Night Swimming

by Steph Bowe

  Iris nods. ‘Fair enough. Seems difficult to believe anyone could be miserable baking scones. Scones are vital to life.’ She grins. She is so close that I could kiss her, and I want to, but I’m paralysed by anxiety.

  She reaches across and starts tracing lines between the freckles of my right arm, swirls and circles. I stop breathing. I realise this could mean I pass out, and I definitely do not want to miss this, so I start breathing again. I have never noticed how much my chest rises up when I inhale. I feel like a pufferfish crossed with a mannequin. Total body awkwardness is setting in.

  ‘I’m not good at this,’ I whisper.

  Iris smiles, and her eyes soften. ‘Do you think I am?’ she asks, her tone jovial.

  ‘Yeah, actually. You’re unfathomably beautiful and you’re the best singer I’ve ever met and I’ve only known you a matter of months, but you’ve been so unfailingly kind and decent, it’s hard to believe you could be anything but. You’re smart and cool and the sort of sophisticated city person I could only dream of being. And you’ve probably kissed lots of people. That sounds terrible. What I mean is you’re stunning and experienced and that’s a good thing. That is such a good thing. I’m a bit terrified, to be honest, of a lot of things. Of leaving this town and of growing up, and of losing the people I care about. And of romance. And of sex. All my relationships have been hypothetical, up to this point, so I’m probably going to be the worst girlfriend ever. I mean, if you even want me to be your girlfriend.’

  I have overshared to a terrifying degree. I have revealed myself to be a crazy person. Iris hasn’t recoiled in horror, but maybe she’s working out how to extricate herself from the situation without making me feel horrible. Kind and decent till the end.

  She tucks a piece of hair behind my ear and smiles. It’s a sad smile. ‘Do you know why we moved here?’

  ‘Because your parents always wanted a restaurant and a tree-change?’

  She nods. ‘Well, there’s that. And for my mental health.’ She lies back beside me and tucks her knees up, staring up at the ceiling. ‘I had depression. I have depression. But it was worse. Before.’

  I try not to sound taken aback that someone so seemingly cheerful could be depressed. I feel overwhelmingly sad for her. I feel like a terrible friend for not realising. ‘Oh, Iris. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘I’m fine, I mean, don’t be worried. I had a lot of trouble at high school. I think a lot of people do. Not many people talk about their school days fondly unless they’ve repressed all the awful bits. But I had a pretty horrific time. It wears you down, you know, being rejected daily. No one ever beat me up or anything, it was a sort of subtle conspiracy of exclusion. If I was tolerated, it was so I could be the subject of the joke. I don’t even know why, really. Someone had to be on the outer, had to be the loser, and in that year level it was me. Hard to tell whether being not-straight and not-white came into it. My parents were wonderful, as were some of the teachers, and I had music, and my marks were all right, but the isolation at school set off a whole lot of other problems. Brain stuff that I couldn’t get over even once I moved schools.’ She glances across at me to check I’m still listening. I reach down and squeeze her hand.

  ‘It felt like I was living twenty-thousand leagues under the sea sometimes. I don’t know if that’s the right metaphor. Maybe it was more like being trapped in a sinking boat, you know? The water level is rising and you’re floating up near the roof and all you’ve got is a pocket of air and you’re straining to tilt your head enough to keep breathing and you’re treading water endlessly and your hands go numb and your pocket of air is turning to carbon monoxide. Just taking your next breath is such a huge undertaking, just staying afloat summons every iota of strength in your body. There’s no point to any of it. You might as well die now because it’s inevitable. I felt like I was only prolonging the suffering. Does that sound horribly selfish?’

  ‘No. No. I don’t think you’re responsible for the ship sinking. Is it…are you better now? I don’t know if that’s the right thing to say.’

  ‘That’s fine. I am and I’m not. It wasn’t like getting healed in an evangelical church or anything. You know, where they lay their hands on some poor person in a wheelchair, who can then walk again. Nothing instantaneous or magical or clear-cut about it. The medication takes the weight off, the darkness blanketing everything is lifted, sort of. Which makes it easier to actually do something about it. See the psychologist and that. Get out of bed every day and keep moving forward. It’s still there but it’s background noise. The TV’s still on but it’s been turned way down.’ She squeezes my hand tightly. Tears spill from her face and onto the collar of her dress, a neat drenched circle in the fabric. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I haven’t done anything.’

