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Sleep. Oh god. Sleep.
‘Rise and shine, Kitten. It’s nearly eleven. Upsies.’
Snap opens the blinds, and I think I know where the term blinding comes from. I’m like a kid not wanting to get up for school, all moans and doona over my head.
‘You suck.’
‘Don’t blame me, honey. It’s all self-inflicted. “Vodka is my best friend” and “I never get a hangover”. Sound familiar?’
I peek my nose out. ‘Did I say that? I think my BFF in a bottle just dumped me, big time.’ Snap puts a cup of something on my bedside table. It doesn’t smell like coffee. ‘I hope that’s not some weird herbal brew,’ I grumble. ‘I need caffeine. And Panadol.’ I pull the doona back over my head. Snap tries to yank it back down but I’m holding tight.
‘Such a child.’
‘Coffeeeeeeeeeee!’
‘Alright. Anything to stop that shrieking. And you call yourself a singer.’
I wait until I’m sure he’s gone because I’ve realised I’m naked except for my undies. Did I do that? Or him? Oh hell, what’s the difference? He’s my sista from another missus. Ooh, bad. Note to self: strike rapping career off bucket list.
He’s draped my bunny-patterned dressing gown over the end of my bed. I pad out to the lounge room, where he’s sucking on a grapefruit segment. Bleh. At least he’s made some buttered toast for me.
‘Ta.’ I give him a kiss on his good cheek. He looks fresh. How does he do that? His night was just as late as mine.
‘Pleasure, treasure. Sit, sit. Dig in.’
I collapse into an armchair, taking the toast with me and shoving half a piece in my mouth. I can’t chew fast enough to get it into my needy stomach.
‘Coffee’s brewing,’ he assures me, still sucking on his grapefruit.
I’m looking at his bruises. The morning light isn’t doing them any favours. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Mmm. A little tender.’
‘So, fill me in on what’s happening with Bob.’
His face scrunches, and I’m not sure if it’s the grapefruit or the mention of Bob.
‘Nothing’
‘What?’
‘What am I going to do? Go to the police? How’s that going to work out for us?’
The P word. I drop the rest of my toast back on my plate. He’s right. So far, we’ve been lucky. Who knows if they have some sort of digital record on us that’ll ping if we come up on their radar.
‘What about your job?’
‘I’ll get something else. I know enough people.’
Snap suddenly sounds resigned, and I realise the freshness about him is artificial – all hot shower, moisturiser and hair product. His shoulders are sagging, and he has a slight double chin, which he usually hides by holding his head forward.
‘What’s wrong?’ I ask.
‘I should have quit when you did. I guess I thought someone needed to protect the other young things still working there.’
An awful heaviness hits my stomach, and I don’t think it’s my hangover. If we were normal people, we could both report Bob. But we’re not. When are we ever going to stop worrying about the past?
‘Snap, maybe it’s time I—’
‘Don’t even think about it.’
He understands my fears, and it’s a relief. I’m such a coward.
‘Stop worrying, honey. Eat the rest of your toast, it’s getting cold. I’ll get your coffee.’
‘I’ll get it,’ I offer. Then I just sit there because I’m too lethargic to move.
Snap gets up. ‘I need to top up my tea anyway.’
He moves to the kitchen leaving me to ponder. What if neither of us did anything? What would happen? Nothing. Bob would still be an arsehole, and we would just get on with our lives. I’ve still got my 7-Eleven job, and the cruise work ... the cruise work! Oh wow. I grab my toast again. My appetite is back.
Snap comes back with two cups. ‘We’ve run out of milk. Black okay?’
‘Anything is okay as long as it’s got caffeine in it.’
He passes me a cup and holds out a couple of Panadol. I smile, grateful. ‘Thanks, Mum.’
While he sits and dunks his herbal tea bag, I gulp the tablets with a burning sip of coffee, then I close my eyes and bury my nose in my cup, snorting up the aroma, waiting for the tablets to kick in. If it wasn’t for the feeling of being stared at, I could fall asleep in my cup. It’s almost painful to open my eyes again.
