The Spill

by Imbi Neeme

  ‘She said what?’ I couldn’t tell if he was questioning what Meg had said or if he genuinely hadn’t heard me properly.

  ‘She said—’

  But Dad’s phone was ringing. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I have to take this.’

  He took his phone and moved away from the table, out onto the footpath in front of the pub.

  ‘This is going well,’ Samantha said. ‘Do you know what kinesiology is? And how on earth does it fit in with Celine’s Christian worldview?’

  I ignored her. I was too busy watching Dad on the phone. He had his head down and his hand over his free ear, like he was listening to difficult news.

  ‘I think something’s happened with Celine,’ I said to Samantha.

  ‘Something’s always happened with Celine,’ Samantha replied. ‘You could just say that Celine happened.’

  ‘No, really,’ I said.

  Dad was approaching the table, his face grey with worry. ‘I’m sorry, girls, I’ve got to go. Cee-Cee’s on her way to the hospital. The doctor thinks she’s having a miscarriage.’

  We both rose from our seats.

  ‘Is there anything we can do?’ I asked, my heart suddenly aching. A fragment of memory: picking up a jar of cranberry sauce from the supermarket shelf, then feeling the blood between my legs. And then a second memory: sitting in the car with Jethro after the specialist’s appointment.

  ‘I’ll text you both when I have more information. But for now, I’ve got to get over to the Charlie Gairdner.’

  And then he was gone.

  ‘I told you Celine was trying to get pregnant,’ Samantha said matter-of-factly as we both sat back down.

  Poor Celine. I imagined how frightened she must be feeling, and what she must have gone through to get pregnant in the first place. She had just turned forty-four. Pregnancies rarely ‘just happened’ to women in their mid-forties. I knew that from personal experience.

  Not that Samantha was aware of any of that.

  ‘Well, all I can say is Celine’s timing is pretty lousy,’ she said, as she picked up one of the polenta chips, scooped it through the sour cream and then popped it into her mouth. ‘Now we’ll have to do this all again.’

  Wow, this is not all about you, I wanted to say. But, as I thought of having to ask Dad the question a second time, I realised she’d actually raised a fair point and I sighed.

  ‘Here’s your drink, champ.’

  The waiter had finally arrived with my cocktail, complete with miniature umbrella and sparkler. Samantha looked at the drink and then at me. And in that moment, I remembered the alcohol in Samantha’s own drink, but I didn’t have the energy to speak. All I could do was wait for the sparkler to go out and then knock back the cocktail in one long gulp.

  Piece #11: 1995

  Three weeks before their wedding, Samantha and Trent went through their to-do list over cups of tea and Tic Toc biscuits, as they did every Sunday morning.

  ‘Have you paid the florist?’ Samantha asked.

  ‘Check.’

  ‘Have you booked the PA for the ceremony?’

  ‘Check,’ Trent replied, taking two biscuits from the plate. ‘Look, Sammy. A Tic Toc sandwich. I’m in two different time zones!’

  ‘Stay on task,’ Samantha said, but she was laughing.

  ‘Okay, okay, my turn,’ Trent said, showering crumbs everywhere as he grabbed the list off her. ‘Um, let me see . . . have you rung the venue about wheelchair access?’

  ‘Check!’

  ‘Have you spoken to your mum?’

  Samantha’s smile fell away. ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘Come on, Sammy. Just do it. The later you leave it, the worse it will be.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ Samantha said, taking back the list. She’d been putting off the phone call to Tina for a few weeks now. Every time she thought about it, she felt sick to her stomach. She frowned at the list, hoping to find something else to think about. ‘What about the bucks’ night?’

  ‘Jacko’s in charge of that. You don’t need to worry about that. Next!’

  ‘But I am worried, Trent,’ Samantha replied. Karen in Marketing had told her some horror stories about her husband’s bucks’ night. ‘I just want to you to promise me there’s not going to be any strippers or too much booze.’

  Trent sighed. ‘Obviously, I’m not going to drink,’ he said. ‘But I can’t stop other people from drinking. Or even stripping, for that matter. It’s a bucks’ night, after all.’

  ‘Our twenty-firsts were alcohol-free,’ Samantha argued. ‘And the strongest thing at my hens’ do was the tea. I don’t see why your bucks’ party can’t be the same.’

