How To Save A Life (8 page)

"Don't you dare," she hisses, and finally, finally I reach the group, and drop to my hands and knees, grabbing the wayward plate and gathering up as much of the salad leaves as I can onto it.

"Just trying' to help, love." Elmo shrugs, then thrusts the napkin at her chest once more.

Haloumi Salad is on her feet. "I will sue you for sexual harassment!"

"Nobody touches my wife," her companion growls, and his eyes bear daggers into Elmo.

"Easy on." Elmo burps. He actually
burps
. "No harm done."

"No harm?" Haloumi screeches, gesturing to the oil stains that cover her sheer white blouse. "I hope you have a good lawyer, because I doubt this will come out even with dry cleaning!"

"Bitch, shut your face." Julietta stands too, her lipstick now freshly reapplied.

"Why doesn't everyone just sit down, and I'll get another round of coffees over here, right away," I say, placing one hand on Julietta's shoulder and trying hard not to think that I have seen her hideous boobs.

But I can't unsee.

Nothing will erase those wrinkled cucumbers from my memory.

"I expect compensation." Salad folds her arms across her chest. "Where are your facilities? I need to try and remove this ... filth." She directs the last line at my mother's table, and as much as I can see that she's a bit of a snob, I know that she's well within her rights to be acting this way.

Ana gestures to the rooms out the back, and takes the arm of Haloumi's companion, leading him to a spare table on the other side of the cafe.

"Good riddance!" Julietta calls, and receives a scowl from the man, as well as about twenty other patrons in the surrounding area.

"Can you all please sit?" I hiss. My eyes dart about the cafe for Tim. "Listen, you guys, are you sure you want to eat—"

"Two bottles of sparkling." Tim smiles, pushing past me to place one champagne bottle on the table.

"Tim, can I talk to you for a sec?" I ask politely. Maybe I can stop him opening it.

Because once the bottle is open, I don't know that they'll leave.

"Not now, Lia." Tim gives a sharp jerk of his head to the table in front of us, the silent
we have customers
reaching me loud and clear.

"Are you the manager?" Ms Haloumi Salad is back, standing behind Tim with her hands on her hips.

"Why yes, I am." Tim smiles, his eyes darting from her cleavage to her face.

"I'd like to file a formal complaint about these patrons. I've been coming here for years, and today this group of people pushed a waitress so she spilt—"

"I didn't push 'er, you idiot. She freaking fell."

"Salad all over this three-hundred-dollar shirt. Not to mention this imbecile here who then tried to sexually harass me—"

"Bitch was begging for it," Elmo mutters.

"I am so sorry for all this." Tim frowns. His hands are on the top of the bottle, and I can see him wondering exactly how quickly he can get this table of trouble makers out of here. Tim may be money hungry, but there's a certain type of dollar he likes, and my mum and her friends definitely don't fit that upmarket category.

"Lee Lee, can I've some fries?" Mum asks. Her eyes widen and she stabs the menu with her blunt finger. "Oh! And a burger? I'd love a burger."

And as horrible as it sounds, I don't want her to order the burger. We can't afford it. Not these overpriced ones, anyway. "Maybe you should—"

I'm cut off by two voices at once.

"I think perhaps it'd be better if your whole party left."

"Your mother wants a burger, Lia."

Tim turns to face me. The champagne pops and bubbles spew out from the lip of the bottle.

"It's a boy!" Elmo shouts.

"This is your family?"
Your drunken, trouble-causing family?
He doesn't say the last bit, but I know it's what he means.

"I'm her mother." Mum smiles, and the dark purple under her eyes, the shake of her hand as she puts her menu down are just two more reminders to me that she isn't okay.

"Hmph!" Tim exhales. The look in his eyes says it all. He turns to Ms Salad. "Please, go and be seated at your new table. Be assured that your meal is complimentary, and that we will be sending you a bottle of our finest wine."

It's my turn to snort. I've seen the man decant from multiple leftover wine bottles into one new carafe before.

"Is there a problem, Lia?" Tim cocks his head, and I squirm.

"No."

"Well, this place is just lovely." Mum widens her eyes, her face bright and cheery. Again, people from the surrounding tables turn to look at her too-loud volume. Some had never looked away in the first place. "Such a beautiful view, and the menu looks lovely ..."

"Sure does." Smith kisses the top of Mum's head. "We'll have to start coming here every week."

"A word, Lia?" Tim asks, jerking his head toward the store room out the back.

"Sure."

This can't be good.

Tim takes the second bottle of wine from the table and places it on the counter next to the coffee machine, despite Julietta's protests about him taking their bottle.

He marches out the door, across the car park and into the room. I close the door behind us quietly, and look in what I hope is a respectable manner at my feet.

"What the hell was that?" he hisses, and he steps close to me, so close I can taste the salami lining his breath.

"I ... I don't know."