‘What?’
‘Tell me what you’ve decided about the cruise. I think you’re crazy if you don’t do it. I would.’
‘Of course you would. You think he’s hot.’
‘Don’t you?’
I shrug. ‘He’s okay.’
Snap puckers his lips. ‘Don’t play coy. Nobody does it better than me. Here ...’ He gets up and goes over to his laptop at the kitchen bench. ‘I’ve been looking it up online. The Emerald Princess. It looks divine. It’s huge.’
I drag myself up and look over his shoulder. It does look amazing, all glossy white and ... cruisey. ‘Let’s see the rooms.’
He clicks a tab and a picture appears of a spacious suite with a large bed and porthole.
‘Yeah, but that’s not the type of room we’ll have. It’ll be crew quarters, all cramped.’
‘All the better to get you laid, my sweet. Gotta break the seal at some stage. You don’t want cobwebs where the sun don’t shine.’
A curl of alarm unfurls in my chest. I slap his arm to cover my uneasiness. ‘Shut up. It’s business. He’s managing me.’
Snap gives me a sideways look. ‘That’s one way to put it.’
‘We’re just friends.’
‘Crapolla. I see the way he looks at you. Don’t refuse a gift horse. Especially, one that’s well—’
‘Stop! Anyway, if he’s so uptight about knowing everything about me as my manager, what about my burning down Samuel’s house? He must know about it already. Mary would have told him. Why hasn’t he mentioned it?’
‘I don’t know. Why haven’t you asked him?’
I shrug. ‘Too hard basket.’
Snap strokes my hair. ‘Maybe it’s no big deal. Technically, it was your house to burn.’
‘Maybe is too big a risk. And what about my 7-Eleven job? My boss will never give me leave for the cruise. He’ll sack me.’
I go back to my comfy chair and flop. Snap follows suit and picks up his tea. ‘Big deal. It’s a crap job anyway. Do the cruise. You know you want to. The boy is hot.’
I roll my eyes. He’s right. Six weeks in the South Pacific is an enticing prospect. But then there’s the whole sharing a room thing. I’m sure Snap’s motive is my happiness, but he’ll also want a vicarious report of all the gory details in a daily blog: Sordid and Sexy at Sea.
‘One sweet day you’re going to say, “Snap, you were sooo right. Will you be my best man?” And I will say, “No, honey, but I’ll be your bridesmaid”.’
‘Funny. When I was buying my little black dress yesterday, I saw the pinkest, frilliest, frou frou gown. You’d look gorgeous in it.’
‘Honey, I am not your average camp. I am dramatic.’
I’m grinning into my coffee, and when I look up there’s a strange expression on Snap’s face. He’s gone pale, and there’s a twitch in his left eye – the one with the stitches above it. Then it all happens at once: his face goes slack, his bottom lip droops, and his hand falls limp, dropping his tea into his lap.
‘Snap!’
I’m out of my chair and by his side as his head falls forward, chin resting on his chest. He’s making a strange ‘nnnnnnn’ sound. I kneel and try to lift his head. It’s all wobbly and heavy. ‘Snap! Snap! Speak to me.’ I’m worried about the hot tea all over his legs, but I’m more panicked about what’s going on in his brain; his left eye is all pupil – huge and black. I gently pat his face. ‘Snap? Can you hear me?’ I pull his damp robe away from his lap and fan his legs. They’re splotched bright red.
You hear about this sort of thing – signs to look for and stuff — but those stories never seem real. It’s something that happens to other people – someone who knows someone who knows someone. This is real. I think he’s seriously having a stroke.
I brush his hair from his face and plead with him. ‘Snap? Snap? Can you hear me? I’m calling an ambulance.’ He’s still making the weird noise, and once I let go of him, his body flops over the arm of the chair. I lean him back again, then look for my phone, his phone, any phone.
The operator asks questions, so many questions. I need to get him on the floor if I can, for his own safety.
