Remind Me How This Ends

by Gabrielle Tozer

  ‘We’ll talk tomorrow when you’re rested.’

  I’m overcome with a strange feeling of remembering what it’s like to be looked after. Cared for. I don’t think I realised how much I needed it until this moment.

  My head is bowed. All I can think is how terrible I must smell, and how I hope Shirin has some spare pads in a bathroom drawer, and how I feel like a stranger in my dad’s home.

  But Shirin doesn’t comment on the redness of my eyes, or the late hour, or the cops showing up at the house, or the fact I haven’t returned her calls since our last catch-up. She just tells me it’s good to have me home.

  I hold back the tears until I’m in the shower.

  * * *

  I pick at my grilled cheese on toast, popping holes in the stretched-out melted cheese oozing over the edges onto the plate. Shirin watches me from across the kitchen as she sips her second coffee for the morning. We still haven’t spoken about last night; a miracle considering Shirin loves to flood silences with her every thought.

  In the daylight, I take a second to look around. It’s not like the Darks’ place, which Jen has styled to look like a spread in a high-end glossy magazine. Here it’s like life has vomited over every square metre of the house except the guest room. There are photos everywhere, crammed onto every shelf, the walls and even along the hallway. When I look closer, I realise how many there are of me. Dad pushing me on a swing as a toddler. Me sitting on Dad’s shoulders after a swimming carnival. Me and Dad raking leaves on the front lawn at the old house.

  Mum isn’t in any of the photos but she’s still tied to them. She took them, bullying Dad to hop into the shot ’cos he hated posing, and refusing to be in them herself ’cos there were ‘enough photos of her’. It’s the biggest lie she ever told us.

  I stop looking.

  Shirin takes a seat opposite me and I can almost see the mechanics whirring inside her head. I’m swamped with guilt that she has to muddle her way through this.

  ‘So,’ she begins, taking another sip of her coffee. ‘Let me get this straight, hon … you’ve been kicked out?’

  I nod.

  ‘And you and Kurt have broken up?’

  I swallow. ‘Yep. Done.’

  ‘Okay …’

  Her lip twitches. I bet she wants to ask why, but she respects my privacy and doesn’t push me for details. In an unexpected way, it actually makes me want to tell her everything. I silently work through my ‘Layla screws up her life’ checklist: homeless, broken up, busted by the police, Milo … oh, yeah. The other thing.

  ‘I also … I missed work, I think. Definitely one shift. Maybe even another one today, I can’t remember.’

  A light flickers in Shirin’s eyes. ‘You have a job?’

  ‘At the chicken place. But everything got so crazy with Kurt, and I think I left my uniform at the house and …’ I clear my throat. ‘Anyway, I tried calling Joe from your phone this morning — I hope that’s okay — but it’s ringing out. I’m fired for sure.’

  She points at my plate. ‘Don’t forget the crusts. We could drive there today? Work it out in person.’

  ‘It’s not like I have a good excuse.’

  ‘I dunno, it sounds to me like you have a lot going on, hon.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Not that I want to explain any of it to my boss.

  ‘Look, I have to be honest with you. Your dad is worried about all this.’

  ‘He knows?’

  ‘Of course. Some of it anyway — I was creatively selective when I spoke to him,’ she admits. ‘The thing is, I want you to stay here with us. We both do.’

  I swallow. The last time Dad and I lived under the same roof it was a disaster.

  ‘You’re eighteen — I get it,’ she continues, steamrolling over the silence. ‘You’re old enough to make your own decisions. But the police? And sleeping in your car? Let us look after you, for God’s sake. You’ve tried doing it alone. It hasn’t worked. Enough.’ Her voice is shaking. ‘If you want to leave, then there’s nothing I can do to stop you. But that room down the end is yours.’

  ‘But Dad —’

  ‘Wants this too.’ Her hand rests on mine. ‘He does. He’s not the man he was back then.’

  ‘He doesn’t even text me.’

