How To Save A Life (15 page)

For some reason, I find this even funnier, and I start to giggle, and soon I can't stop.

"She's drunk, Jase." Soraya jerks her thumb at me.

"
She
is going to mop and go home. You can continue ... whatever." I flick my hand toward the two of them, as if I'm the boss around here.

Jase laughs, then nods. "I'll give you a hand, Lia. Soraya, you can head home."

She frowns and folds her arms, pushing up those balloon-like boobs. She reminds me of a peacock, so proud to strut her stuff in front of him, and I giggle again as I walk into the stock room to find a mop.

I halt just before I walk back inside, leaning to the side of the mop when their murmured voices reach me. They're standing close, very close, and I stare at them for a few moments. There's something about the way she leans into him, tucking a strand of his hair behind his ear that makes me think of people in love. People like my parents used to be.

People I hate
.

For the second time today—or was it the first time yesterday, now that it's sometime after two?—bile lurches in my throat, and I clutch at my stomach, as if doing so will grant me the power to claw it back down. Amazingly, it does, and I walk into the bar, mop and bucket in hand, a smile plastered over my face.

"Just coming through," I say cheerily as I head to the kitchen and grab the disinfectant I'd seen under the sink to pour liberally into the bucket. Seconds later, I add jugs of hot water, and the scent of pine and clean filters through my nose. Then I raise the mop and slap it down into the hot liquid surface, jumping out of the way as the water splashes out, threatening to land on my leather court heels, the only shoes aside from my soaked Cons I could justify wearing tonight.

My heels ache, and glancing out the front and seeing the bar empty, I take them off, placing them on the counter and rubbing my arches appreciatively. It feels so good, I toss my head back, well aware that I must look like a weirdo to anyone who walks past, but not caring because
damn
, that ache.

"You ... okay?"

I turn to see Jase standing in the doorway to the kitchen, a bemused smile upon his face.

I grin back at his freaking dimples. "Yeah," I sigh.

"You know you're rubbing your foot, right?" He tilts his head.

"Yeah. I don't normally wear high heels. So my arches are sore. It's just common sense, really." I shake my head, as if talking to a child.

"Yeah? Where did you used to work, before this?"

"At a cafe. The View. And my boss was a jerk and a bully." I give a particularly strong rub to a spot right between the pad of my big toe and the second one. My eyes roll back at the orgasmic feeling. "Oh, that feels amazing ..."

"I ..." Jase's eyes are wide, his pupils dilated, then he shakes his head and quickly speaks. "I'll mop. You sit."

He steps to my side and goes to take the mop, but I clutch it at the same time, only he's much stronger and I fall toward his chest.

His big, muscly,
wow
chest.

Wow ...

His chest is so pretty.

"Uh, Lia?"

So, so pretty ...

"You're touching my chest."

Oh caviar on a crab cake, I am not.

I look down at my traitorous hand.

I am!

Wait ... I looked down ...
does that mean before I was gazing adoringly at his face?

"I'm sorry," I blurt out, pulling the mop away, then picking up the bucket and power-walking into the bar. What the hell is wrong with me? No wonder Mum struggles with alcohol. You don't know what you're doing, and you can't control your actions.

It makes me want to forgive her a little ...

Almost.

"You have a girlfriend, and I shouldn't have been doing that," I blurt out, and I mean every word. I can't be that girl. I can't be the one who hits on a guy who's taken. I know too well how that feels.

A fresh wave of pain balloons in my chest.

"Soraya isn't my girlfriend, Lia."

My chest swells, but I tamp it down. I can’t be excited about Jase. I’m still hurting for Duke.

I mop with furious abandon, pushing all my energy out onto the hard wood floor beneath me. When a spot feels sticky, or the mop struggles to get through it, I relish in the extra push I have to give to get there, loving the satisfaction of getting the job done. Making it work.

When I finally finish, I walk into the back room and rinse the mop out over the sink, propping it up against the large stainless-steel basin to dry, then putting the now-empty bucket in the corner with the two others.

I spin around a little too quick and my head throbs once, twice, a whole fifty million times. Oh God. Oh no. I don't like this at all.

I do not like this, Sam—

Get a grip, Lia.

"All done?"

I don't know where Jase appears from, but wow, there he is in the kitchen doorway again.

