Perfect Skin

by Nick Earls

  Lily points at a passing car, so I tell her, Car. Blue car.

  I’ve got no idea about this, have I? I’m sorry. I’ve got a headache. I’m not feeling the best today, so . . .

  Okay, sorry. I think I wasn’t expecting it, this conversation, and I’ve handled it like an idiot.

  I had this idea that you could tell me things. And then I wondered if you told anyone. If it’s not my business to say that, tell me. And tell me how I should handle it. I want to get this right. You told me about Melissa days ago, and ever since then you’ve steered conversations around her. That’s how it seems, whenever I’ve mentioned her, but George did it too, the other night. So I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. She looks away from me, down at the ground in front of her. And you have to try to tell me what to do. If you don’t tell me, I won’t know how to talk to you. I’m sorry if that’s not like George . . .

  No. No. Don’t be like George. I’ve got one of those already. Okay. This is how weird it was. We went out one night, Mel and me, about a month before. Or a couple of months. It was a slightly wanky place. I was never into wanky places, Mel kind of was. Goes with the Beemer, I suppose. Which is fine. I’m not being critical.

  Ash looks back at me. It’s not fine. Already I’ve swerved from the truth of the story, or at least failed to meet it directly.

  Fuck. Okay. We didn’t actually get on. That’s what I haven’t told you.

  I didn’t realise.

  No, you didn’t realise. You couldn’t realise. I kept that all back. We didn’t tell people. At least, I haven’t told people and, as far as I know, Mel didn’t say anything either. So that adds to the mess, really. How can I tell them about it now? And how can I talk about any of it without getting into that? It makes it hard. Too hard, to be honest, and that’s the real issue. Anyway, there were problems. We were working on them, and one night we went to this restaurant. Wanky place. And what I hate about those places is how they’re all about making you feel like an idiot, when that’s not what I go out for. If I want to feel like an idiot, I can just sing or name nearby objects, or spit on myself.

  My favourite was the spitting.

  And you haven’t even seen me in action with people’s cats. Anyway, these restaurants. It’s like they’ve got a competition going to put as many stupid words as possible on the menu just to let you know who’s boss. Well, this one had a pasta dish with lardoons of bacon. I saw it on the menu and I said something about it, because the rest of the description made it sound pretty interesting, so Mel said, ‘Why don’t you have it?’ That’s very Mel. Order the thing partly because you don’t know what it is. It’s not me. I always expect those things won’t work out, so I don’t order things with words I don’t know. Mel had a go at me, about how I never take any kind of chances, how I can’t even risk it with a meal if there’s a new word in there. And I was actually really sick of that – I think there’d been a bit of it around at the time, not that I’m saying I was faultless – so I didn’t let it go, which led to an argument, which kind of wrecked the night. Actually, you might have read about it in the paper.

  What? Must have been a hell of an argument.

  No. It was just, like so many things, misunderstood. I had acutely had enough of it, and I knew the evening was shot, so I decided to go. Leave and catch a cab. Mel followed, and we argued all the way to the cab rank about me and my risk-taking, me and what was my business, all of that. And then we talked all the way to the car park, once we’d decided to go home. And we’d forgotten to pay. And have you seen, in the weekend papers, the articles a couple of times in the last year about people scamming free meals from restaurants? We’re the ‘professional couple having a row’ story.

  Couldn’t that just be anyone?

