Feeling Sorry for Celia (21 page)

So, this letter has been my Essay on Catching the Bus. Maybe I should ask Mr Bother it if he wants a copy as a substitute for my essay on the
Lord of the Flies.
(I’m going to write a letter about that one anyway. I’ve seen the movie and it’s way too violent for me to be reading the book or writing an essay on.)

I’m training a lot for the Forest Hill Half Marathon at the moment, but probably won’t do very well. I did a hill workout yesterday, which is where you run up and down a hill over and over to try and strengthen your lower leg muscles. Also to build up endurance. Now my lower leg muscles feel like water tanks. I don’t know what my endurance feels like because I don’t think I have any.

I had this dream last night that I would get the time which lets you qualify for the Boston Marathon. You have to run a certain time in another marathon before you can even compete in that race; it’s like the biggest race in the world. So, since all dreams come true I guess that’s what’s going to happen. HA HA. (My actual plan is to win the New York Marathon – that one’s also hugely famous – and then have the Boston people begging me to join in their marathon because they need me for the publicity.)

Thanks for answering my questions. I really like it when you talk about yourself, and tell me the things you’re thinking about. It makes me feel closer to you. I wish I knew what you should do about Derek. It sounds like you really need time to work it out, but it must be impossible with all those kids around. Maybe you and I should swap places? I’ve got way too much space for thinking at my home. I’m practically always alone. Maybe you should come over and stay at my place – we’ve even got a spare room (sorry, I don’t mean
to show off) and you could just sit in there and THINK. If you can’t do that, is there anywhere else you can be alone? Like climbing a tree or something? Or you could take up running. That’s when I do all my thinking. Actually, I don’t know how I’d ever work out any problems, or avoid going completely crazy, if I didn’t have running.

And what’s Derek acting like now? Is he being cold or friendly to you? What’s it like seeing him when you’re at school?

So how was your history exam? Did you get asked how many kangaroos Governor Phillip took back to England with him? And how was your weekend? Still working in your mum’s shop like a good, thoughtful, mature, exemplary teenager?

My weekend was a bit draining. Both of my parents wanted to take me to dinner on Saturday night which turned into a kind of third world war – with Dad saying things like, ‘All I ask, all I ask’ and Mum saying things like ‘you think you can just step right back into her life?’ and me saying things like: ‘uh, couldn’t I just stay at home?’

My dad won in the end because he got in first, so he was especially zippy at the restaurant. He asked me if I’d ever been in a mosh pit and said that from above, those things look like screen savers on a computer – a constant movement of crowd surfers sliding towards the front and getting thrown out the side door. Excuse me, but how does my father know what a mosh pit looks like from above?

We had white wine and I said it smelt like nail polish remover. That turned out to be the wrong answer. In FACT, it smelled like green apple peel and butterscotch. What was I thinking?

I had a mother-and-daughter day on Sunday as compensation prize for my mum, and we played tennis and then saw a movie, so that was fine. It’s easier with my mum. Neither of us feels like we have to talk unless something comes into our heads. We even talked about Celia a bit, and how much she’s changed. And then we spent about an hour planning an imaginary trip to New York because Mum’s dying to go there and I want to check out the New York Marathon. I plan to win it before my 21st birthday, so I’ve got to start getting to know the route. Mum even said she’d walk it with me, except only if we can take a thermos and a picnic basket, and stop at a café or an art gallery every fifteen minutes or so.

Gotta go. Mum just walked in the door and she wants us to go choose a video together. Maybe she’s taking this new mother–daughter thing a bit far?

You have fun too,

Love,

Elizabeth

Dearest Elizabeth,

What can you smell? You can smell jasmine and barbecues. What do you see? You see a magpie on a wire and a spring blue sky. What do you feel? You feel Sunday afternoon. What do you hear? You hear an ice-cream truck play a distorted tune. And what does it all remind you of, Liz? What do you remember?

You remember Sunday afternoons with Celia on the steps, and how Celia pretended the steps were an ice-castle, and next she decided she wanted a snail, and sent you out on a snail hunting
mission. And next you heard the ice-cream truck and ran. You remember how back then, you and she were exactly the same height, and she had short blonde hair and you had short dark hair, and the ice-cream man said ‘What’ll it be, BOYS?’ And you were both so mad that you said, ‘NOTHING!’

And then you were back on the steps and even madder because you had no ice-cream.

Kindest regards,

The Memory Trigger Team

ELIZABETH!!!