  ‘I’ll talk to Briggsy at the footy this afternoon about keeping it calm.’

  ‘Promise me?’

  ‘If you promise to talk to your mum right now.’

  ‘Okay,’ Samantha sighed, picking up the phone. As much as she didn’t want to do it, she knew it was a good time to call. ‘I might still catch her before she goes to the pub.’

  ‘Good.’ Trent reached for another biscuit.

  Samantha decided to make the call in the bedroom, away from Trent, just in case she changed her mind.

  Predictably, Tina answered after about ten rings. Her lax attitude towards a ringing phone had always driven Samantha spare, but this time Samantha was grateful for the opportunity to focus on her breathing.

  ‘Oh hello there, bridie,’ Tina said when she heard it was Samantha on the phone. ‘How is everything going? You got your to-do list under control?’

  ‘Yes, it’s all going well,’ Samantha said, wanting to skip right past the pleasantries. ‘I just wanted to ask you something. It’s about the wedding.’

  ‘Anything for you, my little love.’

  Samantha’s heart was beating violently now. ‘Actually, it’s about the reception. Obviously, Dad and Donna-Louise are coming and . . .’ Samantha paused. The right words weren’t coming to her.

  ‘And what?’ Tina’s voice had a little bit of an edge now.

  ‘And, well . . .’ Samantha swallowed, and then opened her mouth to let all the wrong words come tumbling out. ‘And I just need the day to be perfect and with you there and Dad and Donna-Louise there, well, I know how you feel about Donna-Louise and how Donna-Louise feels about you and—’

  ‘I can behave myself,’ Tina interrupted.

  ‘But not when you’re drinking,’ Samantha burst out.

  ‘Ah,’ Tina replied.

  There was a long silence after that. Eventually, Samantha had to check Tina was still on the line. ‘Mum?’

  ‘I’m still here,’ Tina replied, all colour now gone from her voice. ‘So let me get this straight: I can come to the reception if I promise not to drink and I behave myself. Is that right?’

  ‘Basically, yes,’ Samantha swallowed again.

  ‘I see,’ Tina said slowly. ‘And what about Donna-Louise? What’s to say that she’ll behave? Are you phoning her to make the same request?’ Tina’s voice definitely had an edge now.

  ‘Donna-Louise doesn’t drink. And, well, you know how you get, Mum,’ Samantha’s initial embarrassment was rapidly turning to exasperation.

  ‘How do I get?’

  ‘You know.’ Samantha didn’t want to say it.

  ‘No, I don’t know. Tell me, Sammy,’ Tina persisted, each word a bullet. ‘How do I get?’

  ‘You get drunk.’ The Other Samantha was taking over now. ‘And embarrassing and sloppy and loud and showy and you ruin everything and this is my wedding day and I need it to be perfect.’

  Tina was quiet now and so was Samantha, her sudden tsunami of rage subsiding.

  They let the silence between them grow until finally Tina said with a sigh, ‘Okay. I won’t go if you feel that way.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant,’ said Samantha, but she wasn’t convincing anyone, not even herself. More than a few times she’d thought how much easier the wedding would be without Tina there at all. ‘Just think about it.’
>
  Two weeks later when Briggsy and some other guy half-carried Trent through the front door wearing a pair of underpants on his head like a hat, Samantha saw immediately that Trent had not kept up his end of the bargain.

  Trent fell onto the couch, where he lay on his back and smiled at the ceiling.

  ‘Hello, ceiling,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, hello ceiling,’ Briggsy repeated, as he slipped off Trent’s shoes.

  ‘He’ll need some water and maybe a couple of aspros before bed,’ the other guy said, obviously embarrassed by the situation. If he was drunk, he wasn’t showing it. He spoke very clearly, like he was broadcasting for the BBC World Service.

  ‘What the hell happened?’ Samantha asked both of them, unable to hide her anger. ‘What have you done to my fiancé?’

  ‘Yeah, well, um, sorry about that,’ Briggsy said, himself a little unsteady on his feet. ‘When he said he’d never got drunk, I never thought in a million years he meant he’d never drunk anything full stop. Who gets to twenty-three years of age in this country without ever having had a drink? It’s un-Australian.’

