How To Save A Life (17 page)

“It’s beautiful.” Jase’s voice is low as his hands rest next to mine on the green metal railing.

“It’s endless,” I breathe, overwhelmed by just how big it is, and just how small we really are.

“They say that when you’re looking at it from a height, the horizon is about twenty kilometres away.”

“Really?” I turn to face him.

“Really.” He smiles. “It almost feels like you could swim that far, you know? But then, I’m sure it wouldn’t be that easy.”

And I know we’re not just talking about the ocean anymore. Because nothing in life is that easy. Nothing seems to be that simple.

“Lia,” Jase says, and he cups a hand to the back of my neck, his face moving closer to mine. His eyes are focused on my lips, and I so want this, to get lost in this man and let him take me away from this place.

But that’s not fair to him.

Not when I’m still hurting for Duke.

Not when I have baggage the size of Mack truck and no way of explaining it to him.

“I’m sorry.” I place my hands on Jase’s chest, and I hate how right they feel there. How they feel as if they belong.

Jase jerks back, his eyes blinking open. “No, I’m sorry.” He shakes his head, his hand falling from my neck. “I’m such a dick. I thought—”

“No.” I interrupt. “You thought right. I like you, I do, it’s just …” I lick my lips as I search for the words. “It’s just that my heart has recently been broken. This speed … I can’t get lost in you.”

His eyes darken, and electricity sparks between us. “I’m already getting lost in you.”

His words steal the breath from my throat, and as he turns and heads back to the motorbike, I’m left wondering if I just made the biggest mistake of my life.

No, Lia
, I remind myself.
You’re leaving.
And he’s probably not that interested in you anyway.

“Here.” He passes me my helmet from the handlebar, and I buckle it up under my chin. God, I hope this isn’t going to be weird now. That I haven’t made things difficult for when I work again next week.

He straddles the bike without a word and I slink in behind him. This time, when I wrap my arms around his waist, I make sure I don’t press my body too close to his. That I keep some distance between us.

The engine turns over and the bike yells. Jase does up his helmet buckle, and just as he kicks up the stand, he yells over his shoulder, “I’m not going to give up on you, Lia.”

And my heart sings the whole way back to the hall.

They
don’t stop. The dreams don’t quit.

I’m in the room.

He's in the room.

I'm breathing.

He's not.

Blood, blood coats everything, the essence of his life painted across the room. Mum is screaming, these horrid, gut-wrenching cries that are being ripped from her body, all because of this man.

I race to his side, shaking my head. "Daddy?"

My voice is tiny.

His reply is non-existent.

There's blood everywhere, so much blood, and as I grab for the note on the bedside table I slip, careening across the red-stained floorboards. Now his life isn't just painted across the room. It's painted on me.

I don't know if I'm hiccoughing or crying, but whatever it is, it hurts. It hurts in my chest, in my throat, in my stomach, in my arms, in my legs, in my head, and it smells, a weird metallic scent that I know means blood like I know salt means beach.

I crawl to a sit, and open the letter, bloodstained down my white school uniform, over the piece of paper gripped so tightly it's creasing in my shaking hand.

MY DARLING GIRLS,

I AM SO SORRY

LOVE,

DAD

Four words.
I am so sorry.

And I'll never forgive him for that.

***

Sunday lives up to its name, with toasty, skin-warming rays beating down on Emerald Cove. It's a day for washing, and for walking. The sound of lawn mowers eats through the suburban peace, drowning out the sound of the still-angry surf.

Mum is sleeping. She spends most of her time sleeping after an incident like Friday night. I can't blame her. I kind of wish I was in bed right now, too.

But there's something so deliciously smile-inspiring about these perfect sunny days, as if the world has been washed clean and brought to a new state of shine that only the post-rain sun can bring out. That's what drives me to get out of bed, to put on a load of our own washing and to mop the floors, as if by giving a fresh new coat of cleanliness to our house, I can somehow scrub away all the bad memories that haunt it. I empty all the bottles of alcohol I can find down the drain, tossing the glass into the recycling bin, then find all the knives—every sharp knife in our house—and I sneak around the neighbourhood, hiding them in other people’s bins. I can’t leave them in ours, or she’ll find them.

Then I eat a quick lunch, before packing my bag, ready for practice. Only, I'm not ready.

I'm not ready at all.

My focus is lost, thanks to another sleepless night courtesy of the nightmares, those stupid vivid dreams that curse my mother and me. My eyes sting—they just want to be closed, and my heavy limbs seem to share the same desire.

Still, I stare at the sheet music in front of me, study the progressions and the melody, and wonder if I'm about to make the worst mistake of my life. I still can't believe that she did it again. After the first few times, I confronted her about it. She said it would stop.

