No. It would pass. She just had to breathe from her diaphragm and count, and she wouldn’t explode, would eventually shrink back to normal size, the colours would reassemble inside their outlines, and she’d be able to reach the emergency Valium in her handbag. ‘The Heaviness’ and ‘The Melting Colours’ were more likely symptoms of a panic attack than psychosis. The less fear she showed them, the less power they would have over her. Aimi had explained that anxiety meant you were too much in contact with reality; psychosis occurred when you lost touch with it. Sidney had a checklist of symptoms that ‘weren’t psychosis and not to be afraid of’. But when the colours didn’t go back together and other things happened, that was psychosis, Aimi.
Stop! It’s OK. It’ll pass. Please, please stop. Breathe, don’t cry. Don’t excruciate.
Aimi had taught her to calm down by describing five things she could see, hear, or feel.
One. I can see a plane tree. It’s dying in the heat down on the street. There’s a dent in its trunk — perhaps the truck hit it. The leaves are shaped like the ones on the maple tree in the yard back home at Broken River Road, but they were the colour of blood, and the plane tree’s are tree-frog green.
Two. I can see the building across the road. A bank that looks more like a Gothic castle. Carved sandstone and marble, lancet windows. Four stories, maybe five — it’s hard to tell where one ends and the next begins. A gargoyle watches from the rooftop.
Three. I can hear one of the project managers on the phone to his wife. Did he say ‘Love the fuchsias’ or ‘Blood in mucous’? From his tone, someone in his family has cancer. Please don’t let it be their new baby.
Four. I can feel the little silver buckles on my shoes trying to bite my feet and —
Move your body. She stood and marched on the spot.
She couldn’t remember which number she was up to. I can see the top of Ros’s head. The roots of her burgundy hair are white. It’s almost time for her to waddle across to the coffee shop for her midmorning cappuccino and croissant.
Should have been you instead of the baby. She shoved the thought away as soon as she’d formed it.
She felt the eyes of the pod on her as she marched, but nobody said a word.
Eventually, Dee said, ‘Cup of tea?’
‘Spiffy,’ said Dave.
Queen Ros and Knave Myffy were in the tearoom holding court with middle management about their previous adventures editing cookbooks together. The queen laughed like a constipated hyena and the knave nodded enthusiastically.
Dee and Dave were choosing biscuits from a plate at the other end of the island bench. Arj was by himself at the table, eating a muffin over a newspaper, crumbs falling onto the headline: Failure of mental health services blamed for Collins Street tragedy.
Sidney’s hands shook as she made a cup of tea; the Valium hadn’t kicked in yet.
‘Coming for lunch?’ Dee said. ‘We’ve found this great Malaysian place that has terrific lunchtime specials, haven’t we, Dave?’
Dave nodded, his mouth full of biscuit.
Sidney remembered she hadn’t eaten breakfast, but said she wasn’t hungry.
‘You’re fading away,’ Dee said. ‘We’ll bring you something back.’ She proffered the biscuits to Sidney. ‘Chocky ones today. We must have been good.’
‘No thanks.’
Sidney glanced at Ros and her posse, and took her tea back to her desk.
‘WHAT DO you see when you look into the future?’ Aimi said.
Sidney gazed at the seascape painting, picturing Dean standing at the water’s edge. ‘I feel like I’m being drawn into the past.’
‘Last session, you were talking about having a baby? How does this fit in with that?’
‘I’ve remembered something,’ she blurted, ‘and I can’t stop thinking about it.’
‘A new memory? One that was previously forgotten or unknown?’
She rubbed her temple, confused by what Aimi meant.
‘Is it a good or bad memory?’
‘Both.’
Aimi did an understanding, vague frowny thing with her forehead. ‘Memory is very interesting. It’s like a file of experiences we’ve built up over a lifetime. Recording, saving, and also recalling information. Even in well people, sometimes information is saved inaccurately or not saved at all. It can fade or change over time and become distorted when it’s remembered.’
