Nine Perfect Strangers

by Liane Moriarty

  ‘You actually did say that when you were alive,’ said Frances. ‘More than once, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘You’re always acting like you’re the heroine of one of your own novels. You just fall into the arms of the next man the narrator puts in front of you.’

  ‘You told me that too!’

  ‘Did I?’ said Gillian. ‘That was impolite of me.’

  ‘I always thought so,’ said Frances.

  ‘I could have been kinder,’ said Gillian. ‘I may have been on the spectrum.’

  ‘Don’t think you’re getting any more character development now you’re dead,’ said Frances. ‘You’re done. Let’s focus on my character development.’

  ‘You’re easy: you’re the princess,’ said Gillian. ‘The passive princess waiting for yet another prince.’

  ‘I could kill the emu,’ said Frances.

  ‘Well, we’ll see, won’t we, Frances? We’ll see if you can kill the emu.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Frances watched the emu, alive again, but still incapable of flight, run across the star-studded sky. ‘I really miss you, Gillian.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Gillian. ‘I would say I missed you too, but that would not strictly be true as I’m actually in a constant state of bliss.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. It’s so beautiful,’ said Frances. ‘It’s kind of like the northern lights, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s always there,’ said Gillian.

  ‘What is? The northern lights? They are not always there. Ellen paid a fortune and didn’t see a thing.’

  ‘This, Frances. This beauty. Just on the other side. You just have to be quiet. Stay still. Stop talking. Stop wanting. Just be. You’ll hear it, or feel it. Close your eyes and you’ll see it.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Frances. ‘Did I tell you about my review?’

  ‘Frances, forget the review!’

  Gosh. Gillian sounded quite cranky for someone who didn’t have anything to do except lie back and enjoy the exquisite beauty of the afterlife.

  chapter thirty-four

  Yao

  ‘Where are you now, Frances?’ asked Yao.

  He sat on the floor next to her stretcher, and removed her headphones so she could hear him.

  ‘I’m in a story, Yao,’ said Frances. He couldn’t see her eyes because of the mask, but her face was animated. ‘I’m writing the story and I’m in the story. It’s quite a nice story. I’ve got a kind of magic realism vibe going, which is new for me. I like it! Nothing needs to make sense.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Yao. ‘Who else is in the story with you?’

  ‘My friend Gillian. She died. In her sleep, when she was forty-nine. It’s called Sudden Adult Death Syndrome. I thought it was just for babies. I didn’t even know it was possible.’

  ‘Does Gillian have anything to say to you?’

  ‘Not really. I told her about the review.’

  ‘Frances, forget the review!’

  It wasn’t professional but Yao couldn’t hide his frustration. Frances kept talking on and on about the review. Shouldn’t authors be used to bad reviews? Wasn’t it just an occupational hazard?

  Try being a paramedic. See how you go when a psycho husband holds a knife to your throat while you’re trying to save his wife’s life, which you can’t save, because she’s already dead. Try that, Frances.

  Frances pushed up her mask and looked at Yao. Her hair stuck up comically, as if she’d just got out of bed.

  ‘I’ll have the seafood linguine. Thank you so much.’ She snapped an imaginary menu shut, pulled her mask back over her eyes and began to hum ‘Amazing Grace’.

  Yao checked her pulse and thought of a long-ago night after a university party when he’d looked after a drunk girl in someone’s bedroom. Yao listened to her incoherent, slurred rambling for hours and made sure she didn’t choke on her vomit, before he finally fell asleep and woke up at dawn to her face inches away from his, and her sick-sweet breath in his nostrils. ‘Get out,’ she said.

  ‘I never touched you,’ Yao told her. ‘Nothing happened.’

  ‘Get the fuck out,’ she said.

  He felt like he had taken advantage of her, raped an unconscious girl. It didn’t matter that he would never do such a thing, that he wanted to make a career out of healing; at that moment he was the representative for his gender and he had to cop it on the chin for all their sins.

  Guiding Frances on her psychedelic therapeutic journey was nothing like looking after a drunk girl. And yet . . . it kind of felt like looking after a drunk girl.