And for a while, she did. It has been seven, maybe eight months since I've come home to find that. Now, she's done it again, and I'm walking around with a physical reminder.

Guilt plays on my conscience that this is what I'm leaving behind. That this woman, who one afternoon seems completely normal, who had even stopped drinking, could turn into someone like that, with that glaze of horrific happiness in her eyes. Will my leaving kill her?

Focus.

And that's just the start of it. Was taking the job at the bar a good idea? What if I fall too far behind in my practise? The scholarship is very competitive. Last year, they had more than one thousand people try out for it. And I have to try and be that one they pick, the student whose studies they'll finance in the city eleven glorious hours from here.

My mind flashes back to the empty wine bottles on the counter at home.

No, screw try.

I
need
to be.

Still, I worry about Mum, about life, about me, about hoping too much and needing too badly and suddenly my hands take on a life of their own and they express every hope, every desire, every need I have within me, forcing those emotions out into a cacophony of drama. I play loud and soft, fast and slow, hard and gentle, and the notes soothe the rage inside of me, calming down my whirlwind of confusion until it's a much more manageable breeze.

When my time is up, I slip my feet into my flip-flops, warmed by the afternoon sun's heat. It may not have helped improve my chances at the scholarship, but it was cathartic, and that has to mean something.

Then I gather up my papers, placing them in my calico bag, and head to the car. This time, I look up at the bar next door. The windows are open, and I can hear the sounds of a much more upbeat funk tune playing through the speakers. The steady rhubarb of voices rumbles over the top of that and I smile, knowing Jase's venture is off to a good start.

Jase
.

Just the thought of him brings back memories of Friday night, and then again of yesterday’s ride.

That kiss.

I rest my back against the car door and close my eyes, revelling in the decadent memory then quickly packing it away, as if it's a piece of the most divine chocolate and I need to savour it.

Then I shake it off. Because I know I can’t get into anything with him. What happened after that kiss is just one of the many reasons why.

I stow my bag in the car, and place the key in the engine. When I see the piece of paper under the wiper, I smile, cocking my head and staring quizzically up at the bar. How did he even find time to sneak out here and deliver that?

Reaching around, I grab the note from where it's tucked and pull it inside the vehicle, close to my chest.

I DON’T KNOW IF I CAN SWIM TO THE HORIZON

BUT KNOW THIS—I WANT YOU

***

Each step I take toward music on Monday seems harder, as if I'm ploughing through sludge instead of air. I didn't work again all weekend, but I'm still so tired, so drained physically and emotionally from Friday night and then the emotionally-charged days that followed that it feels as if all the sleep in the world wouldn't be enough to bring me back to normal.

I shake my head, throw my bag under my desk, and then sling myself into my seat, resting my head in my hands. I just want to shut out the world today, especially—

"Hi."

Kat.

Especially Kat.

"Hey." I peek through my fingers at her. She’s so familiar to me, and yet right now, still not. Because the girl who I thought was my best friend wouldn’t have kissed my ex-boyfriend.

I blink.
Ex
. It still hurts, but it doesn’t sting like it did a week ago.

"How you doing?" She's guarded, but smiling, and I pull my hands from my face and straighten.

"Okay.” I swallow, and surprisingly, I am. I hurt, but I’m not—the ache doesn’t feel so terminal anymore. “You?"

"Good." She pauses, then smiles again. "I meant how are you really doing?"

The question knocks me for six. "What do you mean?"

Is she seriously asking how I'm handling the breakup? I fix her with a glare, because how dare she? You don’t stamp on someone’s heart and then ask how hard it’s breaking. “You don’t get it, do you?”

“I …” Kat falters, her eyes darting around the room.

“You broke my heart, Kat.” A tremor threatens my voice, and I purse my lips. “I thought you were my best friend.”

“I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry.” She places her hand on my wrist and I shake it off.

We sit in silence for a while, and the rest of the class starts to file in. I reach down to my bag to grab out my notepad and pen, when Kat speaks again.

"Your mum doesn't have cancer, does she?"

Thu-thunk.

Thu-thunk.

My heart beats.

Blood sloshes around inside my body.

All the systems and movements inside of me are amplified, because she did not just ask that question and I cannot answer it right now.

"Lia?" she presses.

"I ..."

Don't know what I should answer.

Don't know if I want to tell Kat anything.

Don't think I can handle this.

I grab my notepad and pen, then scoop my bag off the floor and sling it over my shoulder, moving to the only seat left at the front of the classroom, aside from the empty chair on the other side of Kat. I put my things down and sit, and from the corner of my eye see Duke strut into class, bending down to give Kat a lingering kiss on the lips. "Where's Crazy?" He jerks his head toward my empty seat.

Ouch.

One person sniggers.

Kat whacks him across the stomach, then whispers in his ear.

"Sorry, Lia," Duke calls across the class.

