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‘Shooot!’ Snap drawls the word as he drops his keys for the second time. I’m impressed by how much his diction has improved the last couple of weeks. If he didn’t get stuck on his vowels, he’d be rocking it.
He bends to retrieve his keys, then bites his lip in concentration as he tries to feed the key into the lock again. I retrieve a tissue and wipe my tender red nose. This would all be a hell of a lot easier if he’d just use his right hand, but he won’t. ‘Rehab says the more I uuuse left side, the better.’ I keep my mouth shut, fighting the instinct to help him. Let him be. If determination alone will get that door open, Snap will succeed.
Finally, the lock turns, and he pushes the door open. I bend to grab his carry case, but he whacks the back of my head.
‘Stop baaaybeeeing meee.’
‘Fine! You do it.’ I step back, more miffed at myself than him. Leave him be.
I’m glad I prepared the apartment before I brought him home — a good spring clean, the blinds are all up, there’s autumn sunshine. Even the little pot plant I bought for the kitchen bench has managed to hang onto its tiny white buds. They’re unfurling now, reminding me of the buds on his gran’s magnolia tree. Beginnings. At least I thought they were.
‘Niiice,’ Snap says, leaning his cane against the bench and taking a few stiff steps on his own, his left leg still a bit draggy. ‘I get it,’ he says. ‘Impatiens. Impatient patient.’
‘Sure,’ I say, wishing I really had thought of that. ‘I’ve scheduled some of your friends to drop by every couple of days. There’s a list on the bench so you know who’s coming when.’
I wait for his usual grumble about how he doesn’t want people fussing over him, but he surprises me. ‘Ta.’ He eases himself onto the couch and checks out his Zen garden. He may not have full control of his features, but I know a look of disgust when I see one.
I grimace. ‘Yeah, sorry about that. I did my best.’ I sneeze. ‘Sorry about that too.’
He leans forward and grasps the tiny rake with his good hand, sifting the sand to his liking. I sit opposite him, and a flashback of him slumping in his chair, his tea spilling in his lap, hits me. He sees my face, and his expression softens.
‘S’okaaay.’ The right side of his face is tense as he concentrates, the left looks saggy, like his brow might slide down and puddle onto his chin. ‘Yooou don’t have tooo staaay. Go home. Rest.’
It’s excruciating waiting for him to get his vowels out. I swing my legs over the arm of my easy chair, trying to look as if I’m settling in. ‘Don’t be silly. I’ve got nowhere to be a few hours. I’m on late shift.’
He shrugs. ‘Teee?’
‘Sure.’ I swing my legs back, ready to get up, but he waves me off.
‘Sit.’ He pushes himself off the couch. ‘Soooner I show I’m okaaay, soooner I get rid of yooou.’
‘A girl never felt so welcome.’
‘Poor pet. Can’t blaaame meee for missing your cruuuise this time.’
I twist to look over the back of my chair. ‘Is that what you think? That I blame you?’
He stops halfway to the kitchen bench. ‘Just saaaying I can manage. Yooou gotta dooo your own thing now. No excuuuses.’
I’m floored. I’d never thought of him lying unconscious in a hospital bed as an excuse. Does he mean I was looking for a way to get out of the cruise with Harry? No way. I wanted to go. But who else was going to stay by his side? His sometimes-friends? I watch his face, trying to determine if he’s just being tetchy.
‘Don’t worry. I’m definitely going this time. Whether you cark it or not. Five days and I’m outta here.’
He laughs. ‘That’s myyyy girl.’
But the thought won’t leave me alone. Is he saying I chickened out? I think I’ve been freakin’ brave. I haven’t fallen apart. Much. No, look at him. He must be scared. It’s huge coming home again.
Outside, beyond the glass door, dead leaves are scattered on the balcony. I should have swept those up. I look around the lounge for anything else I might have missed. The blank television screen is dusty. I shiver. The room feels lifeless, as if the energy was sucked out when they took Snap out on the stretcher, as if our apartment’s personality has to start all over again along with Snap’s poor body. I wish he’d come with me to Harry’s. Just for a few days. But he won’t. He wants to find his feet on his own. He doesn’t even want me here.
I watch him in the kitchen, on the other side of the island bench, and I ponder how long it will take me to reach him if he drops the steaming kettle on himself, or smashes a cup, or slips over.
