SIGMUND FREUD
I have my car keys in my hand and am almost out the door when I hear the phone ring. I hesitate, thinking that Dad will get it, but then I hear the shower running. I pick it up.
‘Yo.’
‘Edie, is that you?’
‘Yo.’
‘It’s Ralph.’
For a moment I am flummoxed, then I realise it is Professor Brownlow. ‘Hi, Ralph.’
‘Do you normally say yo?’
‘Sorry, no, it’s a new thing I’m trying out.’
‘There’s a bit of an emergency here, Edie.’ His voice sounds strained.
I immediately think of Belinda. ‘Belinda hasn’t hit you with the tennis racquet, has she?’
‘No, no, it’s work…’
‘A crab larvae emergency?’ An image of a rampant crab larva massacring its beaker-mates springs to mind. That’ll teach you to say my telson’s fat.
‘Yes. My Japanese Brine Shrimp paper, it’s due tonight. I had your drawings in a pile ready to scan in. They’re very strict about submission deadlines…’ His voice trails off.
‘You spilt coffee on them?’
‘No.’
‘Your dog ate them?’
‘No.’
‘What then?’
‘They disappeared. Not all of them, just the Pyromaia tuberculata and the Stimdromia lamellata.’
‘Oh, no, not the Pyromaia tuberculata, that was one of my favourites.’
‘Yes, I was very fond of it too,’ says Professor Brownlow, missing my irony. ‘I think they were stolen.’
‘But, who would do that?’ I try to sound mystified, but my mind springs to the sleazy crab man. I wonder if he lives at home with his elderly mother and hides his crab larvae porn under the bed with the Playboys.
‘I have a rival; one of the other professors. He’s out to stop me getting departmental head. I think it must have been him. If I don’t get this paper in, he’ll have had more publications than me this year and that will sway the balance his way.’
‘I didn’t realise academia was so cutthroat,’ I say. I still think it was the sleazy crab man though.
‘That’s nothing. You should see the staff meetings; lucky to get out alive half the time.’
As I twirl the car keys in my hand, I already know what he is going to say next.
‘Can you come in and re-do them?’
I think of Jay and I wish I had got there earlier, that I hadn’t been so stupid spending time writing dialogue I can never use. A tug in my chest pulls me towards the pub.
‘The paper has to be in by midnight but, of course, I’ll understand if you have other things…’
I think of Professor Brownlow and how kind he has been, the crab larvae cake, the allowances for my slackness. And part of me is relieved not to go to the pub — the social anxiety, facing Jay, the chance of rejection, the attempts to use my stupid dialogue.
I bite my lip. ‘I’ll be right there.’
It is a little strange meeting up with Professor Brownlow again so soon after our fond farewell. It could have been awkward, but he smiles when he sees me and puts on a fake German accent. ‘So, ve meet again.’
This is sappy, but it breaks the ice. It is only then that I realise how this will look if Belinda turns up. Alone. Together. In the lab. At night. I hesitate at the door.
Professor Brownlow tilts his head.
‘Is Belinda…?’
‘Gone to the movies.’
I sigh with relief and take my place at the bench. By the time I slide my first zoea under the microscope I am already over my nostalgia for this job. What was I thinking? It is worse than watching March of the Penguins. Despite my boredom, we work together happily for a couple of hours, me drawing, him typing and then sending off the completed paper. The Pyromaia tuberculata and the Stimdromia lamellata are nowhere near as much fun the second time around.
‘Okay.’ I hand him the drawings. ‘Guard them with your life.’
He is suitably grateful.
Our farewell is more stilted this time as we have already used our best lines. We end up just waving at each other in the car park, hesitating for a moment with the possibility of another kiss on the cheek hanging in the air, then jumping in our cars.
Professor Brownlow beeps as I drive off.
On the road I am, once again, nostalgic for the fun times we have had.
It is twelve-thirty by the time I reach the Darling Head Pub. It is closed. A few drunks loiter on the verandah like discarded wrappings. I get out of the car and peer in the window in case Jay is still there, ignoring their oh-so-tempting mumbled invitations to have a fuck. What would they say if I turned to them and said, yes please, I’d love a fuck, thanks for asking?
