Girl Saves Boy (16 page)

I reached over and held her hand, and whispered to her, ‘So I’m guessing the world didn’t metamorphose into a Disney film?’

Jewel squeezed my hand and laughed softly. ‘He was awful. The kiss was horrible. Wet and disgusting. God, I can’t believe I’m telling you this.’

‘You realise millions of people probably had first kisses just like that,’ I said. ‘Probably billions, actually. That was the quintessential gross first kiss to a T.’

She looked at me, and her eyes shone. ‘I know. But you don’t know that when you’re thirteen.’ Her smile was bittersweet.

‘You know what I think?’ I whispered. ‘I think you should be able to choose. Forget about the stupid kiss at camp with a stranger. Choose the kiss that meant something, with someone you cared about. Make that your first kiss. Remember that. Don’t remember the other things. Remember the things that were good.’

Jewel smiled and squeezed my hand again, and I reached over and rested my hand against her face. We sat there and were quiet and still for the longest time. The candle flickered.

‘The rain’s stopped,’ I whispered.

‘Yeah,’ Jewel smiled. ‘Yeah, it has. All this rain will be good for the garden.’

‘Is this enough now?’ I asked. ‘Do you want me to go home?’

Jewel knelt forward and kissed the corner of my mouth—I think it was even more exhilarating than if she had kissed me properly—before leaning her head against my shoulder, and I wanted to turn my head and kiss her, and the desire was so intense I couldn’t think of anything else, or hear anything but the sound of her breathing.

‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s too late for you to leave.’

We sat like that, leaning against each other, and it was so perfect, just sitting there. I had no idea I could find so much happiness in just sitting next to someone.

I was at ease, and at the same time she was so close I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t understand, and I didn’t really want to, because I was worried the feeling would suddenly desert me.

Jewel undid the top three buttons of her blouse. She tipped her head up and kissed me, and she held my hand and brought it up against the next button. And we kissed and my fingers trembled as I unbuttoned her blouse and my fingertips accidentally brushed against her breasts—I thought of how I shook when they told me I was running out of time just a few weeks ago, I thought of how my hands shook when I couldn’t bring my mother back. But this was different. This felt special. And for a while, dying and everything that came with it felt far away.

She shrugged out of her blouse and leant back and we kissed lightly and our noses bumped together and we both smiled.

‘I feel like I’m not up to par with everyone else,’ Jewel whispered. Her hand was in my hair and her lips were so close to mine I could feel her whispers vibrating in my head. ‘I feel less than. I feel like no one needs me or wants me.’

‘I need you,’ I whispered back.

‘If that wasn’t so clichéd, it could be almost romantic,’ she smiled. She kissed me. She kissed me. She kissed me. I couldn’t believe there’d ever been a time before Jewel Valentine had come into my life.

And, just like that, I think I fell in love.

Things I never thought I’d see
My mother lying dead in front of me
My dad kissing my male Art teacher
True Grisham with a boyfriend
Jewel Valentine sleeping beside me
My own death dancing on the horizon

Mum, the night you died.

I was coming home from school camp that day. Dad was out at an art exhibition—I don’t know if it was his own or someone else’s, but I guess it doesn’t matter either way. And even if he’d been at home, it was too late to save you.

It was a pretty good camp—as far as school camps go—not because of the usual flying fox and orienteering (the activities grow monotonous after six or so years, and the facilities at bush camps often leave much to be desired), but because of a particularly successful game of Spin The Bottle, where I spent seven whole minutes in Cabin Four kissing Mandy Collins, who only came to our school for a term. Do you remember her?

I probably shouldn’t be telling you that. It’s probably not something you want to know.

Little Al’s mum picked us both up from school and I went back to their house. I rang and left a message on our home answering machine, saying I’d be back around seven. And that’s exactly when Sal dropped me home.

She asked if I wanted her to wait to make sure someone was home. We both knew you were always home, and I told her I could see the light on in the kitchen. I told her I’d be fine and thanked her.

She drove away.

I walked up to the front door. It was unlocked, as it always was when we were at home…I miss that house.

You didn’t go with Dad that night because near the end you didn’t go anywhere. We both thought you’d rebound, you’d be fine. We thought you were eating again. You were up and about in the house most days. Not your old self, but you were getting better.

