Authors: Naomi Fraser
MY APPOINTMENTS WITH
Dr.
Farrow
are on Mondays at 3.20 p.m. Mum’s appointments are on Fridays at 2.30 p.m. I
have to leave school ten minutes early to get to the hospital on time. Love
that. Mum used to drive me as she’d asked her work to have those afternoons
off, but now I catch a taxi.
Dr.
Farrow seems more open than usual, but when I broach the subject of the three
guys who died, she replies the police have asked her not to say any more.
I’m sitting on the brown chair in
her rather small office at Redlands Hospital. I don’t know how she does it, but
I’m crying most of the time.
It’s a release valve, and she’s
pushing me toward it with every probing question. I can do it, let out all the
pain, because I don’t have to be tough here. No masks. No façade. No one’s
watching, except for her. When I think about my past I recall horrible things:
what happened to me, my father, how I woke up and everyone believing I’d done
something so awful. Finding out others had drowned and the gut wrenching fear
of amnesia. Then it’s easy to cry. It’s therapeutic.
Dr.
Farrow has short blonde hair, a small pixie face and a pointed chin. She wears
cream-coloured jeans and a light blue blouse, which reminds me of the scrubs
surgeons use to operate in. My computer chair at home is better than hers, but
she probably can’t fit a decent one inside her office.
She wears those brown loafer
things on her feet.
With socks.
Today she has the shakes under
better control. “Did you just give up cigarettes?” I ask.
“No.” She frowns and straightens.
“What makes you think that, Eloise?”
“You chew gum and have candy.
Never mind.”
I shrug.
Me and my big mouth.
“Looks like nicotine withdrawal. My mum went through the same thing. She
stopped smoking after my dad died and ate eucalyptus lollies.”
“It’s not from cigarettes,”
Dr.
Farrow says cautiously and flicks her thumb across the
edges of a stack of paperwork on her desk. “How are you handling everything
back home?”
“It’s fine. I’m fine.” Talking
about emotion makes me want to disappear.
Tissues rest in my lap, and I
tear out another thin square from the box and dab the skin under my lashes. I’m
likely getting raccoon eyes. Waterproof mascara only means when you want to
take it off, you’ll have lots of trouble. The mascara will still run if you cry
hard enough.
Why is reality so tough? Why does
it seem that everything is in a constant state of flux, and I have no choice
but to go with the flow?
“I’m having strange dreams about
the water still. I don’t know what they mean,” I confess since
Dr.
Farrow will listen. It’s her job. How she gets her pay.
“I normally wake up and brew a cup of herbal tea.”
“I thought those dreams would
have stopped by now.” Her eyes narrow on me. “Have you started a journal about
them yet?”
“No.”
“Well, I’d like you to keep a
diary and write in it as soon as you wake up.” She reaches across to her desk
and pumps the dispenser of a ginormous moisturiser bottle. She rubs the cream
into her hands, arms and elbows. “Keep going.”
The pungent scent invades the
room. I wrinkle my nose and stare at the
goop
she
paints on her arms.
“Yeah, that’s it,” I say. “What
kind of lotion is that?”
Her gaze flicks to the bottle
with no label.
“Just a generic one.
The
air-conditioning dries out my skin.” She looks at me, but doesn’t say anything.
Minutes pass by, and she’s still rubbing in the cream, still staring and then
she asks, “Is there anything that bothers you about your home life now? After
your father’s death made you so angry?”
“No, Mum is great.” I pause.
“Home is OK. You know Father’s Day wasn’t that long ago.”
“That has to be hard. You must
miss him.”
I nod and twist my hands
together. “I find myself wanting to talk to him, to hear his voice when I have
good news to share, but I can’t tell him anything.”
“Perhaps you could write those
thoughts in your journal as if he could read it.”
“That’s a good idea,” I admit.
She clears her throat. “How are
your lungs?”
My head rears back in surprise.
How on Earth could she know?
From the other doctors?
It’s a bit left field, but then again her office, this hospital and my death is
all totally left field. “I’ve been meaning to go to the doctor to get another
check-up. I’ll see him soon anyway. They know I have trouble breathing.” And
will probably give me the condescending stare again when I tell them the whole
truth.
“I can write you a prescription
for an asthma puffer if you’d like?”
I chew a corner of my bottom lip.
Then realise what I’m doing and smile. “I already have one. Thanks, though,” I
say through the sharp scent of her moisturiser.
She taps her pen against her
chin. “Well, I will see you again next week. Before you leave, let’s run
through those relaxation techniques one more time.”
≈≈≈
THE TECHNIQUES ARE all about visualising my muscles
tightening and then loosening them one by one. I work all the way from my toes
to the top of my head before
Dr.
