Tin Heart

by Shivaun Plozza

  ‘Mum. Tell me how I fix this.’

  She bites her lip hard. ‘I’m not sure you can, Marlowe.’

  ‘There has to be something.’

  ‘There’s not,’ she shouts. She throws up her hands, fingers curled in like they want to become fists, like they want to punch and smash and beat and hurt.

  I breathe hard. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t want you to hate me.’

  She grabs hold of the bench. ‘I don’t hate you, Marlowe,’ she says, suddenly weary. ‘I just don’t like you very much right now. I just don’t understand how you got to be so selfish, so heartless.’

  I think I make a sound, a whimper. I hug myself, fists scrunched under my armpits. ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Okay.’

  She parts her lips as if to speak, but nothing comes out. And I never thought the day my mother had nothing to say to me would make me feel so sick inside. The bottom falls out of my stomach, out of my world.

  Mum’s eyes flick over my shoulder and I see the bottom drop out of her world too.

  I turn.

  Pip is standing at the bottom of the stairs.

  My brother, Pip, who is dressed as no one.

  He is wearing blue jeans, a plain grey t-shirt and white sneakers. His blond hair hangs limp to his shoulders, his face is clean and pale.

  ‘Pip?’

  He shoves his hands in his pockets and toes the carpet.

  Mum nods slowly and I watch her throat contract as she stares at him. ‘Right,’ says Mum. She looks everywhere but at me and Pip. ‘Right.’

  I look at Pip. I didn’t even know he owned jeans. ‘Get changed.’

  He shakes his head. He won’t look at me.

  ‘You’ve got that kilt.’ I walk towards him. I don’t know what I’m going to do – grab him and haul him upstairs? Hold him down and paint a butterfly on his face? ‘You haven’t worn the kilt yet. You were talking about a cyborg Rob Roy.’

  Pip shakes his head. ‘Now I’m normal. Like you.’

  Inside I am falling to pieces.

  I can’t stand this. So I run. I run from the room, outside and down the street. And I keep running.

  I don’t know where I’m running to but I don’t stop. Not until I look up and see ‘Nicholson Street’ on the street sign. I have a stitch in my side and my heart is racing. I walk, slow steps, but then I stop because I can’t go any further.

  I can’t believe I ran here. Here. Who the hell do I think I am? Carmen’s not going to want to see me. I turn down a side street because I can’t go anywhere near Cheeky Chicken. Not today.

  I walk just to keep moving. My phone buzzes in my pocket but I don’t answer it. It buzzes again and again. I don’t know where I’m walking to, but it just has to be far away from Carmen and Pip and Mum and anyone else I might hurt.

  Trees and houses and cars and people pass me by in a blur. An entire city of more than four million people and I don’t have a single place to go or anyone to see. Time ticks slowly by.

  When I hear a train up ahead I move towards the sound. Mum always said we’d spend a day just hopping on random trains and buses and seeing where they took us. We never got around to it, but Pip had his outfit all worked out: Hercule Poirot, the crime-solving parrot. He had plans to solve a murder on the Frankston line.

  I reach Jewell Station just as a train is pulling out. It’s after six so it’s the dregs of peak hour. The boom gates beep, lights flashing, and I look through the windows at the people on board, all of them lost in their own little worlds. I’m going to get on a train, I think. Something that moves at a greater speed than I can manage. I like that idea.

  When the boom gates lift, I cross and climb the stairs to the platform. Seven minutes until the next train.

  I sit on a bench seat beside an old man, who leans towards me and asks where I’m headed.

  ‘Nowhere.’

  When the train comes I make sure I don’t get on the same carriage as the old guy who clearly wants to chat. I find a window seat and I slink down, resting my head against the glass.

  The way the world passes by when you’re in a train reminds me of those old films. All flickery and scratched and colourless. It’s both beautiful and sad.

  It gives me time to think.

  Too much time.

  At the next stop a group of guys sit opposite me, lifting their feet on the seats and taking up space in the way that only young men do. They’re loud, and I wonder if Luis was ever like that.

  The stations pass, people get on and off, but I remain. My phone buzzes and I continue to ignore it.