‘Okay, Snap. You’re, okay. I’m just going to move you.’ I push his beloved feng shui table out of the way, and the sand skitters. ‘Sorry. You can fix it later.’ I think I’m talking more to reassure myself than him. Standing beside his chair, I lean him forward a little and dig my hands under his armpits from behind. ‘Here we go.’ God, he’s heavy for someone so svelte. I edge him down, bit by bit, until he slips onto the floor in a big lump, then straighten him out onto his side with a cushion under his head.
‘Now what?’ I ask the operator.
‘Check his breathing again.’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’
‘Make sure the door is unlocked.’
I do.
‘Stay with him until the ambulance arrives.’ Stay with him? Where the hell does she think I’d run off to?
I settle by his side to wait, then remember the hot tea. It’s probably too late to stop a burn. Should I get a wet towel anyway? Is it okay to leave him for a minute? I run to the bathroom. When I get back, his eyes have closed, and he’s stopped making that noise. I check his breathing again. Still there. I lay the towel over his legs. Now there’s nothing I can do but hold his hand until the ambulance arrives.
~
It’s 1.15 am when my phone vibrates. Somehow, I’ve managed to fall asleep under the glaring waiting room lights. It’s a message from Harry. Outside. Take your time. He’s in the car park. He can’t leave his car because he’s come straight from a gig, and his gear is piled in the back. He’s been amazing. Going back and forth from the hospital to get me a change of clothes, staying with me until he needed to leave for his gig, and now he’s back to collect me.
I rub my hands over my face, yawning as I walk over to the nurses’ station. The duty nurse has changed. This one’s a stout fifty-something with glasses on a chain around her neck. She’s on the phone. I lean on the counter and wait. More waiting.
‘Yes?’
Her voice jolts me. I must be in La La Land.
‘Um, I wanted to check on ... George. George Theodakis.’
She taps on her keyboard and examines her screen. ‘Still in ICU. No change. Sorry, I can’t tell you any more than that.’
I drop my head on the counter, trying not to let my frustration take over. She’s just doing her job, but they’ve been giving me the same story since Snap came out of surgery this afternoon. ‘Please. Can’t I see him for just a second? I’ve been here all day. All night. Has he woken up yet? Is he conscious?’
The nurse looks as if she’s going to give me the official are-you-a-relative line – which I’ve already had from the previous nurses who I should have lied to – but she weakens and reads her screen again. ‘It doesn’t say much else. Honestly. This kind of operation is complex. He may not wake up for hours or even days. Go home. Get some sleep.’ Blah blah blah. ‘Check back in the morning.’ Blah blah blah.
‘It is morning,’ I snap.
She ignores me.
Okay, I get it. I’m a dick. ‘Thanks.’ Sincerity escapes me.
~
Harry is leaning against his car, arms folded. He looks beautiful – tall and lean in his black suit and white shirt, open at the neck. Goddamn sexy. I can’t believe these thoughts are in my head while Snap is in there fighting for his life. I must be delirious. It’s my exhaustion talking.
‘Okay?’ he asks.
I shake my head. I don’t speak because I know I’ll start crying if I do. Then he makes it worse. He gives me a big hug, and it’s like he’s squeezing my tears out. The first sob hurts like hell. I’ve been holding it down so hard, it’s as if it’s ripped my throat on its way out. We stand like that for ages, him hugging, me shaking and bawling like a kid, until I’m drained.
He releases me, digging in his pocket for a handkerchief. Bless him and his hankies. He opens the car door, and I sit, all snotty, teary and nose-blowing.
‘Home?’ he asks.
I don’t want to go back to an empty apartment. Not yet. ‘Can we get some fresh air?’
We head to St Kilda beach. It’s a warm night, and the breeze is soothing as we walk along the esplanade. Harry tucks my arm through his. It’s comforting. Cosy. Like he’s taking the burden for a while. We must look like a romantic couple. On a different night we might be.
‘Any change?’ he asks.
