How To Save A Life (12 page)

I stare into the man's eyes, and try my best again. "I am sorry."

"So you stole my wine and are returning ..." He pauses, and turns to face the boxes. He takes two steps forward, noticing the open one to the left of the stack. "All but six bottles."

"I didn't drink them. Or steal them. I promise." I shake my head, but even as I do, I feel like an idiot. "You have to believe me. I'll do anything. I'll ..." My eyes rapid-fire around the room, flicking over bottles, boxes, brooms, crates—
brooms.
"I'll clean. I'll clean the whole bar. Multiple times. And pay you back for what you lost."

"Even though you didn't steal it—"

"I'll even wash the windows. Surely you want nice clean windows for your opening night, right?"

"You want to work off the debt of the alcohol you're returning."

"Please?"

He sighs, and the blank exterior that had been painted on his face washes away. He turns to the door at the far end of the room, the one that I presume leads to inside the bar, and takes a key from a set in his pocket and turns it in the lock. The metal clanks against each other as he jiggles it back and forth, then finally, with the encouragement in the form of his heel to the bottom of the door, it swings open and he holds it wide, gesturing for me to walk through.

My gaze firmly on the ground, I shuffle past him into the darkness ahead, blinking when the flights flicker on and illuminate the room in a soft golden glow.

It's everything I saw from looking through the window and more. The bar is not only a beautiful cherry colour, but stocked with gorgeous old-style glassware lit up from behind so the different angles and planes seem to sparkle in the light. Low wooden coffee tables with vintage velvet-lined chairs are scattered throughout the room, contrasted by high tables with stools. In the corner, the beautiful piano stands, and now that I'm inside, up close, in the same room as it, I have to get nearer.

I open the lid and run my fingers over the smooth, worn keys. This piano has a story to tell. One I can feel in its ivory bones.

"It's beautiful," I breathe.

"It was my mother's."

I jump. He's right behind me.

And I'm here to sort out the whole theft thing. Not to fall in love with this piano.

Right.

"How can I make it up to you?" I turn, and he's right there, and wow, up close he's way more ... way more
man
than I'd realised before. He'd only be a few years older than me at most, but his shoulders are broad, lined, and there's something about his eyes that screams of depth, of times past, and of pain.

I see myself in his gold-flecked eyes.

He clears his throat and glances away, then runs a hand through his hair, and I see his arms, arms that are scarred with tattoos and curved with his muscles. They’re dangerous arms. Capable of so much.

"How 'bout you tell me the truth?"

"I ..."
I really want to.
"I ... can't."

Silence swamps us, and a sigh escapes the man's mouth. "Look ... you told me once that you're not really a 'bar person'. Say I was to believe that. Say I was to think that perhaps this isn't something you've done, but something you're doing ... for someone else."

I bite my lip, nodding slowly.

"And say that if that were the case, do you think you could assure me that this wouldn't happen again?"

My nods speeds up.

"My name's Jase." He thrusts his hand out and I stare at it, that hand with callouses and grooves in front of my chest.

"Lia," I say softly as I let my hand fall into his firm grasp. He shakes, twice, and then there's this weird pause where both of us should be releasing hands, but neither of us is. Electricity flows between us.

Then it's over, and I shiver.

Duke was safe. Duke wasn't tingles.

I don't have room in my plan for tingles.

"So as you can see, your offer to clean, while generous, is unwarranted," he finishes with a smile, and I look up and meet his gaze, giving my best convincing nod. "What I do need is bar staff. And someone to man the piano once a week."

I purse my lips. If I tell him I'm not eighteen, is he going to report me after all? "Is there anything else I could do instead?" I screw up my nose, and he laughs.

"Look, I don't really need anything else," he says. "And besides, the girl I hear playing piano three times a week—"

He knows my schedule?

"—she plays notes so beautiful, it's like being transported to another world. I feel that—the emotions you portray using those keys, and it's the most amazing thing I've ever heard. That girl couldn't create that magic, orchestrate those notes if she didn't love it. If she didn't breathe it."

"I breathe it," I whisper, and I do.
He understands me
. And I don't know how.

"I want this to be a good thing for you. Once you've worked off those six bottles of wine—which will maybe take you one shift?—I'll pay you. We can make this work." He smiles, and it's so easy that I smile along with him.

I do a mental tally in my head. It's only a few weeks till my birthday. Surely I could get away with working underage for that long.

"Of course, you'd need your RSA—or do you already have that?" he asks, then furrows his brow. "Wait, you are eighteen, aren't you?"