  The guys get off at Fawkner and I breathe out slowly.

  They shove and laugh and strut along the platform and I frown as I watch them. Then the station sign rings a bell somewhere deep inside me.

  Fawkner.

  What did Kari say about it?

  Is there a cemetery?

  ‘We can celebrate him,’ she’d said. ‘And we’ll head to Fawkner after with flowers.’

  I stand, my feet carrying me to the train door before I even realise what’s happening. I push past a couple trying to get on, but I don’t care. Not today.

  I stand on the platform as the train pulls out.

  What am I doing?

  I look around but there are no friendly smiles here; people are too busy and I’m standing in their way. But I can’t move, not quite yet. Because you can see the cemetery from the platform.

  And it’s huge.

  I fight the urge to wait for the next train, to just hop on and let it take me to the end of the line. But my heart jumps and rattles in my chest. Keep moving, it tells me. Keep moving.

  So I move.

  I head through the station and out into the street. And when I cross through the red gates at the front entrance of the cemetery everything suddenly becomes still. Calm. I guess this is what it’s like when time stops for real. The stillness isn’t as frightening as you might think, though.

  It’s kind of beautiful.

  There’s a map near the entrance and I walk up and try to make sense of it all. The place really is massive. And I have no idea where to find Luis.

  Keep moving, beats my heart. Keep moving.

  So I do.

  I walk quickly through the older parts of the cemetery – Luis won’t be there and the large mausoleums and statues unnerve me. Angels and gothic spires and everything you don’t want death to be. I stop and read some of the headstones; mostly, I work out the ages. It’s surprising how many people used to die young.

  Keep moving, beats my heart. Keep moving.

  I find a large lawn dotted with plaques and I think: This is more like it. Once a doctor asked Mum if we had a funeral plan for me, ‘just in case’. We didn’t and Mum pretty much bit the guy’s head off, but that night she sat me down and asked what I would like. I was twelve so I said I wanted to be buried in glass, like Snow White, and wait for my prince to kiss me awake.

  ‘We’ve talked about Snow White,’ Mum said sternly and then reminded me why I didn’t need a prince to save me and that it was going to take more than a kiss to make me better.

  She was right, of course. She’s right more often than I’d like to admit. Looking at the lawn I can see this is better than a glass coffin. A simple plaque, maybe the ashes are buried underneath or maybe it’s just the plaque. It doesn’t matter. It’s understated and peaceful.

  I walk along the aisles, reading the names, adding up the ages. Any time I come across someone young my heart skips and I pause a little longer by their grave and wonder what sort of person they were and who is missing them and whether there are people out there who owe their lives to them. Because unless you’ve had to, you don’t think about organ donation. You just think about the death.

  I’m not expecting to find Luis, not in a cemetery this size, so I keep walking and I’m okay with just being here.

  I guess that’s why I walk past it at first.

  But it’s the age that stops me: sixteen.

  And then the name.
>
  With wobbly knees I stand in front of the simple grey plaque and read his name out loud. Luis Castillejo. Loved and missed. That’s all it says.

  There’s a small posy of flowers beside the plaque and I wonder if it was Carmen or Armando who left them there. They don’t look fresh. The petals are sun-singed around the edges and they have that crumbled, hunched look flowers get when they’re weather-tired and old.

  I stand there in silence. I know people talk to gravestones, but I can’t do it. What would I say? ‘You don’t know me but I think I have your heart. Thanks for that.’

  Thinking this I realise there’s only one word I need to say to Luis, one overused and meaningless word but I have to say it anyway.

  ‘Sorry,’ I tell Luis’ gravestone. And the word says so many things. It says sorry you died. Sorry you don’t get to live and be extraordinary. Sorry your story doesn’t get to be told. Sorry I’m eighteen and you’re not. Sorry I broke your sister’s heart.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, and then I just keep saying it. I have an awful lot of ‘sorry’ tucked away and I think I’d like to let it go now. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Carmen’s friend?’ a rough voice asks behind me.

  I jump and turn around, wiping my eyes as I follow a long shadow to find a hunched man standing a few metres back, a posy of yellow and orange marigolds in his hand.

