An Astronaut's Life (14 page)

‘You're the one who's saying we can make this place happy.'

‘Did you think that's what I meant? By having a baby?'

‘I guess. Yes, I did.'

I shook my head.

‘Are you saying you won't?'

‘No, I'm not saying that. It's just this situation.'

‘So get out of here. Come to the hotel with us. It's
the ballet tonight—we could
go?'

‘What ballet?'

‘The dance company is doing a free show, about what's happened.'

‘What's happened?'

‘About the murders.'

‘A ballet? That sounds so weird and gratuitous.'

‘It's meant to be really beautiful. I mean, it's tasteful, it's a community thing,
live musicians. They say it's for opening up discussion.'

‘I don't think there's any lack of discussion. Everyone's got a theory.'

‘Different discussion, one about healing and moving on.'

‘I don't know.'

‘Come.' For the first time, I sensed her effort fading.

‘Will I have to dress up?' I said.

‘Just wear whatever. Wear the grey shirt with the checks.'

When she left I put the shirt on the bed ready to iron, but it was more to show I
had good intentions than anything else. With the last pages of the journal open on
my screen, I worked solidly, but I knew I would have
to call Gina and tell her I
just couldn't make it tonight. I would go to the hotel, I wasn't lying about it—but
tomorrow. This ballet sounded misguided, I was sure it was not for me.

Later, I took a nap on the couch. The curtains were closed to block the sight of
curious passersby, but I could still make out the murmur of conversation and some
other activity. I dreamt a dog had fallen into a hole in the ground and I was shouting
to the people in the yard to find a rope to pull it out, but they stood by and did
not help at all. I ran to the hole; it was filled with water, and a black labrador
was swimming in circles, howling, unable to find any leverage to push itself out.
The poor thing was tiring, and with nothing else to do, I threw myself in.

I think I was in the air, anyway I had not hit the water, when I realised I knew
this dog; he was Lifty. But then, I also knew Lifty did not exist (he did not exist
and also he had already been killed). So then, who was this dog?

I'd hit the water and I was under it. I found myself swimming down, past the foundations
of our house, where stratifications in the soil showed the passing of time, our wilted
garden was pressed in the layers along
with other signs we had lived here, long ago;
Gina's hairbrush and sandals, the kid's toothbrush, and I don't know why, but so
many blue pens. I continued deeper into the hole until I saw them; the bones of the
children, but when I tried to slow my descent to investigate I realised I was no
longer swimming, someone, or something, was drawing me down.

When I woke there were vehicles outside. The cops again, they were back, with their
dogs and vans, all of it. They didn't knock this time, but set to work putting up
barriers across our front lawn before a backhoe took to the paving below our front
windows.

It seemed our whole property would be ruined.

I texted Gina,
I'm on my way.

I took my shirt and shoved it, along with some toiletries and whatever clean underwear
I had, into a bag and left through the front door. Gina had the car, so I would walk
to the train.

‘Hello there!' A voice above the noise.

It was Victor.

‘Just grabbing some things,' I said.

He came over, smiling.

‘How's Gina doing?'

‘She's fine, we're off to the ballet,' I said.

‘I hear it's wonderful. I'm glad Gina's feeling better.' I wished he'd stop calling
her that, her first name, as though we were friends.

‘Please send my regards, and if there's anything more we can do to help.'

‘Of course.' I wondered what he thought he had already done to help. ‘I'd better
go,' I said.

‘Let us drive you. I'll get one of my officers.'

He led me across the lawn where they had begun to dig a shallow trench by the driveway.

‘Look out,' he said.

It was filling with water.

‘Have you hit a pipe?' I said.

‘No, just rain.'

I didn't think it had rained, maybe while I was asleep, but I looked over to the
road and it was dry.

I was familiar with the hotel they'd booked us into. I'd passed by, but I'd never
gone in. It was nice inside, the lobby had been refurbished not too long before.
I had no room number so I had to wait at the front desk until they called up to check
if I could have a key. I signed for it and they gave me directions to the elevators
where
I swiped my card and pressed the button for the eighth floor.

