He didn’t try calling again that night, but the next day when he did, after a broken sleep, Lyall sent his call to voicemail. For someone who was on his phone a lot, he found it damn easy to ignore him. He tried in the few hours before his flight to Mandalay, each one rejected. And then he was sealed inside the plane unable to reach the outside world. For the first time ever he didn’t want to go, afraid he’d tempted fate—that flying with loose ends on the ground was akin to advice people gave at weddings about not going to bed angry. He drank to dull his anxiety, stared out the window and wished Lyall were with him.
No messages came through when he landed. Navigating security and customs, he emerged into the sticky, smelly heat of Myanmar’s second biggest city, one he associated with cartoon elephants and human rights violations. It was only in the past few years that Myanmar had become open enough for him to consider visiting. Even so, he felt watched, unsafe and unprepared, which intensified when he looked at his phone and found the signal gone and the battery near dead. When he left the airport, humidity was the least of the things weighing him down.
He checked into a hotel not far from the airport, showered, charged his phone, and hovered over it like some junkie trying not to take his next hit all in one go. He didn’t have reception but he tried calling Lyall over Wi-Fi. No answer, and by then the humidity and the smell and the unease agitated calm’s tenuous hold off him. If Lyall didn’t want to answer, then that was fine. It was only one fucking dinner. Well, two if he counted the first one he’d had to cancel but that was because of work. How many of their plans had Lyall cancelled because his family needed him, or work had an emergency, or any other interruption which had been put ahead of him?
He marched out of the hotel to find something to eat, to see something, to experience something, to get his mind out of the monsoon lashing the inside of his head. It didn’t take long to get lost down narrow streets heaving with people and noise. He wanted to push them out of the way, but they were immovable, and he had to calm down or else he was likely to get into trouble he couldn’t get out of. He found somewhere that served food and beer, away from the din of the crowded streets.
A waiter showed him to a seat where he could watch the people pass and a fan blew cool air down his back. He ordered a mohinga—vermicelli, fish and fritters packed with fragrance—and a Myanmar Beer. He waved his hat in front of his face to cool down, took a swig of his beer, and dug into the food. Spices lit his tongue and flavour distracted him from his heart. His eyes closed and he relaxed back in the plastic chair.
‘Good, huh?’ An American Midwest twang shot across from two tables over.
Nick turned to the white guy, short brown hair, big across the shoulders, big mouth, a bit beautiful. He couldn’t speak, still swallowing, so he nodded.
‘Mind if I join you?’
Nick hesitated, but the American was already standing and walking over. A hand thrust over the table and in front of his face: a big hand, firm, straight. ‘I’m Max.’
Nick wiped his hands on a napkin and shook it. ‘Nick.’ He wasn’t in the mood to talk to a stranger, but it might keep him from drifting back to Lyall.
And the American was nice to look at.
‘Where’re you from?’
‘Australia.’
‘Ahhh, the Land Down Under,’ Max said in a terrible, terrible Australian accent. ‘Sorry.’ He laughed. ‘You been here long?’
‘Arrived a few hours ago.’ He continued eating. The chat might kill a few minutes but he wasn’t about to become best friends with the guy. He had things he had to do and then he’d be back on a plane and heading to Bangkok and then … He sighed and let his cutlery rest inside the bowl. No matter how good the food tasted, he wasn’t sure he had the energy to finish it.
‘Are you ok?’
‘Just tired from the flight,’ he lied. ‘How about yourself?’
‘The company I work for has an office here and I’m visiting for a while to make sure the money’s being spent properly, the work getting done. Found this place,’ he looked around the restaurant, ‘on my third night here and it’s been manna from heaven.’
Great. A religious freak.
‘What kind of work?’
‘The company’s in oil and gas. But the work I do is easy, plenty of other people here to do the big stuff, while I get to explore. It’s like the Wild West here. Only with better food.’
‘Sounds like a good gig.’