I swallow. Heat rushes through me and my mouth feels dry, as if someone has taken one of those sucky things you get at the dentist and zoomed up all my saliva. Responsible Service of Alcohol, the paperwork that enables you to serve alcohol to people in bars and clubs. To people over-eighteen. Because you
are
over-eighteen.

Gulp.

And yet all of a sudden, I want this. Not just to pay off my debt and avoid getting a criminal record, but also because this man standing before me understands what I do. He appreciates it. And what if I could play in front of others and have them reach the emotions I portray too?

"I don't have my RSA yet"—and hopefully that will buy me some time—"but I can get it."

"Great." He grins this time, and wow. Dimples. "You can apply online, so you can start this week. They give you a paper printout, then you just need to go to the post office and get your plastic card. You have a few weeks to do that."

I nod, my mind racing. How the hell will I do that?

Already, I’m forming a plan. I could fill in the online form and use Mum's name. Then I'll have the paperwork, and hopefully by the time that expires, I can apply for my RSA officially.

"So it's settled." He strolls behind the bar and pulls out a beer from the fridge behind it. "You'll start on Friday. We'll do a training session during the day before, but I wouldn't stress. It'll be a soft launch; I haven't done much in the way of promotion."

My mind races. Friday. I'll have to skip school. It's risky, but I'm sure all I'd need to do is catch Mum in one of her boozy states to sign me a sick note. I can't believe I'm doing this! It's so ... illegal.

It's so completely un-Lia Stanton.

And I can't decide if that's a good or a bad thing.

Jase takes the top off the bottle he pulled from the fridge and slides it over the counter to me. "We're a classic cocktail bar. We're going for that really old-school feel, doing things the right way. You know, none of those shooters with gross sexual names."

He laughs, and I giggle along with him, even though all I'm thinking is
what the hell is he talking about?
I'll have to Google that when I get home.

"So Lia." He twists the top off another beer and tilts it in an angle toward me, leaning over the bar, his arms folded over the counter.

"To new beginnings."

I grab my beer and chink it against his, the cool bottle not nearly cold enough to make me feel less flustered. "To new beginnings."

Then we both tip back our bottles and drink to what could either be the best or the worst thing I've ever decided to do in my life.

Ever
since I can remember, Mum has been a fidgeter. She's always needed to have something to do with her hands, to keep them busy.

Since she started drinking, it's gotten worse.

Way, way worse.

Her fingers dance circles around each other, her joints creaking as she pulls them, and even though every time the little click sounds it reminds me of something breaking, I don’t try and force her to stop. Because she’s here. She’s finally at the doctor’s office.

"Do you want to just go?" she whispers to me, and I raise my eyebrows at her. "Okay, okay! Just asking." Her hands fly up in defiance, and I give her a small smile. At least she's here. That’s a step in the right direction.

She picks up a dated magazine off the coffee table, then flicks through it, pausing on a page with a picture of a handbag. It's yellow, a bright sunny colour that screams out
I am handbag hear me roar.

"That's nice, isn't it?" She points, and I nod. "I'd love to one day have a handbag like that ..."

"Maybe you could try getting a job again—" I stop when her eyes widen.

"You know I try, Lee Lee. Don't give me that speech."

To an extent, it's true. Or, at least it was in the beginning. I haven't seen much evidence of trying since Smith came along. Then again, I haven't seen much of her in general, so perhaps that's why.

Back then, though? She used to make a point of applying for at least three jobs every week, circling them in the local paper and leaving it out so I could see, almost as proof.
See, I'm trying to be a good mother. I don't want us to have to live like this. I’m sorry … for everything.

But each time, nothing would come of it. Occasionally, she'd have an interview, but they never worked out, and in a town the size of ours, it didn't take long before the phone calls for more questions started drying up too.

I lick my lips and try a new line of conversation, something to make this silence between us less laden with tension. But there’s only one thing on my mind.

“Duke and I broke up,” I choke out, blinking back the tears that threaten to fall whenever I think of him and Kat.

“Honey.” Mum squeezes my knee. “I’m so sorry.”

I look into her eyes. They really do seem to bleed sympathy.

It’s strange to see that emotion there.

"Marie Stanton?"

Both our heads snap up in unison as Dr McDonald calls her name. He turns and strides down the hall, and you can hear the words
time is money
in his footsteps, and I'm under no illusion in thinking that it's not when it comes to him.

I scramble to my feet, and Mum gives one last lingering look at that handbag before closing the magazine and placing it back on the pile, then strolling down the hall where Dr McDonald disappeared.