  She sighs. ‘Oh, honey. He works too much and has made plenty of questionable decisions involving you, you’re right, but I think he gave up on you ever wanting to be near him again. But you’re here now, and … well, maybe you two can start again. He needs this second chance … and I think you do too.’ She pushes my plate closer to me. ‘And he loves you silly. Please treat this place like it’s home because it is your home.’

  I mumble thank you and agree to stay for a bit. Not for long. Just until I’m sorted.

  Shirin lifts her cup to her lips and I notice a satisfied smile stretch from the corners of her mouth, like she’s just solved the most complex mystery in the world.

  Milo

  Music pounding in my earphones, I head out the front door. Block after block, I run through how Layla and I might greet each other, what we might say, whether we’ll hug, or kiss on the cheek, or launch ourselves at each other with so much PDA that it horrifies all the families hanging by the river.

  Then I remember. There’s still no word from her. She might not even show.

  At the entrance to the car park, I hoist myself over a waist-high fence to take a shortcut. Long grass scratches at my calves as I wind my way down to the water. My heart starts to race as I conjure her in my mind. Messy hair. Skinny jeans. That voice that slices through a room.

  I spot her car wedged between two SUVs.

  Holy crap. She came.

  * * *

  I circle the car, tongue pressed against the top of my mouth, and peek through the windows. Nothing looks out of place. There’s a little extra rubbish littering the back seat, but that’s about it. It’s locked. I’ve checked twice.

  Palms cupping the back of my head, I look around, half-expecting to see her bounding over, calling me ‘jerkface’. But she’s not down at the river bend, or splashing by the willows. She’s not up high near the rope swing. She’s not on the grass under the trees. She’s not chatting with the duo who’ve run the tourist centre for the past ten years.

  I even wait outside the ladies’ for fifteen minutes, but the only person who comes out is a weathered woman in a sarong, jumper and thongs who tells me to scram before she pads back to her caravan.

  I wander up to the main street to suss out if Layla’s at Joe’s, or stocking up for us at the gelato shop, checking my phone to see if I’ve skipped over something.

  Nope. No messages or missed calls.

  An hour has passed since I first arrived but this is all I know: she’s not here.

  * * *

  Milo: Hey, where are you, Chicken Girl?

  Milo: I’m back at your car

  Milo: Are we playing hide’n’seek?

  Milo: Have we done that thing where you’re at your car while I’m by the water, or you’re in the bathroom while I’m up at the main street?

  Milo: Well, that’s an hour and a half

  Milo: Seriously, you OK?

  Layla

  The bedroom door creaks open. Shirin edges her way in, harem pants first.

  ‘Wanna watch a soppy movie? I’ve got tissues and snacks.’ She waves a heaving bowl of buttery popcorn in my direction.

  ‘Sure.’ I sit up on the bed, tugging my hoodie further down over my forehead.

  ‘You can invite a friend over if you want?’

  I shrug. ‘That’s okay. Er … that popcorn smells good,’ I say, keen to change the topic.

  ‘The movie’s just an excuse to eat it. Dinner didn’t touch the sides.’ Shirin crunches on a fluffy kernel. ‘So, quick update: I’ve picked up the car for you and a girlfriend dropped off her extra charger, ’til we get you another one.’

  Using her spare hand, she eases it from her pocket and places it in my hand.

  ‘You’r
e the best. Thanks.’ I sit it on the bed next to me.

  She raises an eyebrow. ‘A few months back you would’ve killed me for a charger. Should I call a doctor, hon?’

  ‘It’s cool, I’ll check my phone later.’

  I feel bad for disappearing on Milo, but maybe the space will make him realise how chilled things can be for him without me dropping atomic bombs all over his life.

  Shirin zeroes in on my suitcase, which is wide open on the floor in front of the wardrobe. A waterfall of jumpers, hoodies, shorts, T-shirts, dresses, skirts and knickers cascades over the edges.

  ‘You haven’t unpacked.’

  She plonks the bowl of popcorn next to me on the bed, and heaves and huffs at my suitcase until it’s out of the way and she can open the wardrobe. Even from the bed I can see it’s already crammed with boxes. Boxes scrawled with Layla in black marker. I’d recognise Dad’s terrible loopy handwriting anywhere.