He’s not sorry.

I turn my head, focusing on the blackboard.

I have to get out of this town
.

Smith
is home with Mum when I get there. They're sitting on the couch, both nursing glasses of wine and watching some crappy afternoon TV.

"Hi, baby." Mum smiles brightly. Her lips are purple from the wine.

"Hi, Lia," Smith says, placing his drink down.

"Hey." I kick off my shoes and then start upstairs, but I'm feeling particularly destructive today, and maybe it's because of that, or maybe it's because I am so sick of being a passenger in the train of Mum's life, that I pause. “Mum, why are you drinking?”

“I’m … I’m just having one.” Her voice is small, and I glare at her, because her lips tell a different story. “Baby, I’ve had a stressful day. I couldn’t find a job, and—”

"Smith, do you have a job?" I interrupt, partly because I want to know if he’s been here with her all afternoon and partly because I need to know if he can support her when I leave. If he can help her financially.

"Lia! Manners," Mum reprimands.

"It's fine, Marie." Smith holds out a hand to placate her. "Yes, Lia. I'm a butcher."

"Oh." I nod. "Where do you work?" I think of the cute little butchery down in Emerald Cove. It's a family-run business, but I know they do get a few people in from outside.

"In the abattoir up the mountain."

Oh.

That kind of a butcher.

I think of Smith, those big hands, that physically intimidating stance. He's the last person on earth I want to imagine wielding a knife with the intention to take away life.

"Good ... job?" I ask weakly, and he laughs, a roaring big laugh that's too loud for this small house.

"Ah, yes. It's exciting," he says with a wink. "Never a dull moment."

Well didn't you just jump off the Creep Train from Weirdo Town?

"Okay, well I'm just going to go upstairs now ..."

"Got a second, Lee Lee?"

I pause and look over to Mum. She tilts her head toward the kitchen and I follow her in there, throwing my bag down by the staircase as I pass it.

She pulls the small shutter door to, even though I know and she knows it's far from soundproof. This old house wasn't built for convenience. The handle shifts on the door, falling away from its screw, and I smile. It was barely built at all.

"I just want you to know I'm trying," she says, giving me a soft smile.

"Ha!" I snort. "Trying? Really?" I nod pointedly toward the glass clutched firmly between her fingers.

"I didn't drink all yesterday, Lee Lee. I'm just having a few today ... then tomorrow I'll stop again. I've even called that AA guy. I'm going." She puffs out her chest, and I try to get enthused and not play the 'I'll believe it when I see it' card, a card I seem willing to deal out too often when it comes to my mother. A card I have on the top of my deck after the events of Friday night.

"When is it?" I fold my arms.

"Wednesday night." She walks past and crosses the kitchen to the pantry, where she pulls out a big square calendar. "Look."

I take it from her. It's this years, and I flip it through to September, where she's drawn a giant big smiley face on today's date.

"I'm going to monitor my good days, my bad days. See if maybe it ... inspires me." She shrugs. I'm speechless. It's a great idea. I also kind of feel like I should offer to take her to the shops and let her pick any toy she wants if she gets five smiley faces in a row. "Smith thought it'd be a good idea. That it might help."

"So Smith is helping you with this?"

"Yes. He says I need to cut back. I have a problem," Mum recites the words as if she's well-versed in the confession.

"Then how come he's drinking with you now?" I narrow my eyes.

"We're doing it as a couple, as an after-work beverage." She nods. "But then we'll both stop before dinner."

For once, it feels as if a little weight has been lifted from my mind. Smith's actually a good guy. And where I couldn't stop her alone—perhaps with the help of Smith, I can. Maybe we can get her through this together. "Okay."

"Okay?" She smiles, and skips over to put the calendar back. "C'mon, Lia. You're allowed to be excited about this. It's a good thing!"

"It is," I enthuse, and follow her back out into the lounge.

"Did you show her, Ellie baby?" Smith leans his head back over the couch cushions to look at us.

"Sure did." She rushes around the couch and places her empty wine glass on the coffee table, sliding up nice and close next to her boyfriend. I notice she doesn't refill the glass, even though there's half a bottle right there, sitting on the table next to it.

"I'm really ... that was a great idea, Smith," I say. Credit where credit's due.

"I have a lot of great ideas." He sips his wine and winks.
Creepy vibes where creepy vibes are due.

"Okay, I gotta go study. Do you guys want me to make you dinner?"

"We got it, baby," Mum calls as I pick up my bag. "You just concentrate on you."

I start up the stairs and head to my room where I throw my bag down and shut the door. I shake my head. Is this really happening? Grabbing the red marker from my desk, I march over to the door and firmly cross off another number on my chart. 136 days to go.

