Caitlin and my other mates finished three bottles of wine, but Rhys was still firmly in the back of my mind. I drunkenly told Caitlin about my feelings of being forgotten, and we laughed at how ridiculous it was to move on that fast. It wasn’t really funny, but the wine made me laugh anyway.
15/6/13
Sunday came and went, and still no contact. More pictures surfaced earlier. Today, my feelings of misery deepened into that horrible state, where all you want to do is close your eyes in a dark room and shut everything out. I felt so tired last night, but I couldn’t sleep, because I couldn’t stop thinking about all the things that were wrong with me. I tried to keep busy today, but the magic buzz of activity wore off very quickly.
17/6/13
I woke up this morning feeling no better than the morning before. I threw myself into work with a vengeance, making a to-do list, getting my things organised before the first bell chimed. I didn’t want to think about Rhys, or about how lonely and transparent I felt. Thankfully, I couldn’t be miserable around a bunch of enthusiastic eight-year olds who wanted nothing more than to play the violin, and when I was with them, I felt like my old self, albeit briefly. One of them presented me with a fresh pineapple before school, a gift for fixing her violin, despite it being my job to do so. I accepted it gleefully, despite the fact that I was allergic to pineapple. I told her how grateful I was. The best part of being a teacher was students like that one.
On my mid morning break, the text message I had been waiting for all weekend appeared on my phone. Rhys wanted to know how I was. I didn’t know to respond at first – I debated whether to lie, or tell the truth, be the Debbie Downer I’d come to know so well. Of course I lied.
18/6/13
Today my students were horrid all day. I thought it might have been the unusual weather; it was quite warm for this time in June. I recalled thinking about the shell of a person I’ve become, when I used to be so vivacious. Where did I go?
19/6/13
Similar to yesterday. My students were much better behaved, but the weather was still dreadful. I couldn’t sleep again last night.
20/6/13
Same as yesterday. I did a lot of driving today, trying to get my life sorted. I went to the seminar by a company that sources teachers for the UK, but I couldn’t help feeling today that my UK endeavours were more an escape from real life, than for the experience of living overseas. Afterwards, I felt less sorted than when I woke up. I thought today about how sour I’ve become, how nobody gives a second glance to me these days – I supposed that’s why I felt so terrible about Rhys and his new flame. He had moved on, and I was still stuck.
21/6/13
Today my anxiety actually made me throw up. It was horrible of course. I longed to go back to two weeks ago, when I felt so calm and ‘over it’. How did I do that? I sometimes marvel at myself and what I am capable of doing, with my seemingly flexible mental health. More pictures surfaced today on Facebook, I almost shut the stupid thing down, wanting to be more like Cameron Ivenhoe. I realised I was in too deep with it – I couldn’t turn back.
I wondered why he never used to smile in photos with me – but it was so easy with her. Then I remembered there was a time he used to smile next to me, and I began to sink even lower than I did before. So I tried to sleep, to drift away for a while, until my phone woke me up with a text message, from Rhys of all people. He wanted to know how my week was. I wanted to scream that every act of kindness he extended just pained me more and more. I wanted to run away. I contemplated ending it. All I wanted was to disappear. So I lay there, staring at the ceiling. I tried to read and couldn’t. If it weren’t for the nausea, I probably would have stayed there all weekend. They always say, in a cyclone, stay inside. I wasn’t even safe within the confines of these four walls, I wasn’t safe anywhere.
23/6/13
Today was the day of Erin’s psychic party, and I went along with much hesitation and anxiety; anxiety, the very thing I worked so hard to control over the years, had become a daily companion of mine over the last month. Just like me, the anxiety was an unwelcome party guest, still drinking after I’ve shut off the lights and locked the front door.
I’ve always been on the fence about whether I believed in psychics. I believed in intuition. My mother was into crystals and tarot cards, and I was often sceptical about her abilities. Henry swayed between believing her and totally disagreeing with her readings. Not everybody could have the ability to tell you the future, or give you perspective on your current situation. Most people treated the ability to see the future like something you could get out of a cereal box.
Erin swore to me that Rhys wouldn’t be there, but I still walked up the garden path like I was about to get shot from an open window. I had my guard up, all my defences – in my mind, I was walking into hostile territory, and I could step on a landmine at any time. I knew this was my mind’s exaggeration of the truth, as there was no hostility to the situation – but needless to say I must have looked like a nervous soldier walking through a battered warzone.
I chatted to Erin and a couple of other people while we waited patiently for our readings. Every car that drove past the house, I feared would be him.
I sat down in front of the psychic when my turn finally came, to find a sweet older lady with a thick European accent. I was excellent at understanding accents because of my Grandmother, but I couldn’t pick where this lady had come from. She looked at me quizzically. I wondered if she’d met my mother before, as if psychics have conventions and unions where they all meet to discuss their working conditions and fair pay.
“So what would you like me to help you with today?” she asked.
I shrugged. “I’m not sure…”
“I sense you’re a bit lost?”
I nodded.
“You are very intuitive. Do you often just know things?”
