The Pause (7 page)

Here's an interesting fact. You don't exist. You can't possibly. The author/mathematician Ali Binazir sat down and calculated the chances of your existence, sparing you the tedious necessity of having to do it yourself. At a mathematical level, your existence comes in at one in 10
^2,685,000
. Which is so close to zero it
is
zero.

First of all there are the chances of your parents actually meeting. If your father was particularly sociable – and not too keen on sleep or actually doing any work once he got to the office – he could have met about two hundred million women before he turned forty, not including those who volunteer to appear as the studio audience in infomercials and
should be automatically excluded from procreating. A slightly shy male, providing he doesn't attend Star Trek conventions (which would disqualify
him
from procreating or at least meeting someone to procreate with) would meet around ten thousand women. Even allowing for these conservative odds, the chances of your mother being one of these women is about one in twenty thousand. Having then met, the chances of them getting along, hanging out, being attracted to each other, dating, marrying and staying together despite various incompatibilities and disputes is now one in two thousand. Overall, having come this far, the chances of your existing is one in forty million.

Now let's duck down to the biological level (your father's happysack if you will) because it's here that things start to blow out, so to speak. Your mother makes about one hundred thousand eggs in her lifetime. Mercifully she isn't a chicken or she wouldn't get a moment's peace. Your father is even busier, producing around four trillion sperm during the years you could conceivably be conceived. So the chances of the one egg and the one sperm that made you actually bumping into each other in the darkened confines of your mother's fallopian tubes are – wait for it – one in 400,000,000,000,000,000. That's one in four hundred quadrillion, which is rather a lot. But
that's just your parents. You now need to track your unbroken lineage back four hundred million years, starting with your grandparents and ending up with some single-celled organisms floating around the primordial sludge. The chances of all that happening (your two parents, your four grand parents, eight great-grandparents, sixteen great-great-grandparents – keep going back four hundred million years …) come in at one in 10
^45,000
. That's a ten with forty-five thousand zeros after it, which is somewhere beyond mind-blowing. But then you have to remember at each step along the way, from grandparents down to the single-celled organisms – which are really not a lot of fun to be around though significantly more interesting than the studio audience of an infomercial – the same rule of the single egg and the single sperm meeting applies, which comes in at a jaw-dropping one in 10
^2,640,000
. That's a ten with two million, six hundred and forty thousand zeros after it. So now we have to consider all that together. 10
^2,640,000
× 10
^45,000
× 2000 × 20,000 puts your chances of existence at one in 10
^2,685,000
.

All of which points to two patently obvious facts. Firstly, Ali Binazir has way too much time on his hands. Secondly, your existence is a miracle.

And I abandoned the miracle of my own existence because I didn't know how to ask for help.

Time stopped the moment I entered the psych ward and so now I live in a sort of bubble. Disconnected from the outside world. From reality. It's as if none of this is real. It could be the drugs but I feel like I'm living a dream. Someone else's dream.

On my nurse's advice, I'm sitting in the common courtyard outside my room giving my eyelids a suntan. I've never done this before and it feels okay. The warmth flowing through my eyes, through my body. This is what we depressives need, apparently: vitamin D. Vitamin D and not killing ourselves. It's amazing how when you almost die it's the simple things that matter.
I don't want to hoon through Surfers Paradise in a Bugatti Veyron, climb Mount Everest, or go to my year-twelve formal with a supermodel. I'll take the sun on my face, a hazelnut latte (don't tell Chris or Maaaate), a good book, a walk along the beach at sunset with Lisa's fingers interlocked in mine. I had all of that and yet I still gave it up. Almost. Maybe because at that moment on the train platform, at my crossroads, I felt for sure that none of these would give me any pleasure ever again, and no amount of Bugatti Veyrons, Everest expeditions, or trysts with supermodels could come close to compensating for what I'd lost. Hope.

I stare at Lisa's message again:

She must have used her aunt's phone. I can't risk texting her back in case her aunt is anything like The Kraken.

Lisa's message positively drips with subtext. She hopes I'm surviving? Clearly she realised just how much her leaving was going to mess me up. Obviously more than I did. And of course The Kraken took Lisa's phone. I should have known.
Even though Lisa and I had bought her a new sim card just for us. That evil old scrote thinks there's nothing wrong with beating seventeen shades of shit out of her own daughter, sending her to live overseas, and just generally hovering over her like a demented buzzard.

Lisa's banishment was ordered by The Kraken, and for the moment it's easiest to blame my close call on the station and hospitalisation on her. If she'd stepped aside and let us be normal teenagers rather than the controlling, manipulative, racist old bag that she is, then none of this would have happened. Lisa and I would probably be sitting in Ciao Latte right now solving the world's sociopolitical, ethno-religious problems over a chiller and giant cookie, instead of me being stuck in a psycho ward and her in a shoebox bedroom 4583 miles/7375.63 kilometres/3982.52 nautical miles away.

As I'm sitting here basking lizard-like in the sun with time stopped, my mind wanders and I start fantasising about all the punishments I could dish out to The Kraken. It's clear what I have to do. I have to slay her. Only then will things return to normal and Lisa and I can be together again.

