The Pause (17 page)

‘Mum! That's private.'

‘Nonsense,' she says, mainlining what must be her fifth coffee of the day. If I sliced her now – and it's tempting given that she's reading my private thoughts – she'd bleed caffeine. Though having practically sculled down a bucket of coffee myself, I can't really talk. ‘We
should
talk about prospective careers.'

She runs her eyes down my list and they widen slightly when she reaches the bottom. ‘If you're going to be a gigolo, I don't really want you bringing your work home with you. We could clear out the garage, I suppose, and you could take your clients there.'

‘Cut it out, Mum! It was a joke.'

‘Maybe you should think about it. You're handsome and you have a good physique and you can quote Tennyson.'

I groan. KMN. ‘The Tennyson, SAS stuff was a joke, too.'

‘There's only one “g” in gigolo, by the way.'

‘And how would you know?'

‘I read, Declan.'

‘What,
Fifty Shades of Beige
?'

‘Don't talk about your father like that,' she says, and we both laugh at poor Captain Beige who's probably being driven around the bend right now by a sugar-infused Katie Bear.

I think about Dad and Kate in Disneyland, about Kate's general weirdness and Dad's overall annoyance and hopelessness, and I have to admit that I miss them. I miss my dad and my sister. I miss my family. A family I came within a whisker of giving up. A family that I genuinely believed would be better off without me.

We leave the cafe and head for the MTR. I'm still feeling a little raw when we emerge blinking
into the daylight from the Tsim Sha Tsui MTR station. I'm feeling raw not because again I'm being bombarded with offers to buy copy watches and suits, though that's certainly a contributing factor. It's more that I'm feeling bad about the way I (well, we – Mum isn't innocent in this) treat Kate and Dad. It's kind of us and them rather than just us, which is how it should be. I wind up Kate (and she does me) because we're siblings and that's the law. But Kate has issues that I should be more understanding and sensitive about; instead I treat her with disdain. She finds it hard to make friends because she's so exact and not very good at social stuff, so she can be made fun of at school. She used to want to blow out the candles on whoever's cake it was. We would be at a restaurant and some random spawn of Satan would be having a birthday party and Kate would run over and blow out the candles. By the time she was in year two she wasn't getting invited to parties anymore. Mum had to put on special birthday parties for her stuffed toys just so that Kate could blow out the candles. In primary school she used to hide in the library at lunch time. Occasionally I would venture in myself and see her reading alone in the corner or nestled into a beanbag. I wouldn't even say hello. I completely ignored her. I didn't want to be associated with her for fear of being recognised
as her brother and being tarred with the same brush. I feel disgusted that I treated her like that and I promise myself that I will make it up to her. Somehow. Because she's a total brainbox – well, her mind's brilliant at storing facts and figures; she got into Reeve Road High, which is the top-ranked school in Sydney. But she chose Grosvenor Girls' instead because she claimed that she had a friend who was also going there, a friend whose birthday party she'd obviously never attended. Because it's still a selective school, she's surrounded by other brainiacs, so I suppose things are easier for her now and, yes, she does have some friends – girls like her, I guess. Girls who, just like any other tween girls, love boy bands but, when all is said and done, would prefer to come up with a mathematical model predicting their decline from both the charts and teenage girls' consciousness. So Kate's doing okay, with or without me, though I still feel bad about how I treat her. And I will be better with her from now on. I
will.
That's a promise.

Then I think about Dad and I feel even worse. I'm going to make more of an effort to laugh at his jokes and to not tease him, but sometimes I just can't help myself and Mum makes it worse by piling on. The problem is that he gives us so much material. I could pay out on him for a year about his Hawaiian shirts alone. And then there are his
shorts. Since when is it okay to wear shorts with zipper cut-offs or those little triangular cut-outs on the side. What the hell are the triangles for? Do they make it easier to maintain the optimum sprinting stride as you tear away from a ravenous pack of lions as you streak across the Serengeti plains? See what I mean? I just can't help myself. It's one of those things that I know I'm going to think about when he's on his deathbed. We won't be talking about that time we went fishing (well, I guess we haven't been yet) or bushwalking or mountain-bike riding or that time we went to see a concert and we ended up bouncing off each other and slam dancing in the mosh pit. Though who the hell would appeal to the both of us is anyone's guess: AC/DC plays Enya maybe. No, I'll be thinking about his stupid Hawaiian shirts and triangular cut-out, zip-up shorts, and I'll be all choked up and when he dies I'll ask Mum if I can keep them – his shorts and Hawaiian shirts, I mean – and I'll end up wearing them as a sort of tribute to him and my son will pay
me
out because I'll be wearing Hawaiian shirts and embarrassing triangular cut-out shorts. But he won't understand that I'm doing it ironically and then when I die he'll feel sad because he paid me out and on and on it goes … Maybe it's one of those circle-of-life things.