"Yep." I smile and take a step forward to leave. "Thanks for the shift."

"No worries." He doesn't move, blocking my exit. Then he frowns. "Look, consider your debt repaid. If you want to walk out now, it's fine with me."

"No!" The word is out my mouth before the ten per cent of me that's sober can stop it. "No, no I don't want to stop. I … I really enjoyed tonight."

At least that part's true. I did enjoy the rush of being busy, and the glory of
not thinking
for once, not being the responsible one, the person leading the way who everyone relies on. It was nice.

"You know, sometimes you seem to disappear inside your head," Jase muses, and I beam up at him.

"Sorry." I pause. "Well, I'll be off."

I push past Jase, but he touches my shoulder, and I turn, and he turns, and suddenly we're facing each other in a doorway, two, maybe three inches of space separating the two of us. I think back to earlier today in the car, when there was possibly less space between our shoulders, but this time there isn't a flimsy car seat stopping our bodies from colliding. The only thing in the way of us ... is us.

"Lia ... you’re a really … you’re something. Something special."

Thu-thunk. Thu-thunk.

"I just washed dishes." My bare feet squirm on the ground.

He pauses and runs a hand through his hair, as if this whole thing is more difficult for him than he lets on. "I’m not talking about the dishes."

Oh.

I freeze in place, unsure of what to do. Jase turns to face the white painted doorframe behind him and rests his forehead against it. "You should go."

Hurt flutters through my body. For a moment there, I'd thought maybe he felt it too, that the pull that drew me toward him dragged him toward me also.

He understood me.

At least, in the notes he left on my car.

"G'night." I grab my shoes and my bag and race past him, swiping at my stupid leaky eyes, no doubt a result of the stupid alcohol I consumed at the end of my stupid job. I yank open the door to the storeroom then press the button for the garage door, all but flying down the ramp and heading to my car outside.

Pain throbs through my body as I take shelter in the tin machine, and I sob my heart out, all the pent-up emotion finally falling from my eyes. Because my best friend and my boyfriend are in love, and yes, it was stupid, but I did kind of have feelings for Jase, and no, I didn't think my mum would remain sober. I cry because of everything.

I wrap my arms over the steering wheel and sob against the hard rubber, my shoulders shaking with each pressure-relieving cry.

I'm going to have to quit my job. I can't work here when I act like such an idiot in front of my boss. Not when he is so clearly not interested, and—

My car door is jerked open, and cool night air engulfs the car, goosebumps rising on my arms.

I turn my head and make out Jase's figure huddled there, the light from the bar illuminating his silhouette.

"I'm not going to drive," I sob, in case he's worried about his sense of responsibility as an employer toward me.

Something dark flashes across his eyes, then he ducks his head under the shelter of the car.

"I didn't come here for that."

He cups my cheeks with his hands and leans in and kisses me. A million thoughts race through my brain, including
I’m not ready for this
and
I’m still hurting
, but his full lips are soft against mine, transporting me from the parking lot to a place far, far away, where there's nothing but bliss and kindness and this stupid feeling blossoming in my chest. The kiss deepens and his hands tangle in my hair, his tongue seeking out mine.

After what could be hours or minutes, he pulls away, the taste of his whiskey-flavoured lips still sweet on my own. It ends this moment of passion that has me wanting so much more and yet at the same time, has me frightened. Afraid . Because I’m not supposed to be kissing strange guys out the front of bars. And because my heart still aches, so, so much for what I’ve lost. For what I’m about to leave behind.

"Sorry," he whispers, his hands draping down to my cheeks once more as he pulls away.

"S'okay," I say just as quietly, though I'm not sure what he means, or why we're being so quiet.

Then a taxi pulls up, and he walks over to it and opens the passenger-side door. "C'mere, Lia. I got you a ride."

I frown as he hands some money to the driver, then gestures for me to come over again.

Slowly, I lock my car and walk over to the cab's open door, sliding into the cold leather seat below. Jase looks down at me, his arms folded across his chest.

"Get home safe, yeah?" he asks, and I don't know what he expects me to answer. He doesn't know that my real safety issues lie inside my house.

"Good night, Jason." I wave and pull the door closed, and the smile that graces his face is worth a thousand dimples and million of those delicious cocktails Kyle made earlier. It's everything.

And I can’t wait to see it again.

