Music From Standing Waves (30 page)

“You are home.” Justin moves his head so it
touches mine. His breath near my ear makes me shiver. He pushes
gently against my shoulder to make me sit up. “Will you give me
another chance?” he says suddenly. He bends to catch my eyes under
the brim of the cap. “No more dumb games. I won’t screw you round,
Abby, I swear. I just want to be with you.”

I take off the hat and squeeze the peak
between my fingers. “I don’t know, Jus. This is kind of
sudden.”

He laughs gently. “Are you serious? It’s
taken me nearly twenty years to tell you that.”

I can’t help smiling a little.

Justin leans his forehead against mine. “You
and me is simple, Ab. You know that.”

I feel his breath tickle my nose. I miss
simple. I long for simple. For a second, I am twelve again, kissing
him in the street under the New Year’s fireworks. But I can still
hear Matt’s voice in my head:

“Find the reason you started playing in the
first place.”

Andrew’s brown eyes sparkle when he sees me.
I rush forward and hug him.

“Look at you Abby,” he gushes. “You gorgeous
thing.” He waves me down the hallway. The rest of the house is
quiet and I guess Hayley is out, avoiding me no doubt. I give a
small sigh of relief.

I perch on the edge of the couch and cross my
legs. The ticking clock on the mantle booms through the empty
rooms. I hear birds on the roof scratching noisily.

“Guess what,” I call into the kitchen. “My
brother’s getting married.” I hear the clinking of glass.

“Yeah?” Andrew tugs open the cutlery drawer.
“I’ve seen him round the place with his girlfriend. I didn’t know
they were engaged though. Good for him.” He pops the lids off two
beer bottles and hands one to me.

“I need to tell you something.” I wrap my
hands around the cold glass.

Andrew sits beside me on the couch.
“Everything okay?”

“I’m going to quit the Con.” I stare into the
bottle. I’ve spent all day tossing the decision around my head,
debating how to tell him I’m throwing all the time he spent on me
down the toilet. A few months ago I had wondered how he could have
even contemplated giving up his career for love. Now I’m giving
mine up for nothing. But it’s a refreshing, liberating nothing
without master classes or violin lessons or concerto
rehearsals.

For a moment, Andrew doesn’t speak. “Why?”
His dark eyes catch mine and my rehearsed conversation becomes a
puddle on the floor.

“I can’t do it,” I mumble.

“Why not? Are you too far from home?”

I shake my head and cover my eyes. I feel
like such a failure. “I can’t cope. With the pressure and the
competition and the bitchiness…”

Andrew grabs my wrist and pulls my hand away
from my face. “You know all those things you create yourself. You
can either choose to get caught up in all the rivalries, or you can
concentrate on what you’re doing and forget about everyone
else.”

I stare at the rafters to stop the tears that
have begun to burn behind my eyes. “Why do you always know the
right thing to say?”

Andrew smiles half-heartedly. Two tears slide
down my cheeks.

“Jesus,” I cough, pushing them away. “I was
happy about this ten minutes ago.”

“I don’t want to see you walk out on this,
Abs,” says Andrew. “You’re too good a musician.”

“My teacher says performance isn’t for me.” I
feel the sting of the words.

“Did you ever think maybe he said that to
fire you up? To get you motivated enough to prove him wrong?”

I frown. “Do you think he would do that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. But I’m sure it wasn’t
his intention to scare you away from music altogether. It’s hard
going from being the best to being just one of the crowd. I know
that. But if you want to make it as a performer, you can’t let
anyone push you down.”

I lean back against the cushions and sigh. “I
don’t think I even want to perform anymore.”

“What happened to that excited little girl
that used to rush to my house for lessons every week?”

I sniff. “She grew up and realised some
dreams never come true.”

Andrew slams his bottle onto the coffee table
with a sharp crack. I sit up in surprise.

“That is bullshit,” he says. “You knew it
wasn’t going to be easy. I can’t believe you’re giving up this
quickly. I thought I taught you better than that.”

“Don’t you go acting all self-righteous!” My
voice rises to compete. “You gave it all up too!”

“That’s completely different. I didn’t just
give it up because it got too hard!”

“You still chose the easier life, though. So
don’t go judging me for doing the same thing.”