Farrow gives me
affirmations to say and, bizarrely, some are written in Latin and Norn, both
ancient languages.
She says a bit of culture never
hurt anyone.
If she’s talking about culture
like those brown loafers, then I disagree.
But the truth is—I love kooky
crap like positive messages written in foreign languages. Life’s too short to
be dull. I’m glad she’s given me something to laugh about while I feel so low.
I have to search the Internet for nearly all the pronunciations, which ends up
with me spending far too long surfing the net when I should be doing homework.
High school = Assignments.
I laze on my bed, drifting away,
but persist through all the affirmations after my relaxation session. I need to
repeat them three times and then I can go to sleep. It’s so close to an
exercise routine, I have force myself to finish, but for some reason
afterwards, I always feel safer.
When I wake up, tired and
unprepared to face the day, I check my calendar. A big, black unhappy face
circles the date with ‘maths exam’ and ‘swimming trials’ marked on the square.
Oh. Surely I can miss the trials?
I’ll get Mum to write a note. I still can’t breathe properly.
But when I head for the kitchen
to see Mum, she’s gone and there’s a message on the table, saying Bethany’s
mother called in sick, so Mum had to start work early. I call her on her cell,
but no answer.
Which means she’s had to turn it off while
working.
There’s a fifty dollar note on the table and prospectus print
outs from different community colleges not too far away.
She is trying so hard . . .
THE SUMMERY SCENT of salt wafts from the school pool rather
than the sharp stink of chlorine bleach. I shiver in my black swimsuit as a
gust of cold wind sweeps the open area. Some of us line up single file. We can
wear what we want, but I haven’t gotten around to buying anything different.
Bigger things to worry about—like my life and death.
Bethany rocks up in an emerald
green suit, which perfectly matches her eyes.
Though I try
not to look too closely at anyone else.
Parts of students I never wanted
to see are on full display. I hope they return the favour and avoid looking at
me. I frown down at my body. It wouldn’t be so bad if I could hold a tan. I
might glow in the dark. A beacon in the hallway, lit up like the moon.
The girls gravitate toward Lakyn,
limbs slinking, wide gazes glued to him. Straight fringes and eyelashes flutter
in the stiff breeze. They flash wide, eager smiles, laugh and then extend fake
tan-tinted limbs. Finally, they squish up against each other, leaning in with
their shoulders, angling to get closer and be the
one
he talks to.
The one who receives his smile.
Flowers
awaiting the sun.
I picture them as a manic horde,
or screaming fans with placards, their hands clenching the edges, waving and
hollering his name.
“Lakyn!
Look at
me,
I’m the one you want.”
A movie star.
A singer.
Someone who has it all together.
But all they really hold is their
hearts in their eyes, ready to be pancaked by life.
“Lakyn,” they say, “I love your
shorts. Where’d you get them from? You’re so tanned. I’m having a party . . .”
Everything they say, I want to
say.
“Lakyn.”
Not to be outdone,
Ashly
Ferguson pushes forward. Who
knew saying ‘hi’ could be a contact sport? “What are you doing after school?”
Her chin dips, and her long blonde hair sweeps her waist. “I have a massive
pool. You should come by later for a swim.”
The ocean spreads out behind
mine.
The dark and dangerous sea.
Lakyn’s hair lies flat in a
smooth, wet slick, and sunlight kisses his cheekbones, highlighting the angular
line of his jaw. Blue and yellow light refracts in tantalising ripples across
his bare chest. Rivulets trail down his neck, over ripped abdominals and then
strike the cement. He must have already done his warm up laps. The sheer size
of his shoulders has never been in more contrast with all the other guys his
age. He’s huge. Muscled, tanned and not an inch of fat on him anywhere.
How does he hide a body like that
under his uniform? I want to kick myself for being so unobservant. Not having
the courage to really look at him when he was beside me in class. My stomach
flip-flops as I recall his smile. Warmth pools in my lower belly, and my
breathing quickens. He is incredibly hot, but I
will not
go over there
and be one those girls. Lay myself bare like that?
Never.
I can tell he’s not attracting them on purpose. Does the flame mean to
incinerate the moth?
Their wings still get scorched.
The girls speak his name until it becomes a chant.
He doesn’t even look at most of
them. As gorgeous as he is, this kind of adoration must happen all the time.
Thinking that irritates me for
some reason, but reaffirms my reasons for staying away.
He flexes his biceps and
stretches his sinewy arms. His hands meet above his head, his biceps bunch, and
those big pectoral muscles flatten and widen in his chest. My gaze roams lower
down his torso, to his V line and lean hips. Wow. He has an eight pack, and his
fluorescent blue board shorts sit comfortably at his hips, the wet fabric
moulding legs of pure steel.
