Crossing the Line (14 page)

27

A
t home I fall asleep on the couch. Matt pushes two chairs together and uses them as a bed for his lanky frame. I have frightening dreams, as I always do, but now when I wake Matt is there with soft words and kindness. I lie there grieving for Helen’s lost love but realising at the same time it’s all so selfish, this need, this fathomless need. Somehow I have to claw my way out of the hole I’m in. Matt is the only constant in my upside-down world. I have to try for him.

In the morning when he says that he’s driving me to my appointment with Noel – ‘whether I like it or not’– I shock him by saying, ‘I like it.’

‘You do?’

‘As long as you don’t go any further than the waiting room.’

‘Sounds like a good plan.’

Noel is surprised to see Matt waiting outside. He looks at me quizzically and when I don’t respond, he asks directly, ‘Is that the young man I’ve spoken to on the phone?’

‘Yes. Matt,’ I volunteer.

Noel gives me his usual bland smile.

‘So what’s been happening, Sophie?’

Sighing, I make myself go back into hell. Tell him all that I can remember of the day before. Noel listens, his face unreadable.

There’s the predictable pause when I’ve finished – like a long agonising punctuation mark.

Then: ‘What are your feelings today?’

‘I can’t believe that Helen doesn’t want me. I’ve done nothing but love her. And she’s tossed me aside like a piece of junk.’ Tears burn the back of my lids.

‘And how is it, Sophie, that you think Doctor Marshall should act?’

Perhaps, for the first time, I know the answer. I put my hands over my ears and keep them plugged. If I close my eyes I might be able to see Helen, feel her hug me once again. I try so hard but I can’t. There’s only blackness and that answer, pressing down on me. I know now she will never want me – but I still can’t say it.

‘Do you think that you might want to hurt yourself again, Sophie?’ Noel’s voice rolls out, buttery smooth.

‘I don’t know what I’m thinking.’

‘You don’t want to tell me?’

‘Please. Noel. Leave me alone, will you? You’re always trying to dig into my brain.’

He stares back at me, his face expressionless.

‘I’ve had enough!’

I bolt for the door. Noel doesn’t try to stop me. He doesn’t care. I charge into the waiting room, ignore Matt and continue out into the street.

At the next corner Matt catches up with me and grabs my arm. ‘Just stop right there.’

‘Let go of me!’

‘Not this time. You have to stop this, Sophie.’

‘I’ve got nothing to live for.’ I’m bawling my eyes out.

He grips me tighter. ‘That’s not true.’

‘You don’t get it! Helen doesn’t want me! There’s nothing to live for!’

‘You’ve got plenty to live for!’

‘Yeah, name one thing!’

‘What about me? I’m here. Don’t I count for anything? Don’t I matter?’

‘I share a house with you, Matt – that’s all!’

‘But it could be more than that. I care about you, Sophie.’

‘Then you’re stupid,’ I say. ‘It’s impossible –
I’m
impossible.’

‘No, Sophie. The only thing’s that’s impossible is Helen. She’s a dream. You have to learn to live in the real world.’

‘She’s real to me,’ I sob. ‘You don’t understand. She’s my mother. Please don’t say she’s not real.’

People pass us in the street, but I scarcely notice them. Matt draws me close.

I allow myself to fold into him and he holds me for the longest time.

‘I’m real,’ he tells me.

That night Matt says, ‘I don’t want you to be alone tonight, Soph. I want to sleep next to you. Make sure you feel safe. I’m not going to make any moves. I just want you to know I’m here for you.’

We lie in my bed face to face, our nose tips touching lightly. I look into his eyes which are green like the pool on a sunny day. He has a tiny mole just under his right eye and the hint of a scar on his cheek. It feels like I’m seeing him for the first time, discovering him.

We’re quiet for a long time. There’s no need for words. Finally, when I do speak, it’s not what Matt wants to hear. I can’t help it.

‘I loved her,’ is all I can say. ‘I really loved her.’

Matt wipes away my tears and holds me, just holds me, all night long.

In the following days I feel life seeping back into my body. When I write in my journal it’s about Matt. I think about how he hugged me after I’d run away from him all day. It is still warm in my mind and the words tumble out easily . . .

This is the most tender moment of all –

Your arms enclosing my brittle parcel

Of bones and organs and fear.

The comfort is exquisite.

Soon Amy arrives home, blazing with enough energy to light up a small town.

