‘Hey!’ she called from the front gate and stepping over its sunken hinge post, she walked with wide strides up the path, taking the porch steps two at a time. I only returned the greeting once she was standing in front of me; I wasn’t in the mood for loud noises.
‘Hi. What are you doing here?’ I asked.
‘Well coming to see you, obviously.’ Josie had a blue paper gift bag in one hand and her car keys in the other, both of which she put on the dusty wicker table so she could drag Peter’s wicker chair forward. The squeaking protest of the chair’s legs against the warped porch floorboards made me wince again. My God, can’t you be quiet?
‘Sorry,’ Josie hastily excused, plonking herself down on Peter’s chair which now faced mine at a right angle. She gave me an eager smile which I returned and a few seconds of uneasy silence passed before she politely remembered to ask how I was.
‘I’m okay, thanks, how about you?’ I answered.
‘Yeah okay, tired but that’s nothing new.’
‘How’s work?’ I asked.
‘Same as always; I’ve got the day off today because they’re off on some professional development thing.’
‘Oh, well that’s nice.’
‘Yeah.’
The redundancy of our conversation made us both uncomfortable. Josie fiddled with the loose thread on her green jacket and I sat in pretended ease, every moment growing more and more irate until I was sure she’d begin to hear my internal screaming; what are you doing here? It wasn’t that I didn’t want to see Josie. I just didn’t want to see her here, at my house, which was the only safe hiding place I had left.
‘I wanted to come and wish you happy birthday for tomorrow,’ Josie’s voice was soft and I turned to look at her in surprise.
‘You remembered?’
‘Of course, July fourteenth; exactly one month before mine.’ I found myself suddenly hating my friend for her thoughtfulness. Why did people only care when I didn’t want them too?
‘This is for you.’ She picked up the blue bag from the table and handed it to me. I accepted it and put it back on the table, Josie smiled and I gave her a weak one in return.
‘Thanks,’ I said.
‘My pleasure.’ The silence between us now became tolerable and we both began to relax.
‘Have you got your exam results back yet?’ Josie asked but I shook my head.
‘Should be up on Monday, but they usually release them early over the weekend.’
‘Oh okay, how’d you think you went?’
‘Honestly? I’m just hoping to have passed.’
‘You always used to say that at school and you always did well. You’ll be fine.’
Jesus, I wished I was a smart as people thought I was. A slight hesitation made Josie check herself, and a faint blush broke through her skin as she spoke next. Josie always blushed when she was sacred of something.
‘Mel told me you guys had a fight.’
A faint rattle of annoyance made me clench my jaw and I looked away from her. It wasn’t that I was annoyed at Mel for having told Josie about the fight, she was entitled to; but I couldn’t help but feel hurt. Hurt that my friend’s lives had continued on without me and in a way, I’d been forgotten.
‘Yep,’ I acknowledged. Josie’s prolonged pause made me look back at her and I saw her quietly studying me. ‘What?’ I asked.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’
‘The fight?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not really.’
‘It might make you feel better.’
‘Jose, if you want to know what the fight was about then all you need to do is ask. Christ.’ Josie large brown eyes widened, shocked at hearing those words delivered with that tone from my mouth. I immediately began to dig a well of self-loathing; look at her face, you did that to her. Josie didn’t think I was capable of hurting anyone. That, right there, is why I hated her. I hated her for thinking so well of me, all it did was make me realise how much I’d failed and how much I’d let her down. Why couldn’t I be the person she thought I was? Josie’s eyes made me feel sad and I felt a tiny urge to cry; cry and apologise. Apologise for everything.
‘Didn’t Mel tell you what the fight was about?’ I asked and I made my voice clear and kind, helpful if not slightly sympathetic.
‘No, all she said is you guys had a fight and that’s why she didn’t want to talk about you.’
‘Oh.’ The hurt inside me suddenly lessened, I liked that Mel hadn’t told Josie everything. Not that I was ashamed of the fight; I’d done nothing to be ashamed of, but Mel’s secrecy reaffirmed that we still had something, some bond that Josie wasn’t part of. I felt sorry for Josie. She was so good and kind. She could never think a bad thing about anyone and despite the fact she was perhaps the best person I knew, I still treated her like shit. I really am a terrible person.
‘You know, Jose, you’re the best person I know.’
She looked taken aback and I gave her a smile. The faint flush that had appeared earlier now deepened as she stumbled over the compliment.
‘Oh, not really… but thank you.’ I couldn’t tell Josie about the Blackhole and more importantly, I didn’t want to. It wasn’t that she wouldn’t understand; it’s that she couldn’t. Josie could never think of the world as a bad place, even after Laura and her initial hysteria of grief, Josie had been the one buying flowers and ensuring we were all okay. Telling her about the Blackhole would be destroying an essential piece of who she was and I couldn’t do that; hurt her like I was hurting. She was my friend and I needed to protect her. Or I needed to protect myself. If I did tell Josie about the Blackhole, would she hate me? Would she think it was just some tiny blot on an otherwise perfect life? Would she see the ungratefulness and hypocrisy of it all? Yes she would, and she would hate me for it. I couldn’t bear the idea of Josie hating me. She had once been one of my best friends; someone I cared about more than members of my own family and a person I had confided in, just as she had me. Having her hate me wouldn’t make those memories disappear, they’d burn.
