the day pours in – sunshine and dust
The last day of the world dawns bright and sunny but the feeling of the dream is still with me. I had it yesterday, all day.
Yesterday, I kept waiting for Amy to walk into the shop, and I was relieved when she texted around midday to let me know she wouldn’t see me till Valentine’s Day, when she hoped we’d meet at Laundry. Actually, I texted back, I promised Rachel a do-over. We’re having another last night of the world, so I’ll see you on the 15.
Have you told her? Amy texted back.
About?
About us!
No chance yet, too busy, but I will.
I looked across the shop at Rachel, working in the Letter Library. I thought of the dream, I thought of George, and how Cal had missed out on her, I thought of how much she wants us to have a last night, and decided I’d tell her about Amy and me after the world has ended.
Frederick and I had a game of Scrabble to pass the time after I decided, and I told him that I’d always look for the Walcott. ‘Even when this place belongs to someone else, I’ll keep looking.’
It occurred to me that Frederick is one of my closest friends. Age aside, he and Frieda are part of my every day, and I’ll miss them when they’re not.
‘This was your shop,’ I said. ‘Before mine.’
‘It was,’ he says, studying the board.
‘So I’ll come in and visit the next owner, the same way you visit us.’
He made his move, and ended the game. I wasn’t winning after a 70-word score.
‘Henry,’ he said before he left, but he didn’t finish his sentence. The way he spoke, the tone of his voice, made me feel we were in the dream together again, tearing at leaves.
I get in the shower this morning and try to steam yesterday and the bad feeling out of my system. I can’t. It’s there when I get out and it’s there when I get dressed. It’s there all the while I’m shaving.
George knocks, and walks in while I’m finishing up. ‘Happy Valentine’s Day,’ she says, and reaches for her toothbrush.
‘What happened to your reliable pessimism?’ I ask.
‘I have a friend to be with at school for the first time in six years. I actually no longer care what Stacy thinks. I actually no longer care about her calling me a freak. I have someone to spend the last night of the world with, and I almost have a boyfriend. I have no need for pessimism,’ she says. ‘Did you give that letter to Rachel?’
‘Yes.’ No. ‘Shit.’
‘Shit?’
‘Nothing. Forget it. Everything’s fine.’
‘Everything is fine, Henry,’ she says.
Before I can set her straight, there’s a knock on the door, and it’s Martin. ‘Your dad sent me to get George. He has to leave and he needs you to take over.’
‘I’ll be there in a minute,’ George says, and turns to me. ‘What’s wrong, Hen?’
She hasn’t called me Hen since we were kids.
‘I got back with Amy,’ I say.
‘That’s great,’ she says. ‘That’s brilliant. You can go overseas.’
‘You don’t care that we’re selling the shop? You don’t want me to stay and run the place so you can hide out here and be happy?’
‘I love this place,’ she says. ‘I do want to keep it, but, if we can’t, then, it’ll belong to someone else and we’ll visit. Don’t feel guilty,’ she says, and walks out of the bathroom.
I look at myself in the mirror. I should be the happiest guy in the world, and all I can think about is how shitness is again gathering momentum.
Rachel’s standing out the front when I arrive at the warehouse. She’s wearing a lemon cotton dress, and I find myself wondering if she’s got bathers on underneath. It’s brave of her to come with me to the beach, and it’d be even braver of her to swim. But Rachel is brave. Please don’t ever go away again, I’m thinking as she opens the van door and steps in.
The Lucksmiths are playing on the radio. I need to tell Rachel that Cal is the mystery writer, but I decide to leave that until after the end of the world, along with the news of Amy. I decide to let both of us enjoy this day. Rachel looks happy. I’m happy with her. She wants a do-over and I don’t want to ruin it.
‘You’re sure you’re okay with where we’re going?’ I ask.
‘Stop worrying, Henry. It’s going to be fine, or it won’t be. But I’ll be okay.’
