Tim Te Maro and the Subterranean Heartsick Blues

by H. S. Valley

  ‘Right, let’s drink our tea and we can tidy up and go home.’ Silvia smiles into the silence, but it’s edged with sympathy and I can’t look at her for too long.

  It weighs on me, the whole thing: the fact that we’re stuck, and we need help, and that I’m going to have to tell my mum and she’s going to be disappointed. Even the fact that Elliott’s mum might be upset bothers me. I’ve never even met her. I walk back too slowly, Meggan awake and fussing in my arms, Silvia pulling on my jumper to hurry up, and it’s like being dragged to my death. Because now I have to tell Elliott what we’ve done, what I’ve done, and even though it leaves us free to go back to our previous activities he’s probably going to be too mad at me to want to.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Sam asks as we get close to the senior lounge.

  ‘No. He’s going to hate me.’

  ‘He’s got over that before. And it’s not like it isn’t partly his fault.’

  ‘It’s only partly his fault if living together is what did it. If it’s idiotically loving him, then that’s on me.’

  ‘Takes two people to be lovers,’ Silvia says with a wiggle of her eyebrows, and I smile in spite of myself.

  But only for a second.

  CHAPTER 30

  GOOD INTENT

  I get back to our room and Elliott’s not there, so I brush my teeth, put Meggan to bed and tell her a depressing bedtime story about how her egg-dad is an idiot. I apologise to her for being about to ruin her short, fake life.

  I realise I’m talking to an egg.

  I get up and pull out my oldest, comfiest pyjamas. It’s not going to matter if I look like shit anymore.

  Elliott walks in as I’m changing, and his eyes rake down my bare chest.

  ‘Hello, lover,’ I say.

  He looks at me quizzically and I don’t bother explaining. ‘What did Manaia have to say?’ I ask.

  He bends down and undoes his shoes. ‘Nothing about us, unfortunately. I have no new info.’

  ‘I do,’ I say, and he straightens up, his face serious.

  ‘About what?’ He reads my mood, stepping over and sitting on the bed, waiting.

  I finish buttoning up my pyjama shirt and flick my eyes up to his face. ‘We found a book after you left. An old journal. With an entry about a wedding.’

  The silvery light of my quartz is making his hair shine, and he clearly stole a pair of my socks this morning because they have a tiny hole in them and they look very, very familiar. It almost gives me hope. Maybe sock-stealing is a sign of love in his world.

  ‘Do you remember a kind of golden, orangey light? When we were – when we were on the couch, at the house? Friday night? The room looked like it was glowing. I thought maybe I was still drunk, I mean, technically it was Saturday morning I supp–’

  ‘Tim.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Spit it out.’

  ‘The glowing light means something. They called it a midnight sun, it’s –’

  ‘Tim.’ He sits down heavily on Sam’s bed. ‘Are you very ineptly saying what I think you’re saying?’

  ‘We’ve consummated it. We’re going to have to ask for help.’

  ‘Right,’ he says. He won’t look at me.

  I babble, my heart going a thousand miles a minute. ‘We talked about it on Saturday, remember? But we didn’t know how it worked for non-het couples and – and then we got banned from the library anyway. And nothing we found on Dad’s bookshelf was right, but then Sam found this in the pile from Mum and –’ I take a breath. ‘She, the woman who wrote it, talked about the glow, so, it seems it works the same way for any couple.’

  ‘The same way?’

  ‘Yeah. Remember, Sam found that reference to consummation being possible for same-sex couples? And then what Silvia’s mum was talking about in the library when she kicked us out? You know, “magic isn’t good or bad, it depends on your intent”.’

  ‘Intent?’ he says, and his voice is flat, cold.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, and I feel like I’m handing over the keys to my own heartbreak. My voice comes out dry and weird. ‘In this instance I’d imagine it was whether or not one of us had feelings about being … you know. Together.’ I let my words hang there, between us, in the silence that follows. I can’t look at him. ‘I’m sorry, I – I can’t –’

  ‘No. No, Tim, I – I’m …’ He takes a breath. Shakes himself. ‘I’m sorry. And I’m going to go and have a shower. Be alone for a bit.’

  ‘Of course.’