Aimi had a bug up her arse about memory retrieval. Sidney stifled a yawn.
‘Some patients,’ Aimi continued, ‘find it hard to draw on memories in a way that can be used as a source of experience. Some people tell me it feels like time has stopped. As though they’re in a vacuum. No pull from the future, and sometimes no push from the —’
‘The person in this memory is important.’ Sidney sat forward in her chair.
‘Would you like to talk about them?’
His name tingled on her tongue, but she dared not say it, in case Aimi told Christos. She was beginning to suspect they conspired together.
‘Is there anything else you’d like to talk about today?’ Aimi glanced at the train-station clock.
Consumer, that’s what they call us. Not person, or even client or patient. Sidney shook her head, not wanting to consume any more of Aimi’s precious time.
‘Sometimes a memory is not lost, it’s just hard to access,’ she said. ‘You might need a cue to get back to it. I know you like writing, so, for homework, I want you to write down everything you can think of about this memory. All that you remember about this person.’
THE BREAKFAST-RADIO host said, ‘“Do dogs eat carrots?” This is a text message here from Rod in Preston. “I don’t care what the carrot producers say, I won’t eat any vegetable starting with C.”’
‘Good morning, beautiful.’ Christos was at the kitchen bench, nudging the filter into the coffee machine. He pressed the button.
Sidney’s nausea returned as she sat at the table. She grasped the sides of her chair — a raft in a storm — steadying herself as the room rose and fell, and Christos frothed the milk. Hiss, whistle, gurgle.
The radio host said, ‘And what would John Lennon have said about that? But that’s not what we’re talking about. Today we are discussing the health benefits of carrots. Hello, Mick from Sandringham.’
‘Remember Susan Dey from The Partridge Family?’ said Mick.
‘Vaguely, Mick.’
‘She turned orange because she drank too much carrot juice.’
Christos poured skim milk into bowls of muesli and yoghurt with fresh strawberries.
A stride and a half and he was placing breakfast and coffee on the table, and kissing the top of her head. ‘You don’t look well,’ he said as he sat down and spooned muesli into his mouth. A dribble of milk caught in his stubble, which grew faster than he could shave it.
‘Still a bit queasy.’ She looked into her bowl, stomach clenching. Strawberry juice smeared the yoghurt.
Christos washed down his mouthful with a sip of coffee. ‘Couldn’t be morning sickness, could it?’
She frowned up at him. The grin on his face made his cheeks apples and his eyes closer together. The Cheshire Cat. We’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.
‘Should go to the doctor,’ he said.
‘I told you — it’s just a bug.’ She played with her food.
‘Must have caught it at the office.’
The news fanfare theme played on the radio, and the presenter reported that two more victims of the Collins Street tragedy had died.
‘Speaking of the doctor. I went and had some tests. Blood pressure’s up a bit.’
‘How much?’
‘Not much. Nothing to worry about.’
‘And everything else is OK?’
‘Said I should stop smoking.’
‘Maybe
you should.’ She spooned a sultana to the side of her bowl.
‘Occasional rollie after dinner’s not going to kill me.’ He shovelled more food into his mouth. ‘I mentioned we were trying again, and the doc said he’d like to see us together —’
‘Shh. I’m trying to listen to the news.’ She pushed her bowl aside, worrying it would slide off the table as the room tilted again.
‘You know I’ll take care of you, and everything. I always have,’ Christos said. ‘I love you, Sidney.’
Holding her bowl tightly, she stood up and waded through kitchen-tile waves to the sink.
The presenter wound up the 7.00 am news with the current temperature: twenty-eight degrees.
Aground, leaning safely against the dishwasher, Sidney glanced back at Christos. He sighed over his muesli like a disappointed parent.
ALL THAT I REMEMBER ABOUT DEAN COLA
The white sheet was soaked with blood.
I was embarrassed, horrified; I hadn’t been expecting it until next week. I tried to cover it with the blanket.
