Sweet Damage

‘So which is yours?’ I ask.

  ‘This way,’ she says, and walks to the end of the hallway.

  There are three closed doors at this end of the hall. Two doors face each other across the passage, and a third, smaller door sits adjacent. Anna stops at one of the facing doors, but before she can open it, I point to the smaller door, the door she was unlocking when I interrupted her earlier.

  ‘What’s in there?’ I ask.

  ‘It leads up to the attic,’ she says. She stares at me for a moment, before adding in an abrupt voice, ‘I keep it locked.’

  For some reason I feel as if I’ve been told off, or warned.

  ‘This is mine,’ she says, opening one of the other doors.

  It’s a lot smaller than the other bedrooms, with just a single bed, and a small window overlooking the garden. It seems a bizarre choice. Why has she chosen the smallest, pokiest room in the house?

  ‘Nice,’ I say, not really meaning it. ‘And that one?’ I ask, pointing to the door opposite.

  ‘It’s just another bedroom,’ she says.

  ‘Can I see?’

  She hesitates, shrugs, shakes her head – as though she’s going through some kind of intense internal dialogue – then she steps forward and opens the door slowly.

  This room is different. Unlike all the other neutral colours used upstairs, the walls in here are a soft green. A bright orange paper lantern hangs from the ceiling. A bench seat runs along one wall, empty bookshelves along another. The curtains are a darker shade of green. It’s modern, bright, surprising, the colours making it cheerful and inviting.

  ‘Hey. This is cool,’ I say. ‘You should have this room.’

  I think it’s a pretty harmless thing to say. Inoffensive.

  Complimentary even. But Anna glares at me as though I’ve just said something outrageous. She pulls the door closed so suddenly that I’m forced to step back into the hall.

  ‘Okay then,’ she says, making it clear that the tour is over, before adding, strangely, ‘thank you.’

  ‘Huh, no, thank you,’ I say. ‘I won’t get lost now. Won’t accidentally end up in the wrong bedroom at night.’

  Her face flushes red.

  ‘I meant, you know, one of the empty rooms,’ I explain. Her self-consciousness is contagious – I can feel my own face turning red. ‘Anyway, I thought I might go out a bit later. With some mates or something.’

  I’m explaining myself unnecessarily, only making things worse. Anna nods, her back against her bedroom door, and I can tell she’s waiting for me to leave.

  ‘Okay, then. Yep.’ I smile, lift my hand in a dumb wave and go back down the hall and into my own room. It’s a relief to close the door behind me, to have the encounter with Anna over and done with. I wonder if things will get easier between us, if she’ll get more relaxed. Maybe it just takes her a while to warm up to people.

  I find my phone and text a few mates to find out what’s happening. Rich calls me back almost immediately. It’s good to hear from him. He’s my best mate but I haven’t seen much of him since I got back from Indonesia. He’s got a new girlfriend – a med student called Bee – and he’s always busy with her these days. I don’t blame him for that. I pretty much abandoned him when I was with Lilla. And I know he’d always be available in a flash if I really needed him.

  We agree to meet up later for a barbecue at a friend’s place in Narrabeen. I shower and get changed. I have a bit of time to kill so I turn on my laptop, check out a couple of surf reports, listen to some music on YouTube. Then I click onto Facebook and do the only thing I ever do on Facebook. The only reason I even joined in the first place. Lilla. I don’t think too hard about why, I don’t bother reminding myself of my earlier resolutions. I click onto her page, see her recent status update:

  Making up is always fun!

  So Patrick is back.

  A claw of disappointment grabs my throat. I close my laptop and leave.

  ‘See you later, Anna!’ I shout as I go.

  I’m surprised by how good it feels to be outside, away from the oppressive gloom of the house. But it’s not only the house. It’s Anna, too. She’s shy, or unfriendly, or both, but it’s more than that. She reminds me of a bad actor wearing an ill-fitting costume. She’s inhabiting her character awkwardly, failing to pull off a convincing performance. It’s obvious that she’s hiding herself.

  I wonder if she’ll ever let me see who’s really there.

