The Other Side of Summer (13 page)

When the Witkins left that afternoon, Dad didn’t shout at me for being mean to Sophie. It was worse than that. His whole face puckered with lemon-sharp disappointment. I was glad Wren was out; I wouldn’t have been able to handle her sugary sighing. The old angry Wren would have understood.

It was Dad’s fault that he made it so easy for me to walk right round the back of him, while his eyes were glued to the footy, and sneak out of the house without him even noticing.

I was sorry for what I’d said to Sophie because her bike was right there and the consequence of me being mean to her was that now I couldn’t take it. Floyd’s
guitar was heavy enough to carry to the front door, let alone all the way to the creek. I cursed my puny arms and short legs, but the frustration made me stronger. I pulled the strap tighter so that the guitar felt like a new backbone, and I kept going. It would be getting dark soon and the dark was much worse in a place you didn’t know very well.

Floyd’s third song was folded in my pocket so that I had something to play. It was ‘Somewhere Only We Know’, and I hummed it as I walked to distract myself from the weight of the Ibanez Artwood.

How come you never told me about the songs, Floyd?

Some things you have to work out for yourself.

Fine, I will
.

Floyd was beginning to sound like a grown-up.

My heart sank when I got within sight of the rock and I found Milo and Wren sitting there. I’d let myself think of it as my place, but of course it wasn’t. I hid behind a gum tree with strips of bark that hung in curtains. They were both leaning back against the bank with sketchpads on their knees. The pile in between them that looked like tiny burnt twigs was charcoal, Wren’s favourite thing to draw with. From here I could see that Milo was sketching the landscape in front of him. Wren’s paper was covered in faces, but I couldn’t tell who they were.

I watched as Milo said something quietly and Wren laughed and playfully punched his arm. It was wrong to feel angry with people just for being happy but I couldn’t deny it. I wanted to run down there and grind the pile of charcoal into the rock with my toes. I wanted to scream at Wren – though I didn’t know which words would come out. My thoughts were tangled like a bagful of fairy lights.

How far would I have to walk to find a place where it was safe to meet Gabe? I crept along a higher ridge, out of sight. Walking off-map made me nervous, but there were sounds that I knew. There was the rush of the river, and the birdsong – a piercing
ting
that stabbed the air and a long
creak
that sounded like a door with rusted hinges.

I came to a grassy mound sticking out as if it were the roof of something. It looked like somewhere a hobbit would live. I went down the slope, using the trees to slow me down so I didn’t end up in the river.

Be careful.

I’m okay, I can do this.

The mound covered a huge stone mouth, a giant pipe that had a pitch-black gullet stretching deep into the riverbank. The end of my shoe buffeted the creek’s edge and I felt water seep into my sock. My toes curled inside my shoes.

The creek water was glassy and sage-coloured, and a leaf gliding down here and there was the only sign that the river was a living, moving thing; that it could be peaceful but, secretly, powerful.

Inside the echoey chamber there were cigarette butts and squashed cans – not fresh looking, and bone dry. There were graffiti tags all over the grey walls, too, so it had to be a safe place to be at least some of the time. There was even a plastic crate I could sit on. I relaxed a bit. From here I felt hidden enough to try to get Gabe to come again. I pinned the music to the ground with an old soda can. Twice he’d come after a single string was plucked; twice after I’d played a song. At least this way if he didn’t show up again I could say it wasn’t for nothing – I was learning the songs Floyd had wanted to play with me.

But I did want him to show up.

This song was harder to play than the others. Or maybe I was just distracted, thinking about what Floyd’s guitar could do. Each chord change made me nervous. I wondered if the way I held the guitar – or even how I felt when I played – made a difference to whether Gabe would come or not.

I played the entire song through but it didn’t work. I was angry that Sophie, in her clumsiness, had managed to make Gabe appear but I couldn’t. If this was magic, it
had its own mind. It wouldn’t be controlled or taken over by me. It wasn’t like Floyd making the cat disappear at my birthday party; the magic was making the rules. But I was determined. I started the song from the beginning.

As I reached the chorus, a shadow came over me. My heart skittered like a frightened mouse. There was Gabe’s silhouette in the mouth of the pipe.

He looked shocked, like before. But even when he noticed me and the confusion washed out of his face, he didn’t smile.

‘I hope this is okay,’ I said.

‘How long has it been since the last time?’ Gabe’s voice was low, like someone blowing softly on the top of an empty bottle.

‘Not long. Why?’

‘Is it the same day?’

‘Of course. It was only an hour ago.’

He frowned and shook his head.

‘You
do
want to know why it’s happening, don’t you?’ I said.

‘Do I?’ He laughed softly, not unkindly, I thought. ‘What if the reason turns out to be worse than not knowing?’

‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

‘No, you’re right.’ He came a little closer and knelt on the ground. ‘Listen, Summer – wait, it
is
Summer,
right?’ He had this mischievous grin that made me realise he didn’t doubt his memory of my name, but whether I’d given him the right one.

‘Yes, it is.’

‘Summer, I wanted to say: this
is
happening to you, not just to me. It’s obvious. I just got angry because … well, it doesn’t matter, and I’m sorry.’

He was scared like I was. His ‘sorry’ was unexpected and made me think I could trust him and we could work this out together. I smiled and nodded, so we could start again.

‘Where are we?’ he said. ‘Is this a storm drain?’

‘Not sure. What’s a storm drain?’

‘Where’d you come from again?’ He smiled.

‘London.’

‘Loads of storm drains there.’

‘Oh, right. Sorry, I never noticed.’

‘No reason to know unless you’re into skateboarding or … drainage, I guess?’ He laughed at himself.

‘Do you skateboard?’

‘Obsessively.’ He looked at the curve of the walls as if he was imagining skating up them right now. ‘Where’s your dog? Bee, isn’t it?’

‘At home.’

‘Oh.’ He looked disappointed. And it seemed like it was up to me to get to the bottom of this mystery.

‘This is what’s making it happen.’ I lifted the guitar a fraction. ‘If I play, you show up.’

‘Makes me sound like some kind of genie.’

‘Maybe you are. Maybe I’m supposed to make some wishes.’ I wondered what I’d wish for. For Floyd to come back, of course. In fact, for everything to be the way it used to. For us to be back home in London. For Mum to be Mum again … The strangest thing was that another wish I was thinking of felt more possible than any of those: for Gabe to be real. For him to be my first real friend here, maybe. It was new and awkward but that’s what it felt like. Friendship. Either that or a terrifying trick the universe was playing on me.

Everything was so still and quiet, now. This enormous drain had soundproofed the outside world. Hopefully it worked in reverse, too.

‘What were you doing?’ I said. ‘I mean, before I –’

‘Before you summoned me with your guitar?’ He was teasing again. I had the impression that he laughed his way through life, like my brother had. ‘I guess I was sleeping. Look.’ He changed position so that he was sitting with his knees bent in front of him. ‘Bare feet, old t-shirt, trackie daks. And I have that just-woke-up feeling.’

Gabe had bony feet and long toes; his trousers were much too short and there was something sort of sweet about that.

‘So it can’t be your dream, because you’re awake,’ I said.

‘Right. I think. Do you, um, still think I’m dead?’

I didn’t want to lie to him. ‘I don’t want you to be.’

‘Thanks, I guess.’ He looked puzzled but he smiled.

‘It’s just that my brother … And sometimes I wonder if …’

He waited a bit and then said, kindly, ‘Summer, you need to finish one of those sentences.’

I felt like I was taking one step over a cliff and was about to let myself fall. ‘Sometimes I think that he’s talking to me. I can really hear him. This was his guitar. So I wonder if
he’s
meant to be here.’

‘Instead of me. What happened to him? You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.’

‘A bomb,’ I said. ‘Waterloo.’

He looked confused.

‘It’s a train station in London.’

‘Oh. I thought I’d heard that word before but I’m sorry, I don’t think I ever heard about that bomb.’

‘That’s okay.’

Instead of saying all the usual things, he stayed looking at me,
really
looking, not like the people who couldn’t meet my eyes once they knew. And he hadn’t said anything about hearing voices or being crazy. I looked away first.

‘Want to change the subject?’ he said.

I nodded rapidly and he pushed himself to standing and stretched. He rubbed his eyes roughly and I realised he was fading fast.

‘Wait, you’re going!’ I said, panicking. ‘I’ll play again.’ My fingers made a messy G major.

‘I’m so tired, Summer.’

‘But you’ve only just … And we …’

‘I need to sleep.’ He yawned. ‘All of a sudden I feel like I’ve never been this tired.’ He stumbled backwards. I tried to grab onto his hand and we both cried out and flinched at the static touch.

‘Gabe!’

But he’d gone before I’d even started my goodbye.

‘Gabe!’ My voice echoed.

I couldn’t believe I would be leaving here without any more answers. When I was with him, I forgot to ask the right questions.

On the wall behind where Gabe had been I saw something. A capital G in a circle, sprayed in electric blue with white highlights that made it look like it had a shine. It could be any G … But even though he said he’d never been to the river, he also said he only lived a few kilometres from here …

Behind me, the dark gullet rumbled from deep inside and our hide-out didn’t seem as friendly anymore. I stumbled out of its mouth, landing one foot in
wet mud then struggling up the bank with one arm awkwardly angled to keep the guitar out of harm’s way and the other grabbing onto long grasses and branches. Once I reached the pathway I kept running, and only slowed when I recognised that I was nearly at the rock.