“That’s what you think?” he says. “That I
chose the easier life? Jesus… Do you think it was easy leaving
behind everything I spent my life working towards? Following the
careers of the friends I used to perform with? And giving it all up
to be a dad at twenty-two?” He rubs his eyes. “I mean, I love Ollie
to death but, Jesus Abby, don’t you dare tell me I chose the easy
life.” He stands up and walks into the kitchen, leaving me alone on
the couch.

“I’m sorry,” I say, but the words catch in my
throat. I don’t think he hears me. I follow him into the
kitchen.

“You know, you have changed,” he says. “And I
think I liked the old you better.”

I sigh. “So do I. That’s why I need to stay
here. I hate what the Con has turned me into. I’m sorry,” I tell
him again. “I shouldn’t have said that. I’ve been so anxious about
telling you this. I knew you’d be disappointed in me. But I just
want you to understand.”

“This is a huge decision, Abby. I don’t want
you to regret it.”

“You know one thing you taught me that I’ve
never forgotten,” I say. “That music is a love. I don’t feel that
anymore.”

“Why not? What happened?”

What did happen? Matt happened. Clara
happened. Standing Waves and the quartet and Hayley’s secret
happened. Music lost its associations with freedom and love. Now
it’s just betrayal and struggle and heartbreak. I rub my eyes. This
had all seemed so simple this morning in the Shipwreck boat with
Justin.

“I guess it’s just not for me after all,” I
say. “I don’t have the talent to make it as a performer. My teacher
made me see that.”

“Well this guy sounds like a tosser to me,”
says Andrew. “What about what your old teacher said? Doesn’t that
mean anything anymore?”

I pick up the bottle tops and roll them
around my fingers. “You know it does.”

“And now you’re just going to throw it all
away? You asked me once if you would ever be good enough to
perform. What did I say to you?”

“Don’t patronise me. I’m not a kid
anymore.”

“Yeah I can see that,” says Andrew. “I’m not
patronising you. I’m trying to make you see how stupid you’re
being.”

“Thanks. That’s much better.” I throw down
the bottle tops. They bounce across the bench and onto the
floor.

“There’s nothing for you here, Abby,” he
says. “You know that.” He pauses. “Is this because of Justin?
Because if it is-”

No way in hell am I getting into this
conversation.

“I’ve made my decision,” I say, interrupting.
“Please don’t try and change my mind.”

“A lost cause, hey?”

“Something like that.”

He touches my arm. “Look, why don’t you stay
for tea. Hayley and Oliver should be home any minute.”

“I have to be somewhere,” I say quickly.

“That’s too bad. They’d love to see you. You
won’t believe how tall Ollie is now.”

I race into the lounge and grab my keys off
the coffee table. “Another time maybe.” I don’t want to stay,
regardless of Hayley. I’m pissed off at Andrew for making me all
confused over my once simple decision. I can hardly claim to be
surprised by his reaction. I just hadn’t been expecting to leave
feeling so loser-ish and cowardly. His disappointment in me
stings.

“Hey I forgot to ask.” He follows me to the
door. “How did your competition go?”

“Okay,” I mumble. “I made the final.”

“Great. And?”

I twirl my keys around my fingers.

“You didn’t play, did you.”

I shake my head. “It’s tomorrow night.”

“So what did you really come home for?” asks
Andrew. “Your brother’s wedding or an excuse to miss the
competition?”

I chew my thumbnail in silence.

“It’s not too late,” he reminds me. “You can
still make it back.”

I smile bitterly. “No thanks.”

“I’m upset for you, Abs,” he says. “I’m upset
that you’ve lost all that passion. You know you don’t belong here,
don’t you?”

I’m not the only one. Andrew could still have
a real performance career. He still has the talent. Still in his
twenties.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll shut up. Just make
sure you’ve thought this through.”

I wonder if Andrew can see the irony in this
advice coming from him.

I mooch back to Nick’s, turning my phone off
silent. I have a missed call from Jess. No doubt she’s found the
note I’d slipped under the coffee jar explaining I’d be away for a
while. She’s left a long-winded voicemail in which she jabbers on
about missing the concerto final and next week’s music history exam
and how if I make her do the choir parts test on her own I had
better bloody well stay in Acacia Beach because she’ll poke my eyes
out if I ever come back to Melbourne.

Then the voicemail cuts out and she texts
me.

‘
Matt???’

‘
Just needed to come home.’