  5

  SHE HEARS HIM CALL OUT AND SHE RESPONDS WITH A FEEBLE ‘Goodbye, Tim. See you later!’ but she doubts he even hears her. She listens to his footsteps clattering down the staircase, the sharp bang of the door slamming shut. She can hardly blame him for wanting to get the hell out of here, away from her. She wants to get away from herself, her own spinning mind and pathetic anxieties. If only she could.

  She likes Tim. His presence is already a welcome distraction from the miserable preoccupations that haunt her, her futile obsession with going over and over the past, wishing she could go back in time.

  There’s no going back. No matter how much she longs to, or dreams about it. The dead can never be brought back to life.

  When she’s certain Tim has gone she leaves her room and goes up to the attic. The attic is her sanctuary, the only place where she can feel something near whole again. She’s drawn to it, like a compulsion, an addiction.

  As she closes the door behind her and slips the bolt home, making sure there’s no possibility of discovery or surprise, she thinks of what Tim asked her earlier – if she’d ever been scared of shadows or ghosts – and smiles bitterly to herself.

  If only he knew.

  6

  WHEN I GET BACK TO THE HOUSE IT’S ALMOST MIDNIGHT.

  I brush my teeth, wash my face. As I’m drying it I hear a noise that makes me pause. It’s high-pitched, some kind of wail. At first I think it must be a cat. I wait for a moment but don’t hear it again until I leave the bathroom and step into the hall. It’s not a cat, it’s a person.

  Anna.

  I walk to her room and stand outside her door. From here the noise is clear and continuous. She’s crying her heart out. I stand there for a moment, listening. I’m tired and reluctant to engage in another awkward encounter but it seems heartless to just walk away from someone in such obvious distress.

  ‘Anna?’ I tap lightly on her door. ‘It’s me, Tim. Are you okay?’

  There’s no answer, nor is there any break in the noise. She just keeps on crying.

  ‘Anna?’ I call, louder. ‘Do you need anything? Can I get you anything?’

  She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t stop crying either. I grab the door handle and start to open it, but change my mind. She must have heard me, she must know I’m here. If she wanted me to come in she’d say so.

  ‘Anna,’ I say. ‘I’m going back to my room. I’ll be just down the hall. If you need anything or if you want to talk or anything like that, let me know. Seriously. You can wake me up. Whatever. Just, you know, come and get me. If you want.’ I clear my throat. ‘I hope you’re okay. I’ll leave you alone now but I’m happy to help out. Just ask. No worries at all.’

  I go back to my room and get into bed. If I lie still I can hear her, very faintly. I bury my head under the pillow and fall asleep.

  *

  Next morning I wake early and go down to Manly for a surf. I pick up my board from the storeroom at the restaurant on the way. The break is crowded, as I knew it would be, but the waves are excellent and, unlike some days, when the vibe can be competitive and hostile, everyone seems pretty chilled out – happy to share, okay with waiting. It’s good to be out here – just sitting on my board feels awesome. The sun rises higher in the east, making sharp diamonds of light that bob and twist on the surface of the water. Everything’s so bright it forces me to squint and smile at the magic of it.

  I feel strong out here, as if anything is possible and yet nothing really matters, at the same time. I am both powerful and insignificant. The va
st expanse of the ocean, the momentous power of it, gives me a sense of freedom that I never have on land. Out here I don’t need Lilla, I don’t need anyone. For a brief and beautiful time, nothing matters except me and my board and the waves.

  When I finish, I take my board back to the restaurant and put on my dry clothes. I find a plastic tub and nick some of Dad’s coffee to take back up to the house. It’s the good stuff. Rich and robust. Packs a punch like good coffee should. Dad knows I take it and sometimes threatens to dock my wages. But he never has and I doubt he ever would. I’ve come to consider it a perk of the job.

  I call in at the supermarket to get some food on my way home. I buy fresh eggs and crusty bread, bright red strawberries and plump nectarines. Real maple syrup, real butter. I grab a tub of extra thick cream and a handful of pistachios. I wonder if I should make breakfast for Anna too, briefly wonder if she’ll be home, before remembering that she doesn’t leave the house. She’ll definitely be there. She’ll always be there. It’s a sobering thought. No wonder she was crying, I think.