‘It is. How about you? What do you do?’
‘I’m a pilot.’ Guilty relief scoured the back of his throat at saying it without caring if the person opposite him was going to have a breakdown. ‘But I’m here on holiday for a few days. Going to Bagan tomorrow.’ He stirred the spoon in his soup.
‘Neat. Off to Mount Popa?’
He narrowed his eyes. ‘Yeah.’
‘That’s why all the tourists go. If you like I’d be happy to take you tomorrow.’
‘You only just met me.’
He shrugged. ‘Meeting people is about all I do, and considering you like this food as much as me, I figure that’s about all we need in common.’
The kindness of strangers?
‘Well, if you’re sure, that’d be awesome, thanks.’ He’d taken plenty of help from other travellers before, some safer than others, so why not the good-looking American?
Max stayed for a while longer, while Nick finished off his first then second helping of mohinga. And the longer they talked, the easier Nick found it. Max was a few years older than him at thirty-three, had lived in cities all around the world, was forthright and a little over-confident, but when there wasn’t much time for them to spend together they didn’t have the luxury of bashfulness. He also didn’t have a problem with Nick being gay. When Max asked if there was anyone back home, Nick said there was, that his name was Lyall and he was an electrician, then changed the subject. No point in overloading a stranger with his problems. They talked for an hour. Nick had a good time.
‘I’d better get back to work. Need to show my face for a bit, though it only seems to upset them,’ Max said as he got up.
That’s because they were all too dumbfounded by his good looks.
Nick gave him the name of his hotel and they arranged to meet at eight in the morning to get an early start for Mount Popa. He left soon after Max and returned to his room. Lyall hadn’t sent any messages. How could he still be angry enough to warrant this protracted silent treatment? Nick hadn’t done anything wrong. This was who he was. He liked to travel. And if Lyall couldn’t accept that, maybe it wasn’t going to work.
But thinking that made his head spin enough to want to hurl.
Or maybe it was food poisoning.
He had a restless night. Thoughts of what to do next with Lyall, of being frozen out, of not hearing from him tap-danced through his brain. How could he do this? How could he be so strong and hard when all Nick wanted was to see his face, to hear his voice, even if it was to be shouted at?
He was up much earlier than he needed to be, the lack of sleep trying to break him down further, his emotions pinging all over the place. No messages, no calls from Lyall. He’d soon be out of Wi-Fi range so he wrote one last message, saying he was heading to Mount Popa and wouldn’t be back until later that night but if he wasn’t going to talk to him, then perhaps it would be best if they left it after all. He wasn’t going to stop seeing the world. He was sorry he’d had to cancel plans, and he’d enjoyed what they had, but they were going to end up hurting each other. Calm words; but crickets the size of rats leaped in his stomach. His finger paused over Send.
Was he really about to break up via text?
He deleted it all.
Going to a monastery. Back in ten hours. Will call you when I get back. Please answer.
He almost added ‘I love you’. But if he wouldn’t break up via text, he wasn’t about to declare his love in the same way either. He sent it before he changed his mind. Lyall would probably be asleep back home. He set his
phone to airplane mode, checked one of the capsules with the ashes was in his backpack, and headed out to meet Max.
11
Lyall was awake when Nick’s message arrived; the nurses had woken him at five to take his blood pressure and temperature. It had only taken two minutes but he hadn’t managed to fall asleep afterwards. He shared a room with three other people in the short stay unit. One snored. Another moaned. Even with the bodies around him, he was more alone than ever while Nick was unreachable.
He’d forbidden Rosie from telling Nick where he was or answering any of his calls—once they’d found his phone from where he’d thrown it during the accident. The screen had cracked, the edges scuffed, but the missed calls and unread messages were still visible. With any luck, he could get home before Nick ever knew Lyall had been electrocuted.
