17
Josh’s legs shuddered, his head pounded, and he thought he might pass out. His heart was on the verge of ignition. After a three-month hiatus from running, it was like his body had lost all memory of physical exercise.
He pushed his way around the lake, one burning foot in front of the other. He’d been a runner in high school, but now he was twenty kilos heavier and his breathing was laboured. The icy air burned his nose as he inhaled and blew out in short, sharp bursts.
He’d woken early, the sky colourless outside, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep. He turned over a few times, moved his head to a different position on the pillow, even tried ditching the pillow and sleeping on his stomach. His mind wouldn’t stop; it replayed the same images over and over. Dad driving at that wall. The smash of the car, the crack of his head against the steering wheel, then it flopping backwards, lifeless. Josh pictured him alone under the bridge, smoke billowing from the bonnet, blood seeping from a gash above his eye. Dead. This was not how it happened, of course, but it didn’t stop his brain from imagining it that way.
Now it was seven. The sun was up, but the sky had a dull greyness that made it feel colder than it was. He hadn’t packed running clothes as such, but a pair of sneakers, trackpants and a hoodie did the trick. He’d lowered the brim of a Boston Celtics cap over his eyes and took off into the gloomy morning. Caps, beanies, sunglasses—he owned a lot of these things. Items that helped to shield him whenever he left the house.
He picked up speed as he passed the old bandstand and the car park where he used to bring girls when he first got his licence. Up ahead, he could see the old rowing clubhouse. It had been converted into a cafe. Yellow light glowed from inside, where two young guys placed small vases of flowers in the middle of each table. They’d retained the rowing theme, a bright red boat suspended from the ceiling and crisscrossed oars adorning the walls. The outdoor tables were empty, the tops shimmering with dew.
He’d clocked the changes in Pent over the years since he’d left—some, like the youth-focused street art, with a kind of humouring dismissal; others, like the addition of a state-of-the-art gym, with genuine curiosity—but it was the arancini and cannoli bars, the trained baristas and the annual wine and cheese festival that signalled bigger changes. You think you know all there is to know about a place, but then you discover depths you didn’t realise existed. Transformation is possible.
He jogged around the second bend, again picturing the scene under the bridge. Dad was dead. He would never see him again. It didn’t seem possible that he couldn’t just pick up the phone and call him, no matter how stilted the conversation might be. He rarely felt the inclination, but now it was the only thing he wanted to do, and it made him feel wobbly inside. But what would he say? Sorry for letting their relationship fizzle and die? Sorry for behaving like a spoiled brat?
A pair of wood ducks glided across the silvery surface of the lake, three babies trailing behind. But Josh faced forwards, not able to watch what became of them. Would they flit off in different directions? Or stick together, in a line, facing the future as a family?
The last time he’d spoken with Dad was the day he moved into Kelsey’s flat. The pilot light on the gas hot-water service had snuffed out, and relighting it was an exercise in patience that he couldn’t mobilise. The sun had bleached all colour from the instructions on the inside panel, the print on the sticker crinkled to an indecipherable blur. YouTube tutorials on the subject didn’t make sense.
‘And you’re turning the knob to “Pilot”?’ Dad had asked down the phone.
‘For the third time, it’s a picture of a spark and, yes, I can follow simple instructions.’
‘Doesn’t sound like it. Are you sure you’re holding the button down long enough?’
‘Yes, Dad! Thirty seconds.’
‘Maybe the gas is disconnected or shut off at the meter?’
Jesus. ‘I said that, like, ten minutes ago!’
‘Alright. A bit of gratitude wouldn’t go astray.’
‘Forget it. I’ll work it out myself.’
He was about to end the call when Dad spoke again, taking one last chance to disparage him. ‘City living’s made you soft.’
‘Maybe no one ever took the time to teach me these things.’
‘Like you would have stood still for five minutes to learn without that bored look that never left your face. At least Dane listens. He knows how to thread a whipper snipper and replace a spark plug.’
Vital life skills. ‘I’m sorry I wasted your time.’ He hung up and called a plumber.
It was another version of the same conversation they’d been having since Josh hit puberty, each blaming the other for the fractured state of their relationship. Now it would never be resolved.
He jogged on, his thighs on fire. Break through the pain barrier, he thought, then he’d hit his stride. When he finished, he’d drop to the footpath for some push-ups and a couple of rounds of stomach crunches. Then, back at the house, he’d dust off his dumbbells.
