Dex whoops and breaks into a high-stepping victory lap around the studio. ‘Holy coif, I’m gonna be a pop star. Promise I won’t go biting heads off bats or any of that trippy shit you read online.’
‘Where’s “holy coif” come from?’
‘I dunno. Can’t say “holy shit” around Mamma. It’s better than what she suggested. Holy Hail Mary?’
‘You get on with your ma?’
He blows a kiss out the window in the direction of the house. ‘She’s the love of my life.’
I ruffle his hair, grimace. ‘That’s not weird.’
‘Why? She washed my cuts and grazes. Cleaned my nose. She’s worked here all my life to feed me and make a home.’ His voice goes soft. ‘She was the first person to love me. I’m gonna write a song for her one day.’
We fist-bump again and a little of his excitement and hope spreads through the cleaned-up studio; it lifts me. I feel lighter inside than I’ve felt in a long time.
‘How much longer do I have to do this?’ Dex watches me from his position on the floor, flat on his back doing breathing exercises after his sit-ups. ‘I hate these things.’
‘To a count of twenty-five. As usual.’
Dex sighs. ‘I’ve been breathing and singing at the same time for years. I don’t want to sing opera.’
‘As I’ve said about fifty times now, breathing right is for every singer. I’m not explaining it again, okay?’ Dex falls silent to finish his exercises.
I’m being a shithead right now. But I’ve stayed dry for twenty days, partly to follow Doc’s rules, partly because it makes Astrid happy and since she found out The Truth, I’ll do just about anything to make her feel better. But memories still remain raw and in need of numbing. Using distraction, like the doc said, helps.
It’s not working today.
At least the doc’s keeping to his side of the bargain. Maybe he blames himself for keeping secrets rather than me for letting them out.
My phone pings with a message from Harper, but I’m not in the mood for catching up. Instead I check for texts from Astrid. She’s late today.
‘Okay next exercise, Super Boy.’ I throw over a hardback book. Dex catches it then lines up with the mirror at the end of the room, and balances it on his head. He takes a few steps and the book slides off.
‘My soul repels books. Even ones balanced on my head.’
‘Shoulders are hunched,’ I say.
He tries again. It falls again.
‘I know, I know,’ he says. ‘Head level, knees loose, torso relaxed. Just like surfing.’
Dex may have the voice of an angel, but he’s no surfer. Two Sundays ago he turned up unannounced as I was about to hit the waves. He had the whole afternoon free, so I offered to teach him to surf before we sang. He looked like a monkey on speed trying to stand still. The boys would’ve had a good laugh. But he did some of his voice exercises on the board and sang pop songs. It was kinda stupid, but fun. So we did it again the next week.
When he makes it to the mirror now, I tell him to repeat the book balance walk four more times. Dex is working hard with me and Astrid in the afternoons. He might even be skiving off school so he can fit in cleaning and singing some days. Last week I convinced Astrid to let us record some of the stuff she’s written. She reckons her songs only sound good because Dex has a star-quality voice. That set Dex off and he’s started playing up to the image of what he thinks is a pop star; for instance, throwing away all the brown Smarties.
‘What’s this you giving me, girl?’ he shrieked one time. ‘Surely it’s not tap water because my throat won’t take anything less than the magical flowing spring water of Mount Everest.’ And with a flourish he threw open his hand revealing a pool of blue flames.
I check my phone. Nothing from Astrid.
She’s told me the bare minimum about how her mother walked out on them, and that nodules stopped her singing and she couldn’t hack it. Instead Astrid’s crawled into herself and an invisible mist of gloom surrounds her. Funny how I miss her, even though she’s here every day. I miss how she looks at me as if she can see through all my bullshit and still likes what’s left.
For the millionth time I re-live our kiss in London. Which must mean I’m over Harper. I still miss Harper, and of course I still love her. Won’t I always? But I don’t visit our shared memory bank as much as I used to. When I do, the memory doesn’t feel like another drumstick spiking my heart.