I feel sad about the way I treat Dad. Really sad. But that's okay. I should feel sad. It's normal. It's part of what makes us human. And I'm going to feel sad at other times in my life but the thing is, I will recover. I'll recover from sadness, from grief, from bereavement, because they're all parts of life. And I know now that life will improve. That I won't throw myself in front of a train because my girlfriend or wife dumps me. That I won't throw myself in front of a train because I feel bad about how I treat my sister or my dad and his Hawaiian shirts and triangular cut-out shorts. And if that voice in my head starts up again, I will stamp on it or take medication to shut it up. Because feeling anything – even if it is pure agony – is better than feeling nothing.

‘You right, Dec?' says Mum as we walk towards the Ocean Terminal shopping centre through the artificial wind tunnels created by all the buildings.

‘I was just thinking we should buy Dad a present. Maybe a Hawaiian shirt.'

Mum smiles at this suggestion. ‘What about Kate?'

‘I bought her something at the markets.'

‘I'd like to get them something, too. From me. From both of us.'

I nod.

Mum reaches over and holds my hand.

It's a quarter to three and I'm lurking across the road outside Lisa's school trying to appear inconspicuous. Though I suppose trying to appear inconspicuous while you're lurking around outside a school kind of makes you conspicuous. If I get any closer to the front gate, the school will probably go into lockdown.

After lunch at a noodle bar, Mum and I shopped in the upmarket Ocean Terminal for a while. We bought Kate a GoPro and a heart necklace, which kind of makes my Hello Kitty pencil case look a bit sad. However, rather than buy Dad a Hawaiian shirt, we decided on a complete makeover. It's the sort of silver fox/David Jones' catalogue look that
will enable him to stroll along the beach at sunset thinking his poetic and poignant thoughts as a storm rolls in and a designer labradoodle frolics about beside him with a stick. The thing is, even in these brand labels he'll still somehow manage to look like a farmer at a wedding. I mean, the mannequin in the shop looked more stylish than Dad, and it only had half a head.

After Mum had
finally
had enough of the shops, we caught the Star Ferry across the bustling and choppy Victoria Harbour to Hong Kong Island, the salt spray churned up by the wash both cooling and invigorating. We took a tram up to the Peak for that panoramic postcard view that you see in every travel agent's window.

We had a quick drink in one of the bars then, around two, Mum said that she was meeting up with a friend for high tea in the Peninsula Hotel. I had been wondering why she'd only bought me a one-way ticket. Before catching the tram back down she put me in a red taxi and together we were able to give the driver directions to Lisa's school. As we were heading off, I told the driver that I was a student at the school, hoping that he wouldn't take me on a costly and time-consuming detour around the New Territories.

Around three, a bell goes off somewhere in the school and soon enough a couple of students
trickle out. It eventually builds to a steady flow. Ten minutes later, there is a torrent. Being an international school, the student body is a cross-section of race and cultures, the way the planet is supposed to be.

And there, in the midst of the multitude, is Lisa, weighed down by an oversized backpack and what I assume is a violin case and just life in general.

If this were a movie I would raise my hand to attract her attention but then we would cut to a close-up of my face as it freezes with the sudden realisation that she's with someone – a guy. An extremely good-looking, confident guy. They would be laughing and carrying on, safe and happy in their clichéd couple bubble. After they disappear into the afternoon, a storm would hit and I would just stand there staring, the torrential rain only marginally masking the tears that would be cascading down my cheeks. I would montage my way back to the hotel, walking in a slow-motion trance as everyone else runs for cover from what turns out to be a once-in-twenty-years typhoon. Later that evening, after looking out my hotel room's window at the lights far below, I would phone Lisa and terminate our relationship. I would protect her from my breaking heart by citing the tyranny of distance, how I've only ever
wanted her happiness and will always love her, and if she ever needs a friend then I will be here for her, blah, blah, blah … (well, not here as such, but back home in Sydney because she would be blissfully unaware that I am actually in Hong Kong). And I would assume her silence was the masked joy of being let off the hook and that she was now free to pursue her burgeoning relationship with a guy who would have designer glasses and a hairstyle that would be just shy of an Elvis duck arse and yet he would still somehow be able to pull off. But then later, just as I'm about to leave for the airport, Lisa would call one more time, and it would slowly be revealed that the guy she was with wasn't her boyfriend, just a friend who happens to be both good looking (haircuts aside) and has zero interest in Lisa (apart from as a study buddy). With the confusion cleared up, but our airport taxi inbound, a noise in the background (possibly someone ordering tea in Cantonese – perhaps even me) would reveal that I'm actually in Hong Kong. With our wires finally uncrossed, Lisa and I would race towards each other down Nathan Road, dodging shoppers, commuters and those annoying a-holes peddling suits and copy watches, before leaping into each other's arms hugging and kissing in the rain while the camera circles around us, credits rolling.