  ‘Your father was supposed to move these into the garage months ago. Luckily for us, he’s hopeless and forgot.’

  ‘What’s in them?’

  She runs her hand over my name. ‘Your things, honey. You don’t remember?’

  I stare at them, wondering what could be inside.

  ‘They were all boxed up years ago, right after it happened. Your father wasn’t himself though, so I can’t imagine they’re very organised. You’ve never looked in them?’

  ‘I never knew about them.’ I wonder if Shirin hears the crack in my voice. ‘What happened to Mum’s stuff?’

  ‘Oh … I don’t know, hon. Why don’t we unpack these and make space for your clothes in the robe?’ She reaches for a box.

  ‘That movie was sounding pretty good,’ I say. ‘I can get to them tomorrow.’

  ‘Alright, your call.’ She glances at the bare walls. ‘We should get some colour in here too. Ever painted?’

  ‘Once maybe … not really.’ I’m pretty sure watching Kurt graffiti a public toilet wall doesn’t count.

  * * *

  My phone’s screen glows in the dark. Now that it’s charged, messages are flooding through. A missed call from Joe’s. Mel telling me she’s sorry about how it all went down. Another missed call from Joe’s. A long-winded novel of a text from a clearly out-of-it Kurt saying he never loved me anyway, followed by another four messages saying he’s sorry, missing me like crazy, didn’t mean any of it and wants me to move back in. A voicemail from Joe telling me I’m fired and not to bother coming in again. Shit, shitty shit. A short message without any flowery bits from Dad saying he’s glad I’m home and he’s sorry he’s still away for work. He does sign off with ‘love you’ though.

  I save Milo’s messages until the end.

  I have to reread them because I’m too frazzled to take them in the first time.

  The second time, I savour every word.

  It hurts to think of him wandering around the car park, confused and wondering why I wasn’t there, but I don’t know how to reply now. Not after everything that’s gone down since I last saw him.

  I imagine how it might play out: Um, hi, sorry to stand you up. After I lost my mind at your place, my jerky boyfriend kicked me out so I had nowhere to sleep. I totally stuffed up my one source of money, then the cops had to drive me home, but I’m not a total head case, promise, so let’s be friends-who-kiss-sometimes and swap funny oyster facts soon, yeah? Lx

  Yeah, no.

  But putting off texting him forever won’t work either. If I ignore his messages for too long, he’ll eventually stop trying. Just like Jill did. Because with me gone, his life might loosen itself out of the knot we’ve created until it’s back to normal and he’ll realise he was better off without me after all. And that’s just about the bluest thing I can imagine happening right now.

  I can do this. My fingers hover over the keys.

  Hi Milo.

  Delete. Too formal.

  Hey, you.

  Delete. Too breezy considering what I need to tell him next.

  Chicken Girl here. Do I win hide-and-seek?

  Delete. Too flippant. Too lame. Too fake-happy.

  I fall asleep without replying to anyone, not even Milo.

  * * *

  I take a knife from a drawer and head into the bedroom. Earlier this morning Shirin pulled all the boxes out of the wardrobe so there’s space for me to store the clothes I rescued from Kurt’s.

  I crouch down to the first box, which is puckered around the edges after years of storage, and slice through the masking tape. Nothing but baby clothes that I’d thought Mum and Dad had given away years ago. I rifle through it and hold up a pair of knitted booties, barely as big as a credit card. I close up the box, keeping the booties next to me.

  My hands shake a little as I reach for another; it’s like stepping into a time machine. I tug at the tape, trying to ease it off without ripping anything. It doesn’t work so I knife through it. This box is crammed with primary school stuff — old assignments, notebooks and report cards. While Layla excels in her studies and shows potential well beyond her grade, she could do better at being quieter in class so she doesn’t distract the other students. I flush with pride when I see my Year 6 teacher begrudgingly gave me an A.

  I tear through the next few boxes. Old toys. More assignments. Birthday cards. Even more clothes. A jewellery box filled with necklaces, a charm bracelet, stud earrings and my signet ring. It’s so small it doesn’t even fit on my pinkie finger. On a whim I check every compartment to make sure Mum’s bracelet isn’t tucked inside a deep crack. Nothing.

