The Story of Me (6 page)

By the time I get upstairs and shut the door, my heart is hammering in my chest. I stand leaning against the door for a few seconds, listening to the sound of Roman’s voice as it carries from down in the bar, up to the apartment. He’s picked things up with Blink 182’s “All The Small Things” and I’m so angry.
How come he gets to sing his shitty cover versions in a bar in Australia, when my husband doesn’t get to sing the songs he wrote, on a stage in front of thousands of screaming fans anymore? Why?
I want to know why. I just want someone to explain to me why. I bang my head back against the door and scream at the top of my lungs. I don’t care if anyone hears. I don’t give a shit. I’m angry, angry at life, the world, myself, and at the moment, I’m especially angry at back-street bar singers who make me feel. I march through the apartment, out to the balcony and smoke a cigarette, then another. I don’t know how long I stand there staring out into the darkness, hearing the music coming up from below but not listening to a word of it. It’s only when the music stops that I notice the quiet. I shiver and turn to go back inside when someone bangs on the front door. I stand and stare at it for a while, then jump when it’s banged on again. I pull it open and Roman is standing there, each of his arms spread wide, leaning against the frame. His gaze meets mine head-on.

“Georgia, I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I just went to play a Carnage song, and I realised who you are. I forgot… I forgot that Jax’s cousin was in the band and that his other cousin had married the lead singer, then I remembered and it was too late. You’d already left. I’m so sorry.” I don’t speak. I can’t. I’ll choke if I try; the lump in my throat is so big, It’s filling my chest, stopping my heart from beating and my lungs from functioning.

I drop down onto my knees, look up at him and say through gritted teeth, “He’s dead. They’re both dead. They’re never coming back and there’s not a fucking thing I can do about it.” I pant as I breathe, trying not to let the sobs rise out of my chest. Roman looks down at me, that horrible look of pity that I hate so much on his face.

“You made me feel.” I don’t know why I’m telling him this. “It’s not even been a year, and you made me feel.” He frowns as he continues staring at me, then very slowly he nods.

“I felt it, too.” He wipes his nose on the back of his hand.

“What is it?” I ask him.

“I don’t know, but I felt it.” He shrugs. “Chemistry. You’re beautiful, but it’s not just that.” He looks past me, like he’s looking for
something
. An answer?

His ice-blue eyes meet mine. “Whatever it was, whatever it is, it’s there, and it’s here now.” He gestures between us with his hand. “It’s here right now, in this room; it’s here between us.” My mouth is slightly open as I try to take in air; my lips and mouth feel dry.

“What do we do?” I whisper.

He shrugs again, shaking his head. “I don’t know… I have to go and finish my set; can I come up after?”

I shake my head. “No, that’s… no.”

His eyes roam over my face. “Tomorrow then, can I come around tomorrow?”

I nod. “I’m working the breakfast shift in the morning. I finish at eleven-thirty, come around at about twelve-thirty.” He takes a deep breath, steps inside the door and kneels down level with me.

“Are you okay? I mean, if I go, will you be all right?” His voice is so soft, barely a whisper, and it sends goose bumps across my skin.

“I’ll be fine. Go. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

His right hand comes up and he runs his knuckles backwards and forwards across my cheek, and I shiver. He leans in and kisses my forehead. “I really am so very sorry, Georgia. I hope I’ve not ruined the chance for us to be friends. I… I’m sorry.”

“I know,” I whisper. He gets up and leaves. He doesn’t shut the front door behind him and he doesn’t look back. I stay on my knees, wondering what the fuck just happened.

* * *

I go straight to bed after Roman leaves; I have an early start and I feel completely drained. I vaguely remember hearing “Wonderwall” start playing, but I must soon drift off and it seems like moments later when I’m woken by my phone ringing. I grab it from the bedside table; it’s Jimmie.

“Jim,” I croak into the phone.

“Sorry, George, did I wake you? You did say to call at any time.”

“Yeah, yeah, na.” I’m not making sense so I sit up straight and try to get my shit together. “Yeah, you woke me, but I had to get up anyway. What’s happening, what’s Lennon have to say?”

“It’s, erm… it’s all good, George. It’s pretty disgusting, but it’s not… he’s not done anything wrong.”

“You wanna dish, or do I not wanna know?”

She’s quiet for a few seconds. “Well, I said to ya that he’s been really busy, didn’t I? Well, it seems he’s been missing me as much as I’ve been missing him. Anyway, he was driving home the other night and he called me and we had a bit of dirty talk on the phone, ya know, what he was gonna do to me when he got in, what I wanted…”

“Yeah, yeah, Jim, I get the picture.” I didn’t want to hear this; this was my brother and my best friend, after all.

“Yeah, well, anyway, after all the talk, he couldn’t wait till he got home and pulled over at a petrol station and bought a pack of condoms and you know…”
What am I missing here, because I don’t know. I need coffee
is all I can think.

“No, Jim, I don’t know.” I hear her take a breath before she speaks again.

“He had a wank while he was driving, and so it didn’t go everywhere, he wanked into the condom.” Well, I did ask.

“That’s gross, Jim. Now I have to go and serve breakfast to hot surfers and builders with that thought in my head. Tell my brother, he’s a fiend, but I’m glad he’s a fiend and not an adulterer.”

“Fuck. Me too, George.”

“You do know he loves you and would never do that, right?”
She’s quiet for a few seconds. “Yeah, he was really pissed off with me for even thinking he would be interested in anyone else… Did you just describe the builders and surfers as hot, George; did I hear that right?” What’s she getting at?

“Yeah, why?”

“You do realise that’s the first time I’ve heard you describe another bloke as hot since… Well, you know, in a while.” I think about what she’s said for a few seconds.

“Yeah, you’re probably right; what d’ya think that means?”