"You know how much we pride ourselves on reputation here, Lia. And in one bloody morning—make that less than one hour, your family comes along and manages to embarrass not only me, but my paying customers in some of the worst ways imaginable!"

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" Tim throws his hands in the air. "Sorry isn't going to make people want to come back here again. Sorry isn't going to stop Mrs Evanova from filing a sexual harassment lawsuit, or selling her story to the papers, all pinpointing this cafe."

"He's not related to me—"

"Does it matter?" Tim sighs. "Your mother is! Lia, I'm at the end of my bloody tether. Broken bottles, upset customers, your rude refusal to speak to that paying customer who comes in every Saturday—"

My heart falls. He's noticed that?

"Don't think I haven't noticed it, because I have. Everyone else you're as chipper as a bloody Disney club member, but you won't give her the time of day."

"I ..."

Don't really have a good enough excuse.

"You're done here, Lia. There are a dozen other kids out there I can teach to make quality coffee."

My heart thuds so hard I feel it in my throat. No.

No-no-no-no-no-no.

I need this job. I need it to pay the rest of my way to Melbourne, to give Mum a few bucks to kick her life off without me.

There's only 145 days to go.

"But I ... I'm so sorry, Tim. I'll do more hours." The words rush out of my mouth.

"Not good enough." He folds his arms and shakes his head. "It's the quiet ones ..." Then he shoulders past me and makes for the door.

Tears are sticky in my eyes and panic crushes my chest. I grab onto his shirtsleeve. "No! Please. I'll—I'll take a pay cut."

He freezes, and this time when he looks at me, a cruel smile lines his face. "Get outta here, kid."

He walks out of the storeroom, and this time the tears aren't sticky. They're flowing down my face.

I
run. I grab my bag and barrel out of that cafe, past Mum and Smith and their friends, ignoring their calls of goodbye. I tune out Ana's question and Ellie's stare and then I hit the beach, needing to get as far away from that part of my life as possible. I run and run and run, the thick, soft sand grains sucking my Cons in. Families tentatively braving the spring weather and attempting a nice beach day look at me, open-mouthed, as I bolt past them all until I reach the part where the lake meets the sea, where it's always deserted, and finally there I double over, my hands on my knees, the cool spring air ripping at my chest.

I've stopped crying, I don't know when, and I wipe at my cheeks, the sand sticking to the tear track marks. My reflection stares back at me in the still lake. Long brown hair, and red, red cheeks and eyes.

I'm a mess.

Already my mind is running through what I've lost, calculating and devising a new plan of attack. I've lost my job. Okay. I've lost my job. I still need another few thousand dollars to make it to Melbourne with the help of the scholarship. I'll just—I'll ration our grocery spend. Yes. That. I'll apply to the other cafes in the area, although with the holiday season officially started, I know most of the hiring will be well and truly closed.

Perhaps I could get a job in Sydney? I cringe at the thought of driving two hours each way, and shake my head. I don't think I'm cut out for that.

Thoughts of the mysterious new bar owner float through my head, but I banish them just as quickly. A few hours on a Thursday night wouldn't earn me enough cash to make a difference. Besides, it's a bar, and I'm not eighteen. I can't work there, not even if I had a—

I could get a fake ID.

God, if only I could get a fake life to go with it.

I shake my head, because the effort isn't worth it. I might hide the truth, but I'm not an out and out liar.

Am I?

I pick up a rock and throw it across the lake's still surface. It sends ripples spiralling out toward me, and I hate how life is like that, how one tiny action has a lake's worth of consequence. I hate how one stupid mistake my father made—

I will not think about my father
.

Instead, I turn and trudge back toward home. The walk is quick, far more so than usual, and I shake my head, thinking how just a few hours ago Kat and I made this same trek. Then my biggest problem was guilt that she liked my boyfriend. Now, things are so much worse.

Still, the thought brings me calm.
Duke
. I'll go see Duke. He'll make me feel safe. Make everything better.

When I reach our yard, I jog over to the open front door, cursing Mum at the same time. Sure, we don't have a lot of value, but you can't just leave ...

"What's the point?" I mutter. I don't have the energy to waste on even a mental lecture.

I slam the door shut, locking those toxic fumes inside the house, then get in the car and drive, my hands shaking from emotion and exertion. I'm far from a hot mess—more like an out-of-control one, and I need Duke, my safe place, to bring me back down. Surely he'll have a plan. He'll be able to think of something.

He always does.

I pull up outside his house, and notice only Duke's car is in the drive. Then I realise it's a Saturday, and Mr and Mrs Finnegan will be at Olive's weekly netball game. I go on inside the unlocked front door.
Good
. I need the physical release his touch will bring.

I storm up the stairs, taking them two at a time. My mind isn't here though.
His mouth on mine. His hands tracing patterns on my body.

My hand is on the partially open door, ready to push it further open.
His lips on my neck. His fingers caressing my boobs. His hardness inside
—

Kat.

My eyes bug out of my head. Through the five-centimetre gap, I see clearly what's going on.