‘I don’t mind,’ you said, warm breeze ruffling your hair. ‘And it means you can’t get pregnant, right?’
I nodded against your chest; you had hair there. Above the rusty smell, I caught the scent of your skin: citrusy, fizzy — like Fruit Tingle lollies. Had you not been covered in my menstrual blood, I would have liked to have licked you all over to see if you tasted as good as you smelled. I was OK with human contact back then, and I slithered up your slippery body and made do with your mouth: milk, but not really — something lighter, sweeter. Words from a childhood story fluttered to mind: sweet, fresh butterfly milk. You were Fruit Tingles and butterfly milk.
‘For a minute I thought it was your first time,’ you said between kisses.
It was my first time, but I didn’t admit it, didn’t want you to think I was immature.
‘Looks like somebody was murdered here. Better go soon.’
I didn’t want to go; I wanted to stay there forever. Freeze that one pure perfect moment in time, ungainly as it was.
A starry night hung above my special place by the river back home, where we’d laid the sheet and blanket. Boats went by. I know that’s false, a twist of the mind — no boat, aside from my old rubber dinghy, had ever sailed that khaki-brown water. I turned my face and heard the low, dull beat of your heart against my ear.
Back in that one perfect moment, I imagined my future-self walking past, looking down from the riverbank, seeing us, captured there, at the water’s edge, always. How wild would it be to see your past-self looking back at you from an earlier time? Why did I have to ruin the present by thinking like that? About then, when it was still now.
My future-self started thinking (and dreaming) about you again when I came out of hospital this last time. Or maybe it was before that. Perhaps it was because of The Poem. I’m not sure.
We met at Jay Jays disco back home, New Year’s Eve 1988. I used to wear perfume oils from the health-food shop, and before going out I’d made up a blend of strawberry, vanilla, and sandalwood. I can see myself frowning at the cheval mirror in my bedroom, concerned that the dress my mother had made, my nail polish, and my shoes were three different shades of red. Of course, nobody at Jay Jays noticed. What were you wearing? Jeans and a grey shirt? I liked the way your rolled-up sleeves hugged your biceps. Or perhaps I’m making that up — filling in the spaces that are blank.
I think we kissed at midnight, we must have, but I can’t remember that kiss. At some point, I left Jay Jays with you to go for a walk, smiley-face pass-outs stamped on our hands. Perhaps I’d drunk too many West Coast Coolers and needed some fresh air. I slid an arm around your waist, a hand into your back pocket — I’d never done that to a boy before, and it made me feel grown up. A car drove past, a horn blasted, somebody shouted ‘Happy New Year!’, a big white bum hung out the passenger-side window. Why can I remember that vividly, but not the midnight kiss?
There had been a concert at the showgrounds, but it was over when we got there, the area deserted. Streamers and cans and bottles littered the ground. A hot north wind blew the dry grass flat and flung a white ribbon into the air. I leaned back on the stage and watched the ribbon dance against the stars. You told me I smelled like heaven. Another kiss. I remember that one. And that I loved you instantly.
I can’t recall going back to Jay Jays that night, or how I got home. But I remember lying in my bed; the leaves on the tree outside my window rustling, whispering, Dean Cola, Dean Cola, Dean Cola.
You had my number, but you didn’t call. I saw you again at Jay Jays, maybe two or three weeks later. I was dancing with another boy when you swaggered onto the floor. The song playing was ‘American Pie’ — I remember that clearly because I hated that song (I hope that wasn’t our song). You dragged me by the hand to the table you were sharing with friends. You pulled me roughly into your arms, glassy-eyed, swaying. Then you pushed me away and vomited on the floor. Two security staff grasped hold of your arms and marched you to the door. Your mates laughed as I followed. I walked with you up and down the street. I walked with you until you were sober / In the Hedera helix green and white are lines from The Poem, but there was no garden — no ivy, no greenery at all — out front of Jay Jays, just a footpath. Perhaps I’ve got this part wrong.