‘Can you tell me what the fight was about?’ Josie’s voice broke me out of my internal monologue and I looked at her. The warmth had returned to her eyes and they radiated kindness and sincerity.
‘It’s not that I don’t want to, Jose. If I could tell anyone about this it would be you, but it involves Mel more than me. I’m angry at Mel for something she’s done and if she hasn’t told you it means she doesn’t want you to know. It’s not because she doesn’t trust you, Josie, you’re the most trustworthy out of all of us, but I think the reason she hasn’t told you is because she’s worried you’ll hate her for it.’
Crap, did I just say that? Jesus, that’s brilliant. Josie looked confused.
‘I’d never hate Mel,’ she breathed. I couldn’t help a short bark of laughter escape my lips.
‘It’s a paradox; we live in constant fear of encountering the one thing you’re incapable of.’
‘Why would it be so bad if I hated you?’ Josie asked sincerely.
‘Because you’re you, Jose. If you manage to get the nicest girl in the world to hate you, well you’ve really fucked up.’
Josie gave me a weak smile and I grinned at her.
‘I’m really not the nicest girl in the world though.’
‘You are.’ I nodded. Josie threw herself lightly back against the back of the wicker chair and stared out at the view in front of us. The crane on the port docks was swinging a shipping container off a tanker and the wind was buffeting it sharply so it almost began it spin. We’d settled ourselves into the comfortable silence and I found myself glad we could.
‘I really wish I could be the person you thought I was.’ Josie’s soft confession made me turn from watching the spinning container and look at my friend. I was frustrated, frustrated because a person I loved didn’t l
ove herself for the same reason I did.
Did anyone feel that way about me?
18
‘Can I come in?’ My mother’s voice was muffled through my wooden door. She opened it a crack and her head peeked round the side, rendering the question moot but the gesture was not lost on me.
‘Yeah, sure.’
My mother looked awkward as she stepped around the door and into my room; it was a space she knew very little about, and contained a daughter which she knew even less. I was sitting at my desk and that may have surprised her, perhaps even relieved her, just for the simple fact I was not lying in bed. Instead it was my mother who sat down on my bed and I was forced to turn and look at her. She was poised and resting a flat parcel wrapped in paper on her knees.
‘Have you had a good day?’ she asked and I nodded my head.
‘Yes.’ I wasn’t lying; today had been a nice day.
‘That’s good.’ Her reply was stilted and I couldn’t help but feel a little sting of defeated sadness at what my relationship with my mother had become. She tugged on the edge of the parcel subconsciously and forced her eyes to meet mine.
‘I’ve had a really nice day, thank you, both to you and Dad, even the boys,’ I clarified. A look or relief flushed through her face and she lost some of her nervousness.
‘Good.’ She breathed out the word and appeared to relax a little. Realising she still had the parcel on her knee she feigned stupidity and handed it over to me. I smiled under the obligatory embarrassment one always experiences when receiving gifts.
‘I know you said you wanted money for your birthday, but I wanted to get you something that you could actually hold; something that actually required a little effort,’ my mother explained and I traced the printed words on the coloured paper; “Happy Birthday”. My delay in opening the gift discouraged her and I felt, rather than witnessed, her shoulders slump.
‘Are you going to open it?’ she asked and I nodded.
‘Yeah.’ Yet I made no effort to do anything other than run my finger along the folded edge of wrapping. I sat staring down at the parcel for a few more moments before a small shudder echoed through my tiny room and I looked up in shock to find my mother wiping her nose with the back of her hand.
‘Are you crying?’ I asked in a horrified tone. My mother couldn’t speak in fear of unleashing a flood of tears so she shook her head in a quick, direct motion. Her body had hardened into a ball; her head bent down and her hands gripped the edge of my bed. Oh for fucks sake, please don’t cry. I’d only ever seen my mother cry twice, both at funerals: my oupa’s and Laura’s. She didn’t like crying. She believed crying was unspoken emotion erupting from the body and thought it was ugly; better to be honest than an emotional wreck. Clearly I belonged to the latter category, but my mother had always belonged to the former, which is why her tears confused me. I found the image of my mother hunched over and sobbing oddly cathartic, in a malicious and spiteful kind of way. So often had I wanted to reduce her to the crumbling mess she was now; to make her suffer and endure just a fraction of the pain I felt; to indignantly spit out “good” as she collapsed under the weight of her sobs. I’d wanted it so badly I’d sacrificed what goodness I had left and become cruel and malignant, seeing how foul I could be before she broke, but I’d never reached her breaking point. I couldn’t comprehend what I had done, what tiny seemingly insignificant thing I had done to finally push her and turn her into a whimpering, snivelling mess. But suddenly every single malicious thought left my body; all I wanted in the world right now was for my mother to stop crying.
‘Are you okay?’ I asked quietly, I found my eyes reflected in hers as she brought them to meet mine.