Doc teaches at the Con in the afternoons, leaving Astrid to complete her homeschooling. But maybe today he’s busted Astrid for sneaking out. I text her a vague: you ok? My phone dings almost immediately, but it’s just Mum: Won’t be home until ten. Eat with Maria. She knows Maria leaves at seven. I’ve eaten dinner alone most weeknights since I was ten, except when I ate it with the Hunters next door.
Dex moves on to the lip roll, his hands either side of his mouth to hold up the weight of his cheeks. He blows out air through loose lips then walks around making mmmm and brrrrr sounds. I’m pleased with how much he’s working to take this seriously. When we first started the exercise he couldn’t do it for cracking up. But when I showed him how it opens up his upper range and makes his notes sound sweeter, he buckled down.
I straddle a dining chair, the only one in the room. Mad Dog extracted it from his garage. He brought it for Callum who liked to perch on it backwards, his legs spread either side of the backrest, notebook on the back slat. He’d rock on the legs, lost in his own world of music. It was how he found his muse.
Someone took down Skittles’s Instagram page. His last post was a video of him singing. Somehow, he’d gained followers, unlike Mad Dog, who’s down to 899.
While I rock back and forth on the chair, Dex sings ‘Stand By Me’ replacing the words with mmmm and brrrrr. The repetitive sound starts grating on my nerves. I make a beeline for the fridge but a man can only drink so much juice. I massage my brow and fall into the Lego sofa, sitting on my iPad. Pulling it free, the news feed tells me our tap water might be infected with E.coli. Thousands could die. And a passenger aircraft crashed in Indonesia. 324 dead.
A beer would taste so good right now.
Last night the ghosts of Purple Daze haunted my dreams again. It would be easy to raid Dad’s drink cabinet at 2 am, but I don’t because of Astrid. And because of Dex, who looks up to me. And because I have a gut feeling that if I don’t want to fail at life, I have to fight the demons without the grog.
The problem is, on some days like today, the demons are winning.
Dex finally finishes his warm-up exercises and stops beside the piano, expectant.
I rouse myself and sit on the piano stool. We begin with scales using ooh, eeh, ah, aah applied to each scale. Then doh, ray, me. My cast’s off and I can play a little, but stick with my good hand for now. We need Astrid to take over. I make him practise his staccato and he sighs before singing short, tight notes. With each one he pulls at his white singlet.
‘Okay. Enough already. Can I sing now?’ he says, hands on hips.
‘What do you think you’ve been doing? Jogging? One more round on your own. I’ll be right back. Gotta do something.’
I head to the Jeep, not sure what I’ve got to do. I watch a taxi disappear and search the road for Astrid for several long minutes, like somehow this’ll make her arrive faster. I phone her, but it rings out, reminding me of the night I’d called five numbers and all five rang out. As I hang up, the front door opens and Maria appears. I wave but she falls back against the door, hunches, then crumples to the ground.
‘Maria.’ I run toward her. Her face is white and sweaty. She’s attempting to breathe in a controlled way; in through her nose, out through her mouth. I kneel beside her. She raises a hand to her chest.
‘What’s wrong? Do you need an ambulance?’ I ask.
‘I called them already.’ She hacks a sharp cough. ‘
I cannot find Dexter.’
‘I’ll find him.’ I stand. ‘But I don’t want to leave you.’
Maria winces. ‘Find my boy. Please, Jacob.’
When Dex reaches his mother he unzips her handbag and rummages inside it. ‘Where are your pills?’ he asks. ‘It’s the angina, yes?’
‘I already took them.’ Maria gasps for a breath. ‘Not helping. The whole world is sitting on my chest.’
Dex helps her straighten her legs, which are curled awkwardly beside her. ‘When did you take them?’
‘Trenta.’
‘Jacob,’ he says, without taking his focus off his mother. ‘Can you get come pillows? Come, Mamma. Let’s lie you down.’
I dart inside to fetch some cushions from the lounge and when I come out, Dex has his mother’s head on his lap.
‘Put them under her knees. To raise them,’ Dex tells me. I’m impressed at how calm he is. ‘Keep trying to breathe slowly, Mamma. Why did you wait thirty minutes to call the ambulance?’
Maria doesn’t answer but shuts her eyes. Her hand seeks out her son’s and he grips it hard.