He catches my eye and pauses to shake his head. ‘Don’t dooo that.’
‘What?’
‘Pity. I can feeel it from heeer.’
‘Oh, please. As if.’ I try to think of a smart-arse response, but it won’t come.
‘Yooou can dooo better than that,’ he drawls. ‘I can handle it.’
He’s wrong; I can’t.
He motions to me. ‘Okaaay, come get. I’m not careee-ying both.’
‘Now you’re being obtuse.’ I go over to him and lean across the counter. When I reach for both cups, he smacks me.
‘Taaake your own.’
‘Ow.’ I rub my hand. ‘That freakin’ hurt.’
He smirks. ‘Ha. Yooou should seee your faaace. Loooks like a gat’s bum.’
‘Cat. C ... c ... cat. Yeah, well it’s not as bad as your face.’ I stare at him, horrified at my words.
Half his face grins while the rest slumps. It’s awful to look at. ‘Not as bad as yooou in your stinky 7-Eleven clothes,’ he says.
‘Not as bad as you when you’re pretending to orgasm on your phone sex line.’
He cracks up. ‘Not as bad as yooou the morning after a gig.’
I laugh. ‘Yeah, well, shit happens. I can’t always be bothered taking make-up off at that time of the morning.’
He joins me back in the lounge room. ‘Yooou don’t neeed make-up, honey. You’re beeeuuutiful,’ he says.
‘Not as beautiful as your friend in rehab. I saw him through the window at your last session.’ Snap blushes. I’ve hit gold, so I sing-song to him: ‘Someone’s got a crush. Someone’s got a crush. What’s his name?’
Snap’s blush deepens, and he refuses to meet my eyes.
‘O.M.G. Is this true love?’
‘B ...’ he stumbles.
‘Bertie? Bernard? Barnaby? Beetlejuice? Bazza?’
‘B ... B ...’
‘Spit it out.’
He laughs, his shoulders shaking with the effort. ‘Bitch.’
‘Ha. That’s why you love me.’
‘Ben.’
‘The Flower Pot Men!’
‘Well, heee’s definitely a panseeey if he likes meee.’
‘I’m happy for you.’
Snap smiles into his cup as he sips. The blush suits him: it gives him a look of health that’s been missing for weeks. I’m really am happy for him.
He asks how Harry is.
‘He’s fine. Enjoying the cruise.’
Snap seems satisfied with my answer. We both settle into quiet, staring at his Zen garden. It looks perfect. Every pebble and grain of sand where it should be. Don’t breathe.
I sneeze.
~
Snap looks as if he’s found nirvana in one of Freda’s burgers. He stops between bites to mop up stray sauce dribbling from his bun, not wanting to waste a drop. I guess weeks of hospital food has piqued his appetite for some truly tasty indulgence.
I’ve settled for a large orange juice; my throat’s still raw. This bug looks as if it’s here for the long haul. Not surprising. It’s been the longest week of my life. I never knew I could cram so much into seven days – my job shifts, the audition, gigs, arranging my passport, bringing Snap home, helping him get settled with daily home help from the council – thank god he’s relented – researching disability allowances, grocery deliveries, and sorting out our share of rent and bills. There’s probably loads of other stuff neither of us has considered. At least we’ve worked our way through all the leaflets the hospital gave us.
And hooray for my passport arriving in perfect time to join Harry. Three more days, and I’ll be out of here – sick or not.
Snap scoots over as Freda approaches us. She’s got some news for us on Snap’s case, but her face is giving nothing away. My stomach is tight with worry. I’m sure she would have told us straight away if it was good news. Instead she insisted we eat first.
‘I have spoken with my lawyer friend. He says it might be difficult to prove this violence was a direct cause of your stroke. He says they might claim there could have been a pre-existing condition. In this case, you cannot win. It’s a risk.’
For a moment, I’m thrown by her bluntness. Then I can’t help myself. ‘This is bullshit!’ I’m not pissed because of what she’s telling us, but because she’s confirmed what I already suspected through my Google searches. One major case I saw on YouTube should have been clear-cut: three bouncers knocking down a guy and restraining him – one by lying on top of him. The guy couldn’t breathe. He had a heart attack. He died. But the court case verdict? Not guilty. Why? The guy had a prior heart condition. But that’s not Snap. Snap is young. He’s healthy, was healthy, he’s fit, he takes care of himself.