  And he leaves, without even looking at me, and my heart hurts. I can feel it like a physical force in my chest, pressing. Squeezing until I think it’ll break me in two.

  I don’t sleep easily that night. Even though we’ve gone to bed officially OK with each other, something still feels off, like we haven’t said all there is to say – because, of course, we haven’t. I haven’t told him that when he touches me, I can’t think anymore. That every time we’re alone together, all I want to do is crawl inside him and live there. I want to meld with him so I don’t have to say things out loud, and all my stupid, messed-up feelings can be safe, away from where anyone can hear them. I haven’t told him I trust him, that I think he won’t make fun of me if I say, out loud, that I love him, just a bit. I haven’t said anything, because I don’t want him to just call it all off if I do. I’d rather be repressed and have him than let it all out and lose him. He’d have every right to walk away – it’s the complete opposite of what we agreed to and I can imagine what he’d say. ‘For goodness sake, Te Maro, can’t you control your feelings?’

  Obviously, I can’t. After Dad left I was miserable for months, and then my girlfriend dumped me for someone I hate and I couldn’t decide whether to cry or hit something. But when Elliott showed up, and wedged himself into my life, he was like a calm spot in the storm. I only had simple feelings about him, mostly loathing, and that was a perfect distraction from the sadness. But then my feelings changed, and now every day we’re together, every time he calls me darling, I get sucked back towards the edge of sadness, waiting for it to all go wrong. One day I’ll stand there on the precipice with nothing left to lose and I’ll shout into the void, all my feelings pouring out of me like blood, and I don’t know what I’ll do if he just walks away.

  I dream as much. Of black holes and clifftops, and jumping over rocks and spiky ravines. Vivid images of the wild nothing of the South Island offer a brutal backdrop to all my emotional brambles. Images of the bush flick in and out. A river, a stretch of glacier. I imagine almost drowning, almost falling, almost burning under a black sun. My heart is thumping and my throat hurts and I jolt awake, right as I slide off the side of a twisting path, down a rocky bank and into the icy water of an unnamed creek. My skin is damp with sweat and the air is cold and I can barely breathe.

  He stirs beside me in the dark, the rustle of sheets a beacon in the darkness, bringing me back to reality. A hand on my arm, a tether to the comforting, safe horror of my actual life. His voice is low.

  ‘Tim,’ is all he says.

  ‘Bad dream,’ I say, needlessly, because I’m sitting up, panting, and it’s the middle of the night. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Stop being sorry for things that aren’t your fault,’ he says. ‘Come here.’ And he pulls me over so I’m draped across his chest, still tense and awkward from my violent return to consciousness. His touch is too much of a comfort to resist for long, though, and I snuggle into his side. Maybe I’m relying a lot on his polite empathy, playing the nightmare card just to feel him next to me, but I don’t care. I run my fingers along his collarbone and pretend like we’re OK for real.

  ‘It won’t be too hard, will it, being secretly married to me for a few more days?’ I say, and I feel like it might be the bravest thing I’ve ever said.

  He sighs and pats my hair. ‘I’m sure I’ll cope.’

  ‘Fortunately, I have no other suitors. You won’t be forced to duel anyone.’

  ‘See, that’s the part of courtship I was act
ually looking forward to.’

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you, I’m just not that popular.’

  ‘Can I be mean to your ex-girlfriend, at least?’

  ‘Yes,’ I smile. ‘I will allow you to smote her.’

  ‘Excellent. A task for tomorrow,’ he says, and kisses me on the head, like I’m his.

  My smile drops away and I feel my tattered emotions swing the other way. I practise holding it all in, though; it’s the least I can do.

  CHAPTER 31

  QUIET GIRL

  Over the course of a single Tuesday, our three remaining rival eggs all die. Buttercup’s the first to go, right before breakfast, and Nikau is devastated. He blames himself, and there are tears in his eyes when Hana walks into the lounge. We see her melt a little, right before she stalks up to him and kisses him in front of everyone. She, all fivefoot-six of her, with her tippy toes and her peppered kisses, soothing this six-foot-two softie who was so terrified he’d disappointed her.