Tears brimming, he whispers, ‘It’ll be alright, Mamma. Relax. I got you.’
24
Astrid
When I arrive at Jacob’s he’s sitting on the front porch steps. He’s at my open window before I turn off the engine.
‘Everything okay?’ he asks. His expression is creased with worry.
‘Sorry I’m late. I was at an appointment with the laryngologist.’ Every muscle in my face holds onto a smile. I look away.
‘What did they say?’ Jacob opens my door. I climb out, keeping the car door between us, always careful not to accidentally touch. Although I itch to break every rule Maestro ever uttered, it’s simpler to keep things platonic with Jacob. Everything is too messed up and jumbled in my life to open up another can of worms. Besides, because of the Harper question mark, why would I expose myself to more agonising, more confusion?
‘My head voice is still restricted,’ I answer. I keep my talking voice soft, ensuring I use my middle voice and mask resonance when I speak like Maestro said to do – to protect my throat. ‘And my pitch isn’t consistent. Apparently, it’ll take time for the inflammation to reduce, but there are no structural issues.’ I don’t want to talk about it though; it makes the fact my voice is lost too real, and fills my already full head with chimes of fear. ‘I’m sorry if I worried you. I left my phone at home.’
‘Dex had to go. His mum needed an ambulance. It might be a heart attack.’
‘That’s awful. Is she going to be okay?’
‘Don’t know yet. It was scary. I found her. But you should’ve seen Dex. He knew exactly what to do. Cool as a cucumber. They left like twenty minutes ago.’ Jacob stabs at his phone to check for messages, then adds, ‘So no singing practise today.’
‘Let’s go for a drive instead,’ I say. ‘I’ll tell you about the new song I’ve written for Dex. It’s the one we should record.’ Jacob agrees and walks round the front of my car. ‘The song’s called “A Forgettable Life”.’ I started writing it after seeing the phrase on Jacob’s cast.
Jacob stops at the passenger door. He says something with his eyes. You saw what I wrote. Only there’s something more intimate there. The idea of being in a small space together suddenly doesn’t seem like such a great idea. To delay getting into the car, I add, ‘It’s good and catchy, and suits Dex. I’ve learnt where his sweet spots are.’
Dex is my lifeline these days – a way to make a songwriting career happen. He’s also the buffer between me and Jacob when we’re in the studio. In this instance, three is not a crowd.
‘What are the lyrics about?’ asks Jacob.
‘About being broken.’ I stare up into the surrounding jacaranda trees. ‘And lost in a forgettable life. But then finding the strength through love to rise up stronger than ever.’
‘Tell me all about it while we walk on the beach. Let’s go.’ Jacob’s cheeriness sounds fake and I wonder if the lyrics have hit a raw nerve for him. He opens the door but doesn’t get in. Instead he says, ‘You’ve let your hair go curly.’ It’s a simple observation, but behind it I can see he still, like me, re-lives that kiss in London.
My phone dings with a text from Maestro, checking up on me from the Con. I ignore it. Jacob gets into the car. I settle in next to him, turn over the engine. It’s like the car’s too small to fit all of our unspoken thoughts and feelings. We sit in silence as I drive. The engine hums, the indicator clicks. Through the window, bruised clouds crowd the setting sun. The horizon frays.
‘I haven’t touched a drink in three weeks,’ says Jacob. ‘I know I scared you before. That it’s important to you that I don’t drink.’
‘And the studio is always tidy. You’re doing better than me.’
He looks at me like he wants to hug me. I want to hook his hair behind his ears, but resist the temptation.
‘I was thinking about what the doc said about getting a job,’ he says. ‘Skittles saved a load of cash. Maybe I can. And maybe I can get a grant for the Con.’
‘But you’re busy with Maestro in the mornings and Dex in the afternoons now.’ I’m surprised how the thought of not having our afternoons together stings. Or is it that this is my way into a songwriting career? A way of getting away from Maestro.
‘S’pose. The Con isn’t far away. I’ll get a job afterwards. Dex is making me see I’m a lazy rich kid. I thought I wasn’t, because I worked hard at my music. But the truth is it’s easy to stay as I am. I need to leave home, but it’s impossible to grasp what’s out there – if I’ll survive on my own.’