  ‘He’s only had three, maybe four beers,’ the other guy jumped in to reassure her. ‘Nothing too heavy.’

  ‘Except for the vodka shots,’ Briggsy interjected.

  ‘What?’ The other guy looked annoyed. ‘I told you not to give him anything else.’

  ‘He was up for it. Anyway, you’re not his mother. He’s a fully grown man.’

  The other guy shook his head. Samantha felt like he was slightly more on her side, unlike Briggsy, whom she had never liked much and now liked even less.

  ‘Did he embarrass himself?’ Samantha wanted to know. The party had been full of people from work, maybe even Trent’s boss, and some of her cousins.

  ‘Did he ever!’ Briggsy enthused.

  ‘Not really,’ the other guy assured her. ‘I wouldn’t worry about it. In Japan, people do all sorts of outrageous things at parties, and everyone just pretends the next day that none of it ever happened. I think bucks’ parties in Australia are a little the same.’

  ‘Well, thank you for getting him home,’ she replied, ignoring any part Briggsy might have played in it. ‘I’m Samantha.’ She held out her hand.

  ‘Darren,’ the guy said, shaking her hand. ‘I work with Trent.’

  She walked over to the door and opened it wide, the smile fixed on her face, like a screw that had been put on too tight. ‘Well, thank you, Darren. I can deal with Trent now.’

  As she closed the door behind them, she heard Trent say, ‘Hello, ceiling,’ again and the smile quickly disappeared from her face. She spun on her heel to face him.

  ‘What the hell were you thinking?’ she asked, but he was still grinning at the ceiling.

  ‘I was thinking that the ceiling is my friend. And Briggsy is my friend. And Darren – even though he’s an uptight prick half the time – he’s my friend. And beer is my friend. And you, Sam. You are my best friend in the whole big fat world. I’m so lucky to have you and I can’t wait for you to be my beautiful bride.’

  He turned to her and held out his hand, but when she didn’t take it, he let it drop and closed his eyes. Soon he was asleep.

  Samantha sat in the armchair and watched him silently, unsure what to feel. She was furious with Briggsy (this had to be his fault) and furious with Trent (how could he have done this to her?). But mostly, she was furious with herself – she should never have agreed to the bucks’ night in the first place. She was also envious. Trent seemed happier in this moment than she’d seen him for a long time.

  But the worst of all the feelings was the uncertainty. She had no idea where this left her and Trent. They had been united by their commitment to not drinking and now that he had gone and got drunk – at a party that was supposed to celebrate their upcoming nuptials, no less – what did that mean for their future? For the first time since she’d met Trent, Samantha felt truly alone.

  She stood up, hoping to step away from all these feelings. She picked up his shoes and socks and put them on the shoe rack. She peeled the underpants off his head and was relieved to see they at least belonged to a man. She found a blanket and gently laid it over him. Then she went over to the CD shelf and started sorting the CDs, changing them from alphabetical-by-band to alphabetical-by-title until she felt tired enough to sleep.

  It was almost three by the time she lay her head back on the pillow.

  The next morning, she woke to a completely silent flat. Usually, Trent watched TV on a Sunday morning, but instead, she found him sitting up on the couch, looking pretty sorry for himself.

  ‘Turns out beer is not my friend,’ he said when he saw her. ‘At least, not when it’s partnered with vodka.’

  Samantha couldn’t believe he was trying to make light of the situation. Instead of responding, she marched over to the kitchen and began putting away dishes as noisily as she could.

  ‘Samantha, please talk to me,’ Trent said, following her. ‘I made a mistake.’

  Samantha kept clanging dishes.

  ‘Please,’ he repeated as he put his hand on her shoulder. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Samantha stopped and, focusing on the warmth of his hand, counted to ten inside her head. She needed to keep the Other Samantha at bay.

  ‘Talk to me, please,’ Trent pleaded.

  ‘I thought we didn’t drink,’ she said, louder than she intended. The Other Samantha was desperate to burst forth from her chest, like something from Alien.

  ‘You’re right. We don’t drink,’ Trent said, turning her to face him. ‘But Sammy, this was about me. I’ve been lying out here on the couch trying to work out why I did it. I mean, I certainly didn’t go out last night intending to get drunk. I want you to know that.’

