by Key, Liana
The next morning I wake up to the sound of the back door opening, Rocky's footsteps on the deck, and I feel him sniffing around me. Seems I am covered with his blanket, my head resting on a cushion from the sun lounger. Hell, I have sunk lower than low, worse than a dog. Then footsteps, Mom's voice.
"Nathan James Stratton." Full name, can never be good. I can't even open my eyes. I groan and turn onto my back. "Jesus Nathan, what on earth?" I feel the blanket plucked off me. "You stink. Look at this place." More footsteps. "Get this place cleaned up."
Now Dad's voice, "Has he been out here all night?"
"Don't you clean it up," Mom snaps, presumably at Dad, "leave it for him."
I sit myself up, the eyes opening, blinking, squinting with the light, trying to orientate myself. My head feels weird, my body stiff. There's a smell, a stink and I see vomit on my jeans, my shoes, and further, the steps, the path. I reach to untie my laces, but can't quite co-ordinate myself, so just kick them off. My poor Converse, covered in puke. I hold the sides of my face trying to stop the thumping; footsteps, and a glass of water placed next to me. Not sure by who, maybe Dad. Mom doesn't seem in the mood for empathy. I drink a few sips, my mouth is dry, foul. But the water doesn't sit. I suddenly move quickly, to the garden, throw up over a shrub, once, twice, wipe my mouth with my t-shirt. What a mess, what a fucking, stinking mess. I lie back on the lawn, arms extended over my head, knees bent. I feel like shit. And I remember the night, and a shame, an embarrassment floods over me. Because I'm recalling what happened. Besides the drinking, there was a girl. Can't remember her name, or even her face, just blonde wavy hair. The corner of the garage, sort of standing against a bench, a work bench with tools on it, her arms around my neck, my hands up her top, her unzipping my jeans and giving me a condom, me rolling it on. Shit. Fuck. I don't want to remember any more. I hear the hose. It's Dad, hosing the path, the steps.
"Leave it to him," Mom yells, but Dad keeps hosing. I think he might hose me, but I literally can't make myself move, and I bend my head and vomit on the grass. Not good.
Mom comes out. "Why? Why do you want to do this to yourself?" she yells. I see her put my shoes in a bucket. "Here move," she commands, "let Dad hose that lawn." I stumble to my feet, go back and sit on a dry step. "Get that shirt off!" She hovers, putting that in the bucket as well. "And those jeans!"
"Mommmmm," I whine, "just leave me."
"No," she yells, "you get yourself cleaned up. Get those jeans off and get in the shower. I can't understand you. Why are you doing this? For god sake sort yourself out." She's adamant I'm to take my pants off, right now. I stand up, unzip and step out of them, no time to feel shame, standing there in my boxer briefs, as she continues the barrage. "You're a disgrace, Nathan Stratton," she says. "Feeling sorry for yourself. Why don't you think of Magdala and the pain she's going through instead of getting yourself drunk every weekend." She scoops up the jeans, into the bucket. "Now get in that shower!"
The sound of a bouncing basketball wakes me, and it's like after three and I've been asleep for five hours. Mom phoned me in sick to my job. My stomach rumbles and I go into the kitchen.
"What should I eat," I call to Mom who I can see is in the lounge.
"Make some toast," she answers. I get some bread from the pantry.
"What should I put on it?" I feel famished, but there's a queasiness in my stomach I don't trust.
"Just butter," she shouts back and then in a few seconds she is in the kitchen, putting the kettle on. "Keep it bland," she advises, " I'll make us a cup of tea."
I sit at the table, out the window I can see my shoes hanging on the washing line.
"I'm sorry," I say, my sore head resting in my hands. "Thanks for cleaning up."
Mom ruffles my hair, "Don't thank me, thank your father."
"Thanks Dad," I yell towards the lounge.
He pokes his head into the kitchen, "Last time I do that for you boy," he says.
"Don't worry, I'm never drinking again," I groan, my head in an agonizing ache. Mom pops some pills on the table, brings over my buttered toast. I eat voraciously, hoping it will stay down, swallow the pills and sip my tea. My heart rate escalates momentarily as I pat down my pockets and say, "Where the fuck is my phone?" Mom glares at me for swearing and nods in the direction of the fridge. I leap off my chair, grab it from the top. A bunch of texts.
