Smoke in the Room (25 page)

With or without the bats, Sydney's sky made him queasy. He could no longer look at it without thinking about how small the earth was – a marble compared to the basketball sun, and how the sun was just one of the 100 billion or so stars in the galaxy, and a distant one at that, and how this tiny earth which was home to every person he loved and hated and didn't even know existed; home to skyscrapers and jungles and deserts and oceans; home to giant squid and kittens and deadly snakes and orangutans and tigers and . . . All of this on a speck which is dependent on the energy of another speck which is part of a galaxy itself only one of 130 billion existing galaxies.

And here, these vain, blind creatures stumbling about thinking the whole thing should scream to a halt because
a heart stopped beating. Insanity to think Eugenie's death would cause the universe to take so much as an extra breath before carrying on. Insanity to think it mattered whether Katie threw herself from a window; whether Graeme shot himself; whether a different kind of madman flew a plane into an office block; whether a thousand planes dropped ten thousand bombs and destroyed an entire civilisation. None of it merited even a pause.

And yet, there's me, he thought. I can pause. I can notice. I can pay attention though the universe does not.

He stood and walked into the building, hesitating in front of Phyl's door, then knocked hard and loud. A shuffle came from within and he winced, sensing he should've waited until morning to come down and check on her.

‘Who's there?'

‘It's Adam from upstairs. Katie's flatmate.'

The door creaked open and the old woman peered up at him. ‘Gawd. What's she done?'

He held his hands up. ‘She's okay. Well, no she's not, actually, but that's not why . . . I saw your light on and thought I'd –'

‘Check up on me?'

‘It's just very late for your light to be on.'

‘Didn't know there was a curfew.'

‘Sorry. You must think I'm a lunatic.' He took a deep breath. ‘I'll leave you alone.'

She waved a hand at him. ‘Stay a minute. Tell me what's going on with that poor kid.'

‘She, ah –'

‘Wait, wait. Come on in. Have a nip of port with me.' She shuffled back from the door so he could enter. ‘I'll
warn you, though; I only drink the stuff because it helps me sleep, so if I drop off mid-sentence you'll have to let yourself out.'

It was almost two when Phyl yawned and told him she had to get to bed. Adam was feeling tired but noble and generous, sure he'd done her a kindness. She stopped him at the door and handed him a tissue. ‘Give your nose a good blow before you go upstairs, love. And listen, pop in anytime you need to talk. I know how it is. There are some things only another widower can understand.'

‘Tell me a bit about your relationship with Adam,' Jenny said on her sixth or seventh visit.

‘One-night stand that carried on too long.'

‘Really? Because from what I've seen and what you've told me, he's pretty devoted.'

‘It's nothing personal. He needs to save someone. If I wasn't such a mess he would've moved on ages ago, found a different damsel.' Katie took a swig from the hot pink one-litre water bottle Adam had bought her only hours after she complained that the new meds were making her thirsty. ‘His motivation is no mystery. I wonder about yours, though.'

Jenny tilted her head and frowned.

‘I mean, what's in this for you? I'm not paying you.'

‘None of my patients pay me.'

‘But you get paid when you see them. It's part of your job. Not me, though.'

‘No.'

‘So why do you come?'

‘Well, I came because Graeme asked me to assess you, and my assessment was that you needed professional help.'

‘So you're doing this because Graeme asked you? Are you hot for him or something?'

‘Why is it important to you to understand my motivation for being here?'

‘It isn't important. I just wondered.'

Jenny smiled. ‘Curiosity. That's a positive sign.'

‘Mmm. So, are you hot for him?'

‘No, Katie. Are you?'

‘I hate him.'

‘Why?'

Katie lit a cigarette and lay back on the sofa.

‘Why do you feel so angry at him?'

‘He's a hypocrite. He's done all this to stop me
maybe
getting suicidal and meanwhile he's planning to off himself.'