  ‘You have. You don’t even know. I’m not perfect in the slightest. I’m probably more scared than you are. I want you to know who I am, rather than just who I present myself as. Which is me, too, but mainly the more likeable bits. I couldn’t exactly lead with I’m a recovering depressive.’

  ‘There’s no shame in that. I still would’ve thought you were wonderful. I thought you were wonderful even when I found out you were a secret crop-circler.’

  ‘It’s odd, I felt so powerless being bullied, and as if my life had no meaning when I was depressed, and creating something—even crop circles—felt like the opposite of that. Something I was in control of, but that no one could judge me for. Then when everyone talked about it the next day, I felt like I was manifesting a little bit of influence over the world, reminding myself that I existed.’

  ‘Music is probably a more productive thing to create,’ I say.

  ‘Probably. Don’t worry. No more alien hoaxes for me.’ She lies against me, her head on my shoulder. I feel her eyelashes flutter at my neck and her hand at my waist. ‘And I would like you to be my girlfriend.’

  There’s the panicked bird in my chest again. ‘Do you know me well enough?’ My voice is strained.

  ‘I’m pretty sure I’ll get the opportunity to get to know you better.’

  ‘What if I’m a secret serial killer?’

  She laughs. ‘You’d probably get sprung pretty quick, in a town this small. You’d run out of potential victims in a week. I’m willing to live with the risk if you are.’

  ‘All right then,’ I say.

  She reaches under my T-shirt and draws circles on my stomach with her fingertips. She presses her lips against my neck. I sigh. The weight of her shifts on top of me, her leg between both of mine. I lose my place in time.

  I hold her face and trace along the whorl of her ears, her eyelashes, her lips. I don’t think I have ever wanted to smile so hard in my life. I try not to grin like the entrance to Luna Park, for fear of looking mad. I probably don’t succeed. Iris smiles back at me.

  I shake my head. ‘I feel like I’m in a dream,’ I whisper. I am simmering with so much nervous energy I can’t bring myself to kiss her, despite how close we are. If she’s waiting for me to make the move, then we might be stuck in this just-before moment forever. As lovely as this moment is, I would very much enjoy the next bit, too. If only I could manage to shift us towards it.

  She holds her hands over my hands and kisses me. I am smiling so hard it’s not that easy for her. I kiss her back, so I can’t really smile at the same time. I sink into our kiss. We pause for breath. I am quite overcome.

  ‘Shouldn’t we pace ourselves?’ I stammer. ‘Relationships are a marathon, not a sprint.’ I cringe at my cliché. I can’t run, let alone do a marathon. I just want this to last for as long as possible.

  She forces a serious expression. ‘Of course.’

  We collapse with laughter and watch the constellations and kiss some more, and I think this is maybe the best thing ever to happen to me.

  ‘This isn’t, like, a gender thing, is it?’ asks Iris, backstroking towards the other side of the river. ‘Would you be telling everyone about our relationship if I were…I was try
ing to think of the male form of Iris and I don’t think there is one.’

  It’s Sunday evening, or it might already be early Monday morning, the first week of August. It’s a cool night and the water is cooler still, but Iris is in the river, and only gasped briefly when she plunged in.

  The water level is high, since we’ve been having unseasonable rain. Some east coast low. Mum reckons it’s only a matter of time before we flood. How Iris feels safe with the water black around her is beyond me. She likes the night a lot better than I do.

  ‘No. It’s not a gender thing.’ I sit on the bank and push a toe into the water. Freezing. ‘I don’t think Kirby is a particularly male or female name.’

  She swims back towards me again, her voice ringing out, teasing. ‘Because it’s not a real name.’

  I laugh. ‘Hey, I was named after the “Great Dissenter”. And he was the first openly gay judge of Australia’s High Court. Show some respect.’

