‘I know what you mean,’ I said. ‘I felt like that about my dad. Still do. Sad thing is, if they were alive we’d probably be much more critical. We wouldn’t think they were so perfect.’
‘Yeah. I’ve thought of that. It makes me wonder. We’d probably be fighting a lot of the time.’
‘Do you look like him?’
‘My nose is like his, I think.’ He put his hands palm-down on the blanket, spread his fingers out. ‘And I’ve got big hands too, long fingers, and as far as I can tell from photos his hands were the same. But that’s about it. He was much fairer than me. Mum’s blonder too. I’m a bit of a throwback, apparently.’
He stopped talking and smiled, looked straight at me. ‘What about you? Who do you look like?’
‘A bit of everyone. Mum, Dad, my grandparents. I’ve got Mum’s eyes. Dad’s mouth. I’m an even mix.’
‘Right. Well . . .’ He squinted as though he was examining my face. ‘I think the combination works pretty well.’
‘Oh. Thanks.’ I felt myself blushing and tried to will the heat down.
Cooper turned away and reached out for something in the grass. When he turned back he was holding a single daisy.
‘For you,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry about your dad. I’m sorry I didn’t know. And I’m sorry I made dumb assumptions.’
I took it, brushed a finger over the perfect yellow petals. ‘I told you not to apologise.’ I smiled. ‘But thank you. It’s pretty. I love daisies.’
‘There’s plenty more,’ he said. ‘Want another?’
‘No. One is enough. One is special. I’m going to keep it forever.’ I leaned back and pushed it deep inside my jeans pocket. ‘There. Nice and safe.’
‘Safe.’ He laughed. ‘If a bit squashed.’
We left soon after that. The sun was sinking behind a tall row of trees, and without its warmth on our backs, the air felt unpleasantly chilly, the grass damp. It took just as much time going down as it had coming up. We had to go slowly, take care not to stumble. Halfway down I slipped on a stone and fell flat on my bum. Cooper laughed, reached out, took my hand, pulled me up.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Clumsy.’
We walked down the rest of the way holding hands. When we got to a narrow or steep spot where we had to go single file, Cooper let go of my hand and scrambled down in front before turning back to help. At the bottom we stopped at my front gate.
‘That was fun,’ I said.
‘Yep.’
And suddenly I felt awkward again. I hated this goodbye bit. Wondering how to make plans to see each other again, whether he even wanted to.
‘Okay.’ I stepped away. ‘I guess I’ll—’
‘Wait.’ He reached out and grabbed my hand, pulled me back. ‘I don’t want you to go.’
I smiled. I felt relief, excitement. My heart fluttered. ‘And I don’t want to go.’
‘So come with me.’
‘To Sebastian’s party?’
‘How’d you know?’
‘Because Claire invited me. The other day.’
He frowned. ‘She did?’
‘Yep. But don’t ask me why, because I have no idea.’ I watched his face for some kind of clue about his feelings, but he only looked puzzled. I wanted to know more about his relationship with Claire – why they broke up, whether he’d dumped her or she’d dumped him. I wanted to know exactly how he felt about her now, but I wasn’t brave enough to ask.
‘That’s just fucking weird,’ he said, shaking his head.
‘It was a bit strange.’
‘Look. Don’t worry.’ He put his hands on my shoulders. ‘It’s not her party, it’s Seb’s, and I’m inviting you, not her. You’ll be there with me.’
‘Do we have to go?’
‘Well, you don’t, but I do. I promised Seb.’
He was so serious about keeping his promise that it made me smile. ‘You’re a very nice person, Cooper Bartholomew,’ I said.
‘You think so?’ He laughed and pulled me to him. It felt completely natural and right to step forward and wrap my arms around his back, to press my face against his chest. And when I’d grown used to the solidity of him and the regular thrum of his heartbeat, it felt just as natural to turn my face up, to raise my lips to his. Kissing Cooper was like diving into a crisp blue pool on a sweltering summer day. It felt so good and perfect and right, and it made me realise that I’d never really kissed anyone properly before. It wasn’t what we did with our mouths or our lips or our tongues. None of that. It was something else. The way we liked each other. The feelings behind the kiss.