Snap grasps my arm across the table. ‘Shhh.’
Freda nods, looking like a sage beyond her thirty-odd years. An owl. That’s how I’d describe her. Big eyes that carry wisdom handed down from generations. But I don’t want wisdom. I want justice.
‘You can take this Bob to court, but this is risky. You might receive some compensation, or you might lose and have to pay costs.’
I know Freda is doing us a favour here, but my hands are tight fists. I want to smash someone. ‘It’s not fair. It’s so not fair!’
‘Fuck.’ Snap drops his head onto his arms.
My heart is crushed for him. How did this happen? It all seemed so clear-cut a moment ago. Bob did this. We all know it. Now he’s going to get away with it.
Freda taps Snap’s arm. I don’t like the dourness of her face. ‘Snap, I think you have something to say about this. Yes?’
Snap raises his head and drags his hand over his face, elongating the good side to match the droopy one. He shakes his head slowly as if he’s trying to loosen a nightmare that won’t leave. ‘Mmm ... my father.’
Freda is relentless. ‘Something else?’
‘No.’ He turns to me. ‘Let’s go.’
~
We stop at a red light, and the indicator’s tick tick tick is like a bomb counting down. I take my hands off the wheel and stretch my fingers. They’re cramping from gripping the steering wheel so tightly. Snap is staring out the passenger window, jaw set. The lights change, and I drive forward.
‘You okay?’ I ask. I glance at him when he doesn’t answer. ‘Snap?’ Still no answer. ‘What did you mean about your dad? Do you think he has something to do with your stroke? His beatings maybe?’
In my peripheral vision, he’s shaking his head. ‘Then what?’
‘Can’t yooou put it tooogether?’
‘Humour me.’
He sighs. ‘Why do yooou think he’s in a wheeelchair?’
‘You told me he had an accident.’
‘I lied.’
‘What? Snap ...’ I venture guilty, harbourer of my own secrets, ‘don’t you trust me?’
He folds his arms, angry, or defensive. Maybe both. ‘It’s not about yooou.’
I purse my lips. ‘So ... what’s the real story?’
Snap slaps his head. Then again. And again.
‘Stop it. What are you doing?’
‘It’s our brains! There’s something wrong with our brains.’
‘Snap!’ I try to grab his hand while trying to steer. He’s hyperventilating.
‘Are you saying he had a stroke too?’
‘I didn’t want tooo feel guilty about leeeaving him alone,’ he says.
‘No, Snap. No. You shouldn’t feel guilty. Else I should too. I haven’t exactly been the perfect daughter myself; Mum is still languishing in the hospice. But she has people looking after her, and your dad would have his church people, wouldn’t he? He’s not alone at all. And besides, he’s an arsehole. He doesn’t deserve you.’
‘Doesn’t mmm ... make it feeel any less bad.’
He slaps himself again.
‘Don’t do that. You’re not bad.’
‘Fff ... forget it. It’s nnn ... not worth it.’
‘But you can still try to press charges against Bob, get some victim compensation.’
‘No.’
‘You can’t let him get away with this, Snap.’ As soon as I say the words, I realise what a double-edged sword they are. He doesn’t bother coming back at me. He knows.
I swear as I narrowly miss a pothole. Finally, we turn the corner and pull up at our apartment. I squeeze the steering wheel, unsure of what to do with my anxiety.
There’s an idea going through my head, one I wish would go away, because it makes me sick to think I might be his only chance ... because going to court would be ... I’ve heard too many horror stories about dragging up a victim’s history when it comes to sex-related crimes. But if I’m really Snap’s friend, I should to do it. It’s the right thing to do.
I steel myself. ‘If you press charges ... I will too.’
Snap is motionless. I wonder if he’s heard me. I touch his arm. ‘Snap?’
He shrugs me off, still staring out his window. Does he have any idea what it took for me to say that? How terrified I am? No, you idiot, I remind myself. How could he? I’ve never told him about Samuel. How that hate is buried so deep. How I’d do anything not to let it surface in case it consumes me. Breaks me.
I watch his profile, his furrowed forehead, the tenseness in his jaw. In the fading light, his right side looks perfectly normal, now that his hair has grown over the scar. He’s like the beautiful Snap I used to know. He’s still beautiful, I remind myself. He’s still Snap. But what’s going on in that head of his?
