He doesn’t say anything for so long, I wonder if he’s going to answer me.
“I used to,” he says finally. “Not any more. There’s this famous quote that says ‘The only time you should ever look back is to see how far you’ve come’. I try to live like that now. I spent far too long wondering why I survived that blast and all it did was make me feel unworthy. I’m not unworthy. I deserve to be here. I’m honouring their lives by living mine. They’d do exactly the same thing, I know they would.”
The dying fire blurs in front of me and I pull my legs up tighter, resting my chin on my knees.
“You’re worthy too, Sian.”
This time, it’s me that doesn’t answer him.
I don’t sleep well that night. I toss and turn, dreaming of fires and explosions. I have several dreams, all short, sharp and violent. In one, I bury myself beneath a dead soldier to avoid a roving army of faceless warriors. In another, I’m being burned alive as I hide in a funeral pyre, set alight with countless others. I wake with a jolt before dawn, exhausted.
Sitting on my bed, I watch as the sun rises, chasing my nightmares away. I feel sick just thinking about what Luke might’ve been through. It’s the first time I’ve felt such a strong wave of empathy towards anyone else since I woke up in the hospital. Since that moment, I’ve been consumed by grief and fear and guilt and sadness – so consumed, it’s blocked everything else out.
Sometime during the past few days, amid endless ups and downs of my own, I’ve developed a pocket of empathy that is rapidly filling up. It sounds odd, but it gives me hope. Maybe I’m not drowning in this sea of sadness after all. I’m not stupid – I don’t expect everything to magically be alright again. It never will be and I know that. I’m forever changed, I’m not who I was, and I’m not sure who I will be when all this is over. I can just feel that this is a period of adjustment now, not a permanent condition. Whether he’s aware of it or not, Luke’s responsible for opening a door, and I’m standing there on the threshold, staring into a future I wasn’t sure I’d ever see.
For the first time in a few days, I take my little paper boat out onto the lake and light the candle. I push it towards the sunrise with hope. I don’t cry. I watch it float and I think that maybe there’s a message for me there. Maybe I can float too.
Ana phones over breakfast. She’s gentle, testing the water, but I’m not angry at her anymore.
“Today’s a good day,” I say.
She seems relieved. She says Chris called her last night, that he tried to call me but I didn’t pick up. I must’ve been at Luke’s. She seems relieved about that too. Chris is coming back this weekend, on his way down to Wellington. When I hang up the phone ten minutes later, I’m looking forward to seeing both of them.
I spend some time writing after breakfast. My latest notebook is filling up fast. I need to get another one, so I add it to the list on the fridge while I remember. There’s quite a stack of notebooks now. Nine to be exact, all of them filled with memories. I stare at them, piled into the built-in bookshelf underneath the window. Who knew that so many memories could fit into such a small space? It makes me think of my brain, of its actual size, and how many more memories are in that small space. How many more notebooks will I need to get them all down on paper?
I make a quick trip over to the store after breakfast, picking up the few fresh supplies I need. Milk, bread, cheese, eggs and a fresh new notebook. Luke is busy working on the cottage as usual, and he waves when I come back. I return the gesture with a smile.
I’m making a sandwich for lunch when I look up from the kitchen and see Geezer. He’s sitting at the French doors, waiting for an invitation. I call to him and he comes right in, gently taking the offered biscuit out of my hand. He hangs around most of the afternoon, and we sit outside and listen to Luke hammering next door. It’s become a kind of soundtrack, Luke working. As I sit here trying to keep things together, he’s over there tearing things apart. Does it make him feel better, ripping down something old and useless to create something new and useful? I could understand if it did. Creating something from nothing must be a kind of tonic in itself.
I’m considering taking a walk along the track when I look up and see Luke ambling over the lawn towards me. He looks like he’s just had a shower, or a swim, with his hair all wet and slicked back like that. I like it. It suits him.
“Hi,” I say, as he climbs the stairs up to the deck.
“Hey. I wondered if he was over here.” He smiles, scratching Geezer’s head. “He’s not being a nuisance or anything is he?”
“Course not. I like the company.”