When I reach the house, I see Dad’s Ute
parked out the front. Tim is sitting on the bonnet playing with his
mobile. I’m surprised at how much he looks like Nick; the same
scruffy blonde hair and wide but slender shoulders. He grins and
jumps off the car.

“Dad told me to wait out here and make sure
you didn’t run off when you saw us.” He slaps me on the back. My
little brother is a whole head taller than me.

I chew my lip. “Is Mum here too?”

“Nah. You know what she’s like.”

“She’s still pretending I don’t exist
then?”

Tim gives a noncommittal smile. I draw in my
breath and walk inside. Dad is perched on the edge of the couch,
his fingers clenched around his bare knees.

“Come home, possum. Please.”

I hover in the doorway. The tears that won’t
go away after my conversation with Andrew gel in my throat. Dad
looks exactly the same as the last time I saw him, right down to
the sorrow in his eyes. I long to be a little girl again; sitting
on his knee, blowing my nose on one of his enormous topsail
hankies.

“What about Mum?”

“Don’t worry about her. She’ll be fine.”

“She doesn’t know you’re here, does she.”

Dad stands up and tugs at the hems of his
shorts.

“She doesn’t want me home.” My voice
trembles. Dad wraps his arms around me. I smell shaving cream and
instant coffee. He ruffles my hair in that silly dad way that
messes up my ponytail. I never want to move.

“
I
want you home, Abby,” he says
shakily. “Don’t worry about your mum. You just come with me.”

I hesitate. Nick and Tim are hovering in the
hallway doing the world’s lamest job of pretending they’re not
eavesdropping. I give Dad a tiny smile.

“I’ll go get my things.”

The familiarity of the house is overpowering.
The same muddy work boots on the doorstep. Same photos on the
fridge. Even the calendar is out of date. It’s as though my parents
are trying to forget this year ever happened. Sarah has her
accounts books spread over the kitchen table.

“Hello, Mum.”

Her eyes don’t leave the page.

I sigh. “Are you really going to do
this?”

“Come on, Sarah,” says Dad. “Hasn’t this gone
on long enough?”

She stands wordlessly and drifts out of the
room. I hear her trudging up to her bedroom. I sink into a kitchen
chair. Dad perches opposite me and rubs his knees.

“Well,” he says finally. “Not exactly the
reaction I was hoping for.”

“I’m sorry I lied about Nick,” I say.

Dad sighs. “We were too hard on you, Abby.
The truth is, your mum and I… We felt so useless for not having
done anything about Nick earlier. For letting it get to where it
did. We…” He swallows heavily.

“You needed someone to blame.”

“It’s awful, I know. I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t
have blamed you if you hadn’t come with me tonight.”

I want to tell him how much I had needed to
come home. Needed to feel the familiar dents of my childhood bed.
Needed the familiar smell of the house; vanilla fridge-wipe and the
sea. Needed to fall asleep listening to laughter in the park and
the monotone dribble of some boring doco my parents are watching.
Instead, I just say:

“Yeah, well Nick’s a terrible cook.”

I sleep late the next morning. When I open my
eyes, my clock radio is stuck at 5:15 but bright light is streaming
through the blinds. I can hear Sarah bellowing instructions out the
back door to Dad. For a second it’s hard to tell what year it is. I
climb out of bed and look out the window. The view hasn’t changed.
The park is busy, getting towards the Christmas rush. I watch a
little girl in frilly bathers run across the grass with a bucket,
slopping water down the sides. Between the palms that line our
property I can see Justin’s house.

I bury myself under a wide straw hat and
sunglasses then, feeling sufficiently disguised, wander to the
beach. I pass Sarah in the park and she looks the other way. The
late morning is overcast and dark behind my glasses, but the air is
hot syrup.

I sit cross-legged on the sand. A few
tourists are scattered across the beach. Some are stretched out on
towels, others splashing in the shallows. A breeze ripples the sea.
A couple of charter yachts sail slowly towards the islands. I lie
on my back and cover my face with my hat. The straw glows red where
the pale sun shines through. I close my eyes and listen to the
noises surrounding me. Water sighs against the sand and gulls
babble above my head. I let out a long breath. For the first time
in months, the tension in my shoulders is gone. For the first time
in months, I don’t feel guilty for not having practised enough. A
shriek of laughter from the rock pool. I think of Justin.