“I’m … you know, Lachlan’s brother, Johnny, he has this so tough. You know both their parents are dead, right? And he’s … he’s—” I rub my hand on her back as she hiccoughs down a sob. She presses her forefinger and thumb together as she whooshes out a breath. “I’m fine. He’s a really strong person, and he’s got it so much worse than I do.”
“You’re allowed to be sad, Kate,” I whisper. “Just because you think he has some worse scenario—it doesn’t mean your life isn’t pretty average, too. For what it’s worth though … I’m so sorry.” And I am. But I know that when it comes to death, sorry doesn’t mean shit.
“It’s … you don’t have to say that.” She pulls her legs from my grasp, but they graze my ribs, and I hiss in a sharp breath, clutching at them again.
“Stace, what’s going on?” Kate narrows her eyes.
I press my lips together. I still haven’t told her. She’s had so much on her plate, I didn’t feel right unloading—about any of it.
“Well, um, a few things have gone on.” I nod, keeping my eyes fixed firmly on the bright green grass outside of her house. Seriously, that shit looks like it’s on steroids. “The most recent being, I chased after Michael to confess my love to him, and I got hit by a car and fractured my ribs.”
“Stacey!” Kate launches herself at me this time, and I inhale sharply as she touches my ribs. They’re still a little tender. “Sorry! Sorry, ribs, sorry.” She flies back, hands in the air, and I have to laugh at the fact that my best friend, whose lover died, who could be facing death herself, is apologising to me.
Only, of course laughing hurts.
Damn it!
“It’s … Kate, compared to what you’re going through, it’s nothing,” I choke out.
Kate giggles, and she grabs my hand and squeezes it. “Whoever thought we’d be in a ‘Whose life is shittier’ contest, right?”
“I know. Do you feel like a Mack Truck ran you over and then reversed for good measure?” I try for a smile.
I earn one. “Like I got pushed off a cliff and then eaten by a whale.”
This time, I grin. “Like you got frozen to death, only to have someone set fire to your ice cube?”
Kate giggles, but it peters out into nothingness as she sighs. “It’s hard, you know?” She stares into the distance. “Losing someone like that … missing them, it’s … it’s really hard.” She presses her lips together and a tear snakes from her eye. I pull her legs back up and rub her feet, run my hands over her ankles, giving them a soft massage. “I know it must be hard for you with Michael, too.”
“Light years apart,” I whisper. I know what I’m going through has nothing on her.
“How are you feeling about your results?” I ask. It’s four days before my best friend finds out if she’s inherited Huntington’s disease; if she’ll turn out like her father.
Kate closes her eyes, and for a second I worry that she’s going to cry.
“I don’t think I’m where I was before,” she says. I lean in closer to catch her words. “I used to … I used to think it was definitely going to be positive for Huntington’s. But weirdly enough, since Lachlan … well, you know … For some reason, now I’m thinking it could go either way. It could even be …” She shrugs. “… negative.”
“Of course it could.” I smile, and I know what she means. Sometimes, it’s how humans work. We believe the worst could happen, because when so much bad stuff is going on all around us, why the hell wouldn’t it? Why should we be the lucky ones?
A single tear creeps from the corner of Kate’s eye and she bats it away with her left hand, shaking her head. “Now, tell me about this Michael business. So …”
I bite my lip. Do I tell her about the pregnancy thing?
I look around the lounge room, at the tissues still screwed up next to the tissue box, the purple smudges still very much under her eyes.
It can wait.
“I just … I won’t bore you with the details, but I screwed up. I really liked him, but guess—no, I know I didn’t show it,” I correct myself. “And now he’s all going to be a rock star, or something.”
“Coal?” Kate asks, and I nod. If she’s reading the news, she must be better than I’d thought.
“So have you tried to talk to him?” Kate asks, tilting her head.
“Yep. Well, I sent him a message. He didn’t reply.”
“Maybe he’d rather say it in person.” She shrugs.