  Fabergé is next, and we never hear the details, but there’s a suspicious dent in the door of one of the girls’ bathrooms and the rumours flying around at morning tea suggest that the egg-mum was in there with another guy while the egg-dad was left at home with the baby. No-one close to the couple will confirm or deny, but Ana whispers the name of the accused and everyone stares at the poor girl so much she bursts into tears. In a telling lack of solidarity, the other girls sitting at the same table don’t move in to comfort her.

  Right after classes are over for the day, Lizzie and Blake have a very public break-up in the main atrium outside the dining hall, attracting a sizable crowd of seniors and juniors alike. It ends with a theatrical shoving of baby Agatha into Blake’s arms, which of course he fumbles, and the golden egg drops to the concrete floor with a crack and a gasp from the crowd. Lizzie doesn’t flinch, just whips her hair around and stalks off towards the lounge, leaving him to deal with it. Elliott makes a quiet joke about Blake being a bit useless with his hands in general, and his voice in my ear is like … something I need, desperately. Close, and always combined with the tickle of his breath and the heat of his shoulder pressed against me. But every time an egg drops we lose time in this arrangement – and this was the last one. And I still haven’t figured out how to stop loving him.

  After a moment, someone else does the same maths I did as soon as I heard Liz shouting, and yells out that we’ve won. Elliott and I are congratulated with far more enthusiasm than it warrants. Someone pulls out their phone and yells something about photos for the yearbook and we’re shoved together, Meggan peeking out of Elliott’s jacket and me with two backpacks over my shoulder, straps tangled and my jumper pulled askew. We aren’t ready for the first flash, but we have ourselves mostly arranged for the second. I’m not expecting a third, and I can only assume Elliott isn’t either, because he pulls me closer, long fingers wrapping around my neck, and kisses me hard on the side of the head. My eyes must be bug-wide when the flash goes because there’s a moment when I can’t see properly, and just hear a chorus of titillated jeers and whoops and one very familiar voice yelling ‘get a room’.

  ‘That seems a weird way to end this, but OK,’ I say, quietly, because the general populace has seen enough for one day and I don’t need anyone asking what’s ending.

  Elliott gives me an odd look, but holds his tongue until we’re alone and heading back home. ‘Who says I’m ending it?’

  ‘Wasn’t that the agreement – for the duration of the assignment?’ I say. My voice comes out surprisingly calm considering I’m pretty sure I’m falling apart on the inside.

  ‘It’s our agreement,’ he says. ‘And the assignment’s not over. I said that it would be for the duration of our living arrangements, and we still live together, and Meggan is still alive, so it seems a little callous of you to be trying to wiggle out of it the second you might see an out. I know we didn’t mean to end up stuck together, but I thought –’

  ‘I’m not looking for an out!’

  ‘Then what the hell are you doing?’

  ‘I thought that was the plan, OK?’ I say, my temper rising at the hideous irony of his words. ‘I was under the impression you were doing all of this because it was a convenient way to get off, annoy Blake, and get through the assignment.’

  ‘You think I was hooking up with you because of an egg?’ he hisses at me, and Meggan starts to whimper.

  ‘No, I –’ Why is this so difficult? ‘This isn’t coming out right. I just – I have no idea what’s going on and I’m sick of feeling like I’m on the back foot with you.’

  ‘I can’t help it if you’re confused by simple things.’

  ‘This was simple two weeks ago. It’s a bloody mess now.’ I’ve lost any hope of remaining calm; all my feelings are spilling out onto the floor. ‘Can we talk about this later, when we’re feeling less on edge?’

  ‘What do you know about how I’m feeling?’ he snaps and, well, I guess we’re doing this now then, right here in the corridor.

  ‘Nothing. I literally don’t know how you feel,’ I throw back at him. ‘All I know is that you came into this with an out clause and a history of hating me,’ I point out. ‘And then you make me partner you in the world’s stupidest assignment, and suddenly we’re living together, and sleeping together and then –’

  ‘You hated me too,’ he says. ‘And the out clause was for both of us. And I didn’t make you partner me, or live with me, or sleep with me. I just offered, so stop blaming me if you’re having regrets, because it isn’t my fault.’

  ‘I don’t have regrets.’

  ‘Neither do I, just in case you can’t tell.’