He hadn’t meant to ignore Nick that long. He was still riled the morning after their fight and had been distracted, making a mistake a one-day apprentice wouldn’t have made. What electrician forgot to isolate and tag out the circuit? He’d not wanted to go to hospital—who did?—but it was hard to refuse while unconscious.
When he’d come to, Grace was the first person he’d seen, perched on the edge of the chair beside his hospital bed, her lips moving silently as she twisted her wedding ring about her finger. He’d seen that anguish before. It had crept in after Bryce had died, grown when Rosie quietly announced she had cancer, and, thanks to him, had erupted into a full-blown neurosis. If Chris so much as cut his finger, she’d probably have a breakdown.
And all because of his bloody fear of flying.
That realisation woke with him and cosied up to the guilt Grace dumped onto him before she left. Sure, he’d been hurt that Nick wasn’t coming for dinner, but it didn’t really matter, not when his greatest fear was that Nick wouldn’t return. That’s why he’d gotten so angry. Like a thunderbolt from the sky—or a shock from a live wire—he became aware of how insane he was being. And then, just for good measure, he’d been thrown into hospital.
He shifted uncomfortably out of bed, bruises all over his body, skin scraped off his back, and a bump on his head sending flares of pain when he moved. But the urge to pee forced him to shuffle his bare feet across the cold floor, careful not to disturb anyone with worse problems.
He was fine, but he couldn’t leave without seeing a doctor and they wouldn’t be around for another few hours.
So he had time to beat himself up and make the bruises on the outside jealous.
Was he really letting Nick go because he couldn’t get his shit together?
He reached the bathroom, relieved his full bladder, and returned to bed.
Of course the answer was no. But just because he wanted it to be different didn’t mean it could. Therapy seemed too hard, too painful. He’d always had a good reason not to do it. He didn’t need to fly and by staying on the ground, he ensured nothing would happen to him and wreck the family.
Problem was—as the day before had made abundantly clear—he worked in a high-risk industry and his chances of dying were probably greater than Nick’s.
It should be a no-brainer. But he was terrified to even imagine himself in a plane, an experience pieced together from movies and that one time he’d been drugged enough to get on one. What did he really know about it?
Hours passed while he researched his phobia, how to treat it, wondering if it would be possible—maybe not to eradicate but to manage. If he didn’t, then he’d never be able to stay with Nick. Already, he had to keep his mind focused as nausea simmered in his gut. He couldn’t think about Nick being a million miles away and never seeing him again if something terrible—
If they stayed together, he’d end up back in hospital.
Flight simulators. One article suggested it as a possible strategy. It seemed extreme, and he might have to be medicated first, but it’d be something they could do together. Nick’s world had its own attraction too. Nick itched to tell him everything he did, and Lyall wanted that too, as long as it didn’t set off his anxiety. A quick search brought up a flight simulator south of the river and he booked two tickets for a couple of weeks’ time.
Non-refundable.
Simmer turned to boil, and bile charged up his throat. He collapsed back into the bed and swallowed hard to keep it down. He could do it. He huffed deep breaths and unwound. Getting better would keep him occupied while he underwent a massive pain-in-the-arse investigation by EnergySafety. He groaned. He had to get his story straight about what had happened, try to guess what the investigators would ask, what they’d want to implement, what training he’d have to redo to ensure compliance and hope they didn’t take away his ticket.
Flying looked preferable by comparison.
Grace came in at eleven, strangling her keys. Her hair was brushed and blow-dried, make-up immaculate. She wore clothes too formal for a Friday morning hospital run. If it hadn’t been for her thin lips, she could have been going for a job interview or a court appearance. Instead, she looked how she looked when everything was falling apart.
He’d done that.
‘Can you walk?’ No hello, no hug.
‘Good morning,’ he said as cheerily as he could. She couldn’t be allowed to get worse. ‘Did you sleep well?’
She glowered. ‘How do you think I slept? Now come on, the cost of parking here is atrocious.’