  ‘I haven’t had sex in so long,’ said Frances. White spittle gathered at the corner of her mouth.

  Yao felt a little ill. ‘That’s too bad,’ he said.

  He looked over at Masha, who sat with Ben and Jessica, their three shadows enormous on the wall. Masha nodded as the couple spoke. It seemed like their therapy was going well. Delilah was talking to Lars, who had sat up from his stretcher and was chatting calmly with her, as if they were both guests at a party.

  All his patients were fine. He had a crash cart on stand-by. They were all being monitored. There was nothing to worry about, and yet it was so strange because, right now, all his senses were screaming one inexplicable word: Run.

  chapter thirty-five

  Tony

  Tony ran across an endless field of emerald green carrying an oddly shaped football that weighed as much as three bricks. His arms ached. Footballs weren’t normally that heavy.

  Banjo ran along beside him, he was a puppy again, bounding along with the same joyful abandon as a toddler, getting in between Tony’s legs, tail wagging.

  Tony understood that if he wanted to be happy again, he simply needed to kick this strange misshapen football through the goal. The football represented everything he hated about himself: all his mistakes, his regrets and his shame.

  ‘Sit!’ he said to Banjo.

  Banjo sat. His big brown eyes looked up at Tony trustingly.

  ‘Stay,’ he said.

  Banjo stayed. His tail whooshed back and forth across the grass.

  Tony saw the white goalposts rise like skyscrapers above him.

  He lifted his foot, made contact. The ball sailed in a perfect arc across a clear blue sky. He knew immediately it was good. That rollercoaster feeling in his stomach. There was nothing better. Better than sex. It had been so long.

  The crowd roared as the ball went straight through the middle of the goalposts and the euphoria blasted like rocket fuel through his body as he leaped high in the sky, one fist raised like a superhero.

  chapter thirty-six

  Carmel

  Carmel sat on a plush velvet couch in a snooty fashion shop specialising in the latest designer bodies.

  Carmel wasn’t wearing a body. It was so wonderful and relaxing not wearing a body. No thighs. No stomach. No bum. No biceps. No triceps. No cellulite. No crow’s feet. No frown marks. No caesarean scar. No sun damage. No fine lines. No seven signs of ageing. No dry hair. No frizzy hair. No grey hair. Nothing to wax or colour or condition. Nothing to lengthen or flatten, conceal or disguise.

  She was just Carmel, without her body.

  Show me your original face, the one you had before your parents were born.

  Her little girls sat either side of her on the couch, waiting for her to choose a new body. They were all quietly reading age-appropriate quality chapter books and eating freshly cut fruit. No devices. No sugary snacks. No arguing. Carmel was the best mother in the history of mothering.

  ‘Let’s find you a divine new body for your divine new life,’ said Masha, who was the manager of the shop. She was dressed as a Disney princess.

  Masha ran her finger along a rack filled with different bodies on hangers. ‘No, no, maybe . . . oh, now this one is nice!’ She draped the body over one arm. ‘This would
look lovely on you. It’s very fashionable, and such a flattering shape!’

  It was Sonia’s body. Her sleek blonde hair. Her trim waist.

  ‘I don’t like the ankles,’ said Carmel. ‘I prefer a more finely tapered ankle. Also, my husband’s new girlfriend has that exact same body.’

  ‘We don’t want that one then!’ said Masha. She hung it back up and selected another one from the rack. ‘How about this one? So striking. You’ll turn heads wearing this one.’

  It was Masha’s body.

  ‘It’s amazing, but honestly, I don’t think I can carry it off,’ said Carmel. ‘It’s kind of too dramatic for me.’

  Her daughter Lulu put down her book. She had peach smeared around her mouth. Carmel went to wipe it away but then she remembered she had no fingers. Fingers were useful.

  ‘That’s your body there, Mummy,’ said Lulu, and she pointed at Carmel’s body sagging on a doorhandle, without even a hanger.

  ‘That’s my old body, darling,’ said Carmel. ‘Mummy needs a new one.’

  ‘It’s yours.’ Lulu was implacable as always.