The doors slid open on a narrow hallway. It was always this way with hotels, the
glamour of the lobby would in no way guarantee the state of the rest of the building
and the hallways, especially, would be a let down.

I walked the worn carpet to our room, still pulling myself free of the house. I wanted
to see it now, I wanted to be there with Gina.

I found the number and knocked.

She opened the door. The room was big; it looked plush. I stepped in to a lounge
area with two couches facing a large TV and a writing desk against the windows.

‘Wow, it's a suite,' I said.

‘I didn't think you'd come.'

‘Of course I did.'

‘I didn't think you'd ever leave that house.'

There was a shout from the cupboard beside me and Lucas slid the door and jumped
out, half-tripping on a railing that was meant to store shoes. I bent to catch him
against my chest and shouted in feigned fright.

‘Did I scare you?' he said.

‘Feel my heart,' I said. ‘It's racing.'

He leant in to listen, a hug, in disguise.

‘I booked dinner for after the show,' Gina said.

‘I thought you didn't think I was coming.'

‘Maybe I wanted more reason to be angry when you didn't show up.'

‘Well you must be disappointed,' I said.

I crossed over to the sliding doors that opened on a second room containing a king-sized
bed and another TV. To the side of the bed was a doorway, presumably another bathroom,
and beside that, a walk-in robe.

I put my bag inside, next to Gina's suitcase and changed into my shirt. She hadn't
unpacked, she was never much for unpacking, so two work shirts were the only things
on hangers and the rest of her things were in a suitcase on the floor. A pair of
denim shorts were still moulded to the circumference of her legs as though she'd
only now stepped out of them.

I became self-conscious about my place here, the crisp bed and untouched towels.
I would take it over with my stuff, wouldn't I? I'd spread papers and procrastinate
at the window, walking around in my socks and telling her all the same things I'd
already told her, all the things she didn't want to hear.

We took a taxi and did
not speak most of the way. We leant against one another with Lucas by the window
and Gina in between. I wanted to tell her what had happened at the house and I kept
it back as long as I could, but as we arrived, I don't know why, I couldn't help
it.

‘They've started on the frontyard,' I said.

‘I know, Victor told me.'

‘When did you see him? Does he have any idea what's going on?'

‘No more than we do,' she said.

‘But what do you mean?'

Of course the cops had to know more than us but it was time to get out, I was forced
to let it go. Gina paid the driver and we hurried across the street and in through
the large double doors of the theatre.

An usher took our tickets and led us in to our entry, but Lucas had to go to the
toilet and by the time we made it back, the bell was ringing to announce the doors
were about to close.

We made it to our seats in the third row as the lights dimmed.

‘Ma?'

‘Shhh Lucas.'

‘But have you seen my T-shirt.'

‘I have.'

‘No, but look.'

I looked over at his shirt, it was the wrestling one, with the bald man on front.

‘Do you know who he is?'

I looked at the man, the lights went down. I knew who he was. My lumberjack.

‘Triple H,' I whispered. Lucas gave me a satisfied tap on the back of my hand.

‘Yep.'

The curtains opened on three androgynous dancers in ghostly robes. The entire thing
felt wrong, but what could I do? Gina reached over and put her hand on mine. That
was nice, but my heart wasn't in it. The dancers performed a lot of barefoot windmill
kicks and expressive hand movements and Gina looked over and shrugged at me to say,
sorry
.

On stage the dancers expressed a mixed bag of loss, hope and searching, more than
adequate amounts of searching, but I couldn't keep track of the plot of it, if there
was one.

Gina craned her neck to reach me, her lips to my ear.

‘Oh God,' she said. ‘This is atrocious.'

I didn't want to say I told her so. I squeezed her hand.

‘I didn't think it could be this bad,' she said.

I pointed to Lucas, to say we should pretend, for his sake.