  It’s almost nine by the time I get back. I take the food straight to the kitchen and unpack. The kitchen’s clean, the kettle cold, and there’s no sign of Anna, so I assume she’s not up yet. I open some of the cabinets and have a good look around. I’m glad to see that the kitchen is filled with excellent cookware: good quality pots and pans, sharp knives, a cast iron skillet, a fancy espresso machine. But the actual food supply is another story. The fridge is practically empty except for a carton of milk, a block of cheese and some sad-looking carrots. The pantry is stocked with a sparse supply of crappy food: tins of soup, a catering-sized bottle of tomato sauce, instant noodles. There are no interesting sauces, no spices, not even a clove of garlic or an onion.

  As I’m closing the pantry door, something gets stuck beneath it. I bend down to see what it is and find a scrunched-up piece of paper trapped between the door and the floor. I pull it free and unfold it, flattening it against the benchtop. The paper is covered with the name ‘Benjamin’, written over and over. The writing gets more and more desperate-looking so that by the bottom of the page the pen has almost torn through the paper. The handwriting is distinctive, left-sloping, confident. It must be Anna’s, and yet it’s hard to imagine the brittle, controlled girl I’ve seen doing anything so passionate.

  I have no idea who Benjamin is – a boyfriend or an ex, probably – but I’m now convinced my original impression of Anna was right. There’s a lot more to her than she wants to let on. Her bland, robotic persona is some kind of disguise. A protective armour. The real Anna is hiding.

  I fold the paper and toss it back on the floor where I found it – it’s not exactly the kind of thing you admit to having seen – and close the pantry door.

  *

  As I’m cracking eggs she comes into the kitchen. She’s wearing a loose T-shirt nightie thing, spotty and bright, like something a little kid would wear.

  ‘Hey,’ I say. ‘I’m making French toast. You hungry? Want some?’

  ‘Okay,’ she says quietly. ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  I beat eggs, heat the pan, while Anna just stands there, as if waiting for something. Eventually she speaks. ‘Can I do anything to help?’

  I get her to wash and slice the strawberries and we pass the next few minutes in silence, the sizzle of bread in hot butter the only noise. It should be companionable, comfortable, but I can sense the nervous tension coming off her. ‘Is everything okay, Anna?’ I ask. ‘I mean, are you—’

  ‘Everything’s fine,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry. Just try to ignore me if you can. I’m just hopeless at the moment.’

  ‘You’re not hopeless,’ I say. ‘Don’t say that.’

  She shrugs.

  We eat at the table, sitting opposite one another. I wonder if I should mention the crying I heard last night, but I don’t know how to broach it. I decide to bring it up indirectly, give her the opportunity to mention it herself if she wants to.

  ‘I got home about midnight last night,’ I say. ‘Thanks for leaving those lights on. I didn’t disturb you too much, did I? When I came in? Did you sleep okay?’

  ‘Like a log,’ she says, her face blank, unreadable. ‘You didn’t disturb me at all. I didn’t hear a thing.’

  *

  She insists on cleaning up after breakfast, so I leave her to it and go up to my room. I spend a while mucking around on the internet, resisting the temptation to log into Facebook and see what Lilla’s up to.

  Later, when I’m down in the kitchen about to make myself a sandwich, there’s a knock on the door. I hear Anna go down the hall, the door being opened. Voices. Footsteps.

  A few minutes later Anna appears in the kitchen with Fiona, who’s carrying a bag of groceries, talking animatedly about something. She stops when she notices me, says hello.

  ‘Hey,’ I say. ‘Fiona. Nice to see you.’

  ‘I’ve just brought some supplies,’ she says. She lifts the bag onto the bench. ‘Milk and bread. Some coffee.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, glancing at Anna. ‘Maybe I should have checked? I already got some of that stuff.’

  Fiona waves her hand. ‘Don’t worry. I just assumed. I was going past. It’s become a habit. Now you two go and sit down and I’ll put these away and then we can have coffee.’

  Anna and I sit at the table while Fiona unpacks the groceries. She offers instant coffee from a jar, and even though I can’t stand the stuff I accept. I want to be friendly.

  Fiona must be in her late twenties, or her early thirties – she’s a fair bit older anyway – and it’s as if she has a protective, almost maternal thing going with Anna. She seems more like a mother or an older sister than a friend.