I wait, giving him some time to gather his thoughts. A bee lands on the windscreen. I watch its fuzzy body crawl along the wiper, and I try to remember how long bees live for. Is it weeks or months? Imagine that: living your short life to serve. No ego. No other higher purpose. Nothing hidden. No secrets. No lies.
I touch Snap’s arm. Speak gently. ‘Are you okay?’ He’s a stone. ‘Do you want me to stay? I don’t have to go. I can stay. Harry will understand.’
I don’t think Harry will understand, but I’m worried. What if Snap does something awful? ‘Come on,’ I say, pulling the keys from the ignition. ‘Let’s go inside. It’s vodka o’clock. We’ll do some shots, take stock, makes some plans. At least we know where we stand now.’
‘We?’
I’m stung by his sarcastic tone. It was shitty news today, but he doesn’t need to take it out on me. I try to deflect his mood. ‘Yes. We. We’re in this together. Let’s chill tonight, order up a pizza, get drunk and forget about this crap for a while.’
Snap makes a strange, strangled noise and pushes his door open. He stumbles onto the nature strip, then starts up the driveway. I grab my bag, jump out and follow.
‘Wait up.’
I follow as he heads towards the apartments. Anger must be an effective cure because he’s walking like there’s nothing wrong with him. No drag, no limp. It’s definitely a stalk. He reaches the stairs and uses his good arm to hoist himself, quickening his pace. When he gets to his front door, he turns on me, face contorted and red.
‘Piss off. I don’t need you.’
His words are a slap. I reel back. When I respond, I’m all breathy and squeaky. ‘How dare you!’
‘How dare?’ White spots of anger speckle the redness of his cheeks. ‘Look at you, all goody two shoes. Ready to sacrifice yourself for me.’
‘What? I’m trying to help you.’
‘I don’t need your help.’
‘I can’t believe you. I’ve stayed by your side this whole time. I bent over backwards to help. I gave up my cruise. I ... I’ve put my life on hold for you.’
‘Who asked you to? Did I ask you to?’
‘No. You didn’t need to. It’s what friends ...’ I’m floored. What an ungrateful ... pig! And the fact that he got all those words out without even a stumble, tells me how much effort he’s putting into hurting me. He stares as though he doesn’t even recognise me, and I wonder if he’s having another stroke, or if we’re going to have a bitch fight, right here on the landing, for all the neighbours to hear.
‘God!’ I spit back. ‘I didn’t ask you to defend me against Bob either. Look where that got you.’
‘Oh, fuck off.’
‘You fuck off.’
It’s then he crumbles. He falls back against the door and slides to the ground. His hands cover his face and his shoulders shake. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him cry. Ever. It kills me. I want to hug him, but I’m afraid to touch.
‘Oh hun, we’re both worn out. Let’s go inside, get warm and calm down.’
‘I want tooo beee alone.’ He gets up, pulls his keys from his pocket and unlocks the door.
‘Please, Snap,’ I persist, rubbing his arm.
He flicks me off. ‘I said no. You have no idea. You just don’t know.’
‘What? What don’t I know?’
He turns on me. ‘It was me! I threw the first punch. I hit him first.’ He’s got the door open. He stumbles inside, then turns to block my entry. ‘There’s no point. Just go away.’
He shoves the door closed so hard, it’s as if he’s slamming out our friendship. I want to smash it down, insist that I stay. He shouldn’t be alone. Not like this. But ... have I been too much in his face? Maybe alone time is all he needs. Time to calm down, think things through and cry where no-one can see his poor, distorted face.
Spent, I go downstairs and get back in the car. I sit for a while, then blow my nose, which has decided to start running – great, this bug is going to my head now – and try to absorb what just happened.
So where to from here? Do I leave his car here? He can’t drive it. But it doesn’t feel right to take it, since I’ll be leaving soon for the cruise.
A splatter of white and brown hits the windscreen. I peer forward and up to the tree harbouring the offender. Why is it always when you’re down? Screw it. I can use Harry’s car if I need to. I get out and stand on the curb while I order an Uber on my phone. I text Snap:
Keys are in the letterbox.
I’m tempted to add ‘arsehole’, but I love him too much.
