Hannah waited until India’s breathing had returned to normal before she tried to restart a conversation.
‘What’s been happening?’ she asked.
‘Not a lot.’
‘Ready to tell me the truth about why you won’t be with Simon?’
‘Ready to tell me the truth about why you’re in London?’ India retorted.
‘I asked you first.’
‘Child,’ said India companionably.
‘All right,’ said Hannah, ‘I’ve got something to tell you. Something real, as you would say. After you told me all about your parents the other week, it made me want to tell you about mine too.’ She paused to take a breath, to find the right words. ‘My mum’s dead too. She killed herself . . . almost four years ago now. I know it’s not the same as your circumstances – you didn’t even get to meet your mum. I just felt like I should tell you.’
India put her arm out to stop Hannah. ‘Let’s sit,’ she suggested and they stepped off the path and wandered through the grass to a large tree where they both flopped down, Hannah resting against the trunk, India lying flat on her back, eyes on the sky.
‘Tell me about her,’ said India.
‘My mum?’
India nodded.
‘Which one?’ she replied with a dry laugh.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Sorry, I’m being confusing. It’s just that I’ve always sort of thought of my mum as being two different people. There’s the mum I had before my parents divorced, and the one that I had afterwards, the one she turned into.’
‘Ahh.’
‘For the first fifteen years of my life, Mum was just . . . Mum. You know, your average run-of-the-mill mother. She wore pale blue denim jeans and nice blouses. She kept her hair long but never wore it out. She could be fun, she could get mad, she drove me to netball practice, she forgot to pick me up from swimming once and I remember burning my tongue on the hot chocolate from the vending machine while I waited. There was one time when we went to Dreamworld on a holiday to Queensland. I was eight; I climbed all the way up thirteen flights of stairs to the top of a waterslide, only to be told I wasn’t big enough to go down the slide. I had to walk all the way back down those stairs and I was sobbing my heart out the whole way. When I got to the bottom, Mum hugged me and called them fuckers and bought me an ice-cream cone with five scoops and I can remember thinking she was the most amazing mum in the world.
‘And then I found out Mum and Dad were getting a divorce and it took me completely by surprise and it seemed like it took Mum by surprise as well. Anyway, from that day when Dad left she started changing and kept changing. Withdrew from the world I guess. In the early years I kept trying to snap her out of it, to bring her back. But eventually I started to resent her. I missed the old her and I was angry with her for changing. I moved out of home when I was nineteen, shared a house with three complete strangers. I still saw her, but not often; by then she wasn’t even leaving home any more. Then one day I got the phone call. She had finally left her apartment. For just a second I thought it was good news – maybe she was getting better. Maybe she was coming back. But I was wrong. She had walked straight to Milsons Point train station, waited on the platform for the next train and then stepped out in front of it. Ever since that day I can’t look at that giant smiling face at the entrance to Luna Park without almost vomiting on the spot.’
Which really ruined the happy memories I used to have of that place, Hannah thought bitterly.
India reached an arm out and squeezed Hannah’s hand. ‘Horrible,’ was all she could say.
Afterwards Hannah kicked herself for thinking that telling India about her mum would help her to open up. All she had succeeded in doing was bringing the focus of the conversation back to herself – as usual. Idiot.
When they parted at the end of the track, India was feeling slightly sick. She put it down to the exercise taking its toll on her unfit body – or maybe the awful story of how Hannah had lost her mum. But she couldn’t seem to shake the distinctly yuck feeling, deep in her stomach, as she made her way back to the hostel. When she arrived there, she headed into the common room and was disappointed to find it empty and surprised to realise that she was actually feeling quite lonely. She wasn’t used to having no one to talk to.
Dammit, Hannah, why do you have to work? she thought crossly. And more importantly, why was she still holding out on her? Was India relaxing a bit too much into this friendship – dropping her guard, allowing Hannah to search for India’s own secrets instead of continuing to put the pressure on to find out what it was that Hannah was hiding? She really ought to put a stop to this. After all, there would be no point in Hannah finding out the truth about her. As much as she liked to say that everything was fixable, she knew that she was the exception to the rule.
As India paced the room, trying to figure out what she should do, where she should go, who she could talk with, her thoughts returned – as they always seemed to lately – to Simon. Frustrated, she headed to her room to find pen and paper. She would write another letter. Surely one would have to get to him eventually, wouldn’t it? Sitting cross-legged on her bunk bed, she rested the paper on a phone book for stability, and began to write.
Dear Simon,
All right, so here it is: the truth. I have a secret. A secret that lately has been making me feel edgy. Nervous. And that’s not like me. I keep scratching at this one spot on my elbow. It’s sort of awkward, like I have to twist my arm around to get at it. And when I scratch it, it’s bliss. But then I need more. I feel as though I need to scratch until I’ve torn my skin into strips. I feel as though I need to keep going until all I’m scratching is bone, until I’m scraping away flecks of my skeleton. You ever feel like that?