‘That's one perspective. Here's another: he's the opposite of a hypocrite. He believes in social justice and has made big changes in his lifestyle in order to practise what he preaches. He thinks every person deserves a chance at a good life and so he took steps to ensure a young woman he knows has that chance.'

‘God, the way you talk. Like he's a bloody saint. He isn't. He's a suicidal, sad old loser. If you can't see that, you're either a crap psych or blind in love with him. Or both.' She drew back on her cigarette. ‘And you know, it pisses me off that everyone thinks he's such a hero when all he's done is drag you in here to work for free. And he's only done
that
to distract you from his own screwed-up mental state.'

‘Here's a thought.' Jenny leant forward, her bony hands
clasping her knees. ‘Maybe the reason people are helping you is that they think you're worth helping.'

‘No. Not to sound self-pitying, but I know that's not true.' Katie stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette and drank some more water. ‘There are so many people more deserving of help. You know what I think about all those hours just lying in bed not being able to make myself get up? I think about these Sudanese refugees Graeme told me about. An eight-year-old girl whose eyes had been gouged out by soldiers and her twelve-year-old brother who had lost his mind and voice that same night. Their mother who carried her broken children across continents, hated and spat on and starved nearly to death, had to spend a whole year in that desert detention centre once she got here.
She
deserves to be helped. Her children deserve help. Me?' She thumped her chest with a fist.
‘Depression
. Jesus. You know what? I'm not even sure it's real. My moods, my symptoms, they're textbook, right? Straight out of a psychiatric manual. I don't think real illness would be so predictable. I really don't. I think this is all plastic. And it's an insult to all the people really suffering.'

Jenny's voice was, soft, coaxing. ‘Katie, can you look at me?'

Katie looked up, met Jenny's pale eyes.

‘You do realise that everything you've just said is also textbook? Feeling undeserving, thinking that other people in your situation would just pull themselves up and get on with it? That's all part of it. And it's not true, it's really not.'

Katie shook her head. ‘No, no, hang on. Remember you agreed with me that day when I said that depression is life without filters? You agreed that maybe I was the one who
saw things properly. I'm the only one who knows the truth about myself.'

‘No, you're not. If there's one thing almost all people with depressive illnesses have in common it's a tendency to personalise things that actually have nothing to do with them. You're right that the world is full of pain and tragedy, but you mistakenly take it personally. You feel like it's somehow your fault, or it's a reflection on you. You feel guilty for feeling bad, because you believe that any sympathy or compassion you draw will reduce the pool available for others. Truth is, whether you suffer or not, whether you live or die in fact, will have no effect on the world at large. You're just not that important.'

Katie upended her water bottle, catching three or four drops on her tongue. ‘You know what's funny? Or not funny really, but, anyway – say Graeme was depressed. Say –'

‘I'm here to talk about you, not Graeme.'

‘I know, but listen. Say he was like me, but instead of trying to live a normal life in suburbia, he becomes a sort of superhero. And the things that would mark him as mental in the everyday world are camouflaged because he's in extreme situations and so extreme behaviour is expected. Some of it's even really useful – like over empathising or physical fearlessness, say. And the thing you were just talking about, the personalisation, well, it
is
justified for him, isn't it? People have lived or died based on his ability to get off his arse and do something. Suffering has been lessened – or hell, maybe, increased – due to his decisions, his say-so.'

‘What does this have to do with you?'

‘Nothing. It's just . . . Wouldn't actually putting your
life on the line to help others stave off the sense that you're unworthy? I mean, no matter how delusional or whatever it is to feel responsible for the world's pain, wouldn't it lessen the guilt, if you could act to relieve some of that pain?'

Jenny shrugged. ‘I don't know. There's no simple answer.'

‘I know, but think about it. If it did help, if it staved off this, this, self-loathing, this despair, then that's great, right, because you're helping yourself and helping the world. But it'd also mean you could never stop, because as soon as you did you'd feel worse than ever because it's already personal, isn't it? The depression has hardly any work to do at all.'