The stage is empty except for a microphone and drum set. Up until now this has been about me, but now I think about him. Perhaps he really wanted me there? I imagine Jay holding the microphone and I hope the crowd was friendly. If only I wasn’t so incompetent with these personal interactions. Why didn’t I at least pop in to say I couldn’t make it? Why did I listen to Sally and turn this into some kind of adversarial game? Do I want Jay if I have to play games to keep him interested?
I already know what the answer is. I get back in my car.
I am surprised to see the lights still on when I get home. I imagine Jay is there, winding down. I’m not sure what I will say, but I run up the stairs. I will make it all right between us somehow. I will be honest. I won’t play games.
Dad and Rochelle are sitting on the couch outside holding hands. There is no sign of Jay.
‘What’s up?’ I ask.
Rochelle waves her hand in a manner meant to be dismissive, but due to its jerkiness, has the opposite effect. ‘It’s Jay.’
I slide onto the couch next to her. ‘What happened?’
Her hand tightens around Dad’s. ‘It’s my bloody father again. He waltzes in, waltzes out, talks big and forgets us once he’s out the door.’
I wait.
‘He was supposed to line up some record company guy to hear Jay play at the pub tonight. You’d think Jay would have learnt by now.’
‘Did you go?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, I went,’ says Rochelle. ‘Jay was great. There weren’t many people there, though. I think he might have been hoping you’d come.’
‘I meant to.’
Rochelle looks at me as if I am not the person she thought I was.
I want to explain it’s not like she thinks. I’d leap tall buildings for her brother, swim through shark-infested waters, wrestle a minotaur if necessary. If only I knew he wanted me to. ‘Where is he?’
‘He’s gone out,’ says Rochelle. ‘I tried to stop him, but he said he needed a walk.’ She is a bundle of repressed emotion.
I know she is thinking of the scars on his arms. I am thinking of them too, but I can’t tell her as I am not supposed to know. ‘Shall I go and have a look for him?’
Rochelle’s smile is a vestige of her usual radiance. ‘Oh, would you, Edie? He won’t talk to me.’
‘I’m not sure if he wants to talk to me either.’
‘He likes you,’ says Rochelle. ‘I know he doesn’t show it much, but I can tell.’
I think Rochelle may be kidding herself, but it’s the least I can do. I get up. ‘I’ll look at the beach.’ I don’t think Rochelle notices the catch in my voice.
‘I’ll come with you.’ Dad half-rises to his feet.
‘No.’ I put my hand out. ‘I think it’s better if I go by myself.’
Dad’s forehead creases but he sinks back onto the couch. I walk down the stairs, ignoring the nervous quiver in my chest.
It is very dark at the park. A sea breeze blows back my hair and raises goose bumps on my arms. I rub them, trying to warm myself up inside and out. My heart is now beating so hard I can’t ignore it. I know this is stupid. There is nothing to be scared of. But I haven’t been on the beach at night for a long time. Not since the night I followed Mum. I almost turn back but the thought of Jay pulls me on. Leaving my shoes on the grass, I set off. And I can’t help remembering.
Mum is ironing sheets when I come home from school. I haven’t seen her do this before and I already know it is not a good sign. She has been doing a lot of housework in the months since she gave up her job at the newspaper — to have a rest, she said.
I watch her through the window. She irons slowly, purposefully. Every now and then she pauses, gazes into nothing as if she has forgotten what she is doing.
‘Edie,’ she cries when she sees me. She envelops me in a hug and for a moment I think it might be all right. But then she straightens and wipes at her eyes. ‘I’ve had such a boring day. Look at me, ironing sheets.’ She laughs, but her laugh is high-pitched. ‘Why don’t we go swimming?’
I reach behind her and lift the iron off the smouldering sheet.
It’s a fifteen-minute walk to the boat channel and by the time I get there my eyes are growing accustomed to the dark. I can see him — an outline perched on the sand. He is holding his guitar, but not playing it.