  ‘I honestly can’t. I can’t even tell if we’re breaking up or not.’

  ‘Do you want to be?’ he asks, his eyes on mine, boring holes into me. Meggan starts to cry.

  I’m about to tell him no, or at least try to, when a voice comes over the tannoy: ‘Tim Te Maro and Elliott Parker, please report to B4’. Van Mill. How did she find out already? ‘Tim and Elliott to B4.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say instead, because I can’t think. I don’t even know if you can break up with someone you’re bonded to. Will the magic let us? What happens if we’re apart for too long? Are we going to die in our sleep? It’s too much to process and my heart is fluttering for too many different reasons and I just need a minute.

  ‘Well, fuck you, Tim,’ Elliott says, and he sounds sad and annoyed. ‘Let me know when you figure it out.’

  He leaves without the expected fanfare. No stomping, no shoulder-checking me, nothing. Not a thing that would help me hold on to my residual anger and ignore the telltale shine in his eyes. He just turns on the spot and starts heading towards Van Mill.

  I fall into step behind him, Meggan’s cries subduing only slightly as he murmurs to her, his soft voice calming her and making me feel inexplicably worse.

  Van Mill is far too perky when we get to her, and seems determined to ignore the tension radiating off the two of us. Meggan is still grizzly and unhappy when Elliott hands her over. He twitches as if to snatch her back when Van Mill strips her of her little blanket and plonks her unceremoniously in the cold-looking brass bowl on her weird, gadgety set of scales. She picks up a little silver thing in her left hand and swishes her right hand over the fake baby that’s kept us up at night and side by side. A sad sort of regret comes over me. Elliott’s gone very quiet too, and I want to reach out for him as she ignores our baby’s cries and keeps running her diagnostics, clucking curiously at whatever they’re telling her.

  ‘You’ve done well, boys,’ she says, and that tone of surprise is still grating. ‘I bet everyone’s a bit shocked.’

  ‘Not really,’ Elliott says. ‘We’re both quite capable of caring for someone.’

  ‘Elliott, dear, it’s an enchanted egg, not a person.’ Van Mill gives him a look like he might be delusional, and I want to hurt her.

  ‘She has a personality,’ Elliott says, his gaze still locked on Meggan
.

  ‘I’m sure she does,’ Van Mill says, off-hand and back to focusing on her diagnostics already. ‘All right, you end with a …’ She swishes her hand one more time and straightens up. ‘Goodness, ninety-four per cent for the practical. I hope your book work is this good.’

  ‘And we won,’ I point out, because she’s still acting like we’re completely incompetent and this is some sort of miracle.

  ‘It’s not about winning, Tim,’ she says, and I wish that was true, because I feel like I’m losing right now.

  At least with her being such a cold bitch about the whole thing, I can feel my sense of loyalty fizzing to life. It’s almost comforting that no matter how much of a mess Elliott and I are in, I’m prepared to tell her exactly what I think of her and get myself expelled just to please him. If I care that much, I might actually manage to be his friend after this. The thought makes me brave and I reach out for his hand, hoping he’s not too angry with me.

  She sees the movement and her mouth twitches as our fingers lace together, and I want her to say something horrendous so I can punch her in her the face and tell Mum she provoked me.

  ‘Right, then, you two are done here – you’re dismissed,’ she says.

  She turns back to her desk just as Elliott asks, ‘But what happens to –’

  And before he can finish, she waves her hand and the sad wail of our baby, who just needed a hug after being poked and prodded and put in a cold hard basin, just … cuts off. Dead. Silent.

  His fingers crush mine, and I let them. I let the pain ground me, and I let his grip hold me still, and when he tugs at my arm, seconds or minutes later, I let him drag me away. The echo of our child’s silenced cry replays over and over again, and when I try to pin it down so I can stare it in the face, it dissolves into mist and haunts me again from out of sight.

  ‘Elliott,’ I say, my voice shaky and cold.

  ‘I know,’ he says, ‘but you can’t.’

  ‘But how could she –’ I cut myself off. Did she kill her if she wasn’t really alive? Does that matter when I feel like I’ve lost something anyway – when I feel like it’s been ripped from my gut and thrown in the corner?