I shake my head. ‘I don’t think so. Either that or they won’t tell me. I’m not a relative.’
‘Does he have any relatives here?’
‘His dad’s back in Wineera. Snap would kill me if I called him. His grandmother lives here, but they don’t speak. I found her number in his phone. I don’t know if I’ve done the right thing, but I left her a message. I hope he doesn’t hate me for it when he wakes up.’
We approach a pier and turn onto it in unspoken agreement. I lose myself, listening to the hiss and drag of waves in the murkiness a metre or two beneath our feet. Across the bay, the lights from Port Melbourne warp and flicker in the humid air. The West Gate Bridge looks like an arc of fairy lights.
‘Can we talk?’ he asks.
God, there goes my pulse. Thump. Thump. Thump. I don’t think I have any energy left in me, but my heart thinks otherwise. ‘Okay.’ There’s a bench up ahead, and I point to it. ‘Let’s sit.’ I don’t think I can cope with walking and talking.
The bench is covered in bird poo. Harry starts to take off his suit jacket.
‘Are you kidding?’ It’ll ruin it.’ I shrug out of my cardigan. ‘It’s old,’ I assure him.
He tries to refuse.
‘Don’t be a masochist, or macho, or whatever it is. Just sit.’
‘You’re falling down with your vocabulary,’ he says.
‘And who’s to blame for that?’
The cardigan doesn’t stretch far so we sit close. I’m half expecting him to put his arm around me, or at least rest it along the back of the bench. He doesn’t. It’s disappointing. I was enjoying our earlier cosiness.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ he says.
‘Hmmm?’
‘About the cruise job. I know this is a really crappy time for you.’
Oh shit. He’s changed his mind.
‘Maybe it’s a bad idea.’
There. He’s slammed the door before I’ve had a chance to put a foot through it. I want to shift away from him, but there’s the bird poo. He leans forward, massages his palm with his thumb.
‘I’m thinking maybe I’ve put too much pressure on you, too soon.’
I feel sick. As if the ground has heaved beneath me. My voice becomes tiny, like a child too afraid to ask if a parent still loves them after they’ve been bad. ‘Are you calling it quits on me?’
‘No, no. It’s just the timing is bad. And to be honest, I don’t think you really know what you want at the moment. Maybe we should ease off for a while.’
He couldn’t be more wrong. I do know what I want. I want all this confusion to go away. I want Snap to wake up and be alright, and for everything with Bob to have never happened. I want to keep making music, just without – like he says – the pressure.
‘Look, take a couple of days to decide. Be with Snap. Have a think about your priorities. If you don’t want to go ahead with the music, well ... you’re smart ... you’ll figure it out.’
‘Can’t be too smart if I stuff up my career after one gig.’
He’s looking at me, not saying anything. God, I hate that. He’s supposed to be contradicting me. Telling me everything’s going to be alright. That I shouldn’t worry. That he believes in me.
I hasten to the fill the silence. ‘You know what? When I was sitting in the waiting room today – and I know this sounds stupid, because I know I’ll never be a huge celebrity – there were all these trash mags with exclusives on Hollywood stars. You know, who’s sexing who, who’s wearing what, who said this, did that, and I thought ... I couldn’t live like that. Couldn’t have people in my face all the time.’
He laughs, and I feel like an idiot. Tiny.
‘Well,’ he says, ‘every superstar started off as a kid with a dream. Why shouldn’t that be you?’
‘For a start, I’m not a kid.’
‘I didn’t mean ... You just have to believe.’
‘Like in fairies?’ My laugh sounds forced.
‘And those people in those magazines?’ he says. ‘They’re not real talents. They’re sensation seekers, ready to do anything for publicity. You don’t need to do that if you’re solid in what you do. Your work speaks for itself.’
‘Yeah, but I’m not solid.’
He looks at me then, his eyes intense. I think he’s going to say something I don’t want to hear. The truth. That he’s wrong about me. I want to look away but can’t.
‘You will be. Trust me. More solid than any over-produced, throw-away, one-hit-wonder wannabe.’