No way does a grade eleven guy
have a body like that. Yet, he does.
“I wish my glasses took
photographs,” Bethany breathes beside my elbow.
“Holy moly.
Hotness at twelve o’clock.
Look at him. I wonder if
he’ll marry me.”
I laugh, but can’t look away.
Why
not?
Heat rushes down my throat, belly and legs, turning my knees to jelly.
“He’s all right,” I mutter.
“All right?”
Bethany asks, turning to me.
“All right?
Are you blind?
Sick?”
He spins around at the sharp note
in Bethany’s voice, his eyes an aloof blue. He frowns, and then his gaze
smashes right into mine and stops.
I can’t
breathe,
my lips burn. I freeze but heat whirls in my cheeks, sending shivers all over
my body. He caught me ogling. And I’m probably
drooling
a second pool.
His lips curve slowly at first,
and then he smiles so wide, his teeth gleam in the light. He shouts, “Eloise!”
and cuts through the group of girls, heading straight for me.
“What? Beth?” My stomach dives to
my feet. “
Beeetthhh
,” I repeat in a croaking whisper,
tugging at her arm.
“Oh, my God.
Is he . . . ? He’s coming over here,” she squeaks. “He’s looking at you. What
did you do?”
“I can’t . . .
nothing
. . .” My lips buzz with raw energy, and at the sharp nip in my lungs, I gasp
and turn away. I breathe in carefully, forcing my lungs to take in a tiny
amount of air. Not to panic at the lack of oxygen.
Someone slips into line beside
me, their hot skin brushing my elbow. Heat spirals up to my ears. I can’t move
over or turn around yet, the pain is too paralysing. Bethany stands on my left,
and she steps closer, her cold fingers firm around my elbow. Damn, she must be
working out.
“Beth, I’m
gonna
need that arm later on,” I rasp.
“No way,” she whispers right in
my ear, too low for anyone else to hear. “You wouldn’t believe . . .”
My heart shuffles, chest too
tight to breathe, and I dig inside my swim bag to reef out the puffer. I take a
few
tokes
and then drop it back inside. Hopefully, no
one else is watching, and Lakyn left once I spun around.
Nothing
like a girl showing her back to repel a guy’s interest.
“What?” I finally gasp, looking
up at her with streaming eyes, but she’s searching in her own swim bag. In the
strange silence, I turn and discover
everyone
is staring.
Snap.
Black
hole—swallow
me now.
Ashly
Ferguson, miss beauty queen herself, glares at me from the other end of the
line. My heart sinks at the venom in her gaze. What have I done now? Is it
illegal to stop breathing? You think I’d be doing her a favour. I hear a click
and realise Bethany’s taken a photo of me with her iPhone.
“Oh, do
not
post that
online or tag me. I will totally kill you,” I say breathlessly.
She laughs. “I couldn’t resist.
Look behind you.”
“Hello again.”
Lakyn’s deep, melodic voice pulses in the air.
Totally sexy.
“Are you all right, Eloise? Do you need some help?”
I stiffen, surfboard straight,
waiting for the ringing to stop in my ears.
His warm breath blows against my
neck. “Eloise?” he growls. “Can you breathe? Answer me.”
I shiver, lifting my gaze to the
stunning intensity of his eyes. Sunlight picks out bluish-green flecks in his
irises and each of his spiky, golden-tipped eyelashes as he blinks. For a
moment, I don’t think of boys, but of sunlight dancing upon clear water, the
brightest shade of ocean and the endlessness of sky.
My gaze drops to his lips. His
bottom lip is fuller and more sensual than the top. He’s not smiling.
Liquid fire floods my lips. I
press them together, but the heat spreads to my neck and chest, wrapping around
my heart.
His gaze rests on my mouth, but
then wanders back up to my eyes.
One of his thick eyebrows
quirks.
“Are you all right?”
I nod, silent.
“What are you doing after school?
Do you want to go to the beach with me on Saturday? I’m having a get-together
with friends.” His mouth stumbles over the words ‘get-together’ in the most
adorable way.
I swallow hard, held to the spot
by his piercing regard. “I . . . I hate swimming.”
Amusement kicks up the corners of
his mouth.
“Hmm.”
A dimple forms in his cheek with his
boyish smile. His blue eyes soften. “I wonder why.” He stands there practically
naked and clean, and then leans in closer, his hot breath warming my ear.
“Everyone has some kind of fear they have to work through. I can help you with
yours.”
