Moments of beginning loomed large – always – in Sarah’s head. They were moments with a sharpness, an edge which was lost afterwards in the dullness of day-to-day. She could still recite the words spoken to her on her first day of kindy: (‘Who’s a big girl today, Sarah Sweet?’), and recall the ritual acted out on her first day of high school (tearing at a plastic bag, chewing at strips of paper, deep breaths, tight chest) – but the years in between were shadow-like: unformed, unseen by the human eye. First horse ride, first train ride, first party, first swim, first kiss. Bright and large and clean. First kiss of Zan, first taste of a woman’s mouth. Too sharp, too bright. It cast shadows on the wall.
Strange though, how quickly the easing in happens. The first moment cutting slices through everything, and then, then what? Everything settles doesn’t it? The first morning, still sharp. A strange shape in Sarah’s bed, the bones of a thin back pressed against her stomach. Soft skin, the fierce strangeness of long hair in her face. A gentle awkwardness over orange juice and cold tea. Mouths tasting of morning, not quite fresh. But still, the newness made it almost-fresh. You know, the way it does.
For a few days then, perhaps a few weeks, Sarah’s tongue stung with the taste of salt, sugar, tea, lemonade, chocolate milk, bread, everything, absolutely everything. She touched children at the nursery softly-softly on their foreheads, blowing air onto the tips of their heads, to cool and soothe them. Even when they needed no soothing. The white flash of the sun bouncing off the Harbour burnt her eyes, but sweetly. Sounds were sharp in her ears: seagulls screrracking, wind jumbling about through trees; the slide of the train on the metal sleepers or the rumbling of car engines transfixed her. She saw the old busker at the Quay, that useless old bloke with the Big Bird puppet and plastic tape player, and her whole body swelled with some raw joy. She gave him a five-dollar note and smiled back at him when he folded his toothless face up in a grin. Everything was shiny, for a time.
Even after the first weeks of waking with Zan’s body next to hers, Sarah counted over each second like a rosary. She woke before dawn once, torn from sleep by small yelps from Zan, caught in a nightmare. Zan’s body was smooth next to Sarah’s. She curled like a worm, Zan, her legs tucked under her. She turned, straightened, pressed close to Sarah. You could feel the line of the bones under the skin. Sarah turned on her side and shoved up so that she could be breast to breast with Zan. Amazed at that: the sameness and the difference. The softness of round breast against hers. Was that how she, Sarah, felt? Even with Zan’s slight bumps, her almost flat chest, Sarah was willed into fascination. Wanted to suck on them, be fed. The nipples red and arrowlike. Harder than Sarah’s, and more red. Sarah watched the light grow on Zan’s body, lay with eyes wide open for hours with the sun slowly filling the room. Mapping the differences. She watched Zan’s eyes twitch beneath the lids, noticed the lie of the hairs squinting out beneath the armpits. She pulled the cover back, ran her eyes and hands down and across Zan’s legs. Soft skin and the tangle of brown-red, like a face beneath the belly. Zan kept the whimpering up and made little brushing movements against her face. Sarah did not wake her, and in the morning, did not ask what the nightmare had been about.
Zan had nightmares often. Sarah stopped being woken by them. Some nights, Zan tried to stay awake, rolling her tongue over Sarah’s body or talking in her ear. Like a mozzie, buzzing about. Sarah lay beside her saying yes, yes, yes. Letting her eyes drop slowly closed. ‘Yes, mmm, go to sleep now.’
Zan tapped and prodded at Sarah, tried to finish conversations started days before, or to tell jokes with only half-remembered punchlines. ‘What do you call a dyslexic, atheist, no hang on, an insomniac, agnostic, dyslexic? Umm, hang on, wait, someone who lies awake all night wondering if there really is a god. Oh shit, no, I mean, if there really is a dog. Oh damn.’
And that itself became a joke between them: that Zan never recalled jokes, always laughed at them fresh like the first time. She said it was deliberate, she like it that way.