Oh, god. It’s only now I realise how much I care about what he thinks. ‘Stop. You’re embarrassing me.’
He grabs my hand and gives me one of his killer smiles. I melt. If this were a movie, I’d throw my arms around his neck and lose myself in his ... his ... I don’t know what. But I would. He’s still silently watching me, and I’m sitting here trying not to imagine his kiss on my mouth and his hands on my body.
The spell is broken when he returns my hand to my lap. ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘I’ll drive you home before we do something stupid.’
As he makes to stand, I grab his arm. He sits again, waiting for me to speak, but I can’t get my words out. I’m staring dumbly thinking: Do something stupid. Do it.
‘What is it?’ he asks.
‘Do you know what you really want?’
He studies my eyes. If he can’t read what’s going on in them, he must be blind. I’m waiting, both hopeful and afraid that I might or might not end up getting what I’m pushing for.
‘We can’t always have what we want,’ he says.
‘Hang on, that’s not what you just said. You said, “if you believe”. Why doesn’t that apply to you?’
‘Because I’m choosing to be your manager right now.’
‘And if I don’t want to be managed?’
He hesitates. Why won’t he admit his feelings?
He stands, hands in pockets. ‘Come on. Let’s not ruin it.’
You just did.
We head back to the car, without my arm through his. Did we just lose something that was almost real? A piece of my heart is back there on the bench and every step we take, it’s further away. Soon there’ll be no hope of retrieving it.
We drive in silence until we pull up outside my apartment. He clears his throat and fiddles with the car keys, stalling. I’m half hoping he’ll insist on walking me to the door. Maybe even stay. I’m on the verge of asking if he’d like a coffee, when he shoots me down.
‘I’m going to make it easy for you,’ he says. ‘I’ll find someone else to do the cruise gig with. It’s not fair on you to deal with all this pressure. When I get back, we can figure things out.’
Click. He’s turned the lock in that slammed door, and he’s walking away with the key. I pretend to study the silver studs on my shoulder bag, pressing my thumb into each one, working my way around the strap. Images of white sand, palm trees and warm water I’ll never feel, slipping away. I’m gutted.
‘You know what?’ I say, ‘I just realised I still don’t have a passport.’
‘Well, that’s that then. I’ll get a mate to fill in with you at the casino, so you don’t lose any gigs while I’m away. It’ll be a good experience for you – working with someone besides me.’
‘Okay. Sounds good.’ It doesn’t.
‘So, we’re okay?’ he asks.
‘Yeah.’
‘Sure?’
‘Yeah, sure. You do what you gotta do. I’ll be fine. I’m going to take my tired butt upstairs. Night.’ I brave a quick peck on his cheek. ‘Thanks for today.’
‘Night,’ he says. There’s doubt in his voice.
As I step outside the car, the air is much cooler. For a second, I think about pulling on my cardigan. But wrapping myself in bird poo wool isn’t appealing. I hurry to the footpath. Harry winds down his window and yells.
‘Call me if you need anything. With Snap, I mean.’
I wave.
The apartment feels cold and shrunken, without Snap. Like a loaf of bread that’s been left in the freezer too long. The kettle lid is broken and rattles as the steam begins to rise. Snap’s been meaning to buy a new one for ages. I should have got off my lazy butt and done it myself. How much do I rely on him?
I lie on my bed and sip hot chocolate in the fuzzy light of my portable telly, hoping my body will hurry up and realise it’s time to sleep. Now that it can, it won’t, and all I’m thinking about is how to recapture a moment that never happened: the feel of Harry’s lips on mine, the warmth of his breath, the taste of him.
My phone vibrates on my bedside table. I’ve forgotten to turn the sound back on after the hospital. It’s Harry.
‘Okay?’ he asks.
I nod, then realise I need to answer. ‘Mmmm.’
‘I’m worried we’re not on the same page,’ he says.
‘No?’
‘I’m not dumping you ... from the music. I’m not giving up on you. You know that don’t you?’