The music soon changed to register a new scene and an entourage of policemen slunk
low across the stage with pointed toes. Four squares of light, representing a window,
were projected on the back wall and as the searching went on in the foreground, I
noticed a figure to one side. My eyes went to her because at first I thought something
was wrong, she had stage fright or forgot her routine. But she remained there, perfectly
still, and for a while I could not make out what part she played in this story.

I looked to Gina, but she seemed unaware.

The police mimed their arrival at the door of a house, where they knocked.

The figure shifted.

She was me?

‘You okay?' Gina said.

She must have sensed my intent because she placed a hand across my thigh.

‘I'll be back in a minute,' I said.

‘But wait.'

I stood up and excused myself through to the end of our row. People tilted their
knees. Reached to shift handbags by their feet. At the exit an usher pushed the door
and the light of the lobby flashed in. I continued across it and to the front doors.
The roads were wet. It had rained this time.

And it would rain more that night, more than it had in months, maybe years.

Rain would fill the city's pools and reservoirs, overflowing drainage systems across
entire suburbs. Intersections would be transformed into ponds, creeks would break
their banks and the rain would fill the aquifer beneath us, swelling the soil with
nutrients and tiny creatures, flushing to the surface much of what had been concealed.

The cops would huddle under their marquee, forced to leave to chance what would emerge
and what would be lost to the depths.

And we would huddle in our hotel bed as we talked, the sound of rain muted by our
air conditioner, uncertain, by the morning, what signs of the past might remain.

But before all that, right then, I stood at the front of the theatre. I could hear
the music of the ballet behind
me. It was a hapless attempt to make sense of horror,
to exploit it for the sake of communal feeling. But it was something.

Rain hammered the lobby windows. I turned and went back in.

THE FALLING

My first priority is to take a piss, but the toilets are not where I remember. In
actual fact there's no toilet block, not as far as I can see, and I stare far into
the trees to make sure of it.

Guys? I say. Weren't there some toilets here?

No, you idiot, there were never any toilets here, ever, which is why we told you
not to drink all that lemonade in the car.

That's Maxi, Maxi Pad we say behind her back. It's short for Maxine, but while she
uses each of our full names with parental authority, she will not tolerate the use
of her own. So Maxine Pad we also call her.

I sort through my backpack for my toilet paper,
which I know I packed. Could it have
fallen to the floor of Mr Markson's station wagon as he dropped us off?

Here's some, Tilly says, and she holds out not the roll but a handful she's already
torn off.

Thanks, I say, but I can't help rolling my eyes. Like, seriously? I must wipe with
an allocated amount of paper? I don't say this because it's Tilly, and her toilet
paper allocation is generous, anyway. Plus I depend on her sense of loyalty to keep
the others out of my backpack while I'm taking this piss.

I hear them trying something, but once I'm squatting down, the waist of my jeans
pinned between my calves and my thighs, I can't give much thought to what's happening
beyond the trees. I am focused on the flow of my urine, the stream of which must
stay dead straight to avoid my pants. I pretend it's a test, a reality TV challenge,
and my cats Tony and Mittens will be dead when I get home if I do not keep control:
I am unashamed to be taking a piss before the world with limited toilet paper, and
now only my willpower and core strength will stop me from pissing on my own clothes.
Oh, to be young and endowed with impressive core stability, the TV audience says.
But ouch, something has bit me.
Me first, I hear Maxi Pad is saying. That's because
they've found the vodka, wrapped in my towel and buried deep into my belongings,
where it was supposed to remain.

I have pictured it in too much detail, my mental film of things to come: how we will
set up our tent in the hollow at the back of the dunes, throwing aside our bags as
we race down for a swim and then return, so tired, our limbs feeling empty, as if
without bones. Each of us will lie back on our towel to sigh in the sunlight that
reaches through our closed eyelids and then, this will be me: Oh, like I almost forgot,
anyone want a drink? I will flick hair over my shoulder where it now reaches almost
to my nipples. Maxine will say, God, you're a lifesaver, Lia. Her hand brushes my
thigh, our eyes meet. But, gross, my eyes will say back, you're touching me?