‘So? You’ll come?’ he asked as soon as he straightened up. The way he looked at me – as though his life depended on my answer – made it impossible to say no, so I nodded and told him yes.
NOW
29
LiBBy
After Cooper’s wake, Mum drives me home, drags me to the dining table and forces me to sit. She goes to the kitchen and prepares a simple dinner of tomato soup and toast. I have no appetite and eating feels impossible. It takes a huge effort just to lift my spoon, open my mouth, force myself to swallow the watery red liquid.
Mum tries gently to draw me into conversation, but I’m silent, unable and unwilling to talk. Her words wash over me, meaningless sounds. I know she’s trying to help, trying to distract me, to take my mind off things, but it’s like applying a bandaid to a bullet wound. A total waste of time.
I mutter an apology and rush to the bathroom. The funeral and the wake were horrible, but the empty quiet of home feels even worse. Now there is nothing left to do but miss him.
I sob while I shower, standing beneath the stream for so long the water gets cold. I get out reluctantly, dry myself, put my pyjamas on. I go to my room and climb into bed. Mum brings me a small glass of brandy and orders me to drink it.
‘It’ll help you sleep,’ she says.
I sit up and swallow it obediently, barely noticing the chemical taste or the fumes, the way it stings.
When she’s gone I lie down. It’s a relief to sink into the cosy warmth of bed. I close my eyes and it doesn’t take long before I fall asleep.
I dream of Cooper. I dream that he climbs through my window while I’m sleeping and slips into my bed. I wake up and find him next to me – warm and very much alive – and cry with joy. He laughs and tells me that his death was all a stupid joke. I hug him tight and am so overjoyed, so glad to see him, I don’t even care that he played such a cruel trick.
But a police siren screeches through my open window and I’m pulled from my dream with a vicious jolt. I’m awake, alone in my bed, feeling as though Cooper has been ripped away from me. And the shock of this reality – Cooper is dead and gone and I will never see or speak to or touch him again – is like a kick to the stomach. The pain takes my breath away.
I get up and find my phone and stare at the last two text messages he sent.
Still awake? Can I come over? x
Libs? You there?
I read them over and over as I’ve done every day since he died. I weep as I think of him sending them. Waiting for me but getting no response. I was asleep. Oblivious. I wonder for the hundredth time what he wanted. Was he upset? Angry? Why didn’t he come to my window and wake me? Why? I have a million questions that will never be answered.
If only I wasn’t so exhausted. If only I stayed up a bit later. If only I was awake.
If only.
I turn my phone off, toss it roughly on my desk.
I sit on my bed and draw my knees to my chest. I stare through my window and remember the last time I saw him, the night before he died, the night he really did come through my window. I think of the beautiful things we did together in this bed. I remember the smell and feel of him. I remember how I felt that it was all too good to be true. How he was too good to be true.
I was so happy.
No. We were so happy.
‘Why?’ I say it aloud to my empty room. ‘Why?’
I’
ve been numb since he died, existing in a strange and painful limbo land. For an entire week I’ve been sobbing intermittently and moping around the house in a state of raw grief, waiting for the funeral. I haven’t had a chance to stop and think. I haven’t even really considered the details, the how and why of it all. I haven’t given myself space to examine the painful side of Cooper’s death. I haven’t wanted to.
But I can no longer ignore the obvious questions. They are starting to torment me. Why did he kill himself? Why, when we were so happy, would he choose to leave?
I think carefully over our last weeks together. I remember the magic night we spent in Sydney – the way he talked constantly about opening his own business. Our plans to move to Sydney, get our own place. And as I think and remember and wonder, I find myself sitting up straighter, feeling more alert and awake with each passing moment.
Far from feeling better, far from gaining any comfort or resolve from trying to confront the truth, I only feel worse. I’m more jittery and anxious than ever. My stomach churns. My heart pounds, my mind races. I jump from my bed and pace the floor.
I go to my desk and turn my laptop on. When it’s booted up I google Suicide. Warning signs.