  They named the restaurant, and they described us pretty well. As if we’d gone to some trouble to costume ourselves so that we’d look just like a professional couple. Even the seething that went on between the entree and main, so obviously we hadn’t kept that to ourselves as much as we’d thought. And the woman was pregnant, or faking a pregnancy. That’s how I really knew it was us. They even speculated about us doing that to draw focus from the scam. But that’s off the track. It was also very strange reading the articles, since they came out after she was dead, but that’s off the track too. A week or so after she died I was in a pretty bizarre state. She was gone, the Bean was home. I was totally sleep-deprived. I dropped in to work – I don’t know why – and I was walking around Toowong Village and I found myself in the bookshop, standing there with the biggest dictionary they had, looking up ‘lardoon’. Which is the fatty cut of bacon used to lard other meats. So I was entirely justified in not ordering it. And I happened to see, I think, someone who looked a bit like Mel in my peripheral vision, and I turned and I told her, with my finger still in the dictionary, what a lardoon was. As though I was the winner. And then I thought, Oh, fuck, she thinks I’m mad, so I tried to explain. And when I explained I said something like, Sorry, you look a bit like my wife. She’s around here somewhere. And I think it wasn’t a lie. It was wrong, but it wasn’t a lie. I think, just in that second, seeing that woman, I thought Mel was somewhere nearby. See? That’s how it works. How do you find the right way to tell that to people? Because what’s the right way for them to respond?

  There’s a message on the answering machine when we get home. Wendy, saying that Flag will be discharged in the morning. Katie’s having a welcome-home morning tea. As you might expect. It’d probably be good if you could put in an appearance. It’s at ten-thirty. And you know the address.

  Flag’s the cat, I tell Ash. The cat I stepped on on Monday.

  Do cats like morning tea?

  No.

  I chop garlic and chilli and basil to go with some linguini, and Ash feeds Lily.

  As I’m chopping, my mind won’t shift from the restaurant fight, the day in the bookshop. The futility of that night out, the waste of time and money and energy and life. Another game about surfaces, gone wrong. The professional couple, out for dinner close to term. Anger in a double string of pearls. It’s anger we were hiding, not an intent to steal. I’d done something. I don’t know or care what. It’s only every part of it that’s futile, so it doesn’t matter why we were at the restaurant and not getting on that night.

  And maybe, a month later, I had some idea that if I found out what the word meant I could close the story, put it away. Perhaps go back to that night and say, I know what the word means, so let’s talk about something else. Not my minuscule sense of adventure. Let’s talk about you. Let’s talk about what went wrong today. Let’s make sure it doesn’t happen again. But by the time I looked the word up, nothing could happen again.

  Everything from the time of Mel’s death is too strange and extreme to explain, and I often don’t get it myself. I’d forgotten about the stories in the paper, and the way my brain worked, seeing Mel as I looked up from the dictionary eight days after she was dead. It’s all still stuck in the jumble of that time, all too big to make sense of. None of it’s even medium-sized, so where and how would I start the talking to make the process of talking do some good?

  For several weeks it was like driving in fog. Blank and intense. I think I had my friends there to buffer me, keep me from harm. But I don’t even know.

  The rules seemed irrevocably different, suddenly. As though everything I’d understood about the world was wrong, everything I’d taken to be certain couldn’t be relied upon. Everything I thought I had to argue about or to fix didn’t have to be battled over any more. And it happened with no effort at all.

  Death seemed always likely then, in those first few weeks, in a way it hadn’t since I’d been a hospital resident, when I saw it all around me during some terms. Even now, Lily scares me when she sleeps. As though it’s reckless of her. Sometimes I have to watch and watch.

  But I’m doing it again. Standing here, chopping, listening to Ash talk to Lily, and doing it again. Running the tape again in my head, b
eing my own audience of one. Not talking, perhaps trying to wear out the tape, play it so many times it becomes inert.

  When Lily’s gone to bed, I cook the pasta and I toss it with everything I’ve chopped. It smells good. The kitchen fills with the smell of garlic and basil. I’ve known Ash three weeks, three weeks and three days. And I lie awake at night, thinking about her. She’s more than ten years younger than me, for god’s sake. I’ve no idea what she wants, what she’s thinking, what her life’s about.

  We eat outside. On the monitor, I can hear Lily making murmuring noises and, just when it sounds like she’s building up to something, about to wake properly, she settles.

  Well done, I tell her in absentia. Good choice.

  It’s useful, having that.

  Yeah. It’s better than checking, getting up to check every few minutes. Which is what I’d do if I didn’t have it.