‘Yeah. Well, no ... I wasn’t sure.’
‘You’re not dumped.’
I close my eyes. Here’s the fatigue I’ve been waiting for. My hand trembles so much I can hardly keep the phone pressed to my ear.
‘Still there?’ he asks.
‘Just.’
‘Okay. I wanted to make sure you’re alright and ... I thought ... if you want to stay at my apartment while I’m away, to be closer to Snap at the hospital, you can.’
‘That’s really nice of you.’
‘Sleep on it,’ he says.
‘K.’
‘Hey?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Flip side.’
‘What?’
‘You don’t remember.’
I pause. ‘Yes, I do.’ And I smile because we still have our song.
~
It’s been over a week. The linoleum floor muffles my steps, and murmurs from televisions and visitors’ voices drift into the hallway. As I pass one room, the stink of disinfectant and faeces hits me. I gag. Imagine being so old or sick you can’t even make it to the toilet. Awful. Humiliating. It makes me wonder if Mum is at that stage now. I can’t think about that.
Here it is: room 30B. It’s right opposite a nurses’ station – so they can keep an eye on him, I suppose. I pause and give a querying look to the duty nurse as I point to Snap’s room.
She nods and smiles, seems to recognise me. ‘He’s still comatose, but you can talk to him.’
The curtains are partially drawn across the window. They do that in the mornings, so the sunlight doesn’t hit his face. The bed next to his is empty, and I briefly wonder if the old man who occupied it the past few days made it home to his family or ... not. I step forward quietly and move to Snap’s side. God, he looks like death: his skull is all bandages; his face gaunt, pale as the sheets he’s lying on. There’s a breathing tube taped to his mouth. I thought I could handle this, but I can’t. I’m scared as hell.
I sit, the vinyl chair creaking, and I worry the noise might wake him. That’s a stupid thought. I want him to wake up. ‘Snap?’ I pick up his hand. It’s cold and dry. What do I say? ‘How are you?’ seems ridiculous. I should tell him everything’s going to be okay. The nurses say that words do get through, even if a comatose patient can’t answer, somewhere deep inside, they hear you.
I don’t know if everything will be okay, though. I wish he’d wake up and smack me for worrying. ‘Get a grip, girl,’ he’d say. ‘I’m not dying.’ And I’d say, ‘You freakin’ better not be.’
It’s weird. He doesn’t look unconscious. He looks as though he’s sleeping. Then again, what does unconscious look like? What’s the difference? Are we unconscious when we sleep?
‘Hey,’ I whisper. ‘I found your phone, so I called a couple of your friends. They said they would visit. And ... don’t be angry, but I called your gran. I know, I know, you said she doesn’t care but, well, her number was still in your phone, so I figured you haven’t written her off. And, you know, sometimes people change and ... she’s family. Someone should know what’s happened to you. I mean ... if you don’t pull through ... someone needs to ...’ I take a breath. This is not going in the direction I planned. Positive. Be positive.
‘So, here’s a bonus: I didn’t call your dad. I figured, wheelchair or not, he’d be able to whoop your butt with you out cold, so ... no dad. But anyway, your gran didn’t answer. I’ll keep trying. If she fobs me off, well, too bad. But she’s family, you know? She has to care.’
I sit and wait. And wait. The shadows in the room move slowly as the sun arcs into afternoon. The soft thud and hiss of Snap’s ventilator mesmerises me, while the padding and squeaking of nurses’ rubber-soled shoes, the beeping of call buttons and drift of passing conversations all fade into the background.
At some stage, a tight, heavy thing builds inside me. I think it’s fury. Yes, it is. I’m so freakin’ angry because this didn’t need to happen. I didn’t ask Snap to interfere. I’d already walked away from the pub. Forgotten about it. Why should I have to deal with the Bobs and Samuels of the world? I don’t have that sort of power. I wish I did, but I don’t. And now look – for eight days my precious friend’s been in some space I can’t reach, and he may never, ever wake up.