Fortunately this isn't a movie and there is no Elvis-hairstyle impersonator to muddy the waters. Instead, Lisa is struggling with her violin case and backpack, which must weigh more than her.

I quickly cross over and sidle up beside her as she begins her trek down the street towards a set of shops. I can see that she is aware of my presence, but she hasn't looked over at me yet, possibly in case I'm a fat old guy with a balding ponytail who lurks around parks with a video camera …

‘Can I give you a hand, miss?'

Other than a gulp there's no response.

‘Your backpack looks heavy.'

Lisa keeps her eyes locked to the pavement. ‘Piss off or I'll scream.'

‘Lisa.'

She stops and turns towards me, a look of realisation and relief slowly washing over her. ‘Oh my God!' she screeches like a banshee. ‘Declaaaaaaaaan.' She shrugs off her backpack, drops her violin case and, as per the end scene of my movie, she leaps into my arms, her legs wrapped around my waist. And even though she's wearing her school uniform and is still in sight of the school grounds and is in danger of losing her, her family and her school a tremendous amount of face, she showers
my
face with kisses. The feeling of being needed, of being wanted, is so
mind blowing, so overwhelming, that I can hardly breathe.

When she unhitches herself from me, I hitch on her backpack and pick up her violin case, which seems bigger and heavier than a violin case ought to be.

‘When did you take up the violin?'

‘Saxophone. Not all Asian kids play the piano and violin, Declan. Only about ninety-seven per cent.'

‘You're such a rebel.' It's tough: she probably wouldn't have wanted to continue with the piano, even if she was good at it. Too many bad memories, I guess.

We walk down the street, fingers interlocked, hearts racing.

‘I've got about a million questions but firstly, what are you doing here?'

‘I came to see you.'

‘Seriously?'

‘Seriously.'

Lisa is quiet for a moment. I look over and realise that she's crying.

‘Is everything …?'

‘No one has ever done anything like that for me before. Not even close.'

I don't know what to say to this, so I unhook our fingers and put my arm around her. ‘I'm with you, Lisa. I'm always with you.'

We walk in silence for a while.

‘How do you get home? Bus?'

‘My … my aunt picks me up. If she's not working.'

‘What? Where?'

‘Just down the road here.'

‘Is that where we're going? Shit. Oughtn't I get out of here?'

Despite the danger, Lisa laughs. ‘“Oughtn't”. That's not a word.'

‘Yes it is. It's a contraction of “ought” and “not”. As in, “Ought not I get out of here?”'

‘Who would say that?'

‘Why are you so calm? There's a fire-breathing dragon just down the road who toasts penis-wielding teen
gweilo
s for breakfast, and you're arguing about grammar.'

‘Relax, Declan.'

‘Relax? That's easy for you to say. She doesn't want to barbecue
your
testicles and serve them with fried rice.'

‘Boiled rice, Declan. Testicles don't work with fried rice.'

‘Ha ha.'

Lisa stops and turns to look at me. ‘Declan. Susanne's nothing like my
mother
. Nothing. I've told her a couple of our stories and she thinks it's hilarious. She wants to meet you. In fact, she was
going to look you up and take you out for coffee when she was in Sydney next time.'

By the time we enter the cafe, I'm not hyper-ventilating quite as much. I do a quick scout around, trying to spot Lisa's aunt and any possible exit points in case Lisa is wrong about the whole aunt-not-being-psycho thing. There're a few kids from Lisa's school buying coffees and smoothies, but no one who strikes me as Lisa's aunt. Certainly no Kraken look-alikes. There's a flight attendant talking on her mobile in Cantonese.

‘There she is,' says Lisa, gesturing towards the flight attendant, who waves us over.

No way did she emerge from the same womb that spat out The Kraken.

Lisa's aunt hangs up as we are squeezing our way through the tables towards her. She gives Lisa a hug and then looks over at me. She runs her eyes up and down me.

‘Susanne,' says Lisa, ‘this is my friend Declan.' Lisa's aunt's handshake is as warm as The Kraken's wasn't.