He looks up as I approach. ‘Roch sent out the huskies, did she?’ His voice has only the smallest twinge of sarcasm.
I shrug and sit down.
He plucks a string on his guitar. ‘It’s all right, I’m not about to top myself. My big sister worries too much.’
I don’t say anything, because I haven’t been here in the dark for eleven years and the memories are too strong.
‘Thanks for coming, though. ’Preciate it.’ Jay says with an American drawl.
For some reason this sets me off. ‘Why do you have to be so bloody…’ I search for a word, ‘ironic all the time. Why can’t we just…’ I trail off. I feel like crying. Damn, I wish I could untangle those tangled and unspoken thoughts between us. It shouldn’t be this hard. It wasn’t this hard on the couch.
Jay plays a few notes. Stops. ‘So, where were you tonight?’
He says this neutrally and I can’t see his face for clues on how to read him. ‘Was that an invitation, was it?’
‘What did it look like?’
‘A program. An announcement. Not an invitation. It looked like maybe you wanted me to come, but you wanted to keep your options open too. Pub, eight pm. What am I, a dog?’ I can hear the petulance in my voice and I want it to go away. I don’t want to be like this. I want to be honest, true to the way I feel… I take a deep breath. ‘Anyway, I was coming, but something happened.’
‘I can be a dickhead sometimes, can’t I?’
I search the dark shadows of his face. I know there is something there I want to connect with, but I can’t find it, can’t find the words to bring it out. I know you’re in there, is what I want to say. You can’t pretend you’re not. I can feel you.
‘I’m sorry.’ Jay’s fingers brush my shoulder. His touch is light and brief, but it is like he has said what I wanted to say. ‘Thanks for the tuna story.’
‘Oh.’ I twist my hands together. ‘I don’t know why I gave you that, I—’
‘It reminded me…of you. Of what a funny person you are.’
I look at him. ‘Funny ha, ha? Funny peculiar?’
‘Funny is the wrong word. Unusual. Different. Unique. It made me want to talk to you again.’
I smile in the darkness. ‘Well, it worked then.’
‘It was brave of you. Especially when I was being so…’
‘Mean.’
‘Yes. Sorry.’
‘I’m sorry too. I’m sorry I missed your gig. I wanted to come. I’m just not good with that stuff.’
‘There weren’t many people there. And those that were had better things to do than listen to me.’
‘Do you take that personally?’
‘How else could I take it?’
‘So, how does it make you feel?’
‘Like the worst kind of idiot. But, hey, I’m still getting paid. I’m playing music. I just try to finish as quickly as possible.’
We are silent for a while. The waves on the reef remind me of the last time I was here at night. ‘I used to come here with Mum. With Jenny.’ I can hardly believe I have said her name.
Jay strums a soft chord. ‘Tell me about her.’
My heart quickens. I have never talked to anyone about this, but now I want to. It is scary, but I am heading for the precipice. I can’t stop. ‘We always went swimming in the boat channel.’ While it is hard, at first, the more I talk, the easier it gets, like water rushing through a hole in a child’s sand dam, breaking away the barriers as it goes.
‘She wanted me to come swimming with her that afternoon. But Ninja Turtles was on. I was going through a phase. I was crazy about those guys. I thought she’d be back by the time the show was over. But she wasn’t.’
‘How old were you?’
‘Twelve.’
‘Yeah, I was into the turtles too. Who was your favourite?’
‘Donatello.’
‘Makes sense.’ Jay smiles. ‘Gentle, clever… Guess who mine was?’
‘Raphael.’
‘Right. The sarcastic one.’
‘But also funny and loyal.’
‘You see the best in everyone, don’t you, Edie? So tell me about your mum.’ He plucks his guitar again, while I talk.
‘When she didn’t come back I came down here to look for her. Her towel was on the sand. I couldn’t see her, but I waited and waited.’ As I tell Jay, I feel like I am there.