  Masha held up Carmel’s old body. ‘It does look very comfortable,’ she said.

  ‘Could we at least take it in a few inches?’ said Carmel.

  ‘Of course we can.’ Masha smiled at her. ‘We’ll make it beautiful. Here. Try it on.’

  Carmel sighed and put back on her old body.

  ‘It really suits you,’ said Masha. ‘Just some minor adjustments.’

  ‘I quite like the ankles,’ admitted Carmel. ‘What do you think, girls?’

  Her daughters threw themselves at her. Carmel marvelled at the blue veins in her hands as she cupped her daughters’ heads, the thump of her heart and the strength of her arms as she hefted a little girl on each hip.

  ‘I’ll take it,’ she said.

  ‘You’re going to love your body,’ said Masha.

  chapter thirty-seven

  Masha

  My God, it is all going incredibly well, thought Masha. The therapy was working exactly as the research said it would. Carmel Schneider had just made a breakthrough in relation to her body-image issues. There had been a moment where for some reason she kept trying to take her clothes off, but Masha had put a stop to that and she’d just had a very good conversation with her about body acceptance.

  The triumph was as tangible as a trophy, solid and gleaming gold in Masha’s hands.

  chapter thirty-eight

  Napoleon

  Napoleon sat with his back against a wall of the studio, watching the floor breathe in and out with the rapid, heartbreaking vulnerability of a sleeping baby.

  This happened last time, he reminded himself. It was just an optical illusion. Walls and floors did not breathe. And so what if they did breathe? What was so bad about that?

  The walls of that seedy smoky club had breathed too, and he’d become convinced he was trapped within an amoeba hurtling through space. It had made perfect sense at the time. The amoeba had swallowed him whole like the whale swallowed Jonah and he was stuck in that amoeba for a thousand years.

  Twenty years old and he was so sure his brain had been fried, and he took such pride in his brain, and the only way to comfort himself in the bleak days that followed was by chanting: Never again, never again, never again.

  And yet here he was, trapped once more.

  I’m not in an amoeba, he told himself. I’m at a health resort. They have given me drugs without my permission and I’m just going to have to wait this out.

  At least he was in this very pleasant, nice-smelling, candlelit studio, not that packed bar with all those looming faces.

  He held hands with his girls. Heather’s hand in his left. Zoe’s in his right. Napoleon had refused to lie down on one of those stretchers or put on the mask and headphones. He knew the only way to keep a good firm grip of his mind was to sit upright with his eyes open.

  Masha pretended she was fine with that, but Napoleon knew she was annoyed that they weren’t following the correct procedure for ‘optimum results’.

  Napoleon recognised the moment she made the decision not to push the issue. It was like he could read her mind. Pick your battles, she thought. Napoleon had to pick his battles with his students. He was good at picking his battles. He used to do the same with the kids.

  ‘Pick your battles,’ he said softly. ‘Pick them carefully.’

  ‘I know which battle I’m picking – I will not rest until that woman is behind bars,’ said Heather. She was watching Masha move about the room, chatting to her guests, placing the back of her hand against their foreheads.

  ‘Look at her, sashaying about as if she’s fucking Florence Nightingale,’ said Heather. ‘Psychedelic therapy, my foot.’

  Napoleon wondered if there was some sort of professional jealousy going on here.

  ‘Can you see the walls breathing?’ he asked, to take her mind off things.

  ‘It’s just the effects of the drugs,’ said Heather.

  ‘Well, I know that, darling,’ said Napoleon. ‘I just wondered if you were experiencing the same effects.’

  ‘I can see the walls breathing, Dad,’ said Zoe. ‘They look like fish. It’s awesome. Are you seeing the colours?’ She glided her hands back and forth as if through water.

  ‘I am!’ marvelled Napoleon. ‘It’s like phosphorescence.’

  ‘Great. A nice druggy dad-and-daughter bonding experience,’ said Heather.

  Napoleon noted that she was in a very bad mood.

  ‘Zach would think this was hilarious,’ said Zoe. ‘All of us getting high together.’