I find a youth suicide website. I read through lists of clues and triggers, common warning signs. Words like apathy, unhappiness, bullying, isolation, depression, failure and withdrawal fill the screen. Words that seem foreign and jarring in relation to Cooper, words that have nothing to do with him.
Everything about him, every memory, everything he said and did and thought contradicts what I’m reading. Cooper wasn’t apathetic or withdrawn, he was cheerful and enthusiastic and engaged. He constantly talked about the future. He made plans. He wasn’t isolated, he didn’t feel like a failure. He had loads of friends and loved his job.
He had me.
And he wasn’t pretending, he wasn’t hiding his own ‘black dog’, as the minister had put it. He’d been genuinely happy.
I can’t keep reading. I close my laptop in frustration. My thoughts are racing. I have to move. If it wasn’t so dark and miserable outside I’d go to the beach, run across the cold sand. Instead I pace my room, try to keep up with the thoughts that are galloping through my head. It’s all wrong. Everyone has it wrong.
‘Libby.’ Mum is standing at my door. ‘Are you okay? What are you doing? I heard noises.’
‘I’m fine,’ I say, glad for the dark. ‘Sorry. Just had a bad dream.’
‘Poor baby. Do you want to come and lie down with me for a while?’
‘No. Thanks. Sorry for waking you.’ I lunge back to my bed. ‘I’m just going back to sleep.’
I lie down, pull the covers up beneath my chin. I know I need to talk to someone. I’ll go mad if I don’t. The problem is, who? Not Mum. She didn’t know Cooper well enough and she’d only think I was in denial. She’d make me get counselling. She’d worry and fret.
Cooper’s mother, Tessa? Impossible. She seemed so shattered at the funeral, I can hardly go to her now and raise suspicions. It might only make things worse for her.
Though I’ve never particularly liked him, the only person I can think of is Sebastian. He was Cooper’s best friend – if anyone knew Cooper, really knew him, Sebastian did. He would have to be the person most likely to understand my doubts.
It occurs to me then that Sebastian might have his own doubts. Perhaps, like me, he’s tossing and turning and lying awake wondering what really happened. Perhaps he’s afraid to say anything, scared of upsetting people, causing more hurt.
I get my phone and turn it on. I scroll through my messages until I find the text Sebastian sent me the day after Cooper died. I add his number to my contact list.
It’s four a.m. – too early to call.
But I don’t go back to sleep. I sit on my bed and stare out my window, waiting for the day to begin.
THEN
30
LiBBy
Mum looked surprised when I told her who I was going out with.
‘Cooper Bartholomew?’ she asked.
‘Yeah. Why?’
She shook her head and turned away, but not before I saw the little crease form between her brows, the unhappy tightening around her mouth.
Cooper hadn’t given me long to get ready, so I ignored Mum’s obvious disapproval and went straight to the bathroom for a shower. I washed my hair and blow-dried it, leaving it long and loose down my back. I put some make-up on – eyeliner around my eyes, gloss on my lips.
When I went to my room to choose my clothes, I realised I had no idea what to wear. The parties I had with my friends were so casual and unplanned we rarely bothered to dress up. I knew this party would be different, but I didn’t know how different. Should I go all out? Wear a dress and heels? I had a look through my wardrobe and quickly decided against that idea. There was nothing that wasn’t either dated and hideous or way too formal. Surely it would be better to be under-rather than over-dressed?
I chose black jeans, a pair of knee-high boots with a low heel, a drapey red peasant blouse. I found my favourite pair of earrings, large silver hoops, and put them on. I stood before the mirror, adjusted my shirt, tucked my hair behind my ears. I used to worry about being too tall when I first started high school, but I no longer minded. The boys had eventually caught up, and I grew into myself in years 11 and 12. I’d become voluptuous like my mother. I had curves – big hips and breasts, an obvious waist. Cate sometimes jokingly referred to me as Jessica Rabbit, and though I knew I didn’t have the femme fatale attitude, I was always secretly quite pleased with the comparison.
I checked my phone. There was a text from Hari.