Humiliation burns in the back of
my throat. It occurs to me he knows what everyone else thinks I did. I shrug
and look at my feet. He’s probably here to console the girl who tried to kill
herself. But it’s all false. How do I tell him I can’t remember doing that?
Coach will have put him up to it.
I imagine it now. “Oh, there’s the girl who went over the cliff. She nearly
died and will freak out in the pool. Stand by her, will you? If she starts
yelling and crying, fish her out.” It makes sense really. There’d be no other
reason a guy like Lakyn would want to stand beside me or spark up a
conversation. We didn’t talk that much in maths class. I release a deep sigh.
Boys like him just don’t hang with girls like me.
Coach Williams calls out the
order to separate us into groups, and I lift my gaze to Lakyn’s once more.
He doesn’t move at Coach’s
bidding and regards me steadily. “I’ll be waiting for your answer.” Then he
strides toward his group, leaving a trail of damp footprints on the cement. He
follows a cluster of guys who could probably swim in their sleep and wouldn’t
glance my way if I burst into flames.
A cool breeze soothes my lips,
but I shake in the aftermath of having him so close.
Bethany sighs. “
Wow, that
was so romantic. He must really like you.” She
bites her bottom lip. “Has anything else happened between you both since maths
class that I don’t know about? Have you two had a DNM on your phone?”
I just look at her.
“Guess not.” She scratches her
forehead. “Hm. Wow,” she repeats.
“Beth.” My voice rasps. “It’s
probably because Coach is scared I’ll freak out in the pool.”
A frown darkens her eyes. “You
think?”
“They must know I jumped off the
cliff and died.” Saying it makes me want to run and hide. Tears prick my eyes.
“Sorry.” I blink rapidly. “I’ll be all right.”
Beth rubs my arm and smiles at
me. “Hey, that reminds me; we should set up another day to go shopping. Have
lunch somewhere.”
“OK.”
A whistle blows, and Lakyn’s
group is first off the blocks. They all step up, pull down their goggles and
then swing their arms. Lakyn grasps the white block; his powerful legs bent,
and then he leans forward, tensing until he looks like a bronzed marble god.
His gaze is far off, as though he only sees where he wants to finish.
The gun blasts and they dive.
Water sprays everywhere.
A flurry of arms flex, heads turn,
gasping mouths searching for air and then more splashing.
I hunt for Lakyn, but don’t see
anything, not even splashes. Finally he surfaces halfway up his lane, breaking
for his first breath. He’s doing some sort of elegant freestyle with kicks that
propel him through the water easily. He slaps a wet hand against the block on
the opposite side of the pool, and then he rolls, pushing back through the
water, his movements smooth until he returns to the starting block.
The water caresses him instead of
being a hindrance. I hold up a hand to my temple and stare. “Did you see that?”
“He’s a good swimmer.” A hint of
awe colours Bethany’s voice. “No wonder Coach loves him.”
Surely, Lakyn must have been
kicking too much underwater after the dive? “I wonder where he trains.”
The other competitors come to the
end of the pool, and Coach clicks the stopwatch around his neck, shouting times
to each of them before moving on to the next swimmer. A few haul themselves out
and slap Lakyn on the back. Others ask him about his kick.
His
diet.
His training regime.
Soon enough, our group is called
up. But, I can’t do this—bury my head underwater—not again.
Never
again.
I should have told Coach Williams at the start, but I hurry
toward him now only to find he’s laughing with Lakyn, both of them obviously
having the time of their lives.
“Coach,” I interrupt. “Can I
please try
this another
day? I don’t feel well.”
He frowns and opens his mouth to
speak to me, but Lakyn beats him to it. “That’s normal. Don’t be a quitter.
Have a go.” Lakyn flashes his killer smile and dimple. “It’s important for you
that you do this. You have to learn as quickly as you can.”
Oh no, he didn’t. I glare
daggers. I’m not normally an aggressive person, but I hate being a doormat.
Does he get to say what happens with students? Who died and . . . oh wait . . .
I close my eyes.
Coach says, “That’s right,
Eloise. You’re going to have to get back in the water sometime. Right now is
perfect.”
I clench my hands into fists, and
pivot, my jaw working. With my arms wrapped around my middle, and chin to my
chest, I stalk toward the blocks at the end of the pool. Waiting there, I
ignore all the stares from students, step up on the nearest block and then bend
forward. I glare down at the awaiting ripples of blue as though the water is
the cause of all my problems.
Bang!
I let go of the block. The other
girls dive into the water, splash around, swim, but my knees lock. A tremble
reverberates up my arms and legs. Everyone will be staring. I have to do this.
With a spurt of courage, I push off with my legs, smashing into the water
belly-flop first.