I close the door behind me and Mum sits in the seat closest to the window, leaving me the hard plastic one next to her. Dr McDonald takes his glasses off, twiddles them between his thumb and forefinger, and asks, "What can I do for you, today?"

Silence.

"Mum?" I prompt gently.

"Oh! Sorry." She smiles, and places her trembling hands under her thighs. "I ... I'm here because ... I'm having some trouble with ... drinking."

Time stops. The world halts on its axis and does a freaking backflip because
oh my God
,
did my mother just say she has a drinking problem?

"Mum." I wrap an arm around her shoulder and squeeze her small body closer to me. She smells like lemon and stale wine, but I'm so proud of her in that moment that I don't care, because this is leaps and bounds from where she once was.

"My daughter ... I need to be better for Lia." This time, her words hold more confidence than before.

"Congratulations," Dr McDonald says. "It's not an easy thing to admit." He pauses and looks at some notes on the computer. "I have here, though, that you have perhaps tried to quit, or at least come in to talk about it before." He licks his thin lips. "What do you think let you down last time?"

"I don't know." Mum shrugs and giggles, a nervous little laugh. "Maybe I didn't want to ... enough."

"And now you do?" Dr McDonald prompts.

"Yes." She nods decidedly. "This time is different."

"There are lots of tools available to help you during this difficult time, but one of the things we recommend most is that you attend regular AA meetings. Having someone, some people to check in with, to chat about your struggles and your achievements with—that's a real benefit." Dr McDonald puts his glasses back on and tappity-tap-taps some notes into his computer. "How often at the moment would you say you're drinking?"

"Oh ... too much, probably," she hedges.

"How much?" Dr McDonald pushes those glasses back up his nose.

"Maybe four glasses everyday?"

"Mu-um." I sigh.

"Let's just put four for now, as a regular amount, not a binge."

"She does those too," I say, and I feel like the world's biggest bitch, but I'm worried that if I don't do this now, I might lose my mother. I need her to be strong for when I go to Melbourne. I can't leave the shell of the woman shaking next to me now.

"Mrs Stanton, is that correct?" It's Dr McDonald's turn to glare at me, and I look at my feet with what I hope is good grace.

"Sometimes. Occasionally." She nods.

Dr McDonald does a few more of the routine tappity-taps, then hits print and the big grey machine whirs to life, spitting out four sheets of paper, the first of which he takes and signs. "This is for some blood tests, just to check on your general health and see if perhaps your drinking has resulted in any adverse conditions," he says, handing Mum a green, white and grey sheet of paper. "The other sheets are information on eliminating alcohol from your routine, and the third has numbers for different alcohol support groups in the area."

"Do they cost anything?" I ask, mentally running through our budget.

"No. At the end, though, often a bowl is passed around to cover the costs of renting the space." Dr McDonald folds the papers and hands them over to Mum, who takes them and starts flicking through, her eyes alive with interest.

"Miss Stanton, can I ask you to step outside for a moment?" the doctor asks me.

I blanch, frowning. "I—"

"I have some private questions and assessments to discuss with your mother."

I shuffle out of the room, heading back for the waiting area. When I get to the door, I turn and look at my mother, begging her with my eyes.
Please, tell him.

Because there's a secret between my mum and I that just isn't mine to tell.

"I'll see you outside." She smiles, and my heart breaks a little. Because I know from that line that our secret will stay safe.

Hidden under my shirt.

***

After the doctor's appointment, Mum doesn't drink. Not that whole afternoon, or even that night, and I can't think of a time when she's been so sober for so many hours in a row. It's not that she's blind drunk all the time—she's just not often completely without it. And every other time she's tried to quit, she's caved once the sun has gone down and what she calls the lonely hours kick in.

The lonely hours are the times in the afternoon, the times when she would have previously welcomed Dad home. They'd have hugged by the front door, then spent time chatting in the kitchen while she prepared dinner. Then we'd all hang out and eat, maybe watch some TV before I went to bed, and then they'd have their alone time once more. Once a week, he’d even bring her flowers—violets, usually, and she’d place them in a vase on the coffee table.

Now, she's lonely. The vase still sits on the table, occasionally with some weeds and a rank green liquid floating around inside it. And those afternoon hours are a painful reminder of time she could have been spending with him.

"Pass the salt, please." She reaches across the dining table, and I grab the shaker and pass it over. "Thanks."

