Hear Me

by Julia North

  Hear Me

  Julia North

  After yet another shameful one-night stand Lissa has to accept that her sisters are right – she is an alcoholic and it’s time for rehab. She hates the idea of therapy, doesn’t want to examine her past, but just as she begins to see reasons for her drinking, life takes a brutal turn.

  Who are her fellow patients? Why is one of them so damned perfect?

  Hear Me is a powerful story about life and death, addiction and sobriety, racism and the fight for justice – but above all it is a story about love.

  Dedicated to the memory of my youngest sister, Lady, one of the most special and generous souls I’ve ever known. What a privilege to have shared my life with yours.

  ‘Hide nothing, for Time which sees all, exposes all.’

  Sophocles

  Prologue

  My death comes as a surprise. Not because I find myself in the afterlife – I knew there would be one – but the problem is I’ve always expected my passing to be a kind of ‘Aha’ moment where everything finally makes sense … Instead nothing does.

  I don’t look any different, nor do I have any fear. I’m still Melissa Windsor, my twenty-eight-year-old self, even wearing my favourite white lace top and dark Levi jeans, yet I know with certainty that I’m dead. This is no vivid dream, no astral-travel experience; it’s too real for that.

  I don’t know why, when or how I’ve died. There’s no spinning tunnel, no angel voices, no welcoming light like the near-death stories we hear about – nothing but a mountain of mist, ebbing and flowing all around.

  The jigsaw of life, with its misty memories, does flash past. I suppose it has to because we live so fast, so superficially. ‘It goes so fast we don’t have time to look at one another,’ Thornton Wilder wrote, and he was right; most of us pass each other by while trapped in self-obsession, indifference and mediocrity. That is until Time snatches us away and throws us to the stars.

  But where are these stars? I close my eyes and will the mist to give me the answers that I crave …

  Chapter 1

  The oppressive heat fuels the growling storm. The sky is a curious mix of light and dark with tufts of low-lying cumulus reflecting the rays of the late afternoon sun, while a smudge of heavy cloud drowns out the blue above. Thunder rolls ominously overhead, followed by a sudden crack of earth-to-sky forked lightning. As a child I loved to listen to the undulating rumble of the thunder. I imagined it came from the giants who lived up there behind the black clouds, rolling out their barrels to have a party. It sounds like they have a pub full today as another crash of thunder, accompanied by a sharp vein of lighting, claps out across the sky. Large drops of warm rain break free and hammer against the lounge window. I get up and rest my face against the burglar guards to gulp down their earthy wetness and let it wash through my mind.

  ‘The rain’s coming in.’

  I turn to Nat as she sits frowning at the open window. ‘I know. It’ll be over in a few minutes.’

  Nat swallows. She tucks a strand of fly-away blonde hair behind her ears and fiddles with the end of it. ‘Liss, please think about …’

  ‘Leave it.’

  I turn back to the window and press my forehead against the iron bars. I should’ve known that’s all this visit was about.

  ‘You need it.’

  I jolt around and slap the rain from my face. ‘No, I don’t.’ The air grows hot between us as we lock eyes. I blink away and click my tongue. ‘I’m going to make coffee. Want some?’

  She nods and I lurch towards the kitchen. I switch on the kettle and snatch open the cupboard.

  ‘What’re you doing?’

  I turn to see Nat standing behind me. ‘Making coffee … what the hell do you think I’m doing?’ I jerk my hand forward and hook my fingers around the handles of two of the mugs.

  Judgement clouds Nat’s eyes. ‘What kind?’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Nat.’ I slam the cupboard door shut and twist open the coffee jar.

  ‘I just want to help …’ Nat’s voice cracks and she places a hand on my shoulder. I shrug her off with one angry movement.

  ‘I’m twenty-eight … not fucking twelve.’ The kettle whistles and I snatch it up and slosh the water into the mugs. ‘Get the milk if you want,’ I say as I pick up my mug and stomp back into the lounge. No wonder we’ve got this chasm between us. How can we be sisters if there’s no trust?

  I bury myself in the rising coffee steam and clutch my mug with white knuckles. Nat perches on the armrest of the chair opposite. She blows on her coffee and drinks it down in slurps which echo through the stiff silence. Her small, hunched frame and pained blue eyes just make me feel worse. Why does she even bother coming?

