THE FIRE in the pot-belly stove was almost dead. Sidney hadn’t drawn the curtains, and a chill had crept into the house. She stood, still holding the spiral-bound notebook, shaking. Tick, tick, tick. Her hands that had long ago held each other under the D’Angelos’ soft pillow, now useless, balled into fists, crunched the edges of the diary. She dropped it.
Groping along the walls, colours melting, body expanding, stomach contents rising, she made her way to the bathroom.
She fell to her knees at the toilet and vomited.
<Coke go up hill upheaval we stick run together>
Spitting, she reached for the toilet paper to wipe her mouth. It looked as though the toilet had been vomited in recently, and the seat hinges not cleaned thoroughly.
Breathe.
One. I can hear the kitchen clock ticking.
Two. I can feel the toilet seat against my cheek. It’s cold and white and … My husband set his mates up to scare — to rape — me. Maybe he had a turn of me too — who knows? Dean Cola wasn’t there.
<upheaval up evil slut you’re evil slut>
Dean Cola wasn’t there.
<slut stick together die evil die evil>
She vomited again and again.
Spent, scrunched up on the bathroom floor where the chip heater used to be, she could see the square of dusty black rubber still levelling the washing machine. She held her aching stomach in her hands, closed her eyes, and was gone for a few minutes, or maybe longer.
Her phone was ringing in the lounge room.
She stood, steadying herself against the basin. The pump whined as she splashed her face with cold water. Her phone stopped and then started again. Answer it, or he’ll drive back up here. She nodded at her pale, dripping reflection.
Sitting on the arm of the chair, she cleared her throat and accepted Christos’s call. ‘Hi, Chris.’ Raw, gutted, but unready to confront him, she tried to play the game, put a smile in her voice, but it sounded more like a grimace.
‘How you going?’
She pictured him holding his phone in his oversized Popeye hand. ‘Good.’
A flake of ash from the stove, caught in a draft, floated up towards the yellowed ceiling. She felt floaty too, and Christos sounded faraway, harmless, like Voices when they were behaving. La la la … See you tomorrow.
She snapped to attention.
‘… about lunchtime.’
‘What? No. You said “Wednesday”.’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘I need a bit more time here. A few more days.’
‘I don’t think so, Sid.’
‘Sorting Mum’s stuff’s taking longer than I thought. One more day?’
‘No.’ The sound of a door being opened. ‘Sid, why are your little clay figures and houses standing out in the big bonsai tray?’
A reflection, a better reality, in perfect miniature.
‘Did you spray perfume on them?’ He sniffed. ‘I shouldn’t have left you alone up there.’
Why did you leave me, Dean?
‘Ring me during the night, anytime. If you need me, I’ll be on my way sooner. Or I can always organise for one of the local fireys or cops to come out and check on you.’
A chunk of vomit that had been caught in the back of her throat dislodged; she swallowed it.
‘Miss you, Sid. Love you.’
She looked at the diary on the floor. Fuck you, fuck your behaviour. And hung up. Her ear was numb from holding the phone too hard against it.
Christos called back. ‘Must have got cut off. Sure you’re all right, Sid?’
‘Yes.’
‘I love you.’
‘Me too.’
Liberace screamed.
She ran across the foyer, forgetting to avoid the cracks, her sneakers squealing on the tiles.
<evolve evolve kill yourself stupid do it do it do it>
She rushed from room to room, searching for a safe place to hide from Christos.
<evolve upheaval up evil stick together you’re evil die evil die evil>
Fuck off!
<river run red river run red river run dead dead dead you’re dead dead dead>
Voices were yelling now. Covering her ears didn’t help. She shouted back at them that she was going to take her meds.
In Faye’s bedroom, she caught her reflection in the dressing-table mirror, looking as contorted as the wood-grain faces in the wardrobe.
She sat on Faye’s bed with her head in her hands. Deep breaths, deep breaths. Voices wouldn’t let her think. The clock tick, tick, ticked.
She looked up and saw the solution in the wardrobe-tiger’s face. Nodding, she took out her phone, and googled Spirit of Tasmania. The big ferry-boat, a smooth sea, blue night-sky sprinkled with white stars that looked like snow. Escape.
SELECT DESTINATION: Melbourne to Devonport
TAKING A VEHICLE: Yes
FIND A FARE: One way
PREFERRED SAILING: Day
WHO’S GOING: One adult
SELECT OUTBOUND VEHICLE: Motor vehicle
VEHICLE TYPE: Car
MAKE: Ford
MODEL: Fairlane
YEAR: 1963–1987
TOWING A CARAVAN OR TRAILER: Not towing
DAY SAILING SOLD OUT
Fuck.
She booked a porthole cabin for tomorrow night’s crossing instead.
Voices quietened; she pulled Dean Cola’s denim jacket tighter around her and stared awhile into the tiger’s face.
You lower a log of wood into the fire, and push it in further with a poker. The dead embers come alive and spark red. You hang the poker up and sit back in your leather armchair, a peppering of greys through your dark hair, a few lines around your Johnny Depp eyes. You’re wearing a flannelette shirt. A puppy lies at your socked feet. Behind you, outside the window, Tasmanian snow powders down. ‘You used to love me,’ you say.
All this time I’ve been ashamed for having never stopped loving you. Even after what I thought you’d done to me at that party. Should I forgive myself for that? Can I now remember, dream, and conjure you, without shame? Can I also forget, and let you go? No, not yet. If only there wasn’t more to our story, folded in time.