“You can come over any time you like, y’know,” he says, fixing me with one of his direct stares, the ones that seem to see right through me. “I don’t mind. In fact, I like the company, too.”
I falter for a moment, not sure if there’s a hidden meaning in there somewhere. Now and again I wonder, but he’s never so much as made a move on me, so I’m probably reading too much into it.
“Okay. Thanks,” I smile.
I indicate his wet hair with a wave of my hand.
“And if you want to use my shower, it’s yours anytime.”
He slides a hand through his hair, which is black and shiny when it’s wet.
“Thanks. I usually bathe in the lake. A hot shower’s a bit of a treat.”
“That sounds okay for summer, but what about when the weather cools off?”
He sits down in the deck chair beside me and leans back with a sigh.
“Excellent point, although winter seems so far away at the moment, doesn’t it?”
“Do you think you’ll be able to live in the cottage once the winter comes?”
“I hope so, for the worst part of the winter anyway. I’m nearly done re-framing the inside. Then comes the roof, then the outer walls and windows. Once it’s weathertight, I hope to move inside and continue working on the finer points – like inner walls.”
He smiles over at me, and it’s one of his genuine smiles, the ones that he doesn’t give very often. I smile back at him, weirdly content.
“Ana phoned this morning,” I say, filling him in. “Chris is coming this weekend, on his way back to Wellington. Apparently he’s had enough of his parents already.”
I joke about it, but I can’t help feeling a stab of jealousy.
“Great, looking forward to catching up.”
“Do you want something to drink?”
“No, I’m good. I was actually wondering if you wanted to take a walk along the track. Feel up to it?”
“That’s funny, because I was just thinking about doing that.”
We set off around the back of the house towards the track, chatting easily as we walk. Geezer bounds ahead, but we keep him within our sight, just in case. When we get to the rock, we both stop for a break, resting against it and taking in the view. Conversation dies off, and I think about the last time we were here. I’m not the only one.
“You scared the shit out of me the other day,” he says quietly.
The sounds of the bush surround us. Birdsong, cicadas, the breeze as it ruffles the canopy of trees above us.
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not telling you because I want an apology, or because I want you to feel guilty about it.”
“Then why?” I ask, turning to him.
“Because I care, and I want you to be honest with me.”
“I told you, I wasn’t trying to –”
“Yeah, yeah,” he runs his hands through his hair with a sigh. “I know. Next time, just talk to me – come find me. I’ll sit with you. I’ll, I don’t know, make you a cup of coffee, or get drunk with you – whatever it takes. We’ll talk, or we won’t talk, it’s up to you. Just… no more heart attacks, okay? Friends don’t do that to each other.”
His eyes lock onto mine and I can see it there, deep down. A pain that I recognise. A fear that’s familiar. A promise that he means to keep. It’s so solemn, so heartfelt, that all I can do is nod.
“Come on,” he mumbles, pushing away from the rock. “Let’s get out of here. This place gives me the creeps.”
***
We walk most of the way home in silence, lapsing into conversation every now and then. We don’t talk about what happened at the rock again.
Somehow, I’m not quite sure how, he ends up staying for dinner, but instead of me feeding him, it’s more of a joint effort. He goes back to his place and brings over some more corn and I boil it in a pot on the stove. We eat it with fresh asparagus and some lamb chops that Ana brought over with her on the weekend.
Making dinner with him feels both familiar and foreign, and I know it’s because working with him like this reminds me of making dinner with James. It’s an echo of my former life, and it’s bittersweet. I want the comfort of doing something in tandem, but the memories nip at the borders of my subconscious, taking the comforting edge off and leaving me feeling guilty somehow, like I shouldn’t be enjoying this. I shouldn’t be this comfortable.
We drink coffee on the deck and watch the sun go down. It might’ve been relaxing if it wasn’t for the strange mood hanging over us. Something has changed, shifted somehow, and he must be able to feel it, just like I can.
He doesn’t stay after he finishes his coffee, and I watch him walking over the lawn and through the trees with an emptiness that drains me. It’s not until after he’s gone that I realise the box of matches that I’m sure I left on my bedside table this morning has disappeared.
