I sipped my beer. I had never really liked beer. It always felt like I was drinking for the sake of it. But I couldn’t drink less than her, in front of her.

  Hayley’s glass was half-empty. ‘I don’t think I can finish this.’

  Mine was half-full. ‘Do you want to go?’

  She was relieved. ‘Can we?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I stood up. ‘Just leave it.’

  I had wanted to kiss her for three-and-a-half beers, so basically since we’d started drinking, but I hadn’t had the guts to make a move.

  ‘Want me to walk you home?’ I asked.

  ‘You can, but I’m in Bexley North.’

  I shrugged. ‘It’s not that far.’

  ‘It’s at least forty minutes.’

  ‘So?’

  It was about fifty minutes. We left the father-talk in the beer garden and spent most of the walk discussing our first jobs. I had stacked shelves at Staple World. She had manned the window of a Macca’s drive-through. Both equally glamorous and ripe for storytelling. We swapped memories, and when we ran out of those, we moved on to workplace urban legends.

  All the while, I just wanted to stop talking about stationery and junk food and kiss her.

  Hayley stopped at her letterbox. ‘Well, this is –’

  That was my shot. She tasted like watermelon lip gloss. She relaxed, her body fell onto mine. I let my eyes close; my hands found her waist. Our mouths moved in sync. Then she inhaled hard and suddenly the kiss became more urgent – our lips moved faster. I pulled her closer. We were gasping for air, but then she broke away.

  ‘What?’ I asked, panting.

  She rested her forehead against mine.

  ‘I can’t.’ I could feel her chest rise and fall with every breath. ‘It’s complicated.’

  ‘I’m not fazed about Rory. I’ll do what I have to.’

  ‘You’re sweet, but that’s not why it’s complicated.’

  She pulled away. My hands slipped off her waist.

  ‘Well, why then?’ I asked. ‘Why is it complicated?’

  She took a moment to reply. ‘It’s complicated because I don’t want you to have to do anything,’ she said. ‘I like you, Billy, I really do.’

  ‘Great. I like you too.’

  I was smiling. She wasn’t.

  ‘We can’t, you know we can’t. You’re seventeen. You’re finishing high school. You’re only just figuring out what you want to do with your life. I don’t want to hold you back.’

  I couldn’t believe it. I was getting this speech after that kiss?

  ‘I don’t want to . . . not date you.’ Okay, so it wasn’t the smoothest line in the world. Sue me.

  ‘Every day, I’m reminded of what I gave up for Rory, every single day. And as much as I love Rory, that voice in my head keeps telling me I could’ve been a dancer, or gone to uni, or travelled. I don’t want to be the reason you hear that voice too. I don’t want you to resent me. This was nice, but we can’t do this, we just can’t.’

  Her sentences ran into each other and she barely paused to breathe, like she didn’t trust herself to remember the next word, like she was . . .

  Reciting. I could recognise a speech that had been built and reordered and refined. It was structured, and there was a rhythm – she had practised it enough to know exactly which syllables to stress.

  We had both prepared for that moment, us on the cusp of something bigger. I had prepared a kiss. She had prepared a careful rejection.

  ‘I like you, Billy.’

  I wished she’d stop saying that.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She bowed her head as she turned away. I watched her disappear.

  I took a long, staggered breath and stared at the outside of her house. It was smaller than I’d imagined, three bedrooms at the most, with a modest yard.

  With the name Walker-Pryce, I’d pictured something with a moat.

  My first instinct was to text Lucas, but I felt the day I’d had lent itself more to an in-person conversation rather than a string of text messages. Besides, his house was on the way.

  The long way, but still.

  Lucas answered the door. When he realised it was me, his mouth fell open. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘With Hayley.’ He knew that.

  ‘Everyone’s been trying to call you.’

  ‘My phone’s off.’

  ‘Gathered that much,’ he said. ‘We need to get you to the hospital.’

  I squinted at him. ‘I’m not that drunk.’

  ‘Dad!’ Lucas looked back down the hall. ‘It’s Bill. We need a lift.’

  I was lost and I wasn’t completely sure it was the beer’s fault. ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s your yiayia.’

  It wasn’t until I collided with Mum in the hospital lobby that I got any details.

  It had happened suddenly, or at least that was what Yiayia had told Mum. If she’d had symptoms any earlier, she hadn’t told me while we were out. Then again, Yiayia had a history of wildly underestimating the severity of symptoms. She was the woman who thought a kidney infection was just trapped air.

  One time, I fell in her garden and cut my leg open. It was all bloody and the skin had folded over so you could see muscle. She took one look at the wound and said, ‘Eh, tipota.’ Greek for, ‘Nothing.’ I’d needed eight stitches.

  ‘It’s sepsis,’ Mum said.

  It must have been clear that I had no idea what she was talking about, because Lucas started acting like a thesaurus.

  ‘Septicaemia, blood poisoning,’ he said.

  ‘It’s manageable,’ Mum added, ‘but her symptoms are severe.’

  ‘How severe?’ I asked.

  ‘Peter’s in there now and Simon’s flying down.’

  So, yeah. Very severe.

  Mum had called Yiayia a little while after I’d left. Halfway through the conversation, my grandmother mentioned something about thinking she had a fever, said she felt a little weak. Mum asked her what she’d done during the day and Yiayia told her we’d been out for a f
ew hours. Mum thought she’d probably just overextended herself and left the house too soon, but she took her to the hospital.

  In case.

  The doctors weren’t quite certain about it at first, but as soon as they were, she was moved to the intensive care unit.

  I’d heard ICUs mentioned on the news – the victims are now recovering in intensive care, so-and-so has been discharged from intensive care – but I had never seen the inside of one before. It was a larger space than I expected, there were easily more than a dozen beds. Some had their curtains drawn, others didn’t. No two patients seemed alike. They were old, young, wounded, jaundiced, scarred, emaciated, crying, silent – the only thing they seemed to have in common was the severity of their symptoms.

  It was like a bleak, real-world Where’s Wally? poster. There was so much going on that it took me a moment to find Yiayia. Hers was the bed closest to the entrance. Peter stood slightly hunched beside her. She was still. He stroked one of her hands.

  ‘Ma,’ Mum said.

  Yiayia turned to face us. ‘Hello, darling.’ She had forced the words out.

  It was hard to believe I was looking at the same woman I had seen that morning. The rings under her eyes had darkened and the colour had vanished from her complexion entirely.

  She noticed I wasn’t alone.

  Yiayia had never quite gotten the hang of Lucas, as a person or a name. She tended to stare and call him whatever she wanted. Lukey, Luck, Lucah . . .

  ‘Hello, Lucy,’ she croaked.

  ‘Lucas,’ Mum corrected.

  ‘What I say?’

  ‘Lucy.’

  She couldn’t hear a difference, or at least, she wasn’t willing to admit it. ‘Same,’ she said.

  Seeing her like that took the wind right out of me. I inhaled. The smell of disinfectants stung.

  ‘Your brother should land within the hour,’ Mum said. ‘But I’m not sure if he can get in.’

  She asked a passing nurse about visiting hours.

  The nurse’s voice dripped with honey. ‘We’re pretty flexible about that here,’ she said.

  I didn’t like the sound of that. It made it seem like they were too afraid to turn a family away at night.

  In case.

  The knot was back and it felt tighter than ever.