“I think it means that my beautiful best friend’s made a massive leap forward. How hot are they exactly, on a scale of one to Maca, I mean?”

I laugh before I answer, “Some are one, some are eight and some are ‘oh, my fucking God, bend me over and fuck me right now’.”

“
Georgia
!” she shrieks “Oh, my fucking God, babe, you’re back. Georgia’s back! Fuck you, you’ve made me cry.” I hear her sob into the phone and I hear Len say something in the background. “I love ya, George. I’m so proud of ya, so fucking proud, babe. I wish I was there to witness this, but I’m so glad you’ve got there.” I wish she was here, too, but I’m not going to tell her that; otherwise, she’ll be on the next flight down here.

“Jim?”

“What, babe?”

“I don’t know if I want to be back. I don’t know how I feel about it. It’s not even been a year, I feel bad. It feels wrong.”

“No, no, no, George; if you’re feeling it, then it’s right. Do not do this to yourself, George.”

“Have you and Jackson been reading the same grief and bereavement manual? Coz I swear to God, you just quoted him word for word.”

“Well, I read some leaflets when you were in the hospital, but I didn’t know there was a manual.”

“I’m joking, Jim. I’m joking.”

“I know you are, George. I know you are.” The line goes quiet for a while.

“I love you, Georgia Rae.”

“I love you too, Jamie Louise.”

“I’ll call you in a coupla days.”

“Kiss all of them babies for me, and tell my brother I love him, even though he is a pervi car wanker.” We both scream with laughter as we say our goodbyes.

I shower and head down to the bar with the biggest smile on my face, a tingle in my belly and the sensation that my heart’s not being squeezed
quite so tightly in my chest.

* * *

The morning is bright, sunny but really windy; the surf is up and the bodies are out in force. I don’t perv over all of them, but some of them I do, just a few, and the morning flies by.

I’ve noticed a change in myself today and I can’t put a finger on what it is exactly, but I just feel a little different, not so weighed down by life. Just as I say goodbye to John and the girls I’ve been working with, Jackson turns up.

“Can we talk?” He gestures upstairs so I silently lead him up to the apartment. He follows me into the kitchen and sits himself down at a stool.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“What happened last night?” His eyes meet mine.

“When last night?” I’m not sure at this moment how much I want to tell him.

“When you left the bar and when Roman came up here?” I wasn’t going to tell him that Roman came up here, but if he knows, I might as well be honest. I get us both a beer from the fridge and pass one to Jax. I lean on the bench top opposite him and take a swig.

“When I came up here, I lost it. I completely lost it, like, to the point where I wanted to break things. I just had this uncontrollable anger; the only time I’ve ever felt anything like that is when I bumped into Whorely that night.” I let out a deep breath, my heart rate accelerating just thinking about that conniving cow.

“What were you angry about?”

I walk around the bench and sit on a stool and turn to face him. “I was angry at Roman. I was…” I try to find a word that would fit the level of anger that I felt last night, but I can’t. “I think… I think I might actually have been capable of murder last night. I was angry with Roman for being alive. I was angry at Sean for being dead, and I was angry at myself for not being able to do a fucking thing to change it.” Despite the beer I’m drinking, my mouth is really dry. I take another swig, and I’m actually feeling amazed at myself for not crying.

“Have you ever heard of the five stages of grief, George?” I look at him over my beer bottle and roll my eyes.
Not that old chestnut.

“Of course I’ve heard about the five stages of grief. I don’t have enough fingers and fucking toes to add up how many times they were quoted to me when I was nutted off.”

He chuckles over his bottle. “You’ve got such a way with words, George.”

I shrug. “Well, how’d ya want me to phrase it? My husband and I were mown down by an out of control car. I was almost nine months pregnant at the time. My husband sustained massive head injuries and nothing could be done to save him. My uterus ruptured. My unborn child either choked or suffocated to death. I don’t know; I’ve never asked, and I never want to know. My injuries were such that an emergency hysterectomy had to be performed, and now I can never carry a child. My husband died, my baby died and as a result of all of this, I suffered a small mental relapse… does that sound better?”

He tilts his head to the side and says, very quietly, “You do realise you’ve just recounted the most horrific moment of your life and you’ve done it without crying?” I wasn’t crying because I was too pissed off.

“I’m too angry to cry, and what has any of this got to do with the five stages of grief?” I ask.

“I totally agree with the concept of there being five stages. However, having been through it personally, right alongside Travis, my mate who also survived the car accident, I’ve realised that every person does them in a different order or sometimes skips certain aspects all together.”

I lean my back against the stool and think about what he’s saying.

“The order should go: denial and isolation, anger, bargaining, depression, then acceptance.” He pauses for a few seconds, as though he’s figuring out how to word whatever insightful advice he’s going to offer up next.

“Were you ever in denial, George?” I start shaking my head before he even finishes asking. “No, never, how could I be? I was there. I witnessed it all. I was part of it; the accident and the decision to switch off his life support. He died holding onto me and our dead son, our baby boy.” I sob out the last three words as images of Beau flash through my mind. I wipe away my tears and take a deep breath. “I’ve never been in denial over it, but I felt isolated, and I s’pose if you consider wanting to kill yourself being depressed, then I was definitely that. Although, really, it wasn’t even that.”

“What d’ya mean?” he asks.

“Well, I had no great desire to kill myself or to be dead. I just didn’t want to live. I mean, if living meant a life with no Sean and no Beau, then I didn’t want it. I didn’t care how it was achieved; I didn’t care if I just died or if they just drugged me to the point where I didn’t exist, because that was fine, too. So, if you consider all those symptoms of depression, then yes, I was depressed.” I’m not sure where any of this is going, but I keep listening.

“Did you bargain at any time? Did you—”