  When she’s sleeping?

  You don’t think I’d leave her in peace, do you? I never slept at first. I’d have to get people over here during the day to mind her so that I could sleep. And I’d have to tell them we’d had a bad night, which we hardly ever did. She’s always been a good sleeper. I just couldn’t leave her to it. I still can’t really relax when she sleeps. However dumb that is.

  I don’t think it’s dumb.

  Hmmm. It’s not very rational. She scares me when she sleeps, and that’s kind of off-putting, potentially. It’s a pretty neurotic thing to admit.

  Dickhead, she says, in a joking kind of way, and shakes her head. What have I been saying? I was hassling you about not talking. I can’t complain if you do. So what’s it about?

  What do you mean?

  You’re not a neurotic person. What’s the problem with her sleeping?

  Okay. At first I think I kept trying to convince myself that it was safer to believe that she was temporary. That the whole thing was a phase. Having her was a phase. I tried not to get attached. Just in case. I couldn’t believe that someone as comprehensively naive as her could be given something as fragile as life to look after. When her mother was smart and took no shit and paid attention to everything, and she still blew it. But it’s not like that, of course. All Lily’s parts, I’m told, are in great working order, and any problem would come as a complete surprise. But surprises happen sometimes. So there you go.

  Yeah, but . . .

  Ash, I now notice, is quite pale. She’s been going pale and looking more and more uncomfortable over the last few minutes.

  Sorry, should we talk about something else?

  No. It’s just my headache. It’s nothing to do with what we’re talking about.

  Are you sure?

  Yes, I’m sure. I knew you’d think that. She puts her head down on the table. Which is why I wasn’t telling you. Have you got anything I can take? It’s getting worse.

  Yeah, probably. Let me go and look. It’s just, you know, a regular headache?

  Yeah.

  I get to the bathroom and I look through the cupboards. I don’t know where all that stuff’s gone. I pull the drawers open, and there’s all kinds of junk, a lot of it not even mine, but nothing useful.

  Ash appears in the doorway, looking unwell in the harsh bathroom light. She says, I’m . . . and then nothing more, as she goes down on her knees, doubling up, curling up on the floor.

  What’s happening? Really. What’s really going on? You have to tell me.

  Um, she says, and takes a sharp breath in. It’s a period thing, I think.

  What?

  A period thing. I used to have trouble. I went on the pill and it got better. I’ve been off it for a while now and it’s getting worse. She squeezes up her eyes and clenches her teeth. And it’s been a longer cycle this time, so that makes it worse too.

  A period thing?

  Yeah, not a headache. I was planning to keep it to myself, but . . . right now it’s better to curl up on the floor and admit it.

  I put my hand on her arm. I stroke her hair. I can’t remember what to do. I don’t know what to do for this now, I’ve been lasering so long.

  You’re cold, I say to her, and I pull a towel down and wrap it round her.

  She sniffs, wipes her eyes, pulls her knees up higher.

  Have you got anything to take for it? Anything at home?

  I don’t have any money, she says angrily. You know I don’t have any money. How could I get something to take?

  Okay.

  Sorry.

  Don’t be. Let’s get this sorted out. I’m getting help. I’m going to call someone who’s a gynaecologist, and he’s pretty nearby.

  She doesn’t argue. I fetch my mobile so that I can call from the bathroom. That way I don’t have to leave her. I tell her Roscoe will know what to do. And he’ll have drugs for now and free samples for later and he’ll get this fixed. And we can get more of whatever she needs. And all the time, watching her on the floor, curled up, I’m scared and powerless.

  You’ll be okay.

  I know. Jon, it’s all right. I’ve had this before. This is just the worst time. But it’s okay.

  I move her so that there’s a towel under her as well as wrapped around her, and I fetch a pillow for her head.

  Sorry, this is stupid.

  It’s not stupid. And stop apologising.

  I go through the cupboards again and I find a half-full bottle of infant Panadol. There’s nothing I can do but wait. She squeezes my hand hard.