I called out to tell you I was home. You didn’t respond and I assumed you were just busy, or hadn’t heard, or something like that. I put my backpack and my sleeping bag in my room, and then I walked out into the kitchen.

You looked so beautiful.

I knew the moment I saw you lying there that you were already dead and not coming back. That your heart had given up, that the stress on it, and on the rest of your body, was too much. I ignored that pang, the one that told me you’d already left, that you were already far away, and I said your name loudly, clearly, like you’d just fainted from low blood sugar or something. Like you weren’t dead, like you were just a diabetic, and a couple of jelly beans and an insulin injection were all you needed.

You looked so beautiful—your hair spread out around your head against the linoleum. Though your thick brown curls had thinned since you’d started losing weight, they still fell in soft waves. You reminded me of a mermaid, your skin all shiny, your lips so full compared to the harshness of your angular cheekbones and pointy chin.

I fell onto my knees beside you and felt your wrist for a pulse. Your watch was getting in the way. I couldn’t find your heartbeat, but I thought maybe that was because my own heart was thumping so loud in my ears.

I grabbed the phone and stabbed in the emergency number.

I tried to remember CPR—we did a course in Year 9, where we resuscitated dummies. Was the heart on the left, the right or in the middle?

I think I snapped one of your ribs—a gut-wrenching snap that made me bite back a yelp of pain, even though the pain wasn’t mine. The whole time I had tears streaming down my face—because I knew you were gone, but I kept trying to bring you back anyway, because you couldn’t leave us, because you couldn’t leave me like that.

You looked so beautiful.

The ambulance arrived.

Dad flew in and took my place beside you, yelling ‘Helen! Helen!’ over and over, as if you might hear him, holding on to you as the paramedics tried to take you away. An ambulance woman carted me into the lounge room and found a blanket to put around my shoulders.

I whispered to her that I thought I’d broken one of your ribs. She said I hadn’t done anything wrong.

I didn’t believe her. I knew I’d done something wrong, done so many things wrong, failed to save you. Not that night, but earlier, weeks, months, years earlier. Back when things were normal.

I vomited on the carpet and they found me a bucket. Dad’s face was puffy, distorted, and his eyes were red. Things became hazy—the flashing lights of the ambulance outside, concerned cries of neighbours in the street, Dad’s arm around me, a glass of water being pushed into my hand.

I pressed my head against Dad’s chest and I sobbed. All I wanted was to hold you. I didn’t know where you were at that point, where they’d taken you, what they’d done with you. I just wanted to be near you.

I whispered to Dad, ‘Why didn’t we save her?’

He kissed my forehead like he did when I was very small and whispered back, ‘It isn’t your fault, Sacha. You couldn’t have done anything.’

I could have. I should have. It shouldn’t have happened. Mothers don’t just die like that. Mothers don’t just die that way. Sure—old people in retirement homes die. Drunken teenagers wrap their cars around poles every weekend. Little kids with bald heads—like the one I once was—they die, every now and again.

Not mothers. Not my mum. Not that way.

Why did you do it to yourself? Why did you do it to us? Dad wanted to help you. I wanted to help you.

The funeral was held three days later—I couldn’t eat a thing, even though Dad spent a fortune on caterers so he could be with me the whole day, a plan that didn’t work out so well, as everyone recalled amusing anecdotes about you as a kid, when all he wanted to do was sit in a corner and stare into nothingness. Everyone was tearful—so many people I didn’t recognise, maybe your old school friends. People murmuring, ‘It’s not right. This isn’t right,’ and casting sad glances at me.

I just felt numb through it all.

We moved house a few weeks later.

Little Al and True were there the whole time—I knew you liked them both, and they were shaken by you leaving, too. Little Al sat with me in the park after your funeral, both of us wearing suits that were too small and drinking contraband pocketed at the wake.

I probably shouldn’t be telling you that.

They wrote on the autopsy report that it was cardiac arrest—your heart couldn’t stand the strain you put your poor body through any longer.

You left me ten grand in a trust fund and Dad the rest. When we moved, he boxed up all your things and put them into storage. They’ll probably always be there. I don’t know what will happen to our things—yours and mine and his—when he dies. There’ll be no more family; that’ll be it. It scares me that I’m dying so soon after you.