Dane: fucking good time haha
Tom: Mel? Really???
Tom: fuck man
Jose: Mello yellow
Tom: Mel???
Mom is hovering around and I quickly close my phone. I feel sick, not from the hangover, but a sick sensation about my behavior. It's like I've betrayed her, betrayed Magdala. And for what - a quick screw that I don't even remember. I don't even know Mel. Shit and fuck.
I go out by the garage. Ben is bouncing the basketball, but he's talking on his phone. I take the ball off him, shoot a few hoops. He finishes his call and comes at me for the ball.
"My phone's been ringing hot," he says. I take a shot, and miss. "You and Mel G?" He sounds incredulous.
"I don't fucking remember anything," I say.
"Dad said you slept on the back porch."
"I don't fucking remember," I say again. "Who the fuck is Mel G?"
"She's in a couple of my classes." He puts up a high shot, I try to intercept, but miss. "She's slept with everyone."
"Great," I mutter, thinking, a sophomore slut. He passes me the ball, I run it up and finally land one. "I feel like shit," I say. I throw him the ball. "I feel like I've cheated on Magdala, and for what?" I don't know why I've told him.
He looks at me, shrugs, "I thought you guys are finished."
"We are," I say definitively.
"How's she doing?" he asks and his voice is kind. He puts a shot up, it hits the rim and I reach for the rebound, but Ben is taller than me, taller and leaner. People can tell we're brothers, but he's a bit fairer than me, his hair is lighter and he doesn't tan as well as I do, and his teeth are straight.
I shrug, "Haven't heard." And that suddenly upsets me, angers me. I go to the garage wall, hold my fist to it. "I just wanna fucking punch something," I say, feeling frustrated, at myself, my stupid behavior, a girl who would have sex in a garage. "I'm such a fucking idiot."
"You know what you need?" Ben says, and he goes to the back of the garage. The garage has so much junk stored in it that none of the cars can get in it. In amongst an old bed, a computer desk, Michelle's play house and four bikes, Ben pulls out Dad's old punching bag. He calls Dad to hang it up for us. Dad finds the gloves and also his weight bench and dumbbells. They're about twenty years old, but he's reminiscing as he dusts them down. "I use to lift everyday before you two came along," he says.
I ask him to show me some moves, and he snaps, "They're not moves." Then he demonstrates to me and Ben a bunch of exercises, which I copy, while Ben punches away on the bag. It seems like Dad is enjoying it, giving direction, "Lift slower, keep your arms close, keep your legs wide, that's too heavy for you, and don't drop the fucking weights!" which has both me and Ben in hysterics - neither Mom or Dad swear, at least when us kids are around. After awhile Dad goes back inside, and Ben goes back to his basketball, but I stay in the garage and do another set of all of Dad's exercises, and the next day my chest and arms are so sore that it hurts every time I move.
But it's a pain, a soreness that's tolerable, and I keep going back to Mom's words, "Think about the pain Magdala is going through." And lifting weights becomes a sort of salvation for me. I google, read a lot of websites, copy programs down and start a notebook. Dad finds an old copy of Arnold Schwarzenegger's body building book, which I come to regard as a bible, and before too long I start to see my strength improve and my muscles grow, and it's like an addiction, and damned better than the alcohol one.
There's a time when Mom thinks I'm overdoing it. I go to the garage just about every night, put my music on speaker, and do my workout. Some days I've lifted so heavy
that I've felt like throwing up. To me that's good, that's pain. But Mom freaks out, screaming and yelling, "You're obsessed, take it easy, you'll injure yourself!" And Dad chips in with "Leave him alone, at least he's not on drugs."
And then I start to read up on nutrition and supplements and I'm suddenly spending my money on protein powder and pre-workout drinks, and though it seems narcissistic my focus becomes my body, wanting to push it, punish it, make it suffer, wanting it to know what pain feels like.