  The doorbell rings. It’s Ross Donovan.

  Jon, what’s happening? he says when I get there.

  I don’t know. I could be over-reacting. It’s just someone who was here for dinner who . . . she’s on the bathroom floor. She thinks it’s gynae. She looks like she’s really in pain, and I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know if I should take her somewhere, because there’s Lily to sort out too.

  That’s okay, he says. Just take me in there.

  I lead him to the bathroom and he kneels beside Ash, Roscoe Donovan with his wide, rounded shoulders and his big grey head of hair making her look like a broken child.

  Could we just have a few minutes? he says to me, when he realises I’m still anxiously hanging around.

  Yeah, sure. I’ll be out here.

  Now, let’s work out what’s going on, he says softly as I go.

  I wait outside the door, telling myself I’m there in case I’m needed. I hear Ash answering questions. I should stop being so concerned. When I hear him ask if she’s been sexually active lately, I realise I do have to go, but I can’t stop myself hearing her answer. It’s no.

  I make tea in the kitchen. I’m not sure why, since I don’t want it. I sit and drink it, and the murmur of Roscoe’s voice is still calm, questions with spaces for Ash’s answers, longer stretches of explanation. Elvis trots in and sits at my feet.

  Then I hear Roscoe’s footsteps along the hall.

  There you are, he says, as he comes into the kitchen and puts his bag on the table. She’s fine, Jon. She wanted me to tell you she’s fine. And that it’s primary dysmenorrhoea.

  So, like, period pain? She’s collapsed on my bathroom floor and it’s just straight period pain?

  Yeah. It sounds a bit better when you say primary dysmenorrhoea. It’s sometimes this bad in young, thin, healthy women. Occasionally you end up having to look at other possibilities, but not usually. I’ve got a daughter that age. She got almost that bad. Kept it to herself. You know how they do. You don’t know anything’s wrong with them when they’re that age until you work out the house is being overrun by echinacea and saint someone’s bloody wort.

  Okay. Thanks. That’s good isn’t it? I’m sorry. I got you round here for dysmenorrhoea?

  It’s not a problem. It still needed something done about it, even if it’s not going to . . . do her serious harm. Why haven’t you got her to see anyone before?

  This is the first cycle I’ve known her.

  Oh.

  She’s from up north.

  That’s the moment
when Roscoe realises he doesn’t know who the hell Ash is, and it’s followed by the moment when he realises he’s going to take ‘She’s from up north’ as a respectable attempt at an answer.

  Thanks for coming round.

  No problem. I was in the neighbourhood, as you probably figured.

  Maybe I did, but I didn’t call you because you lived nearby. I called you because it seemed like it was going to be gynae and, you know, you’re the best. Obviously we didn’t really need the best for this, as it turns out, but who else would I call? Who else would I hassle about Saturday evening period pain?

  Glad I could help. And they’re taping The Bill for me at home so, like I said, it’s really not a problem.

  Do you want a drink? How about a scotch?

  Only if you’re having one.

  Sure. Why not?

  Why not? Well, several reasons, but I keep them to myself. I don’t like scotch for a start. Not on its own, not with anything. Not since a bad Med Ball experience with scotch and dry, many years ago (perhaps even the legendary Med Ball of 1986). Once any drink has mixed with your stomach contents and been passed out your nose, you can’t feel the same about it again. But Roscoe likes scotch. He’s known to.

  Black Label, he says when I find the bottle. That’s a nice one to be offering me. But don’t go opening a new one on my account.

  I’m sure it was due to be opened anyway.

  I didn’t know you were a scotch drinker.

  Oh, from time to time.

  I sip, and try to take my mind off the Med Ball incident, but the smell is powerful and olfactory memory hard to shake. Ash is okay. She’ll be okay. For that I can drink scotch, and recall the disappointment of however many Med Balls I managed to fit in, and not care too much about it.

  So how have you been? Roscoe says.

  Pretty good.

  He turns the tumbler around in his hand and nods. Good.