  She treads water. ‘Come on. Get in. Night swimming is the best kind of swimming. Unless there was a vat of chocolate. I imagine chocolate swimming would be better.’ She is glimmering in the moonlight. I’m worried a strong current will come along and sweep her away. Either that, or she’ll just vanish and I’ll realise this was all a dream and wake up. She looks only half-real in the moonlight.

  ‘I can see that you’re shivering,’ I say. ‘I am not getting in that water. I’ve told you there are eels and turtles in there, right? And who knows what else?’

  She laughs. ‘Wuss. Actually, It’s really bloody cold.’

  She climbs out and I hand her the towel. She wraps it around herself, then sits beside me and leans her head against my shoulder, wet hair and all. I don’t mind in the slightest.

  ‘You reckon it’s going to flood?’ I ask, watching the water ripple.

  ‘You’d know better than I would,’ says Iris. ‘You’re from here.’

  Here. I keep turning everything over in my head. Mum wanting me to leave. My dad actually leaving our town and having a life of his own out in the world. Clancy and his jam-less lamington metaphor and his desperation for the culture and excitement of Sydney. I stare at the river. If this is all my life ever involves—this town and this river and these people and the same life I’ve always known—isn’t that enough? Shouldn’t I be grateful for that? What if the fact that everyone else leaves town tricks me into thinking it’s right for me?

  ‘Are you going to leave?’ I ask. ‘Go back to the city?’

  She looks up at me and grins. ‘Only if you come with me.’

  ‘Be serious.’

  ‘We’ll both be alive far too long to stay in one place forever, Kirb,’ she says.

  ‘I think…I think I might be too worried about abandoning Mum and Grandad. Even though Mum said she wanted me to leave…’

  ‘That doesn’t mean you won’t feel guilty.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You have to live for yourself, I suppose. You never know, your grandad might approve of you leaving, too.’ She exhales loudly.

  We sit in silence. I try counting every individual thing I’m anxious about in my head, as if I can somehow get control over it all that way. My brain is churning. Perhaps it’s made of butter. That’s how it feels. It’s too much pressure for me to be the only person who can work out what the right thing to do is. What if I mess up? What if I don’t leave and regret it forever? What if I leave and regret it forever?

  ‘My parents are so happy about me and you,’ says Iris. ‘Weirdly so. I mean, is the reason you don’t want to tell anyone about us because you’re worried about your mum’s reaction? Or your grandad’s?’

  ‘No. Mum is completely fine, in her matter-of-fact way. And Grandad is progressive for someone his age. It’s Clancy. It’s like…I don’t want him to think I’ve betrayed our friendship, you know.’

  A pause. ‘You’ll always be friends, you two.’

  ‘Yes, I know. It’s not rational. I just don’t want him to think that I’m favouring someone who’s just shown up over a lifelong friend. Even though my friendship with each of you is different, of course, I just know Clancy, and I know it’s going to hurt his feelings. He’s kind of possessive.’

  We’ve been careful about no one seeing us, because I definitely do not want Judy gossiping to Clancy about it. Or anyone else. I know that Iris is upset about it, and I wish I could properly convey to her how much it is not her that’s the problem, not the relationship itself, or us both being girls, or my family, or my town. It’s that I don’t want to upset Clancy, even though I already know that Iris turned him down when he declared his feelings.

  When it’s just the two of us, Iris and me, talking about alternate dimensions and our favourite books and video games when we were kids, it’s perfect. It’s the most comfortable, wonderful thing. None of the rest matters.

  ‘I could tell him,’ says Iris. She sniffs.

  ‘It’s not really an option. He’s my best friend.’

  ‘You know the longer you leave it the harder it gets.’ She sniffs louder.

  I nod. I’ve been meaning to tell him. Of course I have. It’s been a couple of weeks, though, and even though it’s not a lie, it feels like one. It feels like I’m a fictional person, and there’s an ever-widening ravine between Clancy and me. It’s all starting to feel like it’s too late.