I nodded again, Rhys springing to mind. Perhaps I should have trusted myself when I sensed he didn’t love me anymore, despite him telling me otherwise. I shook him from my mind. Instead, I remembered a time where I saw my cup of tea, and thought, ‘That’s going to fall on my computer today.’ And lo and behold, the tea went into the computer. I hardly called that ‘psychic’ power, but it certainly gave intuition a good rap.
“You should channel that energy somehow. Try tarot cards. Have you ever used crystals?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think I’d know how.”
She nodded, talking about Tiger’s Eyes and Amethysts for protection, before handing me a pile of cards to shuffle.
While I shuffled, she spoke to me about meditation and getting in touch with my spiritual energy.
“You need to trust your gut more.”
I handed the pile back to her, and she flipped over the first one.
Justice.
“You always try to balance things for people, you believe in equality, black and white.”
The next one was ‘Books’.
“You hide behind books, and what you read. But they can’t really make you escape from the world.”
After that came ‘Children’.
“Do you work with children?” she asked.
I nodded, and then burst into tears.
I wondered what it was about my students that made me cry there and then, but thinking about them, and
how much responsibility I had for them, I sobbed uncontrollably. The psychic continued to talk, as though she was used to her clients crying in front of her all the time.
“They look up to you, even though they’re naughty sometimes. They still appreciate what you do for them.”
There’s no way she could have known all this about me, about the books, about the equality I always worked so hard to create for everyone around me… I would always give the bigger piece of cake away out of two I cut. These thoughts made me sob even more. This lady was the real deal.
I managed to regroup myself enough to shuffle through the next deck of cards.
She lai
d three out in front of me.
“New beginnings… it’s time for you to go out on your own.”
“Romance… get ready.”
“New love.”
My heart skipped a little when I saw the words New Love.
“But new love doesn’t always mean with a new person, it could also mean a new hobby or a pet,” she added quickly.
I admitted that she was right, there were more ways to look at that particular card than romantic love. I liked to think I was okay being alone, but then again, I was probably just like every girl – I was really scared of dying alone.
The psychic then turned over another card.
“You write a journal?”
I nodded. I kept nodding, but I had no idea what else to say. She was telling me nothing but the truth, nothing that needed any further comment.
“Your ideas are fantastic, but you often repeat yourself to get your message across, because your self expression is limited. Do you often just write and write and then read what you wrote, and think, ‘that’s not too bad, actually’?”
Again, I nodded. Tears were welling up in my eyes once more.
“Keep writing, you need a creative project as an outlet.”
It was almost like she was inside my head. She was speaking some of my innermost thoughts, things I wouldn’t bother to tell anyone, things I only thought to myself, because they only mattered to me.
Lastly, the psychic fanned a number of cards out in front of me. I picked one, and read it aloud, “Generosity.”
“Doing things for the sake of what’s good, rather than merit.” I thought of my work at the hospital.
Then the buzzer dinged, and my time was up.
I paid the psychic, and as I turned to walk through the door, I ran straight into Rhys. It was like a horrible romantic comedy where people bang into someone they don’t want to see, always in the doorways, and then flee at the sight of them. I hadn’t heard him pull up outside, even though I’d been listening so carefully earlier.
It was the first time I’d seen him since we broke up, and I didn’t know what to say. My mouth hung open, and I suddenly remembered I’d been crying, after wanting to look fabulous in case he showed up. So in an all too familiar scene, I ran to my car and pulled out of the driveway at full speed. Running away again, as usual.
Later on, Rhys called, asking why I left in such a hurry. What followed was an inevitable argument, where I spilled out all my ill feelings about the new girl he had so hastily replaced me with. I always intended to keep such anxieties confined to myself – but often my thoughts became like a brimming bucket of water, and there was sometimes nowhere for them to go but over the edge. I hoped maybe Rhys would be reasonable, admit it he had moved on too fast and that he was sorry the whole situation was hurting me. Hopeful, but wrong. His voice began to take on a heated tone, and I knew he was trying to hold back his anger. Rhys began telling me to stop being miserable, it was over, he had the right to move on however he pleased, so what… And for a second I was stunned, upset all over again, and angrily, I hung up the phone on him. Enough was enough.
But then I realised, why was I wasting my time on someone like Rhys? Why was I letting him dictate how I felt?
I also realised right then, I could either pass off what the psychic had said, like I did with my mother, or I could use her spiritual guidance to my advantage.
It was then I decided, no more being second best, no more anxiety. No more Rhys. That part of my life was over. It was time for me to get on with things.
IMOGENE
Henry watched me the entire time I was reading, trying to gauge my reaction to Aggie’s writing.
“Well?”
“You’ve never seen this book before?” I asked him.
“Never.”
I sat brushing my fingers against the spine of the well-thumbed notebook. Aggie had written enough for an entire novel in there. It was like Ellis Grey in Grey’s Anatomy, trying to retain her fading memory by keeping diary after diary.
“I think we should turn it in. She left it for you to find – she obviously knew something was going down.”