  ‘The storm’s over … I guess I should go.’ Nat waits for me to say something. ‘Please, think about what I’ve said,’ she implores as she gets up.

  ‘I’m fine … but thanks anyway.’ I keep my head down as I utter the words, and lift it only when I hear my security gate clang closed. My whole body feels like a coiled spring. I wish she hadn’t come. I love my sisters but I’m so sick of their never-ending judgement. They also drink. They’re just deluding themselves like half the people out there. At least I’m honest, and anyway they’re married; their lives are so different from mine. How can they understand, let alone judge?

  My jaw clenches and I tramp back into the kitchen and throw some of the coffee into the sink before opening the cupboard and finding the Johnny Walker hidden behind the muesli. I splash in a double helping and take a large swig. I breathe out a long, shaky sigh and lean back against the counter as it burns straight through me. I glance down. My hand’s trembling, creating small ripples across the surface of the brown liquid. I frown. I can’t deny that the comedowns are getting worse and I need a drink to ease them. I shake my head and gulp down some more. No, it’s just Nat upsetting me that’s made me tremble a little. I’ve been through a lot. Who wouldn’t break under the kind of strain I’ve had? She’s way off. I don’t have a problem. I don’t drink every day. In fact I can go days without drinking. No, actually I can go for weeks.

  My back straightens. I go into the lounge and flick on the TV. The sportscaster is rattling on about the India versus South Africa cricket match. I click him off mid-speech with a scowl. Sure, it’s great that we’re no longer the sports pariah of the world, but we lost the series, and anyway there’re far more important things going on than cricket. People in the townships are still burning each other like human torches, for fuck’s sake. Maybe that’s what they should be talking about and trying to stop. The image of the writhing, burning body jumps back into my mind. Water fills my mouth and my stomach jolts. I retch. The acrid stench of molten rubber is back in my nostrils. My throat tightens. I jerk my head from side to side and glug down the rest of my whiskey coffee. I push the memory back as the alcohol eases its way through my veins.

  A slow smile slides across my face. Nat doesn’t understand. She wasn’t there. All I’m doing is blurring the edges. It’s no bloody big deal, and anyway alcohol’s much better than going on Prozac or Valium.

  My armpits grow damp. The afternoon sun is still hot and streaming in through the window. Humidity smothers the room. Perhaps what I need is some sea air and crashing waves to drown out the fire-fuelled memories. I find my bag and fumble around for my car keys. I’ve only had one. I’m still okay to drive.

  I speed over the rushing Umgeni River, its brown waters swollen from the summer rains. I’ve got both front windows open so the sea breeze blows wildly through my hair. The sound of the whooshing water fills my ears. I turn and look down at the river as it roars under the viaduct to join forces with the crashing Indian Ocean. I jerk back as someone hoots behind me and give them the finger but swerve away from the fast-ap
proaching concrete balustrade. I put my foot down as soon as I’m straight on the road again and smile to myself as the engine purrs out its power like a panther. Minutes later I reach the crowded beachfront. I slow to a crawl and scan the wide promenade of North Beach. My hands grow sweaty. It’s five o’clock and it’s still so busy? I don’t want crowds of people around me. I just want a parking space and a little bit of beach to myself. Is that too much to ask?

  At last I spy a gap, squeal towards it, and swing half-in, cutting off a Kombi coming from the opposite direction. The blonde surfer behind the wheel lifts his hands into the air and shakes his head. I grin at him and yank my steering wheel to the left. The arsehole Mercedes next to me is so badly parked I can’t get in. I wrench my gear lever into reverse and grip the steering wheel as I squeal backwards, and then in again, missing it by inches. I climb over the seat and get out the passenger door. I’m at quite an angle, but who cares. I march onto the crowded boulevard and push past one fat lobster-tinged couple who’re waddling, gawking at the waves with their puffy tongues glued to white mounds of a soft-serve ice-cream cone. What the hell’s the matter with them; haven’t they ever seen the sea before? Why don’t they just go back to the Transvaal instead of taking over our beach?