  ‘It would help if he noticed we’ve become close all of a sudden,’ I say. When the three of us spend time together, Iris and I barely touch and I try not to look at her. Which is impossible. But Clancy is so enthusiastic, so excited: about putting on a new play he’s writing himself; about the ever-decreasing amount of time before he goes to uni; about throwing a party when his parents go to Sydney in a couple of weeks for a wedding. It’ll be more like a movie night, with only the three of us there, but he’s excited all the same. So he’s not really paying attention to any vibe between Iris and me.

  ‘You’re making it more dramatic than it is,’ mumbles Iris. ‘He wouldn’t be that upset. He wasn’t upset when I didn’t want to go out with him. And he’s your best friend, so he’d want you to be happy. Right?’

  ‘Yeah, but what about the off-chance that it permanently damages our friendship? And keep in mind that “dramatic” is Clancy’s middle name.’

  There’s rustling in the scrub behind us. I almost jump.

  Iris pinches my waist. She faces me, grinning. ‘Maybe there really are aliens in Alberton?’

  ‘Please stop it,’ I say, grabbing her hand. I go very still, listening for more movement.

  ‘I’m sure it’s the wrong time of year for any of the deadly animals to be out,’ she says. ‘You let your imagination get away from you. And that’s a big statement, coming from me.’

  There’s no more rustling. ‘The night you climbed up that ladder to the house? I thought there was a human-eating hybrid creature coming to get me.’

  She laughs. ‘Maybe I am a human-eating hybrid creature and you just haven’t found out yet.’

  ‘I am so glad to be in this universe,’ I say. ‘Think about all the alternate universes where we never met, where you never came to town. And think about the absolute fortune of so many factors coming together to produce this exact set of circumstances.’

  Iris smiles, and holds my face, and kisses me, and when I open my eyes, I see Clancy on the riverbank, not dressed for swimming. Iris drops her hands and leans away.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I ask, incredulous. Clancy has never before gone for a swim in the river at night. Neither have I.

  ‘You walked past my house,’ he says. ‘Laughing. Loudly.’

  Iris wrings her hands. ‘We didn’t mean to exclude you, or anything. It’s just…’

  ‘I’ve had quite enough awkward for the evening,’ says Clancy. ‘Exit stage left,’ he adds, then turns and leaves.

  I call Clancy, but he doesn’t pick up. Which I should have expected.

  Message one: ‘I’m sorry if you’re upset. That sounds like I’m b
laming you. I’m sorry if I’ve upset you. You’re entitled to be upset. Our friendship is the most important thing to me, like apart from Mum and Grandad. You’re my third most important person, you know?’

  Message two: ‘I don’t understand why you’re avoiding me. What have I done wrong? You don’t own Iris, do you? I sound awful. Oh my God. This is really difficult to explain to your voicemail. I don’t want to upset you and I tried not to upset you, but now that I think about it I don’t know what I’ve done, really. When you think about it. I’m sorry.’

  Messages three, four and five are more of the same. After that, I figure he’s almost definitely not going to pick up. I should maybe write a letter. Not that letter-writing has been particularly helpful in the past, with other relationships. But I can’t accidentally say the wrong thing, if I write it down.

  Iris and I walk home, separately. I feel too guilty about Clancy to hug her goodbye.

  When I get back, Mum is still up, watching television next to Grandad, who is fast asleep. I don’t say anything, because I don’t know how to express to her how awful I feel about what I’ve done to Clancy, and I don’t know if she could deliver any advice that would have any practical outcome. I just hover, waiting for her to sense how upset I am. Eventually she sees my face and comes over and envelops me in a hug. That makes two in the last month. A miracle.

  The next morning, there’s a car parked out the front. I don’t recognise it. It’s too clean to belong to a local. I stand at my window, while Marianne rubs her face against my shin. Pretty soon she’ll start scratching me, but I’m too busy trying to work out whose car it could be. Maybe something to do with the business, but Mum hasn’t mentioned anything.

  My father gets out of the car.

  I drop to the ground, ducking below the window. Marianne gives me a derisive look. I must be losing my mind. It’s probably not my father at all, considering he hasn’t visited Alberton in seventeen years. It is far more likely that I am hallucinating. I peek over the windowsill, and there he is, standing at the fence, gazing up at the house. In the drizzle, without an umbrella. Looking directly at my window.