  She brings the mugs to the table, offers sugar and milk, then sits at the head, between me and Anna.

  She turns to me. ‘How are you settling in? Enjoying the house?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I nod. ‘Everything’s good.’

  ‘It’s not too big for you?’ she asks. ‘You’re not getting lost?’

  ‘Not so far,’ I say.

  Fiona starts telling a long and complicated story about some traffic incident she witnessed on the way over. I’m not all that interested in what she’s saying, but I’m polite enough to pretend. Anna makes no effort. She sips on her coffee and stares into space, not appearing to register Fiona’s words at all.

  Anna’s bizarre behaviour doesn’t seem to bother Fiona. She talks on and on, as if the situation is completely normal. It makes me wonder if she’s so used to Anna’s reticence that she doesn’t notice it anymore, or whether she’s just learned to ignore it.

  When we’ve finished our coffee Fiona takes our empty mugs to the sink. She says goodbye to Anna, bending over to plant a kiss on the top of her head. Anna smiles vaguely.

  ‘Tim, I wonder if you’d mind coming outside for a moment?’ Fiona says. ‘And take a quick look at my car? A dashboard light was flashing on the way over. I’m just wondering if I might need some oil.’

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ I shrug. ‘Happy to take a look. But I’m not much of a mechanic.’

  I follow Fiona through the hall and out onto the front porch. She pulls the door shut behind us.

  ‘Look, it’s not really the car,’ she says quietly, glancing back at the house. Her eyebrows – the same thick eyebrows that suit Marcus, but look too masculine for her face – knot tightly together. ‘I just wanted to let you know that if living with Anna gets too much for you, if you decide you want to move out, Marcus and I will completely understand. It’s very important that you don’t feel obliged to stay. You’re free to move out any time you like. Just remember that. Any time.’

  7

  THERE ARE ONLY THREE OF US WORKING AT THE RESTAURANT THAT night – me in the kitchen, Blake doing the dishes and our best waitress, Jo, on the floor. Of all the people that work for Dad, Jo and Blake are my favourites. Blake’s one of those insanely big blokes. A gentle giant. Best thing about him is his perpetual air of level-headed ca
lm. Serenity is always a good thing in a restaurant kitchen, and Blake’s the most serene person I know. The dishes can pile up all over the place and he works steadily on, always managing to smile and keep his cool.

  Jo is similarly cheerful, but where Blake is big and steady, she’s short and tiny and fast. She has dark hair and bright eyes. On busy nights I swear she keeps the whole place running smoothly with her energy and her uncanny ability to know what’s happening at every table.

  With the three of us on, service flies by and we have the customers out of there and the place cleaned up by ten.

  We sit at the bar. Blake and I drink beer, Jo drinks red wine.

  ‘Good tips tonight?’ I ask Jo.

  ‘Twenty-five bucks,’ she smiles.

  ‘Your shout for a drink at the Steyne then,’ Blake says.

  ‘Good idea,’ Jo says eagerly. ‘Tim? You up for it?’

  ‘Nah,’ I say. ‘Thanks. Might just head home. I’m buggered. Got up early for a surf.’

  ‘Nice one,’ Blake says. ‘Hey, you still staying out at Collaroy with your ex? Must be a struggle getting home at night?’

  ‘I just moved,’ I say. ‘I’m living up the road in Fairlight now. It’s a ten, fifteen-minute walk at most.’

  ‘Yeah?’ He whistles. ‘Fairlight, eh? Good spot to live. Did a few painting jobs up there a while back. The best one was this beautiful old sandstone house. You know the one I mean? That enormous place with the lush gardens? The lady wanted the dining room red, I remember that. We were worried that it’d be too dark, but it turned out pretty nice.’

  ‘But that’s where I’m living,’ I cut in.

  ‘No joke? Lauderdale Avenue?’

  I nod. ‘Fairview.’

  ‘That’s the one.’ He shakes his head, glances over at Jo. ‘Man, I always loved that house. When I was a kid I used to walk past it all the time. I thought it was a castle, promised myself I’d buy it when I got rich.’ He laughs, looking down at his stained clothes. ‘Which doesn’t look like happening anytime soon. So Tim, how’d you end up scoring a place like that?’