I couldn't kill her outright, of course. I just don't have murder in me. The guilt demons would haunt me for the rest of my life. I have to be cleverer than that. Do something that will lead to
The Kraken's demise but leave me only indirectly responsible at worst. Maybe as she's walking up the street with her groceries I could leap out from behind a tree dressed as Death, a ninja warrior or Ronald McDonald. Something that will startle the old bat enough to leap out of her shoes and hopefully give her a chest-bursting heart attack. Or maybe I could somehow tie a steak around her neck or baste her in mutton sauce and set a bunch of pit bulls on her. Or maybe I could get some killer bees and somehow dress her as a bear and –

‘Hello, Declan.' My meds-induced homicidal fantasies are interrupted by the sudden arrival of Kate.

‘Declan'? She hasn't called me that in years. I'm either ‘douche', ‘douchebag' or ‘loser', depending on her mood or whether or not I've kidnapped her Build-A-Bear or My Little Pony and hidden them for ransom. ‘Declan'? Obviously she's been prepped to tread on eggshells around me. It'll be fun seeing how long it lasts. I give her five minutes tops.

‘Where are Mum and Dad?' I ask, as Kate begins surveying my new environment.

‘It's nice here,' she says. ‘I like the fish.' She's referring to the oceanarium wall on the far side of the courtyard which has been painted by either an artist or a patient or perhaps someone who was both.

‘Mum and Dad?' I remind Kate.

‘What about them?' says Kate, who has the same sort of attention span as the very fish she's staring at.

‘Where are they?' I sigh. ‘Or did you drive here by yourself?'

‘Are you nuts?' Kate kind of cringes when she remembers where I am. ‘Er, Mum's talking to the doctor and Dad's getting coffee.'

In a minute she'll either start counting the fish, or else complain about their anatomical inaccuracies. The fun part will be to keep interrupting her so that she'll have to begin counting all over again.

‘Do you reckon this was painted from memory, or did someone take a photo and bring it in? And this one's fin looks weird.' Some poor artist has barely managed to keep death at bay by painting this picture and all Kate can do is complain about a lopsided fin.

‘Kate. You do realise that this is a psycho ward?'

‘Yeah, I know that. So?'

‘It's just that you'd better be careful or they mightn't let you out. There's a padded cell at the end of the corridor with your name on it.'

‘Shut up, douche!'

I check my watch. Two minutes forty.

Mum comes in all smiles and carrying a green recycling bag stuffed full of books and clothes.
She's obviously heard or decided that I'm going to be in here for a while.

‘Hello, darling. Sleep well?'

‘Like a log.'

‘That's good.'

‘A log?' says Kate.

‘Yeah. Woke up in the middle of a forest covered in wombat poo.'

Kate turns away from the seascape. ‘Really?' Sometimes Kate is about as much use as an ashtray on a hang-glider.

‘Oh, Kate,' sighs Mum. ‘Go and see where your father's got to.'

‘Okay,' she says brightly. She loves being given things to do. Probably keeps her mind from eating itself. Kate will probably end up curing cancer or coming up with a unified theory of the universe, but when Dad told her the joke about how Irish astronauts had landed safely on the sun because they went at night, she believed him. She even told her teacher and the rest of her year-two class the names of the two astronauts: Pat MaGroin and Phil Macavity. Dad felt so bad he went up to school and apologised personally to the teacher.

‘You'd better drop breadcrumbs behind you,' I suggest to Kate as she starts to leave. ‘Or you'll never find your way back.'

‘Dec,' chastises Mum gently.

‘I don't have any breadcrumbs,' says Kate.

I look at her and shake my head. ‘Yeah. That's the only thing wrong with
that
plan.'

‘Douchebag!' snaps Kate as she heads off to look for Dad.

‘And don't step on any cracks in the tiles,' I call after her. ‘Or you'll have to come back and start again.'

‘Why do you have to wind her up so much, Dec?'

‘Because it's fun.'

Mum raises her eyebrows. ‘She could say one or two things about you right now, you know.'

‘Yeah. But you've drilled her not to. And it's killing her.'

Mum comes around behind me and kisses the top of my sun-drenched hair. ‘Oh, you're nice and warm. You did sleep well?'

‘Yeah. Had a little help.'

‘We all need help at times.' Mum comes around and sits next to me. She holds my hand. There's no one else around so it's okay. ‘Do you want to talk about it? Before they get here.'

‘Not really.'

‘It might help.'

‘I'm not sure I understand it.'

‘How are you feeling?'

‘Better than yesterday. Well, a bit anyway. The pain's not as bad.'

‘Do you understand what it would have done to us had you …' She trails off. It's just too big. ‘You have to know when to ask for help. I couldn't have survived if you'd …'

I shrug. ‘I didn't know I needed help.'

Mum wipes her eyes. How could I have not realised that this is what it would have done to her, to Kate, to Dad? But that's the thing when your mind cracks. You don't know that it's cracked, because the very thing that lets you know that you
have
a cracked mind is the very thing that's cracked.

‘Your dad's sorry about yesterday.'

‘Yeah, right.'