Want to come over and watch a movie? Get some takeaway? (I feel like Thai) Cate is here. xx
I called her, told her I couldn’t come.
‘Ah, is that because you’re going to that posh party up in the Hills?’ She was only teasing, but I suddenly wished I’d texted instead of calling.
‘Yes.’
She snorted.
‘Seriously. I am going. With Cooper.’
‘You’re kidding!’
‘Nope.’
‘You like him, Libby? Seriously? Cooper Bartholomew?’
‘Yes,’ I said. It was much easier to be frank over the phone than in person. And now that Cooper and I had actually kissed, I was more confident that the attraction wasn’t one-sided. ‘I do. He’s nice, Hari. I swear.’
‘He went out with Claire Forrester, which by definition means he couldn’t be all that nice. And he couldn’t be very bright either. What does he do? Some kind of untrained labour?’
‘Oh my god, Hari, you absolute snob. You don’t know anything about him.’
She was quiet for a moment. I could hear Cate’s voice in the background. She was telling Hari to leave me alone.
‘I might be a snob,’ she said, her voice softer. ‘But only in a protective way. I just don’t want him to use you.’
‘He’s not like that.’
‘Women like you have been saying that about men like Cooper for centuries. They’re usually wrong.’
I rolled my eyes. Hari could try to argue that her snobbery was a feminist issue, but I didn’t think it was. Feminism, in my view, didn’t let women off the hook. Prejudice was prejudice.
‘I don’t care,’ I said. ‘You don’t know him and you have no right to judge. You’ll just have to trust me.’
I hung up without saying goodbye.
In the kitchen I found a sandwich and a glass of orange juice at my spot at the table.
‘You should eat before you go,’ Mum said. She sat opposite me and watched as I tucked in. She was worried, her concern impossible to ignore.
‘What is it?’
She sighed. ‘Cooper Bartholomew.’
‘What about him?’
‘I’d just . . . well, don’t get annoyed, Libby, but I’d really rather you didn’t get seriously involved.’
‘What?’
‘You don’t know this
, but I met his mother years ago. In a work capacity. Before Cooper was born.’
‘So?’
‘So, darling . . .’ She sighed. ‘There were some unpleasant things in his past. Between his parents. I’m just wondering if you really know what you’re doing.’
‘Are you joking? Oh my god, Mum. What has his family got to do with anything? And you’re worried about stuff that happened twenty years ago? Really?’
‘Stuff like this tends to . . . I don’t know, affect people badly.’
I had no idea what she was talking about and didn’t particularly want to find out. I was stunned, though, by her hypocrisy.
‘After everything you’ve taught me, I can’t believe you’re saying this. What happened to tolerance and equality? All your social principles?’
‘I guess my protective instincts are kicking in. I’m your mother, Libby. You can’t blame me for worrying. And sometimes that means I don’t want you hanging around with people who might . . . I don’t know . . . let you down, I guess.’
‘Let me down?’ I stared at her. ‘You don’t even know him.’
‘Look.’ She put her hand on mine. ‘I know exactly what it feels like to really like someone. I remember it all perfectly. And the trouble is it can make you a bit irrational. You can overlook things, important things. Things that make you completely incompatible.’
I pulled my hand away, shook my head. ‘There’s nothing to overlook. You’re being completely unfair.’
‘I probably am. But you’ll understand when you’re a mother.’ She stood up, collected my empty glass and my plate and took them to the sink. ‘I can’t stop you doing anything, Libby. Just promise me you’ll be careful. You don’t have to give him everything. Just try to be a little bit objective. Think about what you really want. Be safe. Protect yourself.’
Protection – and she wasn’t talking about sex or condoms or anything obvious like that. Before I could tell her that she had nothing to worry about, that Cooper was a good person and I wasn’t anywhere near as vulnerable or as naive as she seemed to think, the doorbell rang. I stood up and pushed my chair back. I wished I had enough time to stay and convince her that she was wrong about Cooper, but he was at the door and my heart was fluttering in my chest and I could do nothing more than say a hasty goodbye before I was rushing away.