‘Are you happy?’ My mother’s question hit me, just like it had when Alison had asked it.
‘What makes you think I’m unhappy?’ I asked. The words came out jagged, monotone, unconnected and said without thought; this was the Blackhole speaking.
‘Do not treat me like an idiot.’ I watched as the words fell out of my mother’s mouth like a rapid tumble of water. ‘I just want you to be happy. I want my baba to be happy and heaven help me if I’m the reason you’re like this. What have I done for my beautiful girl to be like this?’ The crying had become louder now but only because I’d joined in. Oh Mum, it’s not your fault.
There were so many things I wanted to say to her, to make her understand and to let her know that her girl was still in here; I could feel her. I wanted to tell her everything. I wanted to show her the Blackhole; to ask if she could feel the void beneath her as she sat on my bed. I wanted to ask if she knew why this was happening to me. What I had done wrong; why was I the one with a Blackhole and no one else? She made a move to comfort me but I pulled back against my chair and she recoiled.
‘If I could take it away I would, in a second. Even if I meant I had to endure whatever pain it is you’re in, I’d do it.’ I bit my lip in an attempt to control my sobbing and she put out her hand again, resting it on my knee and I felt the pulse of her thumb out of sync with my heartbeat. Just as quickly as the wave of tears had broken over us it retreated; I stopped crying, as did my mother.
‘I can’t do it though,’ my mother whispered. ‘I can’t tell you what makes you happy; I wish I could but I can only do so much. You need to find what makes you happy, only you can.’
I know. It’s just so fucking hard.
I was still holding onto the parcel as my mother got up to leave.
‘No wait.’ I caught her hand and she obediently sat back down as I ripped open the paper; the parcel was soft and difficult to grasp but I managed. Letting the paper fall to the floor I was left holding a bundle of soft, delicate indigo material; it was a dress. It was beautiful, made of sheer chiffon with a silk underskirt it had tiny delicate pleats in the front and a thin ribbon bow at the centre of a jewel neckline. I didn’t know what to say.
‘Do you like it?’ My mother was looking at me tenderly and I nodded.
‘It’s beautiful. How… why did you?’ My mother’s thoughtfulness baffled me. I didn’t even like dresses, yet this was perfect.
‘Well you’ve lost so much weight all your other clothes drown you, even the ones you had before you got a bit wide round the middle. This is the size you used to be, so it’s a bit of incentive to put a bit of weight back on.’ My mother’s explanation had not been the one I was hoping for. As if sensing my dissatisfaction she continued. ‘But I also wanted to get you something nice. An investment in nice clothing. You’re not a teenager anymore now, officially.’ That was better. I rubbed the hem of the dress between my fingers, astounded that my mother had picked it for me. It was tangible proof that despite all of my preconceptions my mother really did know who I was, as much as I sometimes wished she didn’t.
***
At nine the next morning my phone rang.
‘Hello?’
‘Hey, it’s Mel. Sorry, have I woken you up?’
‘No, I’m up.’ In truth I’d been up for hours, well before dawn yet I was surprisingly refreshed and got up with little thought to my Blackhole. The day was cool and grey but there were storms forecast for the afternoon. The air hummed faintly with the threat of the oncoming squall, though for now it hung in an eerie sense of suspended calm and I loved the uneasy anticipation. I was sitting on the porch, watching the tempest as it lumbered its way landward in a dense blanket of cloud.
‘Oh. Good.’ Mel’s reply fell flat. I was still too stunned by the fact she was calling to think of an appropriate response. ‘How are you?’ Her question was welcome in the horribly uncomfortable silence. Our talk was polite though distant, every question was like a sudden acceleration and I couldn’t help but feel the increasing desperation of things to talk about.
‘Listen, I was wondering if you’d want to meet up today? I can come pick you up and we could go for a walk if the weather’s not too bad.’ Mel’s
tone dripped with a coolness she was trying very hard to maintain.
‘Um, yeah, that would be really nice. What time you thinking?’ I replied.
‘I can come around three? That okay?’
‘That’s fine.’
More silence.
‘I guess I’ll see you later then.’
‘Yep, see you then.’ I hung up and stared at my phone for a moment. Good things like this didn’t happen, least of all to me. And this was a good thing; at least I tried to think of it that way.
***
‘Happy birthday for yesterday.’ Mel’s greeting upon arrival was warmer than I expected and she’d wrapped me in a hug. My mother had been ecstatic to see Mel. Perhaps she thought it indicated the return of her former daughter and didn’t seem slighted when we politely declined her invitation to afternoon tea. The days forecast storms had appeared at 10, much earlier than expected, yet the rain had only lasted for a few hours. Now the ground was littered with puddles so Mel and I decided to walk into town for coffee. The rain had brought with it an uncomfortable warmth and I was sweating underneath the jumper I’d thought a sensible choice for the season. Our conversation was friendly though strained, it almost felt like Mel was picking around the shards of my little glass world that had long ago shattered and no longer mattered. “How was I? How was Peter? Did I have my exam marks back?” No mention of Doug or Josie, and even less about our own situation though in Mel’s defence, I was being just as tactful.
My Bed is a Blackhole Page 19