  Luis’ dad.

  Armando.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I stammer. I am completely aware of what I am: an unwelcome stranger crying at his son’s graveside.

  Luis’ dad takes a step forward. I wipe my eyes, which are still blurry with tears. He bends to lay the flowers at the side of the plaque. He pauses, hand hovering just above his son’s name, before he grabs the wilted flowers and straightens. ‘This sun,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘I only lay these last week but look, already?’ He shows me the flowers.

  I nod.

  ‘But marigolds are sunflowers, did you know?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘They should enjoy a little sunbathing.’ He squints up at the sun. He is still wearing that same oversized cardigan; there’s a streak of pen on his jeans, jeans that hang loose and baggy and I guess that’s my answer: he’s lost a lot of weight but hasn’t bothered to replace his clothes.

  I step away. ‘I should –’

  ‘Carmen told me,’ he says and looks back at the plaque. Loved and missed.

  I tug at my skirt; suddenly, I feel so visible. So completely in the way. ‘About me?’

  He nods.

  The shame burns inside. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Castillejo. You must think I’m horrible.’ I shift from foot to foot. Do I stay or go? I listen to my heart but for once it’s silent.

  ‘Call me Armando.’

  I say the name several times in my head, imagining what it would be like to say it out loud.

  ‘My name is Marlowe,’ I tell him. ‘My real name.’

  He nods. ‘I know. You wrote that comment. On Facebook.’

  We stare at Luis’ plaque in silence. I wonder if Luis was quiet like his father or full of life and laughter like Carmen? There are so many things I don’t know about Luis – things I’ll never know.

  ‘I was driving,’ says Armando and the break from silence jolts me, the reverberations rattling deep inside. It takes me a while to realise what he is saying, what his words mean.

  I don’t know if I want to hear this.

  ‘There was a storm,’ he goes on. ‘Do you remember? It was raining barrels and casks. He had soccer practice. Should have been cancelled – it was cancelled, but we didn’t know because we were already driving.’

  His hands shake, petals falling from the posy of marigolds.

  ‘We took the Ring Road because it’s quicker, but I could hardly see through the windshield. Do you remember the rain?’

  I nod. I remember. I remember a feeling, as the rain pummelled our roof, that something was happening. I didn’t flinch when the phone rang. I knew what it meant. I’d heard the joke. But the joke didn’t make me laugh; it made me cry.

  ‘The car in front,’ he says, eyes focused on a middle distance I can’t see. Maybe he’s seeing that day, the rain and the road and the cars. I imagine he sees it often. I imagine he can’t stop seeing it. ‘The car slammed on its brakes, but I didn’t have time – there was no time. We hit the car. We might have been okay if that was it but behind us . . .’ He lowers his chin to his chest and chokes back a sob.

  I wait for him to gather himself. The sun still stings despite the time of day. One year ago it was slate grey and raining. Not today.

  ‘You don’t have to,’ I tell him, but he holds up a hand and I wait. I wait.

  ‘There was a truck,’ he says, finally. ‘And there was no time. Too much rain.’

  He drops the posy and reaches out to grab my hand.

  ‘My boy was a good boy,’ he says. ‘He had a good heart.’

  He grips my hand and even though it hurts I don’t tell him to let go. Hold on, my heart beats. Hold on tight.

  ‘I know,’ I tell him. His skin is rough against mine.

  He shakes his head, but I place my other hand over his.

  ‘Listen to me.’ I look into his eyes, Carmen’s eyes, Luis’ eyes. ‘Thank you. I know what people want from survivors. They want us to be brave and inspirational. The truth is though, sometimes the brave and inspirational one was the one who died. But I’m grateful. I’m so grateful. I don’t know if I have your son’s heart, but I’m still thankful to you and Luis. Because someone has his heart even if it’s not me, and if they can’t tell you thanks then I will.’

  I feel his hands tense in mine, but I keep holding on.

  ‘I don’t deserve your son’s gift. I think I’d need to be extraordinary to deserve it but I’ve only ever been ordinary. I only ever wanted to be ordinary.’ I have more to say – so much more – but my words are lost in sobbing.