What happened next? There is a gap in my memory until some time after the puking-at-the-disco incident. A few weeks, maybe a couple of months, definitely the same year, your sister (she was in Year 11, a year older than I) bailed me up at the school lockers and warned me to stay away from you. Your mates didn’t like me, they were giving you a hard time, calling you a ‘cradle-snatcher’, and you couldn’t see me anymore. I nodded and shrugged, and told Shelley I didn’t care. After that confrontation, I walked coolly to the girls’ toilets, locked myself in a cubicle and cried all lunchtime.
You were the local football star. I have an image in my mind of you taking a speccy, or maybe that was a photo in the paper. Your face is coming back to me now: a one-sided smile, a chipped front tooth, Johnny Depp eyes.
I saw you drive by in the blue-and-green Cola Hardware pick-up truck one time while I was hanging out with my friends at the lake; I lowered my head and ignored you. I can’t recall our paths crossing again that year. Aside from the night at the river, when we were supposed to be at Sandro D’Angelo’s party.
AIMI GLANCED over her glasses a couple of times as she read ALL THAT I REMEMBER ABOUT DEAN COLA. Could she tell, just from looking at Sidney, that she was off her meds? The room shimmered and crackled with something like electricity. The current entered her body and messed with her heartbeat. Just excess adrenaline. The last of the drugs fighting and flighting out of her system. She tried to ignore it, focused on fiddling with a loose thread on her glove. Be a duck — paddle as madly as you like beneath but stay calm on the surface. Her mouth was dry, but she couldn’t remember how to swallow. Don’t let Aimi see. And don’t cry. She wanted some water, but her hands were shaking too much to pick up the tumbler on the side table. Her inner ear itched. Be a duck, be a duck, be a duck. She studied the seascape again. Grey sky, distant finger of land, ocean spray against rocks. Don’t cry, don’t cry. Don’t cry for Dean Cola, Dean Cola, Dean Cola.
Aimi finished the last page. ‘This is beautifully written, Sidney.’
Her heart reached for her throat, trying to choke her from the inside. Panic iced down the insides of her arms, but then exited through her fingertips, dispersing into the air like dust motes. She could see the colour of Aimi’s orange-blossom fragrance. Something rustled and shifted in her head, and she heard a whisper that wasn’t hers.
It was nonsensical — word salad — but she smiled because it was comforting. She remembered how to swallow, suddenly calm, no longer alone. She picked up the tumbler and drank.
‘I’m inte
rested in why you’ve chosen to write to the person, like a letter.’
Second-person narration is often used as a distancing device. A split or duality in the writer’s thought processes — a way of dissociating while simultaneously documenting. Aimi probably thought the language revealed upheaval, denial, or depression. Bet she’ll ask if I’m depressed.
‘Have you been feeling depressed?’
‘No.’ She didn’t tell Aimi that she’d written the first draft in third person, but the ‘she’ voice had disturbed her, so she’d changed it to ‘I’, and then typed a few more drafts before adding some second person. With each revision, something new had surfaced in her memory. The joy of the process — the forming, trimming, and refining of sentences, somewhat like the shaping of her bonsai — reminded her not that she was mad, but that she had once wanted to be a writer. Perhaps writers were inherently mad. Elmore Leonard said writing was a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia. ‘I just wanted to create an effect of emotional depth in retrospection.’ She wasn’t sure what she meant by that exactly, but it sounded clever, like something a book reviewer might say in one of the highbrow papers.
‘What you’ve written sounds good enough to be part of your novel.’
Was Aimi implying she’d made it up?
‘It’s interesting that you’ve suddenly remembered so much.’
She was! She folded her arms. ‘You said that sometimes memories aren’t lost, they’re just hard to access.’
‘Yes, but —’
‘I think writing was my cue to get back.’
All That I Remember About Dean Cola Page 5