I snort. “Yeah, like when? When he comes home next Christmas? Or if I run into him at some party? I’ll be there, maybe having landed a gig handing out snacks, and he’ll be the rock star coming in to launch the new product, getting paid the big bucks.”
Kate shakes her head, and swats me on the arm. “You’re not going to be handing out snacks at a party.” She settles back into her seat. “Besides, isn’t this the year of Stacey? Aren’t you just going to take it easy and party?”
Hearing my own words from thrown back at me makes me grimace. Ugh. I’m so far from that person right now. Come to think of it, I don’t know that I ever was her.
“No. I have a job working at a pet psychic.”
“Ha!” Kate doubles over, mirth escaping from her lips. “You’re … you’re what?” She screws up her nose as she laughs. It makes me smile. I love seeing her happy.
“Yeah, I know. It’s a thing. Pet psychics.” I nod.
“Oh my goodness, Stacey! Only you …” She trails off, and looks at the ceiling. “Wait, you’re not tricking people and giving them readings, are you?”
“I’m not evil,” I say, thinking of poor old Mrs McIntyre. “I mainly just take bookings and make sales. I would never tell someone something I didn’t believe was true.”
Fact.
“So is this you now? You’re a pet psychic booker?” she asks.
I think about it. I think about reassuring Mrs McIntyre that time. About studying the pet psychic tome. About meditating, and taking control of my life. About falling, and trusting someone would catch me.
I smile. It’s a bigger than Ben Hur number.
“Actually, I think I want to enrol to study drama teaching.”
LATER THAT night, when I’m lying awake in bed, I send Michael another message. I know he hasn’t replied to my last one, and this may make me look desperate, but I decide I don’t care.
Me: So, I hear you’re about to be a big famous rock star, or something :) That’s awesome. I’m so happy for you. I know you’re going to be good at that, and you deserve it. You’re a good person, M. The best.
I have some news, too. I’ve applied for a mid-year intake to get into TAFE. I’m doing a bridging course, so I can hopefully get high enough marks to study teaching next year. I want to be a drama teacher. I’ve even paid for a ten-pack of classes in that acting school you took me to.
What’s weirder? I’m actually I little bit excited about it. And Amon even said he’d be excited to have me back. You better watch out. I could replace you as favourite.
It’s made me think … I don’t think I was ready to become a mother. You already know that, right? It wouldn’t surprise me. You’re freaking smart sometimes.
But I … I don’t know that I did.
Well, now I do.
Hope your life is awesome.
I hit send. For weeks, I’ve been writing letters to people who can’t reply; who won’t reply.
This time, it’s only one hundred and fifteen words. But damn, they feel weighty.
February 5
I WAKE to the sound of a drill-saw attempting to channel through a concrete pylon right next to my head.
“Ughhh,” I groan. I reach my hand out and slam something in front of me, presumably the drill-saw, most likely the clock radio. Regardless, the action made the noise stop, thank hell.
Hell. While the blast of noise had stopped, there was still a ringing in my head of dizzy-making proportions. Not to mention that my tongue tastes like I’ve been eating road kill. Yuck.
> Harsh yellow light screams through a window framed by black, floral curtains. What fresh hell is this? Who has opened my—
Shit.
I don’t have black, floral curtains.
Wait.
Again?
I shoot upright in bed, my heart slamming against my ribs and—
“Surprise!” Mum squeals. I grasp my chest, clutching at it as my heart does triple somersaults worthy of an Olympics gymnast.
“Wh … what?” I’m breathless all of sudden.
“Well, we thought since our youngest daughter has enrolled to do a bridging course, it was time she had an update to her room.” Mum’s hands give tiny claps of excitement.
“You got in late last night, and we tried to show you, but you were a little like a zombie.” Dad purses his lips.
“Oh yeah.” My mind flashes back to last night. I’d stayed up late again with Kate, printing out programs for the guests at Lachlan’s showing tonight. When I got home, I’d popped some pain meds and passed out on the couch. I guess at some point I must have seen Mum and Dad and they helped me up to my room, which I now did not recognise.