I'm rifling through my bag, getting out my books to study, when my phone rings, and I pull it out. An unidentified number flashes across the screen, but I swipe across and answer it.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Lia?"

Jase.

"Hi. Yeah. Lia."

Oh God, where have my sentences gone? I'm one step away from me Jane, you Tarzan.

"Hey."

Pause

"Hey."

He laughs, and it's deep and rich and quiet, and nothing at all like the way Smith just sounded downstairs. "This could be going a little better, huh?"

"It could," I agree, then lie back on my bed, resting my head against the saggy pillow. "How'd you even get my number?"

"If I saw your employee info sheet, is that breaking bar owner/bar employee trust?"

"I guess it depends on the intent of this call," I say, and I know I should stay away, that he deserves someone who isn’t half a person, who isn’t a shell, but after my shitty day at school, and Mum and Smith this afternoon, I just want to feel, and
he’s making me feel
.

"Well, let's say the intent of this call is to book you in for another shift this Friday and then Saturday, if that's okay?" he says, and I can tell from his tone of voice that he's smiling too. "But then perhaps, if the conversation swung that way, I could also casually ask what you were doing Wednesday night—you know, since I have you on the phone already—and see if perhaps you'd like to spend it with me. Moving slowly. As friends, even. And not pushing you to do anything you didn’t want."

I press my eyes shut. Because God, right now, do I want to. But still, Wednesday. With the performance coming up so soon, I can’t.
Crap
. "Sorry, I can't."

"The bar shifts, or Wednesday?"

"Wednesday." I sigh. "I really want to, it's just that I'm already shortening my practise time on Friday to come in to work, and I've been finding it tricky to focus lately. I can't take a night off with my scholarship performance so close."

He's silent for a moment, and I worry that maybe I’ve said something terribly wrong.

"I ... uh, I have a thing Tuesdays," he says, clearing his throat. "Which is a shame. I'd like to see you."

"Look, maybe I could see you after practise for a while? I can't stay out all night"—on a school night—"but I could just chill with you for an hour or so."

The unspoken words roil around in my stomach for a moment.

"Awesome." Jase rushes in to speak, then coughs, clearing his throat. "I mean yeah, cool. Whatever. Sounds y'know ... good."

I giggle, then blurt out without thinking, "You totally like me."

He exhales. "Thank God you already know. I was worried I was going to have to keep it a secret."

I laugh uncontrollably, and those tingles turn to an undeniable warmth that spreads through me. He joins in, and for those few moments, there isn't any drinking, or friends acting weird, or secrets, or cutting, or crying. It's just us. Just
this
.

Just
honesty
.

***

The house is dark.

Quiet.

Wind whistles outside, the windows shuddering in their frames against the pressure.

Inside, though?

Nothing.

So why did I wake up?

I open my eyes, and I'm staring at my wall. I can't really see it—I just know it's there. I rack my brain, trying to work out what triggered this middle-of-the-night wake-up call, but nothing comes to mind. I hadn't had a nightmare—although there's still plenty of the night to go, my subconscience reminds me—and Mum had been out when I'd gotten home from school, and I didn't think she'd come home since.

I wondered where she'd been—of course I did. But when I sent her off a text, she'd replied and said she was just over at Smith's, which made me smile. Smith had a place. Smith had a—totally creepy—job. He had determination to try and make things right with her.

Maybe if things worked out, they'd move in together. He could look after her. Pay for her to get the sort of treatment she needed if AA didn't work out.

But it would.

I have to stop thinking negatively.

I shift, and am about to roll over when I feel it.

The weight on the end of my bed.

Someone is sitting on my bed.

Like a deer in headlights, I lie still, very, very still, and try and force my breathing to come long and deep, as if I were asleep. Or how I imagine I'd sound breathing if I were asleep. Crap, crap,
crap!

The room smells like dirt, and sweat, and whiskey, and I have this feeling, a sixth sense if you will, that it's not Santa Claus come early to pay me a judgmental visit.

It's Smith.

I know it, just like I know that 'waking up' could be the worst thing I do right now.

I need to keep the element of surprise on my side.

Minutes tick by, and still he doesn't leave, but he doesn't
do
anything either. He seems to just be watching me sleep.
Has he done this before
?

My muscles are tensed, and I clench my hands into fists under the sheets. My eyes adjust to the darkness somewhat, but I don't dare risk rolling over in case he sees me, realises I'm awake. Because as horrible as this is, it could be worse.

Just when I think I can't take it anymore, that I'm going to scream, throw my giant history textbook at him and head for the hills—although since that's where his abattoir is, maybe the ocean would be a safer bet—he moves.

I scrunch my eyes tight but can still feel his shadow over me as he traces a finger from the crown of my head, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

"Good night, little dove."

Dry, brittle lips press against my cheek, and the stench of his sweat is almost too much to bear.