MAGDALA
I went back to school after spring break, but some days only doing half days. For no real reason. Sometimes I just couldn't stand being around people, so I'd leave. One time I'd been in the cafeteria, waiting in line with my tray, when the smell of hotdogs, of mustard, assaulted my senses. I'd rushed to the bathroom, my stomach heaving. I'd knelt in front of the toilet, trying to throw up, tears and dribble mingling, staring at a stained toilet bowl. I felt pathetic. I hated that he'd made me feel that way. Hated that he could still affect me, hated that he was still exerting an invisible power over me.
I had started playing the piano again, and that's what I was doing on the afternoon during the holidays when Dad came up to me and said, "Come. You have visitors."
I stopped mid note, sensing it was a command, and followed him to the front door. It was open, but there was no one there. Dad indicated for me to step outside. There, to my surprise, were Tom and Dane. Tom was holding a bunch of flowers. Dane was wearing a long black coat and had his hands in his pockets. They both looked embarrassed. I'm not sure if it was from seeing me, or just being there.
Tom speaks. "Hi," he says, and out of Nathan's friends, he is the one I have talked to the most. But he can barely look me in the eye, and says, "Hey, we just wanted to bring you these flowers, and see if you're doing okay."
"Oh," I say, still trying to process the fact that they are here, and vaguely wondering whether Nathan is here, or has sent them. "That's really nice," I say, "thanks. Thank you." He passes them to me quickly, like he doesn't want to hold them for a second longer.
"So are you doing okay?" Tom asks, his hands in his pockets, now he has gotten rid of the bouquet.
I nod, "I'm going back to school."
"Cool," he says and shifts from one leg to the other, "Hey," he continues, "you know we were there with Nate the night it happened." There's a silence, an uncomfortable silence, that needs to be filled. And I don't want to think about that night, to think that Nathan, Tom and Dane were together, and I'm not sure why he's said it. I want to ask how Nathan is, but I don't want to have to say his name, don't want to think about him. Dane looks at me, from under his long fringe that hangs in his eyes, almost like he's hurting. I look down at the flowers, and Tom says, "We better go," and just like that they turn and leave.
"Thanks," I say, and repeat myself.
"You're welcome," they both say, and suddenly Dad is behind me, and he says something to the boys, but I don't hear it. I get a vase from the kitchen and take the flowers to my bedroom. There is only one other bunch which is still alive, and it's in the lounge. Nathan's bunch is long dead. In my room, I open the card that has been stapled to the paper. It has a bunny on the front and printed inside are the words, Hopping you get well soon! It's signed, in each person's handwriting, by Tom, Dane, Jose, Luke, Stevie, Kara, who has drawn a heart, Amy, who has drawn a smiley face, Lizzy and Ryan. I stand it on my bed stand, my eyes watering up. I feel quite emotional, moved that Nathan's friends have done this. I don't even know who Lizzy is.
I look in my top draw, where I have stored the other cards I received, and flick through them until I find the one from Nathan. I remember it, the picture of a puppy on it, just a cheap 99 cent card, but so cute. And I imagine him standing in the store, picking it out specially. It was blank inside, but he'd written, in his scribbly, untidy handwriting,
Dear Magdala,
Get well soon,
Love you forever.
He had signed it Nate, but then had gone over the e with an h, a, n. And added a double x. I start to cry. I miss him, and right now, I want him. I want to feel his touch, his kisses, his body, but it's a place I can't go back to. I'm damaged now, I can't go back.
Dad pops up to my room a little later. I've stopped crying, I'm watching tv.
"They're nice boys," Dad says, "they were at the hospital."
I raise my eyebrows. Is that what Tom meant - that they had come with Nathan to the hospital that night? Is that what he was trying to tell me, that they knew what had happened, that they'd gone through it all with Nathan. I show Dad the card, and he reads it, nods and says, "That's a really nice thing." I give Dad a hug, and he says, "You'll be all right, my princess, everything will be all right." And I so want to believe him.
NATHAN
I drop Tom off after school and he invites me to hang out for awhile. So I do, I have nothing else planned. It looks like his Mom has just gotten home from work, she's in her nurse's uniform, and she pours us both a juice and puts some homemade brownies on a plate. Then she leaves the kitchen.