  ‘He’s here actually,’ said Napoleon. ‘Hi, Zach.’

  ‘Hey, Dad.’ It didn’t even seem that remarkable that Zach was sitting right in front of him, wearing shorts and no shirt. The kid never wore a shirt. It just felt like everything was right again, the way it used to feel, the four of them hanging out together, taking each other’s existences for granted, just being a family, a run-of-the-mill family.

  ‘Do you see him?’ said Napoleon.

  ‘Yes,’ said Zoe.

  ‘I see him too,’ said Heather, her voice full of tears.

  ‘Your turn to take out the recycling, Zach,’ said Zoe.

  Zach gave his sister the finger and Napoleon laughed out loud.

  chapter thirty-nine

  Frances

  Frances sat up on her stretcher, pushed back her headphones and pulled her eye mask down around her neck.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said to Delilah, who sat next to her, smiling at her in a way that could be called condescending, as a matter of a fact. ‘That was lovely. Quite an experience. I feel like I learned a great deal. How much do I owe you?’

  ‘I don’t think you’re done yet,’ said Delilah.

  Frances looked around the room.

  Lars and Tony were on stretchers next to each other. Tony’s head lolled to one side, his feet splayed in a V shape. Meanwhile, Lars’s profile looked like that of a Grecian god and his feet were neatly crossed at the ankles, as if he were napping on a train while listening to a podcast.

  Ben and Jessica were in a corner of the room kissing like young lovers who have just discovered kissing and have all the time in the world. Their hands moved over each other’s bodies with slow, passionate reverence.

  ‘Goodness,’ said Frances. ‘That looks like fun.’

  She continued to survey the room.

  Carmel lay on her stretcher, her thick black hair spread like seaweed around her head. She held up her hands and wiggled her fingers as if she were trying to see them through her eye mask.

  Napoleon, Heather and Zoe sat in a row with their backs against the wall, like young travellers stranded at an airport. There was a boy sitting in front of them. He stuck his finger up at Zoe.

  ‘Wh
o is that boy?’ said Frances. ‘The boy without the shirt?’

  ‘There is no boy,’ said Delilah. She reached for Frances’s headphones.

  ‘He’s laughing,’ said Frances. She tried and failed to grab at Delilah’s arm to stop her pulling the eye mask back over her eyes. ‘I think I’ll go say hello.’

  ‘Stay with me, Frances,’ said Delilah.

  chapter forty

  Heather

  Heather focused on her breathing. She was determined to keep a tiny part of her brain safe and sober and in charge of monitoring the effects of the psilocybin and LSD; one brightly lit office window in a dark office tower.

  She knew, for example, that in reality her son rotted beneath the earth; he was not really there with them. And yet he seemed so real, and when she reached out to touch his arm, it was his flesh: firm and smooth and tanned. He tanned easily and he was hopeless about putting on sunscreen, even though she nagged.

  ‘Don’t go, Zach.’ Napoleon jerked upright and reached out his hands.

  ‘He’s not going, Dad,’ said Zoe. She pointed. ‘He’s still right there.’

  ‘My boy,’ sobbed Napoleon. His body convulsed. ‘He’s gone.’ His sobs were guttural, uncontrolled. ‘My boy, my boy, my boy.’

  ‘Stop that,’ said Heather. This was not the place, not the time.

  It was the drugs. Not everyone reacted the same way to drugs. Some labouring mothers got plastered on just one whiff of nitrous oxide. Others screamed at Heather that it wasn’t working.

  Napoleon had always been susceptible. He couldn’t even cope with coffee. One long black and you’d think he’d taken speed. An over-the-counter painkiller could send him loopy. The only time he ever had a general anaesthetic, which was for a knee reconstruction the year before Zach died, he’d had a bad reaction when he came out of it and scared a poor young nurse to death by supposedly ‘speaking in tongues’ about the Garden of Eden, although it wasn’t clear how she understood what he was saying if he was speaking in tongues. ‘She must be fluent in tongues,’ Zach had said, and Zoe had laughed so much, and there was no greater pleasure in Heather’s life than watching her children make each other laugh.