“But what? Cameron Ivenhoe? Something else?” Henry was becoming exasperated, tiredness seeping into his voice.
“What if something in there can tell us where she is?”
“So let’s say she was kidnapped… You think she would be writing about it at the exact time they came for her?”
“Henry, that’s really stupid and you know it.” I was starting to feel exasperated too. “Just give it to the police and let them deal with it. You saw the post-it note. Something is in there, and we don’t really have time to be searching for it ourselves.”
After another half hour of arguing, Henry and I made our way down the stairs and handed the diary to the kind police officer, named Hobbs, who had just finished questioning Tabitha. He thanked us for the information, and headed out the door back to the police station. I maintained that handing over the diary was the best thing to find Aggie – Henry disagreed. I secretly wished Marella had left me a diary – all I had was a bunch of pictures of her in pretty vintage outfits, which now, seemed to be rather useless in the harsh light of day.
12
AGGIE
1/7/13
I always loved being a musician – it was the only thing I really knew how to be. I started off on violin, as most kids do. But as I got older, I learned to play the piano, the guitar, and how to sing. Eventually, I became one of those children who could pick up an instrument and play it without any instruction. When things didn’t go right for me, I knew I could turn to music in a way most people didn’t understand. I had a deep love, a deep understanding and a deep, deep appreciation for all forms of music. My memory was locked in songs, in melodies, in orchestral masterpieces… I could remember where I was the time I heard a song, or the time I played a piece. I could remember the feelings I had, and the people around me. The concert halls, what I did after, and what I did before.
Ke’s Tik Tok reminded me of the day I graduated from high school. Very 2009, the kind of era music you would look back on in twenty years time and cringe over. Henry put it in the CD player as I got dressed in my school uniform for the very last time. That night at the after party, as Tik Tok blared in the background, I discovered the innate nature of man, when one of the boys in my year strode over to me, drink and hand and yelled, “MY MATE WANTS TO FUCK YOU!” in a loud, crude voice. Needless to say, in all my innocent pretentions, I left quite soon after that.
Chopin’s Piano Concerto No. 1 reminded me of my first semester as a university music student, where I felt like I had stepped into a foreign country, with no idea how to speak the local language. In the performance of that concerto, I imagined I could see the lover who had discarded me the week before, sitting at the back of the concert hall. In my mind, he came to apologise on his hands and knees for rejecting my affections, and coming to my concert was a show of solidarity. My imagination had the power to turn shadows into people.
Last year we all decided to go clubbing for New Year, which turned out to be an absolutely ridiculous idea. The trains were crowded, the streets were crowded, everywhere was crowded, and not in a fun Mardi-Gras type of way, but a sweaty, I’m-about-to-brawl-with-you sort of way. It was when we were trying to enter the club, after standing in a disastrously long line, that we got turned away from the club because it was full, just as we finally moved to the front of the line. This setback put majority of the group in a sour mood, and we ended up in a pub that was less crowded. We counted down the minutes to midnight in the street outside, then after entering the pub, Henry pulled me into a dark corner, and after looking over his shoulder, unfurled his hand to reveal two shining pills. We were going to have a good night, no matter how everyone else felt.
I will always remember that night, dancing with my brother and other people I didn’t know, on that crowded and sweaty dance floor. The Swedish House Mafia song, Don’t You Worry Child was pumpi
ng through the speakers, and lights danced all over the room, turning our skin a fluorescent blue colour. The faces around us blurred into a mish-mash of colours, and the high that came over me made the music seem louder, more consuming than before. Henry and I put our hands up in the air, with the rest of the dance floor, screaming the lyrics to the song. I closed my eyes, and embraced the freedom I felt, the vacation from my own mind. I could hardly hear myself think, and I barely wanted to. I wanted to kiss somebody, I wanted to fuck somebody, anybody. Someone behind us got too excited and spilled his drink down Henry’s front, which in other circumstances, would have probably inflamed tensions in a already hot and heavy crowd – but Henry just turned and gave the guy a thumbs up with a smile to match. He was too busy having a good time to worry about silly things like a ruined shirt. It was something I always admired about Henry – everything was like water off a duck’s back with him. I wished sometimes I could be more like that – females always tended to think too much about everything. But for that moment, I felt calm and happy. I was with my brother, we were having a good time, it was New Year’s Eve and I was excited about the year to come. It was the time when Henry and I were the closest, the happiest. We had this spark, this energy between us, something only a brother and sister could understand. Pure magic and pills, it didn’t need to be explained. It just was.
Our dance-floor antics didn’t last long, as Henry’s girlfriend announced she had a headache, and we all traipsed back to the train station to head home. It was twenty-five past midnight. Happy 2013.
The next day, a police officer came to our door, solemn look on his face, hat under his arm. Our Dad had wrapped his car around a tree driving home from a fishing trip. Empty bottle of rum on the back seat. Fish miraculously still in the esky. I think a little of the spark died that day too. That New Year was the last time Henry and I ever bonded over the chemical magic of ecstasy.
Ghosts Page 8