‘No, Dec, he really is. He wants to take you fishing.'

We've never gone fishing in our lives. ‘Fishing?'

‘I know, but let him. It's his way of dealing with it.'

I look at the seascape opposite. I have a psycho moment and so now marine life has to die. Hardly seems fair. I don't know why we just don't wander off into the wilderness
Lord-of-the-Flies
style and slaughter a goat or kill a pig.

‘Was it just Lisa or was it … the other stuff with –'

‘I don't know,' I interrupt, because I don't want to hear her name. ‘Can we leave it?'

I knew that Mum would eventually want to open that particular can of worms when I'd prefer to let sleeping dogs (or worms) lie. She still carries the guilt with what happened with Aunt Mary, but she has to let it go. I have. Or I thought I had.

‘I need to know, Dec.'

‘She's dead, Mum. She can't get any deader. Just let it go!'

‘If I could have taken your place …'

‘Enough, Mum. Jeez. You're supposed to be cheering me up, not workshopping crap about that psycho.'

‘Don't call her that, Declan. She was sick. That's why she did what she did.'

‘Okay. I'll call her ‘the fucking nut job', then. That better?'

‘I'm sorry, Dec. I'm so sorry. I should have known. She always had a vile temper. You told us that she used to hit you.'

‘Mum! I don't want to talk about it.'

‘But you have to. The doctor said you've bottled it up.'

‘How does he know?'

‘You blame me, don't you?'

‘No, I don't. You couldn't have known that she –'

‘You do. And you're right. I'm the one who left you alone with her that day. I could have taken the day off –'

‘Stop it, Mum!'

Never have I been more pleased to see Dad and Kate. Mum was seriously about to go off on one. And I don't need that. Whatever skeletons remain in that particular closet have long since turned to dust and are best left undisturbed.

‘Hey, Declan, what's happening?' says Dad, trying to act casual.

‘We're going paragliding this afternoon.'

‘Oh, really?' says Kate. ‘Can I come?'

‘He's not serious, Kate,' says Dad. He looks over at me to check. ‘You're not serious, are you, Dec?'

I give him a look.

Dad gets to work on his tray of coffees. ‘So that's a skim cap decaf for the love of my life.' He hands Mum her coffee and plants a kiss on her cheek. I can't imagine what they got up to last night after they made up. Actually, I
really
don't want to.

‘A hazelnut latte for the big fella.' Dad's voice bellows around the courtyard like the grunt of a mating bull.

‘Keep it down a bit, Dad.'

‘Why?' he says. ‘Is a hazelnut latte too girly for the hospital?'

‘No, but
you
are.' It's the worst comeback in the history of comebacks but, hey, I'm drugged up to the back teeth. ‘Seriously, the loonies need their sleep.'

‘Declan,' chides Mum. ‘Don't call them that.'

‘“Us”, Mum,' I say. ‘“Us”. I'm one of them, remember?'

‘Double espresso for moi,' continues Dad, ‘because if I was any more manly I'd grow hair on my teeth.' And everyone within earshot rolls their eyes.

‘And a soy-milk hot chocolate for Katie Bear.'

‘Because allowing Kate access to caffeine would be like giving the Duracell rabbit rocket fuel.'

‘Shut up, douchebag.'

‘Do you even know what a douchebag is?'

‘Yeah, it's you.'

‘Stop it, you two,' pleads Mum. ‘For God's sake, give it a rest.'

Dad looks around the courtyard and nods. ‘This is okay, isn't it, Dec?'

I shrug. ‘Best nuthouse I've ever been in.'

‘I mean, it's nicer than the hospital your Aunt Mary was in, God rest her soul.' He appears thoughtful for a moment. Mum looks at me and I shake my head.

‘Mum tell you we're going fishing?'

‘Yep,' I say. ‘I can hardly wait.'

‘Dec,' whispers Mum. ‘Come on.' Dad is still surveying the courtyard so he didn't detect the sarcasm.

I take a sip of coffee. ‘Can I bring a book?'

Mum sighs but smiles. She squeezes my knee, happy I've made a concession.

‘Bring as many as you like,' he says. ‘But it's deep-sea fishing. We're going to be heading out from the Central Coast. Out into the deep. The wild blue yonder.' I don't know if he's taking the piss or if he's serious.

‘Maybe if you spot a white whale,' I say, ‘you could turn into Captain A-hole.'

‘Captain A-hole?' says Kate while Mum snorts with laughter.

‘Don't be a Moby Dickhead,' says Dad, and he immediately bursts out laughing at his own cleverness.

Kate didn't get the whole A-hole/Ahab thing, but she thinks Dad warning me about being a dickhead is the funniest thing she's ever heard. Meanwhile Mum and I, on team Dec, are still laughing at my A-hole joke. Pretty soon we're all at it. We haven't laughed this much in years. At least not at the same time and at the same joke. It's usually me and Mum laughing at something Kate's said or something Dad's done involving a structural wall and some sort of power tool. But now we're all in on it. We're practically rolling around on the floor. And if it wasn't for my being in a psycho hospital having come within a whisker of splattering myself beneath a train, then it would have been a real Instagram moment.