Instead of the chipped yellow-paint desk, there is a shiny new black Laminex one. My school books have been lined up neatly in one corner, a matching pencil tin acting as the book holder. The tacky stickers have been scraped from the ceiling, and Mum’s old exercise bike has finally been moved out of my room, and in its place a long cabinet fronted by a mirror.
“You can put your jewellery inside it.” Mum rushes over to demonstrate, opening the cabinet door and showing me all the little slots and hidey holes.
Even my quilt cover has changed. Gone is the hot pink print, and in its place is a plain grey surface. Simple. Elegant. Not ridiculous.
And then, the piece de resistance, the pop of colour in my monochrome style, the black and white floral curtains. Granted, perhaps it was a little unfortunate choice, but they worked, nonetheless.
“Mum … Dad …” Mum clasps her hands together, her eyes bugging out of her head. Dad raises his lips in a half-smile. They look genuinely happy and I’m so very grateful to them in that moment. “Thank you,” I say in a very small voice. What they’ve done … what it means is just … I swallow a lump in my throat. Tears well in Mum’s eyes, and Dad has his lips pressed together.
“You know I won’t live here forever though, right?” I try and break the tension.
“And?” Dad tilts his head. His spectacles slide down his nose.
“And so it’s a lot of work for someone who might leave this town to go to uni,” I say, my arm sweeping the room.
“Stacey ...” Mum pauses. “I know it seems like we’re not there for you a lot. We were so lucky to have kids who were so … I guess so self-sufficient, and I …” Mum’s lower lip trembles. “I think I forgot how to be a mum.”
I press my lips together. The sight of one of your own parents crying is heartbreaking to say the least.
“Anyway, I know you can’t erase some of the things we’ve done overnight. But … we’re going to try so much harder.” She launched herself at me and gripped my hand, pressing her fingers into my palm. “We’re going to try.”
Big, fat tears welled in my own eyes and I struggled to keep them at bay. “You know I”—sniff—“love you guys, right?”
“We love you too, Stacey.” Dad walked over and rubbed his hand against my back. “We love you too.”
Dear Small Human,
I’m sorry. I know I’ve said it before, but I need to say it again.
I’m sorry for recklessly running across a road, and ruining your life. I put my heart before yours.
God, it hurts. I used to read about people losing babies in the gossip magazines, and I’d wonder—man, writing this makes me feel like an idiot—I’d wonder how come they’d get so depressed when their baby wasn’t even the size of a DVD case yet. How the hell could I have known?
How on earth could I have not?
I miss you. You know something weird? I’m still taking those folic acid supplements. I’m not even pregnant anymore, but it’s like I can’t give them up.
They’re all I have left of being your mum.
I’m going to be okay, though. I’m trying. I think I’ll study, become a drama teacher. After all, pretending is kind of my thing.
I miss you, but I know that one day—not tomorrow, not next month, and maybe not even next year—one day, it will stop aching.
I don’t think I’ll write to you again.
But thanks for listening.
Thanks for … Thanks for everything.
Mu Stacey xx
“KATE.” I throw open the door and fly across the room, enveloping my best friend in a huge hug, crushing her arms to her sides in the warm afternoon light.
“How are you?” Kate asks as I pull away, hiding my slight wince from the ribs. Damn, those skinny bones take ages to heal.
“You idiot.” I punch her gently on the arm. “How are you?”
“Fine,” Kate mumbles. She casts a sidelong look to the left and I see a guy there sorting through a box of prints. He looks nothing like Lachlan, from his blue eyes to his pale skin, but I know it must be his brother, because who else?
I launch my next attack on him, wrapping my arms around him as if we’re long lost cousins twice removed in some sort of a country hick movie. He blinks, but ends up patting an arm on my back gently.
“You must be Stacey.” His voice sounds quiet, but I think he’s smiling. Just a little.