In my mind I told my sister everything that was happening with Gabe. I pictured Milo the brainbox saying, ‘That’s entirely possible. This is why …’ and Wren putting her arm around me and taking me home, believing me. But then I became rational again, worried about my mind going bad. Maybe I was just seeing things, hearing things, and needed help.

I stopped to catch my breath. The rock was empty, and the sun was just starting to go down.

The day darkened as I walked back to the house. I felt like I’d been out for ages but it was only five-thirty.

I closed the door silently, took off my shoes and slipped into the living room across the polished floors. The footy was still on. Dad hadn’t moved. Between where I stood and the back of his head, secrets were growing thick like giant beanstalks.

I wriggled my toes inside my wet socks; they were proof of my adventure. I decided that tomorrow I wouldn’t lie in bed and waste another day like I had today. The side of me that had been in charge since we got to Australia was a stranger to everyone I loved. Even Floyd. Gabe seemed honest and kind. I wanted him to get to know the old me; the real me.

The real me missed Dad, I had to admit. And the real me was so tired of being angry and lonely and mean. Bee was by Dad’s stretched-out feet. Lately I’d stolen his friend and I hadn’t thought once about how that would make him feel. I didn’t want to be this way.

‘Is there any dinner?’ I asked in a quiet voice.

Dad spun around with a look of surprise. ‘On a plate in the fridge. I called up to you but you didn’t answer. Wren’s out but she’ll be back soon. I can microwave it for you, if you like.’

‘Thanks, I can do it.’

It was the most normal conversation we’d had in ages. In a way it was like someone else had been playing the part of Summer and now that I was trying to take over again it was awkward. I stared as the microwave hummed and the plate of vegetables with rice noodles turned. Then the noise from the TV stopped.

‘Summer,’ said Dad, ‘we need to talk. I’m worried about how unhappy you are. It’s not … not
healthy
for you.’

‘What do you mean?’ I tried to keep my voice steady.

‘I feel like I’m losing you.’

Tears sprang into my eyes. I bit my lip. He worried about me, even if it was for his silly health reasons. I missed being close to him but getting back to my old self wouldn’t be as easy as turning a page or clicking
my heels. I didn’t even know if I’d remember
how
to get back to her. I wished that Milo could draw me a beautiful map to show me the way but even he wasn’t that clever.

‘Summer? Don’t you have anything to say? You won’t talk to me. Or your sister. Or Gran. Or Mum.’

The microwave pinged unceremoniously.

‘I’m okay, Dad. You don’t need to worry.’

The mention of Mum made me even more scared to come out of my cocoon. But, for now, I’d take small steps. I believed I could get out of bed the next morning. I believed that my mystery – Gabe’s mystery – was worth working out. It didn’t matter if that was the only reason to get out of bed tomorrow.

‘I just haven’t been feeling well, Dad. But I’m going to school tomorrow.’

‘That’s great, love. Are you making friends?’

‘I am, yes. I promise.’

I was coming around to the idea that Gabe was a real, living boy who had a house just up the road, and that I could work out the magic.

I ate every mouthful as if I’d been on space food for months; I tasted every flavour. This new feeling was like waking up after a high fever. The whole time I was shovelling noodles into my mouth, Gabe was in the back of my mind. Somewhere in that murky place
Floyd was, too. I couldn’t help wondering what one had to do with the other and what I could call the force that made Gabe appear. Was it a force in my life or in his? I was going to find out.

That night, sleep was an ocean and my dream was an undertow. It sucked me underwater and roughly brought me back to shore.

I’m in a house I’ve never been to before, standing at a kitchen counter in front of a red kettle that’s whistling on the stovetop.
Cold feet
. I look down to find that I’m standing barefoot on bright-orange lino, and that the cold feet are not mine. I wriggle the toes.
You’re a boy. This is your house.

In the next breath I’m opening the cupboard in front of my head and taking out two mugs and a box of teabags. I feel taller and stronger in my body but tired in my heart. I’m making tea for someone.
Mum
.

Instinct guides me. Sugar in the pantry, second shelf on the right in a blue bowl with a lid and a china spoon inside.
She takes two with a splash of milk.

‘Mick?’ calls a voice from the other room.

She needs you.
I know she’s calling for me but I also know that I am not Mick.
Mick’s her brother. He’s dead. She calls out for him at this time of day.
My thoughts are
like single lines from fortune cookies that I read out and toss away as if I’ve read them before.

‘Coming!’ I call. The voice is familiar.
Bring her the tea. She needs to drink it so she can take her medicine.

I pick up the mugs and just before I turn, I edge away from the cupboard and stand opposite the window above the kitchen sink. I can make out a reflection and the light catches my eyes; one dark, one light.