She’s barely through the door before she takes off at a gallop, telling me and Matt all about Mick. ‘He’s a bit of a Goth. But not one of those really weird dudes. He’s so cool. You’ve got to meet him!’

Later she sees Matt kissing me on the cheek. It’s different from other times. She knows we’re closer. Amy’s usual style would be to make a very loud and immediate comment, but this time she manages to contain herself until Matt is out of earshot.

‘You said there was someone else,’ she reminds me. ‘But now it seems like . . .’

‘Things change,’ I answer.

She hugs me. And I think to myself,
so this is what happiness feels like.

My mind is clearer and I finally feel ready to face school. I arrive late to avoid having to confront inquisitive classmates. In the Science room, first period, I become aware that some people are studiously avoiding me while others smile briefly before pretending to be engrossed in their note-taking.

Then it’s recess: kids milling in corridors exchanging greetings, gossiping, or rushing by, trying to beat the canteen crush, and me speeding out of the building to avoid everyone. I sit on a bench in the schoolyard, hunched over my diary, trying to see what class I have next, but all the time certain I have an audience. Teachers, lifting cups to their mouths, crowd around the staffroom window as though to point me out.

‘Come and look at the freak,’ I mutter.

‘Hey, Soph!’ Greta stands in front of me, feet apart, school bag between them. ‘Finally you’re back in the land of the living . . .’

She sets herself down beside me. ‘So, tell me all about it. I want every single detail. All about the crazies.’

Her total disregard for anything resembling political correctness makes me laugh. She always has this effect on me. I love her for it.

‘Is this mania?’ She peers closely at me, adopting the pose, actions and facial features of a demented shrink. ‘Ah, I see vee vill have to cut open zee bootiful cranium and examine zee brain! Vot bloody mess vee vill find, I vunder?’

She goes on and on, playing the mad professor and I’m enjoying every second of it. A couple of girls come over and join in the fun. We’re all together being stupid and it feels so good, so normal.

I’m in Noel’s office, checking out the new picture on his wall. In a bushland setting, a woman is swimming away from me, past deckchairs and umbrellas, towards a blue sky brushed with clouds.

‘You like it?’

‘Yes. Great photo.’

‘It’s my wife. I took it on our holiday.’

‘You have a wife?’

He smiles slyly. And then I know he has deliberately revealed this information and is looking for my response.

A fuzzy image of Noel and his wife lying together spins briefly in, and then out, of my mind.

‘I hope you’re happy together,’ I say, determined not to know more. I feel proud of myself for holding back. It’s like at last I’ve learnt something – I’ll never be part of Noel’s life so I should just stay out of it. If only I’d been able to do that with Helen . . .

‘What are you thinking of today, Sophie?’ Noel is positioned in front of the beautiful kaleidoscope poster, his fingers in their usual church-steeple position.

I shrug. ‘It’s always Helen. She never leaves.’ For the millionth time I feel my face break apart as the thought of her rips through me. ‘Is it ever going to end, Noel?’

‘In time, Sophie, yes, I think it will.’ His usual impassive face changes. I see tenderness. ‘I don’t know how long it will take. No one does. But every day you come a little further.’

Time clicks past and I listen to the thud of each second. Noel sits there like some Buddha figure; unfailingly calm and wise. I wish I knew the secret of how to be like that, but maybe it’s only luck. I’ve got scars that run so deep and go back so long; the kind of hurts Noel has never known. But somehow I have to let them go. If I don’t, I’m going to be sitting in a shrink’s office all my sorry life, counting off the seconds.

‘It’s so indulgent, all this analysing,’ I say at last. ‘I could be out with Matt, having a good time.’

‘That sounds very positive.’

He glances at the wall clock and I know the session has swung to its end.

Noel takes a tissue and sneezes. At the door I thank him for his time. And then I walk up the side path of his office to the front gate, where Matt is waiting for me. The day is young and shining.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:

During the writing of this novel, a number of people gave me invaluable feedback, for which I thank them sincerely. They were Jenny Mounfield, Peta Fraser, Dr Virginia Lowe, Ann Whitehead, Sandy Fussell, Maureen Johnson, Sue Whiting, Vicki Stanton, my agent Debbie Golvan, and most especially, my author husband, Bill Condon. I also thank Andrew Leon and Julie Blaze for their compassion and care, and my publisher Paul Collins for investing his faith in this book, and editor Saralinda Turner for her astute and helpful advice.