‘Have a seat,' says Susanne, with a look that lets me know that
she
knows we're a little more than friends. ‘So. This is the guy who's been getting old Joy's knickers in a twist.' Susanne's face lights up. ‘It is an absolute pleasure to meet you, Declan.'

I look over at Lisa as the penny finally drops. ‘Your mum's called “Joy”?'

Lisa's raised eyebrows tell me everything I need to know. No one need mention the word ‘irony', though if the people at Webster or Collins were looking for a definition, they could do a lot worse.

‘Mum?' says Susanne. ‘Some mother she turned out to be.'

Lisa and Susanne share a look. Lisa shakes her head. Something passes between them and although I'm pretty good at subtext, I have no idea what it is.

We order coffees and engage in small talk for a while. Susanne speaks four languages (Cantonese, Mandarin, Japanese and English) and is currently learning a fifth (French). She makes me feel like an illiterate baboon. I ask her about her work and she says that although she loves the travel, the work itself is pretty boring and repetitive and also the next bloated businessman who pats her bottom is going to get a jug of nuclear-hot coffee poured onto his lap. Even though the work itself is pretty monotonous, Susanne has made enough money to buy a little apartment in Paris to go with the one her father left her in Hong Kong – out of guilt, she reckons. Lisa and Susanne share another look. I discover that Susanne is taking Lisa to Paris
during the next school holidays, which makes me feel a bit upset that she didn't think to arrange it so that Lisa could visit me in Sydney instead, and also a little green: I wanted to be with her when we first saw Paris, at the start of our motorcycling holiday through Europe. Still, I'm happy for her and it's better she's here rather than being smacked by The Kraken's cane on a regular basis or having her knuckles whacked for hitting the wrong note on the piano.

Susanne asks me what I want to do with myself after school and I give her a few things from my list, omitting both the Tennyson-quoting commando and the gigolo bits.

‘But if you could do anything,' says Susanne, ‘what would you choose?'

‘Seriously,' I reply, ‘I just want to be with Lisa.'

Lisa turns her head slightly to the side and gives me a look that liquefies my heart.

‘That's so sweet,' says Susanne. ‘A little nauseating, but sweet.'

With the treacle and cheese flowing, Lisa reaches over and grabs my hand. I feel I should pull away but Susanne just smiles and tells us to get a room. It's clear that Lisa will be okay now that she's with Susanne.

‘I'm sorry about what's happened to the two of you,' says Susanne, reaching across the table and
holding Lisa's free hand but looking at me, ‘but I've got her now. And I'm not letting her go again.'

Again?

Lisa and Susanne share a smile.

‘But what if “Joy”' – I'm forced to put air quote marks around her name because I can't say it out loud and still expect to be taken seriously – ‘decides she wants Lisa to come back?'

‘Well then “Joy”' – Susanne matches my air quotes – ‘can kiss my arse.'

‘But how can you stop her?' I don't know much about the law or what sort of extradition rules exist between Australia and Hong Kong, but if The Kraken insists on Lisa's coming home, short of going into hiding, surely there isn't much that Susanne and Lisa can do about it. I feel as though I'm missing something crucial.

‘I'll let Lisa explain the details,' says Susanne. ‘But she
is
staying with me. At least until she's finished uni. Then she can make up her own mind. It's her life, after all, but the next bit is going to be with me.'

I suddenly realise what Susanne is saying. Lisa is a year behind me at school so she has a full two years to go of high school, then at least three at university. I always assumed that Lisa would eventually come back. After year twelve, maybe. Stay with that aunt of hers on her father's side.
The one she mentioned. The one who loathes The Kraken. Though listening to Susanne it seems as though The Kraken is not exactly short on people who loathe her. But Susanne is saying that's not going to happen. Lisa is staying in Hong Kong for at least five more years. Whether she realises it or not, Susanne has just ended our relationship and Lisa is smiling at her. I've come so effing far, and now this. It's tearing my heart out. But as much as this sucks – and boy does it suck – I know I'll get through it this time. I know I'll be able to ride it out.

Susanne gives Lisa some money to pay for the coffees. When Lisa heads off to the counter, Susanne leans towards me.

‘I want to thank you for what you've done for Lisa,' she says.

I shrug. ‘I didn't do anything really. I just liked her. Loved her. Still do.' I glance over at Lisa, who's waiting at the counter. She smiles back at me. It's the sort of smile that makes my pulse quicken. The sort of smile that would have stopped da Vinci from arsing around with half-baked helicopters and break out the paints again.