Jenny stretched her arms over her head, rubbed her eyes, cracked her knuckles. Finally, she smiled. ‘You're making such great progress. Rational thinking, clarity of expression. Enthusiastic discussion. It's all good stuff.'

Katie sighed. ‘Rational thinking.'

Jenny's smile slipped. ‘We'll talk again on Monday, okay?'

Since the incident in the stairwell, Adam had been working fewer hours, waiting until Graeme got home from work before leaving. But Jenny must have said something, because – after checking that she didn't mind and making her swear to call him at the restaurant if she felt the slightest bit
distressed
– Adam had left for work at 3 pm.

She stood inside the front door, waiting to hear the elevator bell and then the hum of its descent, and then
went to Graeme's room. As tidy and characterless as the day he moved in, the room was nevertheless filled with what she had lost. She opened the wardrobe. The business shirts and pants smelt like the seventy-cent detergent from the laundromat down the road. She tried to recall the last time she had sat on the counter, drinking Pepsi and flirting with old Marco while her clothes were tossed clean. She felt the vinegar stink of her T-shirt and shorts seeping out. She imagined Graeme sniffing at the collar of tomorrow's shirt, wondering how it had become infected with Katie's stench.

She opened the top drawer and examined each piece of underwear: eight pairs of Y-fronts and a pair of sky-blue silk boxers. She pressed the shorts to her face and was thumped with regret. All those nights and never knowing he was a man who owned underwear softer and more delicate than any she had touched. A man who must have had lovers and heartbreaks and memories of fingertips slipping beneath the waistband of soft, soft silk. Talking and talking, breathing into his clean, smooth neck, never wondering how he liked to be touched or who he loved or if anyone had ever loved him.

‘So, I was wondering, have you ever heard Graeme talk about a girlfriend or boyfriend or, you know, any kind of friend?'

Jenny narrowed her eyes. ‘Back to Graeme again. Why?'

‘God, can't you even answer
one
question?'

Jenny was impassive.

‘Right. Fine. I went through his stuff yesterday. I thought I might find an address book or some letters or a
birthday card or . . . something to show he, you know,
knows
people. But there was nothing.'

‘Why did you do that?'

‘Because I thought if there was someone – even a past someone – who cared about him, then I could find them and let them know what's going on. He mentioned a brother. And he must have been married or whatever at some point, right? I mean, he's okay looking, nice to talk to, cool job . . .'

Jenny let out a small, gruff laugh.

‘What?'

‘Nothing. Sorry. What was it you wanted to tell this person you didn't find?'

Katie smiled, shook her head. ‘Oh, just how much of a saint he is. How selfless and shit.'

‘Katie.'

‘If someone who knows him tells me that he's only living his values or whatever, then, okay. I'll accept I'm the delusional one.'

Jenny sighed.
‘I
know Graeme. I've told you –'

‘Knows him
properly
. Someone who knows him properly.'

Now she was getting better, Katie looked terminally ill. She slumped rather than sat and fell asleep in the space between a question and its answer. She slurred her words and drool slid out of the left-hand corner of her mouth. Random tremors resulted in permanently food-stained clothes. Her face became bloated while her legs and arms remained as skinny as ever.

‘Fucking meds,' she said at least five times a day, but Adam no longer had to force her to take them at night, although occasionally, on the nights she vomited, he had to coax her into taking a second dose.

One night Adam went to check on her before he turned in and found she had kicked off her covers; her skin was cold and wet, as was the sheet below her. He woke her, carried her to the beanbag in the corner of the room and got her a glass of water. ‘Rehydrate. I'll get some clean sheets.'

He threw the sheets onto the bathroom floor; the laundry basket was already overflowing. The last sheet in
the hallway closet smelt like it had been in there for a decade. Adam shook it out and almost gagged on its mustiness. He returned to the bathroom, stepping over the sheets and towels on the floor, and grabbed a can of spray deodorant from the vanity. He held the sheet out at arm's-length and spritzed, then shook it again.