Behind me the sun is dipping below the horizon and still she is not here. The beach is almost empty.
A hundred metres or so away, a fisherman is casting a line. I should talk to him; ask him for help. But I don’t know him and the thought of the explanations I would have to give cramps my tongue. How can I explain that I think my mother is out there? Maybe it’s all a mistake. Maybe she is swimming in somewhere else. Maybe that isn’t her towel. The thought of starting a train of panic I can’t control panics me. My heart pounds. I couldn’t talk if I had to so I say nothing. I strain my eyes. I crouch on the sand.
If I don’t look for her for five minutes she’ll be there.
If I don’t look for her for two minutes she’ll be there.
If I don’t look for her for one minute she’ll be there.
I look. She isn’t there. Maybe she’s:
At home,
Gone for a walk,
Gone to the movies,
Gone to meet Dad at work.
Perhaps she’s:
Cooking dinner,
Playing tennis,
Writing poetry,
Playing hide and seek.
And one hundred possibilities later, when it is dark, when the fisherman has gone, that is where Dad finds me.
‘I haven’t been swimming since then.’
Jay has been playing his guitar the whole time I’ve been talking. He stops now. ‘What was she like? Your mother?’
‘She was funny. She used to make me laugh and laugh. She was interested in big questions, not small ones. She operated on a different level to most people, connected things up in different ways. I see that now; I didn’t at the time.’
‘Like you then,’ says Jay.
‘You think so? Yes. I guess she was. Like me. Sometimes that scares me a bit.’
‘Do you think she meant to go?’
‘I don’t know. There wasn’t a note. She kept a notebook though.’ Wanting everything. Wanting nothing. ‘She said nothingness was all she wanted.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t think there was a reason. It wasn’t that things had gone wrong. It was the way she was. I was just a kid, I didn’t realise. She had pills, but she didn’t like taking them. They made her feel stupid. I think Mum had a fascination with the edge of things.’
‘The liminal.’
I look at him.
‘You don’t know that one? It means the border, the transition point.’
‘Good word. Yes, the liminal. She liked to see how far she could go and still return. Whether she meant to come back that night, I don’t know.’
‘You wouldn’t have saved her, Edie.’
‘What if I’d spoken to the fisherman? What if he’d organised a search? What if I’d gone swimming with her? She wouldn’t have done it then.’
‘If she was determined to go, I mean. You couldn’t have stopped her. She would have done it sometime.’
‘I’ve been looking for that fisherman my whole life. I want to ask him how she looked when she went in. Then I’d know…’
‘Do you think it would make any difference?’
‘I want to know if she was crying or if she looked happy.’
‘Do you think you can tell how someone feels by looking at them?’ Jay’s eyes settle on mine.
I shake my head.
‘No, so…’
‘But he’s like my guilty conscience. I keep thinking I see that fisherman everywhere. I should have known she was so sad. Why didn’t I know?’
‘Edie.’ Jay’s voice has a sharp edge. ‘You can’t blame yourself. You were a kid. She made a choice; a bad choice, but it’s not your fault. If someone wants to leave, they’re checking out regardless.’
And I know I shouldn’t say it, but I can’t stop myself. I accelerate, fly out into midair, start to freefall. ‘Did you? Want to leave? Really?’ My voice is small and squeaky. It is an apology of a voice. A cry into the wind.
Jay’s face is dark. He doesn’t talk.
I have done it again. He will leave now. And this time we will never talk again. I feel like a damp weight has settled on my chest, but I am resigned to it. I know I couldn’t have done anything else. I had to ask.
‘Yes.’ He plays a chord or two, ‘And no. So, I guess that means no.’
I take a breath. The damp weight lightens. We are still talking. ‘Why did you do it?’
‘Artistic angst,’ he drawls, plucking at his strings.
I bite my lip. ‘You can’t be ironic all the time.’
‘Sorry. It’s hard to stop. Bear with me, Edie.’ He gives a rueful smile. ‘I’m trying. Why did I do it? My music was shit, my life was shit. There was a girl…’
‘Tell me.’