GOOD MORNING TO YOU!

CAN WE TAKE A RAINCHECK ON THAT TEN-PIN BOWLING IDEA TONIGHT?

I FORGOT I HAVE EXTRA ALEXANDER TECHNIQUE CLASSES THIS WEEK, BECAUSE YOUR FATHER HAS MADE MY NECK STAR T CRUNCHING AGAIN.

THERE’S A COLD CHANGE COMING TODAY SO
TAKE YOUR JUMPER
.

LOVE,

YOUR MUM

Dear Elizabeth,

I don’t know what to do. I’m experiencing extreme complications of guilt. I keep sending you anonymous notes apologising about anonymous notes and then straight away I have to apologise for anonymous apologising. It’s like a
corkscrew that keeps winding itself in and out of its loops. It’s like when you’re playing tennis and you keep hitting the ball into the net and saying, ‘sorry’, and your opponent gets annoyed and says, ‘quit saying sorry’, and then the next time you hit the ball into the net you say, ‘sorry’, and then you remember you’re not supposed to say sorry so you say, ‘oh, sorry’.

You get what I mean?

So maybe I could make this the Final Apology? I mean, within this letter could I apologise for sending this apology? You see what I mean? When you get off the bus maybe you could give some kind of a signal that this is okay? Maybe you could hop twice or something once you get off the bus and I’ll watch from the window?

I don’t want to stop being anonymous and tell you who I am, because I’m too embarrassed. But as a compromise I could REDUCE my anonymity by telling you a BIT about who I am.

Okay? I’m very sorry.

From:

A Stranger Who Catches Your Bus, and Who Sits up the Back, and who goes to Brookfield. (Is that enough? Sorry.)

Dear Elizabeth,

I’m writing from home today which is strange. I feel like I’ve brought you into my room to show you around. The bed with the black doona on it is mine, by the way. The one with the twirling ballerinas and pink ruffles is Renee’s. You guessed that anyway, right?

It was raining all morning and now the girls who live next door are out weeding their pear trees. Do you weed pear trees? Maybe they’re pruning them. They’ve got an orchard right in their front yard, and they’ve come out wearing enormous straw hats and sun dresses and crouched down beside the trees to work, and it’s like we’re in another century. It’s fantastic.

We used to have a market garden too, but then Dad sold it so he could try and set up his front-loader business, and Mum got her florist shop in Baulkham Hills. And Dad’s front-loader business turned out to be a monumental flop, but Mum’s florist shop flourished. HA.

I can also see the dog from the neighbours on the other side trying to get the attention of the next-door-neighbour girls in their hats. That dog has some serious issues. As soon as he sees anybody in the neighbourhood come out of their house, he comes hurtling towards them and throws himself at their feet. Literally. He just tosses himself onto the ground, puts his chin right onto the grass, and
wails
at you to pay attention. Then if you’re nice to him, he cries and turns onto his back and makes you scratch him. It’s strange, but it makes everyone hate him – it’s kind of like: ‘have some pride, dog! Get up onto your feet and put your head in the air!’

I’m sorry. I hope talking about dogs doesn’t upset you. I’m sure your dog Lochie was proud and beautiful. You can send me a photo if you want to? I’d send it straight back.

You know how you said that it feels like you’re staying still on the bus while everything changes around you? That’s wild, because it’s quite common to be sitting on a bus and feeling like the bus is standing still while the trees and letter boxes slide on past the windows. But you’re normally
WRONG if you think that, because in fact you’re sliding along the road and the post boxes are just standing there.

Only this time you’re RIGHT – you ARE standing still and everything else IS moving. INTERESTING.

But why is it interesting?

I don’t know.

Sorry.

I just wasted a lot of your time.

Oh, HEY. Read this bit because it’s important and I think you have a Right to Know. You know your anonymous notes? Guess what. I know who’s writing them. You remember I told you a really good friend of mine catches your bus and he’s the one who described to me what you look like? Remember he said you looked like an elf with your funny ears, and Celia looked like a fairy princess about to fly out the window? Well, he’s always asking how you are because he knows I write to you, so one time when he asked I told him about your dog. Don’t worry, I didn’t tell him about anything else – just that your dog died. My God, he was SO UPSET. He seriously had tears in his eyes. He was really worried about you. (He asks about you a LOT actually – I think he might have a crush on you.)

So when you told me someone was leaving you anonymous notes I thought of him and made him confess. So that’s who it is. Sorry if he’s annoying you.