Girl Running, Boy Falling

by Kate Gordon

  I laugh, despite myself, and gesture at the stereo. A different hip hop singer, called Illy, is singing a sad song about chasing memories.

  I press a button on my laptop and the music changes to a bouncy song by Drapht. ‘The sad stuff helped,’ I say. ‘But I need some happy music now. And I need my friends.’

  Fifteen minutes later, Melody pokes her head around my bedroom door. She sits down next to me.

  ‘Melody, I am so bloody—’ I begin. I will fix this now.

  ‘Shut up, Resey,’ she growls. ‘No talking. None of it matters, okay?’

  ‘But I’m—’

  ‘I said, shut up, or I’ll do some major kung fu on your butt, okay?’

  I nod and smile.

  Sometimes things fix themselves.

  ‘Now come here.’ Melody’s chin trembles. ‘Crap. I told myself I wasn’t going to cry.’

  ‘Cry,’ I say. ‘Cry all you want and talk all you want. I’m here. I’ll listen.’

  I wrap my best friend in my arms and then we sit together, rocking and crying, until we hear Peter’s voice. ‘Bloody hell.’

  Roz finds us, half an hour later, lying on my bedroom floor, bellies full of biscuits and cake, laughing over stories about Wally.

  She joins us and picks a footy biscuit up from the plate. ‘These are burned,’ she says. ‘Auntie Kath?’

  ‘She tried,’ I say.

  Roz shrugs. ‘I’m starving. I’ll give it a go. Hey, remember when we were making rocky road in home economics, and Wally burned the chocolate? It was all lumpy and weird, but he tried some and it tasted awesome so we ate it all anyway.’

  ‘Yes!’ Peter smacks his head. ‘I forgot about that. We were going to make it a “thing” and market it as “Wally Wonka’s Weirdly Wonderful Wocolate”.’

  ‘Wocolate! I remember wocolate!’ I cry. ‘Hey! We should make some wocolate!’

  And so we go to the kitchen and I find a block of Anvers Milk Fortunato. It’s Kath’s special, expensive treat, so usually, I leave it alone, but I think—in this case—I’m going to make an exception. Wocolate deserves to be made with quality ingredients. While I’m breaking the heavy block into smaller pieces, Peter gets a saucepan, and Melody and Roz find spoons and butter.

  ‘JC would love wocolate,’ Melody sighs, staring into the fridge with a giddy grin on her face.

  ‘You love her, don’t you?’ I ask.

  Melody nods. ‘It’s a beautiful misery.’

  ‘I thought feminists didn’t believe in love.’ Peter raises an eyebrow.

  ‘You have a fundamentally flawed conception of what feminism is,’ Melody says. ‘I’m very hopeful that Ella will help fix that. I’ve been talking to her a lot about intersectional feminism. She’s deeply interested in the work of Nnedi Okorafor—did you know that your girlfriend reads feminist sci-fi? But, going back to your theory about feminists rejecting love, actually, Gloria Steinem says that being in a relationship is being limitless, not limited. And, furthermore—’

  ‘All right! All right! Enough, Germaine Greer.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Melody says, darkly. ‘Don’t get me started on her.’

  Peter ignores her. ‘—Can we make some bloody wocolate already? Geez!’

  ‘But don’t you want to hear about—’

  ‘I loved Wally!’ I interrupt them, my eyes never leaving my fingertips. ‘And he loved me. He kissed me. That’s the secret memory he talked about.’

  My friends stop their bickering immediately. They drop their cooking tools and surround me; envelope me. And I cry until I feel emptied.

  ‘I knew he loved you,’ Peter says. ‘I always knew. He told me back in Grade Seven. He made me promise not to tell. He even wrote poems about you. They weren’t bad.’

  In that moment, I wish away years. I wish I could fly back to the past and know.