  The second-last box is full of books. How I’d adored them. I remember staying up with a torch under the sheets until Mum came in and begged me to get some sleep before school the next day. I take out book after book and place them to the side until my fingers wrap around the one I’m looking for: The Very Hungry Caterpillar. I stroke the cover and open it to the first page. There it is: her handwritten words to me. To our little butterfly. Love Mum and Dad xox

  I slip the book under the booties.

  Fighting back tears, I rip open the final box to see my old swimming gear stuffed inside. Flippers. Goggles. Cap. A Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles backpack that Mum used to fill with my favourite toys to lure me to class week after week. Property of LM is scribbled on a raggedy foam kickboard wedged down the side of the box. It’s Dad’s writing this time and the water has washed most of it away.

  I stack the boxes in a corner. As I pick up the box of swimming gear and try to heave it onto the top of the pile, the backpack topples out and hits the carpet. Scooping it up, I unzip it, wondering if Dad held onto my Daffy Duck floaties.

  I almost drop the bag when I see what’s inside.

  My tatty old softball mitt.

  * * *

  The sun belts down on my skin as I squeeze my fingers into the mitt as far as they’ll go, rub its leathery exterior, read the personalised ID tag a hundred times. Layla. This time it’s in Mum’s scrawl.

  My cheeks ache from smiling so much.

  I don’t know how the mitt made it into the box. Back then, after the accident, Dad was in no position to get it back for me. I send a big thank you to the sympathetic neighbour or kind-hearted nurse who returned it ’cos I now have another piece of Mum. Another memory.

  Maybe I do want them all.

  Maybe she is with me again, just.

  I look up, heart swelling at the bright buttery orb glowing in the sky.

  No, I tell myself, she is with me.

  That’s how Shirin finds me: flopped on the grass, fingers tracing over the stitching on the mitt, staring up at the blue.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt the daydreaming, but what would you like for dinner, hon?’ she asks, playing with the beaded necklace hanging around her neck. ‘Green curry or fish tacos sound good? Or do you have a favourite dish? Keep in mind you’re on dishwasher duty.’

  Mum used to cook a rotating schedule of meat and three vegies and spag bol, while Dad was lucky to manage boiled eggs when it
was just the two of us. I’ve never been asked what I want to eat before. I’ve never had green curry or fish tacos.

  ‘Um … you choose. Whatever you make will be great.’

  ‘Tacos at Casa del Layla and Shirin it is. I think you’ll love them.’

  ‘Cool … where’s that?’

  Shirin grins at my confusion. ‘It means House of Layla and Shirin. So basically … here. Our home. Your home.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘It’s so lovely having company in this big old house while your dad’s away,’ she says in a soft voice. ‘I don’t know if I’ve told you, but it makes it feel like a real home for me too.’

  I feel a lump in my throat.

  ‘Speaking of which,’ she continues, maybe sensing from my watery eyes that I’m not going to reply, ‘what colour should we paint your room? We’ll pick up some paint from town tomorrow if you like.’

  I swallow down hard, then manage to tell her that I’d love that.

  And I want to paint my bedroom yellow.

  Like the sun.

  Milo

  Should I text Layla again?

  I’ve asked myself that question too many times as Trent screams at the zombies lurching towards him on the screen in my room.

  Since my latest lecture from Mum and Dad, I’m meant to be smashing through uni applications, but instead I’m doodling on paper and telling myself to sort my head out — all to the sound of gunshots.

  When Layla never showed on Saturday, I decided to suck up the blisters and walk home past her place — okay, fine, I caught a taxi to her place — but no-one answered the front door and her phone went straight to voicemail. I only made it halfway up her neighbour’s lawn before the old woman came hobbling out onto the veranda, flapping a rake and crowing at me to stay away from her garden bed.

  Can’t say I’ve ever been a fan of mysteries.

  ‘Suck it!’ Trent’s knuckles are white as his fingers grip the controller. More gunshots. Then a bloodcurdling scream. He flops back onto my bed, swearing so much you’d think he’d actually just faced an onslaught of bullets.