The
lights are still on downstairs when the taxi pulls up in the drive, but Smith's car is no longer in its usual spot. I frown as the driver hands me some change, which I look at in confusion then stuff in my pocket, knowing I need to give that back to Jas—

That kiss.

Wow.

I stand up and blink, only my eyes stay closed for a second too long as suddenly I'm falling, and I stumble in an effort to stay upright.

Shaking my head to try and stop the three houses in front of me from turning into one—no wait, the one house in front of me from turning into five, I plod toward the front door, twisting the handle open with ease and cursing when I realise it's unlocked.

Unlocked means
didn't bother to make sure it was shut.

Unlocked means
careless.

And unlocked often means
drunk.

She's not on the couch. No Whitney Houston is playing, and no photos are spread out.

Except for one.

One black and white image.

Her. Him. On their wedding day.

"Shit," I mutter, pushing off against the wall as I race toward the kitchen where I know she'll be. Where she always is when she gets like this.

I trip in through the doorway, and sure enough, she's there. She's been drinking again. The realisation slaps me upside the face and then clocks me in the jaw. Two empty bottles of wine and one half-empty bottle of bourbon are littered over the bench top, along with an empty packet of crisps and an ashtray that's full to the brim. I scrunch up my nose in distaste as the combination of smoke and stale booze hits the back of my already-embracing-a-hangover throat.

None of that gets my real attention though.

My real attention is on the woman standing by the sink in just her underwear, one hand clutching the yellow Formica bench top behind her, the other on our big kitchen knife pointed at her stomach.

It doesn't matter how many times I hide it, or throw it out. She finds it, or she finds something worse.

"Mum ... put the knife down, please." I try to keep my voice level as my palms hold flat, parallel to the floor.

Her hand shakes as she drives the point toward her white flesh, and it puckers as the blade hits her skin. "But I ..." Tears of true unmonitored anguish stream down her cheeks, and I feel her hurt as real as if it's my own, because in a way it is. It always has been, ever since that day eighteen months ago when she fell apart and I was there to pick up the pieces. She can hurt herself but it only hurts me.

"Please." I take a step closer and she shifts the knife a little. A drop of scarlet blood ekes out from underneath the sharp surface and I suck in a breath.
No.

Her eyes are cold, as steely as the knife. I can see the challenge written there. It's almost as if she's asking me,
you don't think I'll do it?
And that blood is her testament that she will. That she can be pushed over the edge at any moment.

"Mum, hurting yourself won't achieve anything," I speak from the script I've run a million times before, only this time my voice shakes, because I'm a little drunk myself.

The high from earlier has well and truly worn off.

"My heart … it hurts," she speaks, and it's somewhere between a cry and torture. It appeals to my nerves and my heart, and I take a step forward to wrap her in my arms … only she drags the knife a little, slightly less than a centimetre, and more hot, red blood oozes from the wound and down her stomach.

"No, no, no, stop, please," I beg, and tears well over my eyes, and I don't know if it's the booze or that it's just as painfully real as it always is.

Because if those you care about don’t love you enough to stick around, then what’s the point in even existing?

This time she lunges the hand that was clutching the bench to the hilt of the knife, and I scream, "No!"

"It doesn't hurt, Lee Lee," she sings, the glaze coming over her eyes even as she hiccoughs sobs out of her mouth. She drags the blade a little, twists it deeper, and my gut clenches. It’s scarier than the scariest horror movie, uglier than the most hardened criminal. Because this is
my mother
. The one and only living relative I’ve got. "It’s … it’s release. It brings me closer to him."

"You're crying, Mum. It does hurt." I step closer, my hands still out in that
I mean no harm
gesture.

"It doesn't," she says, and presses down on the blade, another drop of blood leaking out.

"Stop," I beg. She's so tiny. In that moment, even though I know it sounds ridiculous, I feel as if she doesn't have much bone or flesh inside her. She can't keep doing this. Because soon there will be nothing left.

Just as se drags the blade down, I pull it away from her tiny body before it can cause too much damage. But once again, I’m too late. Her stomach blossoms with a fresh rose, and my stomach lurches as I see what she’s done.

“Mum …” Tears well in my eyes as we wrestle with the blade, till I finally gain control and wrench it from her grasp.

It’s temporary relief. A Band-Aid.