  My cheeks grow hot as the anger prickles through me. Deep inside I know I’m behaving badly, but I can’t help it. I just want some peace and quiet. Don’t they realise I need it? A beaming curio seller holds out strings of bright Zulu beads and calls, ‘Sawubona, nice necklace for you, Madam.’ I ignore her, and her eyes harden. I rub my fingers across my forehead. Shit, why did I do that; now she probably thinks I’m just another white racist bitch and hates me, but she should realise I’m not a tourist.

  I pace down the concrete steps towards the beach and rip off my sandals. I roll up my Levis. The swimming area is packed with people, but the far side away from the shark-net area has only a few stragglers lolling about. I run on tiptoes towards it, stopping only when I hit the cool wet band at the water’s edge. I sink down onto the damp sand and draw in a long, slow breath of the sweet sea air. I stare out at the rhythmic coming and going of the swelling waves with their white sea-horses as they crash and recede onto the sand. Weird to think they’ve been coming and going like that forever, and will carry on long after I’m gone, never feeling the pain of what it means to be alive. I shake my head as the emptiness suddenly consumes me. My eyes blur. I just want to dive into their crashing power until they pummel me into nothingness. I don’t want to live any more. I really don’t.

  Mike’s face rears up like a rancid boil in my mind. You’d think by now I’d be mature and in control. All he did was use me. I remember his smug words of greeting when we first met. ‘Welcome, Mike Mathews, senior microbiologist.’ He’d savoured the power behind each word while he watched me squirm blushingly before him. Why was I so transparent, so weak, just because he was good-looking? The more I’d tried to wish my blush away, the hotter I’d become. I was like some silly little schoolgirl and he’d wallowed in my unease, using it no doubt to feed his ego and loving the power. He’d even given a low victory laugh at my flinch when he touched my arm to guide me to the back of the lab.

  ‘I’ll introduce you to Mia,’ he’d said, bending down towards me and squeezing my arm a little tighter. ‘She’s in charge of the poo bench which, I’m afraid to say, is going to be your first port of call.’

  I guess the shit bench should’ve been a warning of what was to come, but I was too blind to see it. I can’t believe how gullible I was. I think I’d even felt grateful he wanted sex with me that first time because I thought it must mean he found me attractive. I let out a wry laugh. I also thought that for the first time I had one up on Nat and Els when he’d raved about my chestnut hair and said he hated blondes. I really thought he loved me. What an idiot I was. Bastard! This is all his fault. I hate him. My hands begin to shake and a hot panic smothers me. It’s no good. I need a drink.

  I push myself up and pace back across the soft sand to the promenade. I slap on my sandals and dust the wet grains of sand from my jeans. I shove past the strolling holidaymakers in the direction of the Maharani Hotel which stands tall and white, saluting the sky. I climb the tiled steps with jelly legs and stride through the revolving door into the white marble foyer with its smart reception area. My eyes dart around until they find a blue neon sign proclaiming Ladies Bar. ‘Thank God,’ I mutter as I head towards it with quick steps.

  The interior is cool and darkened with a classy tourist feel. Good, this is just what I need. Semi-circular, plush velvet kiosks with low-slung blue glass shades are nestled up against the walls like cosy pods. My shoulders relax. Only a few are occupied. You never know if a bar will be crowded at this time of day.

  I head towards the oak bar with its high silver stools. A few patrons are perched at the far end. Their heads turn as I approach but I keep my eyes fixed to the front and ease myself onto the first stool. The bow-tied Indian barman gives me a wide, welcoming smile.

  ‘A red label Johnny Walker and coke, please,’ I murmur. ‘Make it a double.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. Ice?’ he asks, before giving me another of his practised smiles.

  I nod, fearing my voice will break and betray me. I clasp my hands in my lap to stop them trembling. The barman shows his professionalism by pretending not to notice, and in no time he’s placed a paper lace doily in front of me, followed by a crystal glass a third full of whiskey.

  ‘Say when.’ He clicks off the bottle cap and pours the coke in.