They held hands on the street, ate meals which Zan cooked, and spent weekends wandering the Quay or drinking at Posie’s Cafe. Most afternoons, the black-and-white taxi skidded on the drive outside Ailsa Craig’s Romper Room. Things were taken for granted. Once, caught up in the beginning of spring, Sarah had breathed in salt and wind and wrapped her arms and legs about Zan, on the Manly ferry. She held her mouth against Zan’s, sucking deeply, probing. The sun bathed their heads, ran down across their bodies, melting everything between them – the air, the wind, their skin. Zan was laughing into Sarah’s mouth, her hands squeezing hard. A pale fat man tapped fast and firm on Sarah’s shoulder and said that that sort of thing was an embarrassment and to keep it for their own sick living-room and, anyway, if they didn’t stop they would be let off at Cremorne with no fare refund and have to find their own way back. Zan had drawn blood from her fingers she bit at them so hard, between squirts of the blue puffer.
Zan carried the asthma puffer with her everywhere, tucked in the canvas bag. That bag, it was always on Zan’s shoulder, it dropped down her arm sometimes when she was running. It was over-full all the time, Zan had to scrabble around in it for change, or pens, or bits of paper. Sarah’s hands fisted up, watching her dig about for tiny items. Zan would squat down on the street, she didn’t care, pulling tissues, pads, god knows what, from that bag and placing them on the footpath. She’d find the puffer eventually, go ‘Ta-daaa,’ as if she’d done something really bloody clever. Then suck. Squirt the stuff in the tube – Ventolin, it was called – down into her mouth and eventually say, ‘it’s okay now.’ As if there was ever any question that it wasn’t going to be okay.
The asthma came when Zan moved too fast, ate too much or got upset. Sarah had a birthday. Zan was driving all day and too late into the night. So Sarah drank the bottle of vodka on her own. Threw the bottle at Zan when she finally did come home. Not really at Zan, at the wall behind her. Zan ducked and grabbed her puffer, first thing, as if it was a bottle or a breast. That was only once though, that yelling and smashing. Mostly it was good. Good and soft and full of Zan’s laughter and half-forgotten jokes. Even so, Zan kept sucking at that puffer and chewing at those nails of hers. The fingers were chewed way down, they were always pink with blood. Bits of skin and blood would stick in Zan’s teeth. Sarah wanted to hit her or at least yell that it was stupid, it made her look dumb and stupid. She didn’t though. She blew air through her teeth, or clicked her fingers, or slapped at Zan’s hands. Sometimes, said don’t.
There was a dark-haired old waitress at Posie’s who had seen Zan sucking at the Ventolin and said, ‘Oh what a shame. My daughter has asthma. Horrible thing. And you’re such a nice looking girl and everything, except for your fingers of course, shame about them too, really. Have you tried Stop ‘n’ Gro? I tried that and it worked wonders.’ She held out her fingers for inspection. Short fat sausages with red nails stuck on the end.
‘I like them like this.’ Zan waved her stumpy fingers in the woman’s face.
‘It’s probably because of the asthma, though, because you get nervous.’
‘I don’t get nervous. I like the feeling of biting my nails, that’s okay isn’t it?’ Zan was smiling at the woman, as if she wanted to be her friend, as if it mattered.
‘Anyway, it isn’t actually any of your business. Just bring us the bill.’ Sarah was fed up with the talk of stumps and nails and fingers.
‘Well, I’m sorry.’
‘It’s fine. How old is your daughter?’ Zan twinkled at the woman, smoothed the ripples, made friends and wanted the whole life story. Leslie, her name was – and she and Zan had talked about nails and asthma and it had taken ages.
Sarah and Zan had run for the last train after that, screaming down the escalators, shoving people out of the way. Except Zan had to stop, pull the puffer from her bag, and she was breathing hard and saying she couldn’t keep running like that, she was so sorry, and Sarah told her to stop acting like a bloody spastic cause that’s what she was going on like and she wouldn’t know what it was like to be spastic if it smacked her in the face. And that was the truth.