I wake with a hash hangover: feels like someone’s playing basketball with my head. Utter skull-pummelling stuff. Maybe it’s post-crying brain. I peek in on Mum. All I see are her tiny hair prickles poking out of the covers. The compulsion to rub them is great. I exit.
Danny’s lying with two hands above his head as if he’s been shot.
Bang!
I hear the sound from outside.
When I go downstairs Bel’s already bolted, spare covers neatly folded on the arm of the couch. She could’ve at least made us breakfast. I rummage the medicine cupboard for paracetamol. Yes, we have an entire cupboard.
Bang!
Stutter!
Spit!
I look out the window.
Shit.
Spit!
Here?
Now?
At this time?
Lou’s vintage Vespa sounds as though it needs a paracetamol too. He removes his helmet as he saunters up our path. My action is frantic. I’m flushed. I run to open the door before he reaches it.
‘Lou, what are you …’
‘Hey, Bobby. I was out meetin’ some dude about some shit and thought I’d check to see if you got home OK.’
‘Yeah, I mean, yeah. I got home fine … but …’
‘I was pretty out of it last night myself, so I was a bit worried, you know?’
‘Strong apples, eh?’ I say.
He laughs.
I ooze cool. Or maybe not.
‘You want to come in?’ I ask.
‘No, I better boost. Get back home, duties and shit like that, you know?’
‘Only too well.’
‘Just wanna to make sure you were OK,’ he says. ‘That’s all.’
‘I’m fine, honestly.’
In the conversation gap Lou tilts his head up at the house, to Mum’s bedroom window.
‘Your mom, she doin’ well?’
‘You really interested?’
‘Sure, why not?’ he says, without taking his eyes away from the window. His head falls. ‘She’s the reason you do what you do, why you’re stuck in here most nights. So, yeah, I’m interested.’ There’s lightness in his tone, which I’ve rarely heard before. ‘She doin’ OK, Bobby?’
‘Good days. Bad days.’
‘I hear you.’
‘Doesn’t get easier,’ I say.
Lou reaches out, rests a hand on my shoulder. Is it my eyes? Are they still emotional red? I’m pretty sure I haven’t given anything away.
‘If you ever need any help, Bobby, just holler.’
‘Thanks, Lou, will do.’
Him help me? Doesn’t he have enough worries of his own? Ferrying me to and from Poztive meetings is ample help. Maybe that’s the type of thing he means. Or keeping me stocked up in … apples.
‘It’s cold, Lou. Sure you don’t want –’
‘I’m good, I’m good. Need to split,’ he says.
‘Well, thanks for popping round.’
When he’s midway down the path he turns.
‘I mean it, dude. Anything you need.’
‘Cheers, Lou.’
I’m pretty sure he winks.
I close the door and breathe again.