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I sit on the edge of Miss Reed’s spare bed; it’s my third morning here. Today, I bury Dad next to Mum.
At the hospital, when it came time to view his body, to say goodbye, I couldn’t force myself to step into the room. I’m not sure if I’ll regret it or not. I’d rather my last memory was of him alive.
Miss Reed knocks at the door. “You ready?”
I don’t say anything. I’ll never be ready for this.
Mr Campbell and Miss Reed never push me to talk, never crowd me, but there’s always someone here checking in.
Miss Reed organised a grant from the government to cover Dad’s burial. I know people will be there, but I don’t know who or how many. I study the painting of the Buddha on Miss Reed’s wall, the purposeful peeling gold paint.
“It’s time to go?” I focus on the wallpaper, its intricate texture, a train-track pattern of eggshell white, only noticeable if you look closely.
Miss Reed sits next to me. She doesn’t say anything – she doesn’t have to. I know Dad’s body is on its way to the gravesite, and we need to be there before all the people arrive, before Dad. My core shivers; none of this feels real and I can’t bring myself to move.
We drive along Beach Highway. The sea’s flat; seagulls circle a boat – I count eleven, I wish there were thousands.
Mr Campbell turns off towards the cemetery. I count the trees along the passenger side, weeping willows like upturned umbrellas, thirty-six.
Like in a horror film, that moment before someone is stabbed and you know it’s about to happen. It’s horrific, but the worst is yet to come.
We stop next to the hearse; Miss Reed’s face says it all.
Out of the car, my focus firmly on the ground, we walk past the hearse, its fat, black, shiny tyres. I fixate on Bear, matching her prancing pace, blissfully unaware of who she’s lost, till the path ends and there are legs and feet, and the voices silence. The path is made of crushed white stones, and I want to count every single one till everyone leaves.
Black basketball boots – Marv. Gumboots – Jack. Steel caps – Ginge. Black suede heels – unidentified. And white Chucks – Libby is here.
I look up at her and she waves gently, mouths, Hey.
Everyone stares, all the same downcast, sombre faces.
Marv leans in for a hug. “So sorry, bro.”
Ginge squeezes my shoulder. “Thought we’d pay our respects.”
I have no words, the coffin right there, the dug hole, my legs jelly, my mind too, ready to pass out, I want to pass out.
Francesca wraps her arms around me in a warm, all-encompassing hug. I sink in, not because it feels right; it’s awkward, but I’ve got no energy to fight.
Francesca pulls away. And there’s Libby, right there.
She wraps her arms around me; we sink into each other, melded together. “I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks for coming.”
She smiles, then stands back with Francesca.
Miss Reed hangs close as the funeral dude takes his place. He makes a short speech. As they lower Dad in the hole, I dig the nails of my forefingers into the side of my thumb, the sting a relief. I swallow hard as the coffin hits the ground, then the dam breaks and tears roll down my cheeks. The funeral guy asks if anyone wants to say a few words; there’s silence, uncomfortable and testifying to Dad’s uselessness. I want to step forward and say something good about him, to let people know he wasn’t all bad, but my feet are frozen to the ground, my tongue stuck.
The funeral dude clears his throat and thanks everyone for coming. I pick up a handful of earth and throw it onto his coffin.
I have no one.
I wasn’t aware that everyone would meet at the tent after the funeral. I turn behind Miss Reed’s car to see Francesca and Marv following behind, in the same car.
“Do they have to come to the tent, too?”
“It’s going to be okay; there’s a wee thing that everyone’s pitched in for, you’ll see.”
It’s kind of them, but everyone, including Libby, will see where and how I’ve been living. Does Miss Reed know how crazy that is? Dad would hate it.
We pull up into the car park, where Dad would usually park, next to the toilet block. The Mitsi sits there, abandoned and lonely, full of beer bottles – all that’s left of Dad. The word Home is bombed on the wall.
“I can tell them to go if you want me to.”
But everyone has already parked and is out of their cars.
“It’s okay.” It’s really not okay.
On the grass, next to the toilet block, all of Dad’s empty bottles are gone. Fairy lights hang in the trees, and three picnic tables are laid out with tablecloths, plates of food and pitchers of lemonade with real lemon pieces. Mr Campbell loads things from a chilly bin onto the table. After everything I’ve done to him, he’s here helping me.