We sit down at the kitchen bar and Tom looks slightly apprehensive, then says, "Dane and I went to see Magdala." It throws me, big time.
"Like when?" I demand to know, this unreasonable anger building in me.
"Last week, during break. We took her some flowers, from the Team." That's what we call ourselves, Team West. I glare at him.
"Why didn't you fucking tell me? Why wouldn't you fucking tell me?" I feel like he's been disloyal to me, gone behind my back.
"Nate," he says calmly.
"Why the fuck wouldn't you?" I say, pissed. I rest my forehead in the palm of my hand, don't look at him.
"We just wanted her to know we were thinking about her," he defends. "It was just a bunch of flowers."
I try to absorb this information, my best friends going to see Magdala without telling me, without wanting me to know. I wonder what Dane's going to say about it.
"She said she's going back to school," he says, his voice brightening.. "And it sounded like she was playing the piano."
I raise my eyebrows, but he can't see that, though I'm thinking to myself that it sounds positive, that she's pulling herself through this.
"Did she ask about me?" I say, only finding the courage to look at him after I've said it.
He shakes his head, and there's a sinking feeling in my chest and it's like if she didn't ask about me, then she doesn't care about me, that she's hating me, over me. I try not to show his words have affected me. I haven't tried to contact Magdala since the day my nose was broken. Every fucking day I think about her, whether I should reach out to her, get her number off Cassian. But surely if she wanted to talk to me she would get my number from Cassian. Surely she has a new phone by now. Her old number just goes dead when you ring it, believe me I've tried countless times, hoping for some minor miracle that it might magically reconnect.
"Nate?" Tom says gently.
"I'm gonna go," I say, standing up. I haven't even finished my drink or eaten a brownie.
"I can't believe you'd see her without telling me." Suddenly Tom's Mom is back in the room, now changed into a dress. She puts her hand on my shoulder, maybe she's been standing there awhile.
"Nate," she says, "you have to give it time, love." I turn and look at her. "Rape doesn't take weeks to get over, it can take a long, long time." I'm guessing because she's a nurse she knows these things, but it hardly gives me any comfort. "Come on, stay awhile, have something to eat," she says, and her hand guides me back to the stool I'd been sitting on, but I don't sit down. "Hopefully she'll get some counseling," she carries on, "because right now she's probably going through a lot of blame and guilt about what happened. And it's only natural that she disconnects from everything. She needs time to come to terms with everything that's happened."
It's all valid stuff and I should take notice of what Tom's Mom has said, but his going behind my back has me pissed, and again I say, "I gotta go." And I lean past him
and grab my keys off the bench.
"Hey, Nate?" There's a plea in his voice, that I shouldn't go.
"How long have we been friends Tom?" I say viciously, wanting him to know that he's let me down, wounded me.
"Nate, we just wanted to show her we were thinking of her," he explains.
"So why couldn't you fucking tell me?" I snap back. I know I shouldn't swear in front of his mother, but I feel so angry, so betrayed.
"Nate, come on," his Mom says, "the boys were just trying to show their support."
But my heart rate has gone through the roof, and the anger, the irritation, the hopelessness is just rising up, consuming me. I stare at Tom, my supposed best friend, and say, "I fucking hate my life," and I storm out the door, letting it slam behind me. I can feel myself close to tears, and I race to my car and get out of there as quickly as I can. I catch a glance of Tom standing by the gate, his hands behind his head in frustration. I drive home, thankful no one is there yet. I go into my room, lie on my bed, put my earphones in and turn up some music.
But it's true. Two months ago I was the happiest guy in the world, I had it all, everything. And now nothing matters. My life is completely fucked up.
MAGDALA
Cassian and Jakey are trying hard, I know they are. They say they'll go surfing with me, tennis, swimming, shopping, whatever I want. But I know Cash is busy now he's got a job and Jakey always has a hundred things happening. Even Raff calls and wants to hang out and he helps me with homework. So I make the effort and go surfing when they suggest it, even go to a music recital when my music teacher gives me a ticket. But I feel like a burden, like a baby. I want to snap out of it, but it doesn't seem to be that easy.