I look over at her for a second. She’s a hybrid now. The old Rachel and the new Rachel and possibly some other Rachels from the future all tucked into one body. She rolls down the window and the day pours in – sunshine and dust. I turn up the music so it fills the car. ‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘I don’t feel unhappy.’
‘I’m glad I could inspire such emotion.’
We reach the outskirts of the city. The concrete drops away and the trees start up and the sky gets bigger, stretched to a pale blue. The road vibrates softly through the car and hums Rachel to sleep.
When she wakes we’re in a small town. She looks around and smiles, smelling the loose blue air of the ocean. Wrapping her arms around herself, she follows me into the second-hand bookshop.
The owner isn’t here, the girl serving says. And he hasn’t left a note about the Walcott. ‘We emailed,’ I tell her, and she says he hardly ever checks his emails. ‘I keep the database up to date, though, so if it’s online that we have one, it’ll be in the poetry section.’
I walk towards it, and start looking through. ‘I don’t think it’s here,’ I say, searching in the Ws. Rachel’s kneeling at my feet, pulling out books, checking the titles, reading the backs. She looks inside them too, flicking through to check for notes, for history. She looks up and catches me staring, so I quickly pull out some books and act like I’m searching. She goes back to her searching too.
She stands after a while. I take out books, showing her the titles I love, and she looks through them, carefully. ‘You’re a word convert,’ I say.
‘Maybe,’ she says, and I notice a blue bathing suit strap showing next to the neck of her dress. I touch it without thinking.
‘Will you swim with me?’ she asks.
‘I’m unprepared,’ I say.
‘I’ve seen you in your underwear before,’ she says.
‘You’ve seen me naked,’ I point out.
She stares at me, right at me, in a way that nearly knocks me over. ‘You have very large eyes,’ I tell her. I’ve always known it, but never known it before.
‘All the better to blink at you,’ she says.
We’re standing very close, and if I hadn’t kissed Amy, if I were single now, I know I would ask Rachel if I could kiss her again. I don’t believe she did kiss me to make Amy jealous. I don’t know why I believed it then. I know Rachel. As much as she’s changed. I still know her. And if she didn’t want to kiss me, she wouldn’t have.
‘What?’ she asks.
‘What what?’ I ask.
‘You’re smiling.’
‘Am I? I don’t know. I guess I just worked something out.’
Before I can speak, she points and says with wonder in her voice, ‘You’re holding a Walcott.’
I hadn’t even noticed it was in my hands.
We eat at a café in town. We order and stare at the Walcott. ‘I feel like it’s a sign,’ I say.
‘I do, too,’ Rachel says, but neither of us says what we think it’s a sign of. We keep smiling at each other and smiling at the book and I can’t stop thinking about kissing her.
‘We should ask questions we always wanted to ask,’ I say while we’re eating.
‘About?’ she asks.
‘About each other.’
‘I know everything about you,’ she says.
‘Impossible. There are always more things to be known. I’ll prove it. I will ask questions of myself, and you will answer them, and we’ll see if you get them right.’
‘And shall we call the game Narcissism?’
‘We shall call the game Henry. Question one: Who was my first kiss?’
‘Amy,’ she says.
‘Incorrect.’
‘Who?’
‘You. I kissed you on the mouth in Year 4.’
‘Really?’
‘Kiss-chasey. You don’t remember?’
‘I have no recollection,’ she says. ‘But trauma will do that to a person.’
‘Question two: What is my favourite colour?’
‘Red. The colour of Amy’s hair.’
‘Incorrect. It was red, and now it’s blue,’ I say, looking at her eyes. Closely followed by lemon. She looks right back at me. It doesn’t get weird. It doesn’t get awkward. This is Rachel. She throws a piece of bread at me when it’s time to stop staring.
‘Should we play the game of Rachel?’ I ask.
She looks out of the window, in the direction of the ocean. She says, yes. But the game of Rachel really needs to be played on a beach.