This was what he used to do: when times were tough, when life was taking a big shit on him, he’d run. It was his go-to brain cleanser, his anger-buster. But for the past three months he couldn’t even do that. The outside world was too overwhelming. This felt like a reversion.
As he heaved himself forwards, his mind turned to Jac. She’d been a mess at the hospital the night before. They’d had to drag her out of there in the end. When they got back to the house, she’d gone to her room to call Gil but then hadn’t come out for a while. When she did, her eyes were blotchy and red. Dane had stayed and they’d had a few drinks. Josh had raised the question of what next, but Dane and Jac had shut it down.
He couldn’t run anymore and slowed to a walk, even though it was only three-point-eight kilometres around the lake. In high school he would run it three times in a row without breaking a sweat. Now he was struggling to get around once. He should have brought his phone so he could listen to music. That would have helped take his mind off the pain in his calves and thighs.
He decided that breaking up the pace might help. He switched to high-intensity intervals—better for fat-burning. Short, hard bursts of work followed by brief breaks. The breaks were probably longer than they should have been and the hard bursts not so hard, but he kept at it.
During one of the slow sections, a woman approached from the other direction, running slowly, dressed head to toe in black lycra. Her body was tight and lean and a blonde ponytail jutted out from the back of her Nike cap. He made eye contact as they neared each other and he gave her a neighbourly nod; he didn’t want to draw attention to himself with anything more. As she sailed past him, he drew in a deep breath of air through his nose, hoping to catch a whiff of her. She smelled like freshly laundered clothes and it was the most comforting smell he could imagine.
People didn’t approach him as much as they used to—they probably didn’t recognise him now his appearance had altered. Although that didn’t stop him being hyperconscious of every person whose eyes lingered too long or who held a phone in his direction, even though they were probably only taking selfies or a pic of the streetscape behind him.
Once, at the height of Relationship Rescue’s success, when the show was smashing it every night in the ratings, fans would stop for a selfie and ask about the contestants. What were they like in real life? Were they still together? Was that fight between Dakota and Ava real or just for the cameras?
It was annoying. But it wasn’t. He missed that now—now that he was overweight, jobless and potentially about to drop dead from a heart attack beside Pent’s famed lake.
His body started to overheat and so he used that as an excuse to slow down. Didn’t want to overdo it on the first day. All Ma needed now was for her son to have some kind of seizure. He unzipped his hoodie.
He could smell his sweat, ammonic and rancid. God knew what was seeping out from his pores—three months of beer, takeaway curries and two-minute noodle spice.
He’d nearly finished one lap when his knees began to ache. It wasn’t worth starting another. He imagined taking one of those tests to determine your biological age and finding that he’d already reached forty, even though he was only twenty-eight.
Then an idea struck him. Maybe he could turn his fight back to fitness into a reality show? Josh Vanderbilt: The Road Back. No, that sounded like he was stuck out in the wilderness. Or maybe it would be a good idea to embrace his predicament? Maybe people would respond to that? Josh Vanderbilt: Fighting Back. No, he wasn’t a boxer. Josh Vanderbilt: Reinvented. No. Reignited.
Maybe.
Revamped. Not bad. He liked the sound of Vanderbilt and Revamped mashed together.
Or maybe Remade. Any one of those would probably work. He’d mention it to Kelsey when they spoke next. They could work up a proposal and pitch it to a few networks.
Wait. Why the hell was he thinking about this now? His dad had just died, for fuck’s sake.
He slowed to a walk. It was busier at the lake now, though it was only thirty minutes since he’d arrived. Across the other side, which was only about fifty metres away, the cafe’s first customers were arriving. He stopped at a park bench and reached out a hand to steady himself while he stretched. Given how out of shape he was, he’d be sore the next day if he didn’t.
He thought again about the reality TV idea. He couldn’t help it. Maybe he could start working on a proposal of his own before talking to Kelsey about it? It would be good to have some more fleshed-out ideas first. He’d been front and centre on two hit shows that had ended before their time. That had to count for something. He could do it again.
His breathing returned to normal. He’d achieved more in the hour he’d been out of bed than he had in three months. And it had only just gone seven.
He looked up. A few rays of sunshine were trying to peek through the clouds.