  But it’s not Peter’s fault. And there’s nothing either of us can say now, except, ‘I wish …’

  We say it at the same time. Neither of us finish the sentence because we both know what the end would be.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Melody says, in a choked, small voice. ‘I told you that you should wait …’

  ‘Never mind,’ I say, because it’s what Grandma T said when I was a little girl, whenever I got sad. And because it isn’t Melody’s fault, either. ‘Never mind.’

  And then, after a while of us hugging and crying and healing, I wipe my eyes. ‘Right, then. Wocolate.’

  When Auntie Kath comes in from a sculpture-material-finding expedition outside, the room is filled with smoke and the four of us are on the floor with chocolate on our chins.

  ‘Can I join you?’ Auntie Kath asks.

  ‘Of course!’ I say. ‘I used your chocolate, after all!’

  ‘I am not even close to being mad.’

  Auntie Kath slides down the floor. She sticks her finger into the pot of chocolate and boops me on the nose.

  I boop her back.

  A booping war begins between all of us.

  And I feel happy in that silly moment, with four of the people I love the most.

  Knowing that Wally is here with us still.

  And will always be.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Auntie Kath sits across from me, pretending to read an art magazine.

  I’m staring at the phone.

  My box is on the floor beside us. It’s empty and the contents are in Auntie Kath’s ‘Not Just Books’ shopper bag, ready to be sent on Tuesday. We always send my memories on a Tuesday.

  I wanted her to know that I was having a great life, too, while she had adventures.

  I could do all the things.

  Be all the things.

  And, I thought, if I told her about all that I did and all that I was, packaging it all up into a box, and then an envelope, she’d know I was worth coming home to.

  And now, she has finally come home. Only, not to me.

  Marrakech, Goa, Nepal, South Korea, Mongolia, Cuba, South Africa, Turkey, Norway, Finland, Iceland, Egypt, Peru, Scotland …

  These were all the places we sent my memories too. Every time she moved, we’d get an email, with the subject line, ‘Mailing Address’. And the only text in the email was the name of the place where she was living for the next little while; the place where we were to send my memories.

  California, Zimbabwe, Dublin, Minsk, Alberta, New Caledonia, Papua New Guinea, Denpasar, Mexico City, Prague ...

  And the next time we went to the post office, on Tuesday, we’d write that address on the front of the envelope.

  Finally, six months ago, the email said:

  5 Lily Avenue

  Ascot QLD 4007

  My dad’s address.

  She’d stopped.

  I don’t know if going to Queensland is her running in the right direction or the wrong one. In his letter, my dad only said that she was living with him and she’d like it very much if we could talk sometime. When I replied I didn’t mention her. I didn’t say I’d call. I just sent off my memories the next Tuesday to my dad’s address. And I put it out of my mind.

  And she never called me. And she never wrote.

  She waited for me to call her.

  Until the night of my performance when she rang Auntie Kath.

  She knew I wouldn’t be home.

  Auntie Kath reckons she’s nervous and that’s why she’s waiting for me to make the first move.

  I think she’s a coward.

  Auntie Kath is doing the crossword in her magazine. ‘Christina Booth,’ I hear her murmur. She still doesn’t look up. She knows that this is a decision I need to make.

  My fingers brush against the buttons. I know the number by heart. I know the brave thing to do—the tiger-like, hard thing to do—would be to dial it.

  But it’s been si
xteen years since I’ve heard her voice. And I don’t remember the sound of it.

  The first voice I remember is Auntie Kath’s.

  The first arms I remember holding me close, making me feel safe are Auntie Kath’s.

  The first walk on the beach, first story, first song, first holding-my-hand, first tickle, first joke—all of them are with Auntie Kath.

  My mother sat with her hand pressed against the glass for days until they let her hold me. She held me so tightly while tears coated her face.

  Then she got sick. They took her away from me, to her own room, where she fought the infection. For weeks she was in the hospital bed, just down the hallway from the nursery.

  She didn’t ask to see me again. Not once.

  ‘Always heading off in the wrong direction,’ Grandma T says.