Because a second later she’s rifling through the cutlery drawer, emerging with a steak knife. “You can’t stop me, Lee Lee. Don’t stop me from feeling good.”

"It doesn't feel—"

"Yes it does."

"No, it doesn—"

"Yes. It.
Does
." She spits the last word, and I don't wipe the droplet under my eye, even though I want to. Because right now, there's only one thing between my mother and cutting herself, one thing between my mother and a trip to the hospital, to the psych ward. One thing between her and death.

Me.

"Mum, you need to take a deep breath." I keep my voice level, calm, and take a step closer, the big blade still in my hand.

"It makes the hurt stop, Lee Lee. It just feels good." The fire is still burning dangerously in her eyes. "You should try it. I promise, it's ... it stings a little, but then it gets better. It's ... it's release."

And that’s the thing. She’s so convinced that this brings her pleasure, that the pain somehow brings her closer to Dad, that she wants this sting more than anything.

And why wouldn't she? For the past eighteen months, pain is what our family has survived on. We've gorged on it like hungry beasts in the wild, feasting on the hurt as it runs through our veins. I don't like it, and I don't seek it—but in this moment, I take it, because I don't have a choice.

I've already lost my father.

I won't lose my mother, too.

I lunge forward, dropping the blade and grabbing the knife in her hands. The serrated edge grates into my palm, and a sting flames its way through my body. It’s a fiery kind of hurt, the kind that’s laced with a pang of family and regret. Blood is everywhere, coating my palms, my nails. My palms slip as they try to gain purchase.

Mum’s determination is fierce, and she hisses like a feral cat as I use my second hand to try and pull her wrist away. She twists, and I wrap my spare hand around the first hand’s wrist instead, pulling toward me with everything I have, my body weight fighting hers.

She drops the handle.

The blade races up my palm and cuts through my wrist.

“Shit,” I breathe.

It swells in a jagged line across my creamy white skin. It meets the damage to my hand, blood on blood, a mass of hot, needy pain that swells along the surface. It's this pain I need to bring the tears to my eyes, the sight of my angry red blood against my pale skin to make me cry.

I drop the knife and it clatters to the floor. I shake, tears falling from my eyes as I sob uncontrollably. I press my wrist to my stomach, and feel my shirt matt against my skin and the blood I spilled there.

"My baby." Mum's breathless as she wraps her arm around my shoulders, guiding me to a chair she pulls out from the kitchen table. I flop down into it and she rubs my back, mumbling words of apology, words of contrition.

When her whispers turn to silence, I suck in a deep breath and turn my gaze to her pale face. "It hurts."

"I'm so sorry, baby." Mum's voice shakes. "I didn’t mean to do that. I didn’t mean to hurt you …” And then, on a whisper, “again."

I hate this. I hate this so much, and I hate that I'm so afraid to stop trying to stop her. I can’t just let her keep on hurting.

There was a girl at my old school, Lisa. Once a month she'd try to commit suicide by slitting her wrists, and every time her mother would find her just as she'd made the second cut, swooping in and bandaging the wounds, then taking her to hospital to save the day.

One afternoon, Lisa's mum was stuck in traffic.

Lisa didn't come to school anymore.

I don't know if my mother would follow through with her cutting if I wasn't there to stop it or not, but I'm not game to find out. It's why she has to stop drinking though, before I leave. Because if she doesn't, I'm going to have to take her to the hospital. And knowing how she hates those sterile environments, that disinfectant smell and the stifled routine that prevails there, I don't know if she'll survive.

Later that night, or is it early that morning, I trudge up the stairs to my room, Mum following close behind.

"G'night, baby girl," she says as she continues toward her own bed.

I strip off my clothes and toss them in the hamper. I know I should start soaking my shirt now, but I'm tired, and even though my hangover feels as if it has melted away, the headache remains, pounding in the back of my brain.

"It's black anyway," I mumble to myself. It should be easy to wash out.

If only the new scratches on my wrist and the longer, harsher one on my stomach could be erased with a little Sunlight soap too. One is from eighteen months ago. The other, only eighteen minutes.

Both remind me of my mother, and in turn of myself.

We’re a lot alike. My eyes are twins of hers, our hair colour so damn similar. Sometimes I wish it wasn’t. Sometimes I wish that physical reminder wasn’t there.

Because the memory of our past confronts me every time I look in the mirror.