  He pulls a hand free and rests it on my shoulder. ‘There’s no shame in being normal,’ he says. ‘And you are, no matter what you tell yourself, courageous.’

  My chest aches – everything aches.

  ‘Come with me,’ he says. ‘I’ll take you home.’

  The car pulls up to the curb; Mum’s outside our front door, her face a patchwork of anger and worry.

  ‘Parents worry,’ says Luis’ dad. He gives me his small, sad smile.

  He grips the steering wheel. Tightly. How long did it take him to feel okay about driving again?

  I unclip my seatbelt. ‘I know they do.’ My hand is on the door but I don’t open it. There’s something I need to know first. If I can find the courage to ask.

  ‘Was it you or Carmen?’ My voice is small and uncertain.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Who told me not to write. Was it you or Carmen? Or both of you?’

  He stares through the windshield. He has the same profile as Luis, same hooked nose, small chin, long neck.

  ‘At first I wanted to get in touch,’ he says. ‘That’s why I joined that group. But by the time you answered, it was . . .’ He sighs, long and deep. ‘In the meantime your letters had kept coming and she would see them and every time she would sink lower and lower. There are very few things I can do to keep my daughter safe in this world but that was one thing I could do. To protect her.’

  I nod. He’s right. I didn’t stop to think about how the letters might have made them feel.

  ‘She doesn’t like that I won’t talk about him. That I packed up all the photos and memories and shut them away. She thinks it’s because I don’t care.’

  The door handle is cold against my palm. I grip it tightly like an escape-hatch lever. ‘You wanted to move on,’ I say. ‘That’s okay. To want that.’

  He shakes his head. ‘No. I want her to move on.’

  I nod because my throat is too thick to push out words. But even if I could talk I wouldn’t know what to say. It was so easy for me to convince myself that Carmen was right
to want to tread water, to try to stay in the place where Luis felt alive. I held her there because I wanted to be in that place too. I wanted to feel close to Luis too. But you can’t tread water forever – you’ll drown.

  I open the car door and make to step out, but he grabs my arm.

  ‘We never talked about it,’ he says. ‘Luis and me. About organ donation – it’s just not something you talk about, is it? I wish we had. But he was the kindest soul you’d ever meet. If you were cold he’d have found a way to climb into the sky and pull the sun closer to you.’

  He leans forward and looks into the sky like he expects to see his son up there.

  ‘I will always be angry that he died,’ he says. ‘I will hate myself for not being able to protect my baby. For not braking fast enough. For not steering the car away. But I will never regret his gift to the world. And if it turns out that gift was you . . .’ He turns back to look at me. And he sees me – really sees me. Sees everything that I am. ‘I will be proud of every step you take in this world with my son by your side. How could I ever regret that?’

  I look at his hand on mine, as it tethers me to this car, to this man, to this moment. And then he lets me go and it’s okay. The world hasn’t ended. No earthquakes, tsunamis, volcanic eruptions or monkey flu outbreaks. And I am surprised to know that talking to Luis’ father has made me feel lighter. Better. Okay.

  ‘Stay in touch,’ he tells me as I get out of the car. I smile and tell him I will. I’m not sure if it’s even possible, but saying it is enough. For now.

  I close the car door and the engine starts.

  Mum paces the front step as I turn, slowly, and walk up the path.

  From inside his car, Luis’ father watches me. When I reach her, Mum snatches my shoulders, pulling me in for a breathless hug. ‘Where have you been? I was worried sick.’

  I turn my head in the embrace as Luis’ father pulls away from the curb. I watch the car until I can’t.

  ‘Who is that man?’ demands Mum. She pushes me out to arms’ length and searches my face.

  ‘That,’ I tell her, ‘is Armando Castillejo. His son was Luis Castillejo. Luis was sixteen when he died.’ I place a hand over my chest where I can feel the scar. I don’t feel afraid or ashamed of it anymore. It’s a reminder: Luis Castillejo lived. He laughed. He loved. And now I will live and laugh and love and that will be my thank you to Luis. ‘I’m pretty sure I have Luis Castillejo’s heart.’