  Every day that she didn’t go to see me, Auntie Kath did. She was the one who gave me my first bottle. She was the one who gave me my first bath. She was the one who changed nappies and stroked my little legs and kissed my downy head and held my hand when they gave me my first injections.

  My mum never even said goodbye.

  After she ran, my dad went to live with Auntie Kath. He tried to be a dad to me. But every time he looked at my face, he saw my mum and he couldn’t cope with the pain of it.

  And so it was just us two: Auntie Kath and me. And she loved me fiercely. She was the only mother I ever knew.

  And she wrote down all my stories.

  Tiger rolled for the first time today.

  Tiger will only eat banana.

  Tiger has gone up a clothes size—again! Cue another frantic grow-suit shop!

  Tiger poked out her tongue!

  Tiger used twenty nappies today!

  Tiger took her first step.

  She wrote it all down for the sister who left. She sent my life away in words. And her sister never replied.

  And she never called.

  Auntie Kath said that she couldn’t; that it would hurt her too much to speak to me. That it would make it real, what she’d done. That it would ruin her adventure. But now she is home. The adventure is over. Mum wants to talk but only if I run towards her.

  I look down at my box, the contents of it, in the shopper bag. And I think of Wally’s message—the photo and the note.

  And I think of the people that matter to me: Melody. Roz. Peter. Flo. Lexi. Grandma T. Granda Craig. Rhino.

  Wally.

  And Auntie Kath, who changed my nappies and cuddled me and fed me and clothed me and laughed with me and played with me and baked me burnt, football-shaped biscuits.

  ‘Luke Wagner,’ she murmurs. ‘And … Kit Hiller! Well, that’s an obvious one!’

  ‘I’m not going to call.’

  Auntie Kath looks up. She nods. ‘Okay,’ she says.

  She doesn’t ask why. She knows.

  ‘Auntie Kath?’

  ‘Tiger.’

  ‘I was thinking … Maybe we don’t need to send the stuff, any more. If that’s okay.’

  Again she nods. ‘I think that’s okay, Tiger.’

  ‘And … if it’s okay, I think I’m ready to have my session with Mrs Koetsveld. Could you set it up for me, please?’

  ‘Today?’

  I shake my head. ‘Soon. But not today.’

  Auntie Kath nods. ‘I’ll ring her this morning.’

  ‘What did you have planned for the rest of today?’ I ask.

  Auntie Kath gestures at her magazine. ‘Well … ring Megan. Finish the crossword. Try to bake some banana muffins with banana in them this time. Not much, really. Why? Did you have plans? Did you want to go and see your friends?’

  I shake my head. ‘I’ll see them soon. I was thinking ... you and me. You want to go on an adventure?’

  Auntie Kath inclines her head to one side. ‘Sure, Tiger,’ she says. ‘Where would you like to go?’

  ‘Anywhere,’ I reply. ‘As long as it’s with you.’

  Dear Wally,

  Can you see me still?

  I’ll keep writing to you.

  I want you to know I’m okay,

  And that I’ll always think

  You’re golden.

  I want you to see me down here,

  On the ground …

  Dancing.

  About the Author

  Kate Gordon grew up in a very booky house, with two librarian parents, in a small town by the sea in Tasmania. She spent her childhood searching for fossils at Fossil Bluff, wondering about the doctor who rode his horse off the cliff at Doctor’s Rocks, and eating the best chips in the world at the fish and chip shop at the wharf. She also spent much of her time dreaming about being a writer, and spent many a lunch hour walking around the playground reciting poetry. The other children thought she was a little bit odd. After studying performing arts and realising she was a terrible actor, Kate decided to give in to genetics and study to be a librarian herself. She never stopped writing and, in 2009, with the encouragement of a very nice man called Leigh (who is also her husband), she applied for and won a Varuna fellowship, which led to all sorts of lovely writer things happening.

  If you're affected by any of the issues discussed in

  Girl Running, Boy Falling, please contact:

  Lifeline Australia 13 11 14

  Beyondblue.org.au