  ‘Okay,’ I say, as the darkness reaches the halfway mark. I hold my hand tense around the glass and take a big sip. The warmth of the whiskey sinks instantly to my legs and I let them dangle deliciously against the bar stool as I gulp down some more. I sigh deeply as it burns straight through me, melting away my anxiety. I’m sure the barman hears my sigh, but he keeps his eyes fixed forward and continues stacking the ice bucket. I guess he’s had enough experience of hearing the liquored relief, and the Johnny Walker wisdom. I wonder how many sob stories he’s heard from drunks once their numbness has blotted out their inhibitions and their pain comes tumbling out. There should be counselling awards for barman like him.

  ‘Hard day?’ asks a low, masculine voice behind me.

  I jerk my head around to glare at a middle-aged arsehole with a lustful sneer slashed across his face. His eyes are bulbous and he’s clearly drunk. I look him up and down. His tight chinos show an ugly bulge almost hidden by his beer paunch. The three open buttons of his black shirt expose a thick gold neck chain. My top lip moves instinctively upwards. What a prize prick. He even has that awful long strand of hair combed back across his bald head as if it’s fooling anyone. I give him my best ‘Get lost!’ glare and turn back to the bar. Cold shoulder’s the best treatment for his type. I’ve no interest in being chatted up. I’m here for the drink and nothing else. I hear him huff behind me for a second and then mutter ‘Bitch’ under his breath. I suppress the urge to turn around and smack him one.

  The barman moves over to me. ‘Let me know if anyone bothers you and I’ll deal with it,’ he whispers, motioning with his eyebrows at the arsehole.

  I nod and smile. ‘I’ll have the same again, please.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ He rustles up another one and fills it up with the right amount of coke. He’s a nice guy and I have to bite back the temptation to start talking and let all my angst flow out. I must finish this one and go, otherwise I’ll end up staying here for hours and have to get a taxi home.

  I down my second double and order a third. I smile broadly at my friendly barman. He really is a one of the best and has lovely, honey-coloured eyes. They’d go well with my green ones. We’d have beautiful children. My mind jumps to an image of the two of us lying, wrapped sweetly together under satin sheets. I bet he’d be a really attentive lover, a decent gentleman who’d care and not just use and abuse. I grimace. I guess one tiny slither of light in this dark, racial mess of a country is that
we won’t be invaded by crashing doors and judgement police snatching our sheets for evidence under the Immorality Act. I lift my glass in a mock salute. Cheers to the new South Africa. Mandela is free and petty apartheid is dead. I won’t be arrested for sleeping with my barman any longer, that’s if he’ll even have me.

  I wake with a pounding head and cotton wool tongue. I blink open blurry eyes. My mind’s a dark cave. I blink up at the ceiling while my breath lodges in my throat. Where the hell am I? A painting of a lion nestled in the long veld beneath a crimson sunset adorns the wall opposite. To the side stands a mahogany counter with a large mirror and a stool in front. A tray with tea and coffee and cups and saucers sits on it. I push myself up onto shaky elbows with my heart thudding in my ears. I clutch the sheet against me. Why am I naked? An A4 leather-bound book sits next to bed. Maharani Hotel is etched in gold across the top. What the hell am I still doing in the Maharani?

  Someone’s in the shower. Is it the barman? Did my fantasy come true? I swallow back my shame and reach out quivering hands towards the pile of crumpled clothes lying strewn in the middle of the room. I must’ve been completely out of it to not even be able to remember. I pull on my knickers and yank on my jeans. They’re stiff against my crotch. I collapse on the bed and bend my head towards my legs. I gag as the stink of urine assaults my nose. Did I wet myself? Was I really that drunk? Oh Lord – the barman must have known I wet myself, maybe even seen me do it? I retch and grab my bra and top as I hear the water stop. I put them on as fast as I can with shaking hands before grabbing my sandals and slapping them on. I don’t want him seeing me like this. I push myself up and take a dizzy step forward to pick up my handbag from the floor. The bathroom door opens behind me. I turn. My eyes freeze on a pasty roll of white fat bulging over the top of a hotel towel. I move my eyes up and gag at the thick gold chain. Chino-man leers at me from the open doorway, his bald head shining and his long strand of hair stuck damply against the side of one fat cheek. He half-opens his mouth and shows me a bloated tongue.