And so I’m starting to wonder if maybe it’s because the secret is scratching to get out. Like it wants to be told. And the thing is, if I am going to tell my secret, you’re the one I want to tell. Isn’t that funny? I mean, it’s not as though I really know you that well. Intimately, yes. But well? Not so much. Like for instance, I don’t know what your favourite movie is. I don’t know if you had blond curls as a baby or dark spiky hair. I don’t know if you’re allergic to anything or if your favourite smell is cut grass or fresh rain or burnt chocolate. (Hopefully it’s not the first two, cause they’re a little clichéd, don’t you think?) I don’t know when the last time was that you cried, or the last time you laughed so hard that your stomach hurt, or the last time you stubbed your big toe.
You say that I broke your heart, but I don’t know if you truly are in love with me or if you’re just in love with the idea of me. Because, Simon, if you think about it, you don’t really know me either, do you?
I am going to tell you my secret though. Not right now, but in the next letter I send. It needs breathing space, this secret. It needs a piece of paper all of its own. It needs its own envelope and its own ink. It needs to be whispered, because it’s really quite hard to say out loud. But it’s burning a hole in my gut so it does need to be told.
Tomorrow. I’ll write this new letter tomorrow. Truth is, I don’t even know if I want it to reach you, but I think I have to give it a chance, don’t I?
P.S. I’ll sleep with whoever I bloody well want. But just by the way, that guy I told you about – I didn’t sleep with him.
India folded up the paper with trembling hands. That wasn’t what she had been intending on writing. She was just going to write the normal stuff – pen-pal style chit-chat. She was going to tell him about Hannah and her theories about what Hannah was hiding. She was going to mention what she ate for breakfast this morning and where she planned on travelling next. But somehow her pen had run away with her hand.
Once the letter was tucked safely inside the envelope, she considered it carefully. She was thinking about Hannah’s advice: Why don’t you just post it like a normal person? Maybe she was right
– maybe it was time she made sure Simon knew she was thinking of him. Perhaps she could post just this one letter. But the next one – the one where she planned to write her secret – that one was going to have to be left to fate. She unfolded her legs and stood up from her bed. She needed to go and find someone to chat with, someone to keep her company. Later tonight she would head over to Hannah’s place – it was time to start pushing her to open up, to tell her the truth. She would post the letter on the way.
Back in her flat that night as she heated up a packet mix of instant macaroni for her dinner, Hannah began to wonder if perhaps she was the problem. Maybe India didn’t like her enough to share her secret with her. What if she had somehow figured out the truth about Hannah’s past? What if she actually hated her now? But then, why would she agree to come out running with her today, especially considering she’d previously told Hannah that she was allergic to exercise. She had told her this in a matter-of-fact way, as though she was explaining her allergy to peanuts or shellfish. When Hannah had begun to laugh, India had glared back at her.
The microwave beeped and Hannah pulled out the bowl of pasta. She followed the instructions on the box and added the sachet of powder, stirring it in as she went. She stared at the contents of her bowl for a few seconds; the mixture had turned a glowing, fluorescent orange colour.
I absolutely cannot eat that.
She was mere moments away from scraping it into the bin, intending to cook herself a proper dinner for a change, maybe a stir-fry, when she caught herself at the last second.
What the hell are you doing? Have you forgotten what you’ve done? Forgotten what you deserve? Let’s hope the pasta’s turned that colour because it’s gone bad. Then maybe you’ll get food poisoning. Severe food poisoning. And you’ll become critically dehydrated as you heave up the lining of your stomach.
Then maybe you’ll end up dead.
Hannah caught her breath. She hadn’t had these thoughts for a few days now. Spending all that time with India had begun to change her, had breathed new life into her. She hadn’t realised it, but she had stopped hating herself, hadn’t thought about dying for the last couple of weeks at least.
She sat down in front of the television and began to shovel the revoltingly gluggy pasta guiltily into her mouth. Then she waited. No stomach pains, no nausea. No food poisoning then.
A beeping noise interrupted her thoughts and she glanced over at her phone. A text message, from India maybe? She leaned across, picked up the phone and looked at the number. It wasn’t India, it was him. Maybe he would be begging her to come back again. Maybe he would say he’d found a way to fix everything. To make it right again. She opened the message.
I’m done, Hannah. Done. Not going to phone any more, no point. I’ll never be able to forgive you for what you’ve done.
Hannah stared at the words, felt their sting. She was infected – infected with blackness and mud and mould. She was rotting from the inside out and it was contaminating everything she touched. Slowly she put the phone down, got up and walked to the window, then unclasped the latch and tugged at the stiff wooden frame until the window eventually slid clumsily upwards. She leaned out of the window and looked over the rooftops of London. The sky was a purple and pink swirl of colours as the sun set off in the distance, despite the fact that it was already almost 9 pm. It seemed like a different world up here, a world where she could lose herself, reinvent herself, absolve herself of what she had done. She imagined dancing across the rooftops like Mary Poppins. Imagined vanishing into the spires, the chimney tops, the blackness.