“Dylan,” Miss Reed whispers, “I can tell them to go.”
“It’s okay.” I swallow hard, blown away by their kindness, embarrassed they know this is how I live, in a toilet block.
Miss Reed opens the car door, nods, and we climb out.
Marv plays some music through his mini speaker, some chill beats that do a good job of brightening the mood. Mr Campbell passes me a plate. Everyone sits around the table, Libby opposite me. I know this is food from Francesca’s café, and Marv has brought the tables from the souvlaki hut. I can’t bring myself to eat as I look at each face, here to support me.
I can feel Libby watching me; everyone else is deep in conversation. I don’t look up. She glances towards the bathroom; the door’s open, revealing part of the tent. Yes, that’s where I live.
After everyone has eaten, Francesca and Libby pack the leftover food into the chilly bin. Libby carries it over to me. “For you – it should keep you going a while. Where should I put it?”
I know she’s nice. And it’s sweet, but now that she knows the true me, the person who lives in an abandoned public toilet, I’m exposed, inside out, naked, like she can see right through me. Where does she expect me to put the food?
I take it into the toilet block and stick it in the corner of the tent. As I turn, I see her face. She stands at the door, looks in. She can’t even step inside.
For a second, as I pass her on my way out the door, there’s this “who goes first” thing. She leans back into the side of the door rather than stepping out, and we’re face to face, jammed in the door. Electricity fires every cell.
“Oh, cool. So hey, um ... yeah ... okay,” she says.
Isn’t that how I’m supposed to feel?
“Err so, yeah, hey, um, well ...” she repeats, not moving. We’re both frozen. “We’re heading off, so I guess I’ll see you at graduation.” And she steps out from the doorway.
Since there are no more classes left, and seniors are officially on study leave, there’s no occasion to bring us together, no reason to be at school, no excuse to see her.
“Yeah, I guess.”
And there’s a look from her I can’t read. Our eyes do that held-connected look; I’m flooded with all the gushy feels for her, and it doesn’t feel finished between us, for me at least. Hell, things didn’t even get started.
Francesca joins us, breaking Libby’s gaze. Her attention drifts back to the toilet block.
“Bye.” Francesca gives me a giant hug, which is a tad awkward considering I know her the least out of everyone here.
“Thanks, both of you.” I look up at Libby. “For the food and for coming.”
Libby smiles briefly and heads to the car.
It takes me half an hour to convince Miss Reed that I’m okay to be alone, that I want – need – to be alone. After she checks that my phone has enough battery power and texts me to make sure I have her number, even though I’ve had it for years, she leaves.
Everyone is gone, apart from Miss Reed and Mr Campbell, who are camped out in their car just down the road. It’s cute how they think I don’t know. I can make out their headlights, which flick on and off every now and then to check what I’m doing.
I go through Dad’s box of stuff: clothes, dirty washing, his lighter and an empty packet of tobacco; that’s what his whole life amounted to. He’s been gone four days. In some ways, it feels like four seconds, in others it’s like he was never really here – he died when Mum did. I don’t know how long I’ll stay here; it’s my way to say goodbye. I’ve no clue where I’ll end up or how I’ll get there, but anything is better than here.
I spend the night thinking of ways to apologise to Mr Campbell. For so long I’ve been bombing about empathy, and it turns out I could show some. Before the sun rises, I bike to his shop.
Behind me is a massive blank advertising board in front of a construction site – the new arts wing. Part of SOFA dwarfs Mr Campbell’s art shop. I have an idea that hopefully will reek of me being sorry and show my thanks.
I drop my bag in front of the sign, take the pre-cut stencils and tape them in position. The spray fills in the gaps. I use black to overlay details of a bold, brightly coloured forest, the words Mr Campbell’s Art Supplies set in flowers. I’m pumped with how it’s turned out. I stand in his car park; the sign pops and it’s a shame about his shabby shop front. EVERYTHING MUST GO, CLOSING DOWN is written on cardboard and taped to the window. I’m going to bring the love back. I repeat the same bomb on his shop front window. It looks mint, eye-catching, like a new shop that an artist would want to enter. I hope he likes it, that he takes it for the apology it’s supposed to be.