Authors: Katie Everson
Drop
For Juliet
I’ve got no soul. I had one once but, like losing your virginity, losing your soul is easy to do.
Oops!
There it goes. Like misplacing your keys. An annoying but unremarkable event. I remember the moment, the smell of sweat. I can picture the cubicle door with its lipstick graffiti hearts and eyeliner drawings. I can feel my bare legs sticking to the stained floor, tacky from spilled beer and
godknowswhat
.
Losing your soul is easy to do. One too many vodkas. One too many pills.
Or maybe it happens over a series of moments. A bad choice. A dream. A kiss.
Like getting laid for the first time, it’s never how you picture it.
Right now I’m having a schiz-out. I feel like a giant slice of death that’s been reheated in the microwave. It’s OK. I’m used to it. But, fuck, I miss feeling human. How did it get this way? When did it start? Christ, I don’t even know. How’s it going to end?
I’m so cold all the time. I find comfort in hidden places. The places no one knows I go. Like when brushing my teeth rhythmically. Balancing on the long side of the bath. Counting. One, two, brush, step.
Stalk the knife-edge.
It’s no more than a sole’s width. With perfectly pointed toes and stretched calves, my left leg extended in front, absolutely no arch, I tap the surface lightly with my big toe. A slow-motion can-can dentistry dance. Turn, walk, tap for four minutes exactly. Repeat as necessary. I own the bath, brush, beam. In that moment, I feel a little warmer.
I smoke. That helps. Speeding up death makes me feel more alive. Good health is just the slowest way to die. Smoke heats my lungs up. Makes me notice them. I think of my lungs as great oak trees and cigarettes as the obnoxious kid with a stick, flailing wildly in the branches, sending birds shooting out in every direction.
Hmmm-haaaa
, breathe in, breathe out. Dying feels good.
I like it when the delicate particles of dead ember reject the ashtray and go fluttering, flying up like tiny ghosts of dead butterflies. Beautiful. Yeah, I like to provoke my lungs, get them to fight back. People work the same way. BOOM! Like a firecracker, you can set people off so easily.
Oh yes. And a bit of white powder, a couple of pills, whatever. I do that now and then.
I wasn’t always like this. I know what you’re thinking: druggie, junkie, wreckhead, trashbag. But I’m not sticking needles in my arm or sleeping on the streets, or stealing to feed the habit. I’m not one of
those
. I’m just a normal sort of girl really, a bit shy, a bit sad, and there are little things that make me feel better for a while.
A year ago I moved to London with my dad. My mum came too, but you wouldn’t know it. She’s never at home. In fact, she’s the whole reason we moved here. Her career, her promotion, her success,
her
life. I’d say I’m the least successful of her projects. Everything she does is a project to be managed, and evaluated. Ask her, “On a scale of one to ten, how satisfied are you with your daughter?” and she’ll say “one – not very,” I’m sure. But hey, she gets
nul points
from me for parenting skills. OK, maybe that’s harsh but I just wish she’d chill out. And if she did maybe she would be around more.
I’ve moved house loads of times before, but this is different. This new place will become old, will become home. Mum isn’t chasing any more; she caught the butterfly. This is it, her dream job. The man-hours, late nights in the office paid off; the payrise and title are hers: Science Correspondent for London’s biggest newspaper. Sometimes she even gets on the news. It sounds kind of flash, but I piece together my idea of Mum’s lifestyle from the news and what I overhear when she gets home, usually around one a.m. She writes some seriously weird shit. “Evidence for dark matter in high-energy gamma rays”, “Is graphene really a wonder-material?”, “Trees over 100 metres tall cannot grow leaves”, “Swiss cheese plants experience stress”. She’s up and out the door again by seven a.m. Kisses her coffee cup goodbye more than me or Dad in the mornings. So it’s like
Happy Days
around my house. Absentee mum: check. No Weetabix: check. Happy-fucking-days.
Moving day is a rare day off for Mum. Day off from work, that is, not from being an uptight cow.
“Carla! What
are
you doing? Can you please show some initiative and put the boxes marked ‘office’ in the
office
?”
“There’s no room in the
office
.”
“Then make room,” she snarls.
Ugh
.
I start to unpack colour-coded lever-arch files rammed with papers.
PRESS RELEASES, STRATEGIES, JOURNALS, ATLAS, CERN, ENVIRONMENT, PHYSICS
. So dull.
ENVIRONMENT
decides to tsunami over the desk.
Mum shakes her head. Exhales. Sighs.
I prickle, but silently slide the papers back into place.
She gets the bulgy fire eyes. “Not there! That goes in the filing cabinet,” she huffs, pulling a yellow file labelled
DEVELOPMENT
from my hands, clenching her teeth so her cheekbones protrude and her temples contract.
“Oh … OK, sorry, I didn’t know.” It feels like she’s always angry. She finally has what she’s always wanted, but it’s still not enough. Even in high-flying careerville, her paradise island, she still carries her suitcase of misery.
Mum puts down a pile of books. “Sorry, Carla. I don’t mean to take it out on you. Moving house, new job. It’s all a bit stressful.”
Dad appears in the doorway. “Tea, girls?”
“If you put ‘
G
and’ in front of it. Can you put a wedge of lime in, and put the glass in the freezer for ten minutes first? I hate a warm glass,” Mum says. “Please, love? Thanks.” Her iPhone dings. Dad is tall and stately, with small, round, bluish-grey eyes resting on high, plump cheeks, pearls in an oyster. Kind eyes. His eyebrows momentarily arch and he resembles a scared owl. But it’s OK; the scared-owl look is Dad’s general expression for discontent, upset, frustration … even for the times he finds his own lame jokes amusing.
Mum hangs up her call.
“Kate, love, I haven’t got to the kitchen boxes yet,” Dad says. “Just got tea bags in my pocket. Caffeine contingency.”
He’s a practical man.
“Rob, I need a proper drink. Could you please just do this one thing for me? I’m exhausted.”
“Sorry, love. The gin is under an avalanche of crap and I’m not digging for it.” His eyebrows peak mid-forehead.
“I’ll get it myself.” She launches through the office door, towards the kitchen. I hear the shuffle of boxes, a clatter of china, the screech of packing tape, then the clink of glass against glass. She returns to the doorway, the bottle of Gordon’s a green glass pendulum swinging from her right hand, her face brick-red with stress. She throws a glance at Dad as if to say, “There, was that so hard?” Dad looks blank, avoiding the conflict. She returns to the kitchen. Dad’s so calm. Aside from those gravity-defying eyebrows, that is. He can be stern, and I’m sure he gets angry, but he has compromise down to a
T
, including letting Mum get on with
it. It
being her irrational outbursts and general anger-management issues. Maybe he thinks that sparing me a prolonged parental argument is for the best. Five-minute huff? Hour-long shouting match? Weigh it up. Mostly he’s a calming influence on Mum.
He follows her to the kitchen. “Why not put your feet up for half an hour? Carla and I will unpack the office,” he says. “I just set the telly up. That dancing programme will be on soon.”
He’s the master of diplomacy. People say opposites attract. In the case of Kate and Rob Carroll, that’s true. Mum is overtly outraged all the time. I would say Dad is “inraged”. Quietly brewing his anger, then letting it out in late-night hushed tones when they think I’m asleep. They’ve always been like this. She shouts and pouts, Dad discusses and compromises. Maybe not everyone’s idea of love but it seems to work for them.