I can’t sleep after that. It’s a sign, I’m sure it is. James is trying to tell me something again, only I’m not sure what. I haven’t heard his voice for days, and now the matches are gone. I lie awake most of the night, trying to figure it out.
I search the house the following morning, trying to find a lighter or another box of matches, anything that I can light a candle with, but I can’t find anything. I add ‘matches’ to the list on the fridge, then scratch it out, picking up the phone to call Ana instead.
“Can you bring me a box of matches when you come over on Friday?”
“Matches? Yeah, okay. Everything alright there?”
“It’s fine. I just lost my box of matches and I need another one. I don’t want to go over to the store just for that.”
“Okay. Fair enough. I’ll add it to the list. Anything else you need while I’m at it?”
“No, just the matches. Thanks.”
“No worries. See you in a couple of days. Call me if you think of anything else.”
“I will.”
“See you Friday.”
I hang up and pace the kitchen. I feel like I’m missing something. I can’t settle, I can barely sit still. I try to relax out on the deck with my coffee, but my mind is whirring in circles. Everything feels wrong today. Angry with myself and my inability to put my finger on why, I walk over to Luke’s. Maybe he can talk me down because right now, it feels like I’m losing what’s left of my mind.
Geezer greets me as I emerge from out of the trees, and Luke is nowhere to be seen.
“Luke?” I call, rounding the side of the house.
“Hey,” he says from his place on a stack of timber alongside the cottage, surrounded by papers. “You okay?”
“Fine, just at a loose end. Am I interrupting?”
“Nope. Just trying to get my head around quantities. I need to get these roofing materials ordered over the next day or two. Do you want some coffee?”
He gathers up all the paperwork into a loose pile and leaves it there, pen on top, then heads over to the campfire.
“No, I’m fine, thanks,” I say, absentmindedly stroking Geezer’s back. “I just had one.”
He looks at me properly for the first time.
“What’s wrong? And don’t say nothing, because you’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The look that says something’s wrong.”
“How do you know what –”
He cocks an eyebrow, cutting me off.
“This is going to sound crazy,” I begin, my cheeks already burning, “but did you borrow a box of matches from me last night?”
He shakes his head, frowning.
“No. Why?”
That makes it worse. If it wasn’t Luke, it had to be James. I was kinda hoping it was Luke, because that would mean there wasn’t any sign, that I was reading too much into it. Now it’s just crazy old me, and my dead husband who steals stuff from my house.
“No reason.”
“Come on, you have to do better than that.”
I’m not sure he’s going to understand. I try to think of a way to skirt around the issue, but I can’t find one. It’s going to have to be the truth.
“Sometimes things go missing,” I say quickly, reasoning that it’s like ripping off a band aid. “James takes them.”
He nods, slowly, as if he’s trying to gauge the level of crazy he’s dealing with.
“I know, I know – but he does. There’s no other explanation. Last week it was the pen I use to mark off the days on the calendar. The week before that, it was something else. Little things go missing all the time. Ana knows – she says it’s not uncommon. The dead do stuff like that, to let us know they’re still around, watching over us. She says it’s this place, the lake, it’s like that. It’s famous for it. It’s part of the legend. I know it sounds insane, but it’s true.”
I suck in a breath, because all of that came out way too quickly and he’s just staring at me.
“I’m not crazy,” I say. “I mean, I am, sometimes. But not when it comes to this. This is fact. It happened – it’s still happening because now my matches have gone too.”
Luke picks up a stick and digs around in the dying campfire, but he doesn’t say anything. I don’t want to say anything either, because I’m pretty sure I’ve said too much already.
“Okay,” he says eventually. “I get it. Can I just ask you something though?”
I nod, holding my breath.
“Is there any chance that your memory is playing tricks on you? That these things aren’t disappearing or being taken, but that you might’ve, say, put them away somewhere and forgotten about it?”
“No. I don’t do that.”
I’d be lying if I said the thought hasn’t crossed my mind, but I’ve searched the cottage, high and low, and I can never find what was taken. It wasn’t me. I didn’t do this. I don’t trust my memory either, but I know I didn’t do this.
“Okay,” he says again. “Can I ask you something else then? These matches, do they have anything to do with paper boats?”