  ‘Well, you came home drunk all the same.’ She freed herself of his hold and went back to the dishes.

  ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Can you stop that and just listen to me a second?’

  Samantha allowed him to lead her back to the lounge and sit her on the couch.

  ‘Here’s the thing,’ he said, sitting beside her and taking her hand. ‘I’ve spent the last few months doing so much for us and the wedding. I’ve licked stamps and booked the PA and tasted cake and looked at seating plans. I’ve done everything you’ve told me to do. Last night, I guess I just wanted to do something for myself. And you know what? I had a good time. Fuck it, Sam, I had a great time.’

  Samantha’s heart suddenly felt like it was being wrung out like a sponge. She pulled her hand away from him.

  ‘Then go drink yourself into oblivion, if that’s what you want to do,’ she spat. ‘Go on. Go join my drunken mother and the two of you can drink yourselves to death.’ The Other Samantha was now fully unleashed. ‘You know how I feel about my mother and her drinking. My whole life she has chosen alcohol over me. So how could you do it? How could you choose alcohol over me a week before my wedding? How could you break the promise you made me?’

  ‘It’s our wedding, remember? I’m in there too, you know.’ Trent bristled a little. ‘And anyway, all I promised you was that I would talk to Briggsy. And I did talk to Briggsy, so I didn’t break any promises. Not exactly. But I want you to know I wasn’t choosing alcohol over you, Sam. I was choosing myself. Just for one lousy fucking night.’

  She couldn’t believe that Trent, the one person she had always relied on to do what she needed to feel safe, was saying all this.

  ‘But what if there’s another night you want to do that?’ she shouted, her face a mess of tears and snot now. ‘And another night after that? What if you find out that you want to drink all the nights? Where will that leave me, Trent?’

  But before he could answer, she had pushed past him, grabbed the car keys from the hook near the front door and run down to the car in her bare feet.

  She knew she needed to talk this through with someone but it needed to be the right person. Not Tina, whom she hadn’t spoken to since their last awkward phone call. Not Nic
ole, who didn’t really know how to have a proper boyfriend. And not Craig; she didn’t want him to know she was having any trouble. It was only when she was approaching Guildford Road that she finally thought about where she might be driving.

  Donna-Louise. She needed to speak to Donna-Louise.

  Samantha found Donna-Louise alone in the front garden of the Mount Lawley house, pruning the roses as she and Craig did every July. She was cutting the stems so far down Samantha thought she must be punishing the roses for something.

  ‘One of these days, you’re going to go too far with those secateurs,’ Samantha said by way of greeting. She had cried the first time she’d seen her father attack the roses like that, certain the flowers would never come back. Even now, she wasn’t entirely convinced.

  ‘Pah!’ Donna-Louise replied, looking up with a smile. ‘It’s impossible to over-prune a rose bush.’

  ‘Where’s Dad?’ Samantha asked.

  ‘Buying mulch. Where are your shoes?’ Donna-Louise responded. ‘It’s a bit cold to be playing hippies.’

  ‘I, uh, left the house in a hurry. I needed to talk to you.’

  ‘Come inside,’ Donna-Louise sighed, getting up from her gardening mat. ‘It was about time I stopped for a cuppa.’

  Inside the house, Donna-Louise gave Samantha a pair of Craig’s explorer socks for her cold feet and then ushered her into the large, sunny kitchen.

  ‘So what was worth rushing over here without shoes?’ she asked, as she made them both tea.

  Samantha silently counted to three before she spoke. She didn’t want to cry in front of Donna-Louise. She suspected her stepmother secretly thought she was too young to be getting married and she wanted to prove she really was mature enough. She was twenty-three, after all.

  ‘It’s Trent. He got drunk at his bucks’ party last night.’

  ‘Did he now?’ Donna-Louise’s eyebrows arched up ever so slightly. ‘I wouldn’t have thought he’d be the first man to do that.’

  Samantha was disappointed in Donna-Louise’s lack of instant outrage, but she pushed on. ‘It’s just, well, I thought we were on the same page when it came to alcohol. I haven’t drunk anything since that party I went to just before I came to live with you and Dad. Not even a single sip.’