‘Don’t do anything rash. Maestro’s not always right.’ He made the wrong choice by lying to me for all these years. And something about the way he turned away to look out the window, the way he was silent for a little too long when I asked what the other reasons were for his lie about Mum dying, suggests I still can’t trust him.
Minute by minute, the dim evening swallows the day. A giant drop of rain splats on the windscreen, followed by another, and another. I pull over and turn off the engine. It’s going to pour so we won’t be able to walk on the beach.
Jacob’s staring at me. ‘What’s happening with your father?’
‘I don’t want to talk about him.’ I forget to use my middle voice. I’m still not ready to tell Jacob that Maestro isn’t my father.
Every day I tell myself I just have to be civil with Maestro for one more day, but I’m kidding myself – it’s not like I have any other family to live with. I’m trapped more than ever.
‘I’ve been considering writing to my grandparents. They’re the only blood relatives I have. But I guess it’s not like I can go live with them.’
‘No. S’pose not.’
Pellets of rain drum on the windscreen. Thick rivulets of water run down my window. I feel numb and sad, a lifeless doll version of myself. I remember the times Maestro bandaged me up after I tried to join Mum in heaven. But she wasn’t even in heaven back then. All the hours of his own life he wasted playing at being my dad: the nappies, the fight to make me eat my vegetables, the times I was sick, the homework, the clothes shopping, the haircuts. What sort of man brings up another man’s child? Probably a good one. But I resent him. He’s made me live a lie.
I think of Dex and his single mum. Except Dex is Maria’s blood.
Jacob pulls out his phone, jabs at the screen. A piano intro gusts into the car before Adele’s words sweep up the silence. I cross my arms and listen, needing the music to soothe me. To ground me. But not even Adele can unearth an emotion from me. It’s like I’m no longer me anymore. Instead I’m watching myself, the doll version left behind in my place, sitting in a car next to Jacob.
Adele’s lyrics are bittersweet. I wonder if Jacob chose them on purpose because they’re about being unable to make someone l
ove back. Except I do love Jacob. I think. Maybe I’m confusing love with need. I have no one but Jacob. Maestro was everything. And now he’s – I don’t know what he is to me now.
The rain eases and Jacob lowers the volume, brushes his fingertips over my arm. I feel myself slip into my body again.
‘Are you angry with your mum?’ he asks, soft. I flinch as though he shouted the words. ‘It’s okay if you are. Reckon I would be.’
My lips wobble. ‘I don’t even know if her parents threw her out, after what Tom said. Who’s lying? Maestro or Mum?’ Maybe that’s what Maestro is still keeping from me.
We listen to Adele’s closing phrases. The windows have steamed up so it’s like we’re inside a white tent.
‘I’m not feeling sorry for myself,’ I finally say, talking to my fingers in my lap. ‘Sure, it hurts that she left me. And the truth about who she was hurts. Maestro’s filled in the gaps. She was selfish and egotistical, one-tracked. She chased pleasure and fun and hated responsibility and commitments. But I’m more confused than anything. That was her. It’s not me. I suppose that’s it – I don’t know who I am because I’ve been trying to be her all my life. I know I wanted to become a singer too, but I partly did it because it seemed to help Maestro get over his grief – except she wasn’t even dead. I’m angry because of that and because thanks to her and Maestro, my past is not what I thought. And to top it all, my future is – uncertain. I want to leave home, but I have no money. I don’t know how.
‘And there are no words to describe how it feels to have my past blanked out, forcing me to re-write every moment in my history while not knowing if my memory is even right. That’s why I’m going around in circles.’ That’s why no matter where I am – in a room, a car or outside – I feel like I’m drowning in too much emptiness, yet at the same time, the space is too small.
I whisper, ‘I only know who I am not.’
‘I know who you are. You’re Astrid Bell. A talented and gorgeous songwriter and soprano. Yes, your voice will end up okay. You’re loyal, disciplined and hardworking. You love to help others. You’re responsible. Your one downside is you’re not quite as talented as me.’
The Astrid Notes Page 16