Small things. Small insignificant things she could control. Those things and him. He sighed, and she let that go. Despite her coldness, he came up beside her, forced his hand into hers and kissed her. She stiffened and twitched her neck like she wrestled her caring side into submission. They walked together down the hallway without speaking until they got to the car. She went to the driver’s side.
‘Mum, do you want me to drive?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve just gotten out of the hospital.’
‘Yeah, but you’re a little tightly wound at the moment.’
‘Wouldn’t you be if your son electrocuted himself?’ Hysteria almost broke her voice. What would home be like? How had Dad, Rosie and Chris weathered his accident?
‘I’m sorry for making you worry.’
‘Well,’ she said, not sure what to do with his openness. ‘That’s alright. That’s my job to worry. But I would like to know why Nick hasn’t called. Why isn’t he here? Surely it’s not too much to ask.’
‘He’s not here because he’s in Myanmar,’ he said, ‘and because I didn’t tell him.’
‘But you said you handled it.’
‘Yes, and that meant not telling him.’
She frowned. ‘Is everything alright?’
‘Perhaps we should get in the car. I’ll tell you on the drive.’
He ducked her concern and got in the passenger seat. She followed a moment after, perhaps contemplating if she really were fit to drive.
She started the car and they were a few minutes down the road before he told her about the argument and that the reason he landed in hospital was because he’d allowed himself to get distracted. He was wary of telling her that, sure she’d pin the blame on Nick, but she managed to hold her prejudice.
‘I’ll tell him later when he calls.’ If he calls. If he gets back.
‘Oh.’
‘What?’
‘I’m just … I worry about you, that’s all. Nick seems nice but is he the best … fit … for you, considering everything?’
‘Yes.’ That belief resonated deep within his heart, drawing on a reserve of strength that cut through the worry and hurt. ‘He’s who I want to be with.’
‘But he’s always away. How can you build a strong relationship with someone who’s not there?’
‘He’s not away all that much. I work more hours than him.’ He also didn’t tell her that he’d cancelled on Nick many more times than his few recent cancellations.
‘You do like Nick, don’t you?’ he asked.
‘We haven’t had the chance to get to know him yet.’
‘Who
’s we?’
‘You know, the family. He’s not been very big on meeting us. I thought we were going to see him tonight but—’
‘Something came up.’
‘Something more important?’
This was beginning to sound like the argument he’d had with Nick.
‘You’re being impossible.’ He glared out the window.
‘I’m not trying to start a fight. All I want is what’s best for you.’
‘Nick is what’s best for me.’
‘But you ended up in hospital.’
Mum-logic. ‘That wasn’t Nick’s fault, it was mine. All mine.’ All because he let his fear control him.
‘You used to be so careful with your work, but now you’re more anxious, your phobia is getting worse, and I don’t like seeing you in the bloody hospital!’ She almost screamed the last word.
‘Pull over, Mum.’
‘No, I’m fine.’
‘Pull the fuck over!’
His swearing was as good as a slap to get her to stop on the side of the road.
‘Listen, Mum. I’m the reason I got electrocuted. I allowed my worries over Nick flying to get the better of me and I was careless. But if you don’t believe that, then I’ll make sure Nick comes to dinner as soon as he’s back and then you can see—in case you weren’t already aware—how crazy I am about him and how good he is for me.’
She stared at the steering wheel, sniffing back her tears. He reached into the back, grimacing through the pain clawing his side, and pulled a clean tissue out of the box for her. She grabbed his hand and looked at him.
‘If anything happened to you, it’d just kill me, Lyall. I hope you know that.’
His heart carved in two with a rusty blade. He knew that. Known it since the first time she’d said it when he was a bewildered and grieving seven-year-old. Known it ever since they’d buried an empty coffin.
‘Nothing’s going to happen to me, Mum.’
But nothing good would happen either if he didn’t face his fear and work to save his relationship with Nick.
The Love Left Behind Page 8