Forks and knives screech against porcelain, a horrific booming soundtrack to our quiet-as-a-mouse dinner.

"It's really good." She puts a mouthful of what I'm now calling Lia's Pasta Bake in her mouth, and I breathe out and smile.

I put down my cutlery, and stare at her. "Thanks, Mum."

"I'm just telling it like it is—"

"I mean for the doctor's today. Seriously, I'm so proud of you." It feels weird to be saying that to your mother, but it's hard for me not to feel kind of maternal around her now.

"I should have ..." She shakes her head, and places her fork on the table, too. "It shouldn't have taken my daughter to get me there. Lia, I'm so sorry."

She stands and walks over to me, then wraps me up in her arms. She rubs her hand over my back, and even though I didn't feel like crying, suddenly I'm this great big cheese-ball of emotion, and tears well in my eyes because
this is my mum
and I think she's turning a corner. That maybe this could be the start of a new Marie Stanton, one who can function on her own. One who will be more than fine when I leave.

A tear wets my forehead, and I look up and break our hug to wipe the tears from her eyes, before giving mine a brushing over too. "Do you think you'll be different now?"

She shrugs. "I'm going to try, darling."

And I guess that when it comes down to it, I can't ask for much more than that.

***

Screaming.

Loud, haunting and solitary, echoing through our house.

I bolt upright in bed, and the LED clock reads three in the morning. My breath hitches in my throat and I throw back the covers, then fly down the hall to Mum's room. The door is shut, and I wrestle with it, the lock clicked into place.

"Mum!" I yell, hammering on the door with my fist. "Mum, Mum! Open up!"

But the screaming just continues, and nothing I do seems to get me in there, to the place I really want to be. I take two steps back and slam my shoulder into the door, but it doesn't budge, and I don't know why I expected it to because I'm not Arnold Schwarzenegger and this is not a movie. This is my life. And I can't rely on muscle-man moves to save me.

"Mum!" I yell again, and the screams falter, and I'm not sure if that's a bad or a good thing. My heart pounds away like jack-hammer, hard, fast, and sending vibrations throughout my body.
She can't ...

"Please," I gasp, breath short in my throat.

The door lurches open, and I almost fall on the tiny woman standing before me. I switch on the light and study her. Hair is plastered to her face from sweat, and her nightgown is askew, the strap twisted over her shoulder. She shakes as she reaches out her arms, and I throw myself into them without a second's thought.

"Are you okay?" I whisper, pulling back to study her face.

"It was just ... a dream." She nods, but her eyes are so wide with fear that if she'd told me it was real, and that she'd walked in on it again, I would have believed her.

"It's okay." I walk back over to the bed and pull the sheets out from under the comforter, straightening them both so they're no longer in a tangled mess. Then I pull them back in an inviting fold for her to slip into.

Mum meekly walks over and hops between the sheets, letting me tuck her in and smooth her hair back as she hits the pillow again.

"I'm going to leave the door open, okay?" She nods, and I continue. "And I'm right down the hall. If you need me. For anything."

The nods are slower this time.

"Lee Lee ... I drink to forget." She swallows down a sob. "Do I have to remember?"

I close my eyes. I did this to her. I forced her to relive that truth.

"I think so." I kiss her forehead then get up, turning off the light as I walk past the door.

I try so hard and ignore those words that come out of her mouth. Those words that hurt me to hear on so many levels.

"But I don't want to."

***

Mum is up and sitting at the table, picking at the skin around her fingers.

"Don't do that!" I bat my hand at hers, and she pauses for a second, then resumes the activity.

"I'm so anxious," she says. Big, purple bags sag under her eyes.

"Did you get back to sleep at all last night?" I ask, hopeful. It's day two of no drinking, and so far she's passed the test with flying colours.

"No." A shake of the head that's far too quick. "But I cleaned the kitchen."

I turn to look behind her, and she's right. The usual stack of dishes I pile next to the sink, leaving them for the next day or night, is gone, and the recycling isn't piled up on the counter as it usually is.

Then I look closer, and it gets weird. She's stacked the fruit I bought at the shop according to colour. The celery on the bottom is green, then she has a layer of red apples and tomatoes, then yellow squash and bananas. The coffee mugs are arranged according to height on the shelf above the toaster.

With a quick glance at her, I get up and open the pantry. It too has its contents arranged according to colour—tomato paste, tomato sauces and tinned tomato squatting next to a red breakfast cereal and a bottle of creaming soda I'd gotten on sale two months ago but never bothered to drink. Pasta next to tinned corn and taco shells.