“This sucks.” I pull back and look at him, straight in the eye. Because sometimes, “sorry” just doesn’t cut it. For a situation like he’s in, “sorry” seems like the cheapest word you can buy.
“Hell yeah.” Johnny gives a weak smile.
“I think this is a nice idea, though.” I turn and look at the art that’s already lining the walls. There are black and white sketches he’s pencilled out. Images of the beach, the street … lips … Kate’s lips? “He was such a talented bastard.”
“Stacey!” Kate’s jaw drops, and I shrug. I reckon Lachlan would have appreciated it.
“Hey, hey.”
That voice.
Michael.
I turn to see him swagger—yes, Michael, swagger—into the room. The white shirt he’s wearing fits close to his body, the black jeans giving it that slightly rock star look. His chocolate eyes are alive with enthusiasm.
Where the hell did my knees go?
“Michael.” Kate smiles and gives him a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks so much for stopping by to help.”
I give Kate some serious daggers in her back, which I’m sure Michael sees. Who cares? It’s not like he likes me. People who like you reply to your text messages.
“No worries.” Michael nods. “I think this is just such a nice—hey, man.” Michael sticks out his hand in front of Johnny who slowly takes it and gives a single pump.
Kate doesn’t let the moment last long, instead angling herself so she’s facing the two of us. Michael and me.
Oh, no. Surely she’s not going to …
“Okay, well, I need you two to go through the guest list and make a check sheet for the bouncers, then sort out a music playlist,” Kate says. “But Johnny and I need to concentrate, so I’ll need you in the backroom.” She gestures toward the little room at the back of the café.
“Do you think I’m an idiot?” I raise my eyebrows. What the hell is she trying to pull? I can’t be stuck in a small room with him.
“Nope.” Kate shakes her head, and lays her best puppy-dog eyes on me. Bitch. “I think you’re a good friend who’ll do what I ask in my time of need.”
Damn it! How the hell can I argue with that?
Michael does his usual energetic walk over to the room and I traipse behind, my feet sticking to the floor.
The back room of the café is as you would expect a back room to be. It’s full of boxes of stock, paperwork littered across a desk, and a heap of switches and other important
looking things flashing electronically in the corner. The deep scent of coffee washes over me. I wonder if you can get high from this stuff?
Thud.
I spin around. The door has slammed shut behind us.
Bitch.
“No coming out till your jobs are done,” Kate shouts through the door.
Double bitch!
I suck in a deep breath, and spot a sheet of paper with names down the side, crosses and ticks in a column next to it. “Okay, so I’m guessing this is the list …”
I pick it up and rifle around the items on the desk in search of a pen and piece of paper so we can create a new sheet for the bouncers. Honestly, why she didn’t she just print this out is beyond me …
“You know, you could at least talk to me,” I say. My eyes don’t leave the list of names in front of me. They can’t. “I’m sorry about everything. I’m … I’m making an effort, you know? I’m trying to change.”
Once more, I’m greeted by silence. If I hadn’t heard him speak to Kate and Johnny before, I’d swear the guy had turned mute.
What a freaking dick, anyway. Who ignores someone, someone you used to care about, when you’re locked in a tiny enclosed space together?
I slam the pen on the desk and spin around, my eyes flashing. Only to see … me.
Michael has done something fancy with his computer and what I’m guessing is a little projector, because a photo of me is blown up and projected onto the back of the white storeroom door.
In the photo I’m laughing, leaning forward, and even without the glory of high-definition and full colour, you can see my eyes are sparkling blue and that I really am … happy.
“Michael …” I look at him. He’s got this small, close-lipped smile on his face, and is leaning back against the counter his computer is resting on.
He presses a button on the computer and soft music starts to play in the background, the gentle strains of a guitar strung along in a nice, easy fashion.
“Stace, you have to know that I wasn’t mad about the baby,” Michael says in a voice that makes me step closer to hear him better. “I mean, sure, I wasn’t thrilled, but you know it’s more than that, right?”
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