Without thinking, she began to ease herself out of the window. She felt along the outside wall with her hand for something to grip onto as she lifted her knees up onto the sill, then swung her legs out in front, so they dangled out of the window. She leaned forward to look straight down and involuntarily sucked in her breath. Her head snapped back up and the sudden movement sent a wave of dizziness over her. The moment of severe vertigo took her back to another place and she closed her eyes and tried to imagine that she truly was there.
‘Liam,’ she whispered in a sad, small voice.
She was on a roller coaster. It was the clunky, rickety, wooden type they used to have at Luna Park, and she was there with a boy. A boy she didn’t particularly like. He was bossy and rude and had made her pay for all the rides because he was saving for a new car and seeing as later she would be getting driven around in this car, it was only fair. As they sped over the bumpy hills of the track, the boy clasped her hand in his sweaty palm. He looked terrified.
When the ride finished and they climbed out of the carriage, he stumbled away from her and vomited in a nearby plant. Hannah made a face. She had a feeling he would want to kiss her later and she had already had no intention of allowing him to do this – and that was before it looked as though his mouth would taste like putrid, regurgitated milkshake. She snuck away and disappeared into the crowds. She didn’t care what kind of car he was planning on buying; she wasn’t planning on being driven around in it. Fingers crossed he would take the hint and not search for her.
As she wandered through Luna Park, she found herself people-watching. It seemed that everyone she looked at had somebody. Groups of teenage girls, giggling as they sipped from poorly concealed bottles of premixed Midori and lemonade, arms slung around one another’s shoulders in that casual, unself-conscious way that only best friends could effect. Couples holding hands, eating fairy floss, their eyes sickeningly shiny with love, or lust. A trio of young guys, pushing and shoving one another in that affectionate, blokey way.
No one else is here on their own, thought Hannah and she felt like a loser as she wished for the millionth time that she had friends. But she was wrong. Someone else was there on their own. A someone who was walking directly towards her, with a shy smile on his face and deep dimples in his cheeks. With dark brown wavy hair and olive skin; hands tucked firmly into the pockets of his dark jeans and leather boots that kicked a paper cup aside as he stepped right up to her. He was older than her, maybe five years or so, but he dressed as though he were younger. It was as if they were old friends although she had never seen this guy before in her life.
‘You should pick that up you know. Recycle it,’ Hannah said, indicating her head towards the cup he had kicked aside.
‘Not mine,’ he shrugged.
‘So.’ She paused and then said as though she was mentally creating a list, ‘Doesn’t care about the environment. That’s a cross already.’
‘What do I get ticks for then?’
‘Dimples, tick. Cool boots, tick. Nice hair without looking like you’ve tried too hard – for instance I don’t see any hair gel in it – tick.’
‘Sounds like I’m doing okay then.’
‘Wait a second, I haven’t finished. Overly confident, almost cocky, that’s a cross. Creed T-shirt, definite cross.’
‘So I’m at a draw then?’
‘Looks like it.’
He smiled. ‘So all I have to do to tip the scales is pick up the paper cup and toss it in the bin, right?’
‘I guess.’
‘And then I’ll get to kiss you?’
She shrugged indifferently, but inside she was fizzing. She had always been good at meeting guys – but never like this before. She had never been so forward, so bold – and she had never met anyone who acted like that either. It was invigorating, skipping all that boring small talk that usually came first. Hi there, you come here often? You want to get dinner some time, maybe follow it up with breakfast? What’s your name, what’s your favourite band, favourite colour, favourite song, blah, blah, blah, like you really give a shit. He bent down and picked up the cup. There was a bin just behind her. He placed his other hand on her waist and stepped in. Up close she saw that his eyes were coffee coloured and he held her gaze as he pulled his arm back to throw. As the cup sailed through the air over her shou
lder, he moved his hand to her chin, tipped her face up towards his, leaned in close and began to kiss her, first gently, then harder. Sparks exploded in her chest.
So this is what it feels like when you really kiss a guy.
When they finally stopped kissing, she turned around to see that the paper cup had bounced off the edge of the bin and landed on its side next to it. They both laughed and didn’t stop laughing for several minutes.
This was how Hannah met Liam.
This was how she met her husband to be.
This was how Hannah met the father of her children.
And now she was standing on a window ledge, eight storeys up above the streets of London, sobbing uncontrollably as she lifted one foot into the air and loosened her grip on the wall, preparing to step out into the void and make the torture end.
PART TWO
Sydney in the summer
CHAPTER SIX
On the way home from the hospital, Hannah sat in the back seat next to the baby, strapped firmly into its capsule. Sunlight streamed in through the car window; Hannah shaded the baby’s face and cried quietly to herself. A baby. How could they be driving home with their own baby? What was she going to do with a baby? How could she possibly be ready for this?
Three years later, they made the same trip. This time she sat in the front seat and said amicably to her husband, Liam, ‘Let’s stop at the shops, we probably need milk and bread and things like that, don’t we?’ Their three-year-old daughter sat in her new toddler sized chair and kicked the back of the driver’s side seat. Her dark brown curls bounced around her heart-shaped face. ‘Does Ethan want to eat my crusts?’ she asked, holding out a fistful of squished vegemite-covered pieces of bread.
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