There was nothing wrong with you, Mum; you were perfect the way you were. You were the most beautiful person ever to be a part of my life, inside and out. I loved you so much. Dad did, too—maybe, in the end, differently from how we’d imagined, but it was love.

I know now that it’s risky to love someone so much. I don’t know whether the joy outweighs the pain.

Those days and weeks and months after you’d died were the darkest of my life—worse than my time in hospital and when I found out I was dying— there was such an outpouring of emotion from me. I felt exposed and angry. I don’t know how I made it out the other side alive, without you. I guess it was because Dad needed me. I couldn’t have left him behind. Why did you leave us? I felt so bad later, fighting with him, blaming him—for what you did to yourself.

Eighteen-year-old girls die of anorexia. Forty-year-old mothers don’t.

I wish I could hold you again.

Jewel

‘Jewel,’ murmured Sacha. ‘I want to tell you something.’

It was late and quiet and all I could feel were Sacha’s fingertips across my stomach.

‘Mm-hm,’ I mumbled, but my mind was far away and my eyes were closed. His breath was warm against the side of my face.

‘I’m going to die, Jewel,’ he whispered.

I wondered why he kept saying my name like that. Not that I didn’t like it, I did, but he kept whispering my name…Maybe this was important. I wondered. I wondered.

‘Jewel,’ he whispered again, and his lips were right against my ear this time. ‘This is important.’

I liked this. I liked the way he said Jewel, like I was important. I knew I wasn’t, but it was nice for him to whisper and for me to think that.

‘I’m going to die, Jewel,’ he said again. I heard him the first time.

I kept my eyes closed and he kissed my cheek.

‘I know, Sacha,’ I murmured. ‘Everyone is.’

He drew circles across my stomach and touched his head against mine. I felt so warm.

‘I love you,’ he whispered.

‘I love you too,’ I murmured. ‘With all my heart. Good night.’

So late. So tired.

He kissed me lightly. ‘Good night then. Love you.’

I woke early.

I half expected Sacha to disappear in the pre-dawn light, or that the night before would be that strange sort of dream you have just before waking, like a splash of images—my head against the glass door watching the rain, peeling apart a ham and lettuce sandwich, building a tent, gulping down wine, kissing Sacha over and over again.

It couldn’t have been one of those dreams because those dreams were illogical and muddled with bizarre people chasing me and walls behaving in ways walls don’t behave—whereas this made sense, Sacha and me.

Sacha’s hand was across my stomach and the rest of him was still lying next to me as well, eyes closed, breath even.

I’d slept off the wine. I got up, gently laying Sacha’s hand down and pushing away the sheets, and peeked out the Venetian blinds. It was early— way too early—and Rachel’s car wasn’t yet in the drive.

I walked to my room and dug through my drawers, putting on whatever I pulled out first. Then I combed back my hair and threw it into a ponytail and stepped out of the house and into the dawn light, closing the front door quietly behind me.

The wind chilled me, and I walked quickly, enjoying the sound my footsteps made across the asphalt. There were the psycho-joggers and gym-junkies, up at this insane hour every morning. They nodded at me, the crazy girl, practically a woman, with a lopsided ponytail.

I walked to the corner shop, just opening, and bought a carton of milk. Then I walked to the park and stood on a bench and flung my arms wide—the carton of milk in one hand—and tipped my head up to the sunlight and took several deep breaths, before jumping down and running all the way home to Sacha.

When I got back Rachel still wasn’t there and Sacha, looking meek, was tugging his T-shirt over his head.

‘Hi,’ I said.

He smiled and raked his fingers through his hair. It was a mess. He didn’t say anything.

I held up the carton of milk. ‘I got some milk. For breakfast.’

He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Okay.’

I put the milk in the fridge then walked back into the living room.

Neither of us said anything. I picked up the sheets, the blanket and the pillows and took them back to my room, while Sacha dragged the chairs back to the dining table. Then we collected the remnants of our feast—the empty bottle of wine, glasses, half a bunch of grapes and a half-eaten Tim Tam—and took them out to the kitchen.