My boyfriend is having sex with my best friend. Right now. Right in front of me.

I open my mouth to say something, but no words come out. They're both so wrapped up in it, so wrapped in each other that they don't even notice the door has cracked a centimetre.

It's too much. I just
can't
.

I tiptoe backward down the hall, then I do what I do whenever things get too hard.

I run.

It's not until sometime in the early hours of the morning that I open my eyes. They hurt, glued shut from crying.

At least I didn't have another nightmare.

My phone buzzes again from my bedside table, and I pick it up, then hit
cancel
on the incoming call. Duke. At four in the morning.

I can't deal with that right now.

When I think of what happened yesterday afternoon, I shiver, pulling the quilt up and tucking it under my chin. I don't know if they heard me; I can't help but think they must have. Why else the fourteen missed calls, six texts and two emails?

It rings again, and I rest on one elbow and clap my hand to my forehead, trying to wipe away some of the exhaustion I carry there. I wonder how long I can escape this for. How long I can put off the inevitable.

As I slide back underneath the covers, I accidentally hit accept.

Apparently about ten seconds.

"Lia! Lia, finally." His voice is breathy, raw, and it sounds hurt. As if
I've
somehow hurt
him
.

"Lee Lee, I'm so sorry about today. You saw ..." He swallows, and a cough echoes down the line. "You saw something you shouldn’t have."

I flick on my bedside lamp, and check out the time illuminated on my LED clock. Just after four.

"Lia? Are you there? Say something!" Panic bleeds through his tone, and I surprise myself with how numb I am to his pain.

Perhaps that's it.

Perhaps I find it odd that he's calling me in tears, when I'm the one whose best friend and boyfriend were sleeping together.

"I don't know what to say." My heart hammers in my chest and it hurts, hurts so damn much to think of how I’ve been betrayed. Of how I don’t matter.

Of how they chose themselves over me.

Just like my father did.

“You have to say something, Lia. Don’t clam up like you always do,” he hisses.

"I ... I'm sorry," I stutter.
For not being enough.
"For everything."

Silence echoes down the line. Somewhere in the depths of my house, the dull strains of "I Will Always Love You" begin to play.

“Lia, I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to …”

Tears well in my eyes, and I blink them back, as if that will somehow stem the hurt.

“You can’t act like I’m the bad guy. You’re not even crying. Don’t you care this is over? Do you even like me at all?”

"I do!" I protest, and the ache in my chest at the thought of life without him resonates through me again.

"What about Melbourne then, huh?"

"I wanted you to come with me!"

"Well I wanted you to stay in Sydney."

Guilt stabs at my gut. It churns up all the hurt residing there, and the ache stings deep inside me.

"I don't want to lose you." My voice is small and trembling.

I can't lose you.

A current of pain runs deep through my body, suctioned onto the blood pumping through my veins. It's taking me over, piece by piece, supported by an undercurrent of fear. Fear for my future. Fear for waking up alone. Fear for my mother.

Fear for my life.

"Do you love her?" I gulp on a whisper, a tear.

Nothing
.

"Do you, Duke?"

He huffs out a breath and it distorts over the line. "Does it matter?"

"Of course it damn—"

"Yeah."

It's quiet. It's small.

But it's there.

And I know that she loves him. That she's always loved him.

That she's not planning on making him choose in 144 days time
.

Then I think of all the ways Duke saves me, of how he's my safe place, and damn, if I ever needed a safe place, it's now. So much is going on, with Mum and Smith, me needing a job, crunch time in exams and my impending audition looming near—is this the time to be self-sacrificing?

Luckily, I don't have to make that choice.

Duke makes it for me.

"We're breaking up."

Three little words smack me big-time in the chest.

"You don't care, Lia. I need someone to fight, and you ..."
You're a cool, hard-hearted bitch
. He doesn't say it, but the words are clearly there. "You wanna come 'round, get your things?"

"The Fleetwood Mac record and the pair of knickers you stole?"

"Yeah."

"I'll ... Just maybe bring them to school on Monday."

"Well ... goodbye."

Again, silence echoes down the line, and my heart does a stupid quiver thing as I wonder
what if Duke was the one?

Look at your family compared to his. That's never going to happen.

Pain roils in my gut. A fresh wave of tears streak down my face, over my cheeks, and my stupid bottom lip does that trembly thing it does when I think of our relationship.

Duke and I, kissing on his front lawn.

Duke and I, having sex in front of his parents' fireplace.

Duke and I, laughing over some stupid joke.

Duke and I ... being Duke and I.

We shared so much that letting it go seems strange. Unnatural.
Unbearably painful

I need him.

"Wait!" I call, interrupting the silence.

"Yeah?" Duke asks.

“I …” My mouth is open, but no words come out. I have nothing to say.

As much as I want to forgive him, I won’t fight for him. I don’t have any fight left to give.

"Don't bother with the knickers," I blurt out, then hang up the phone.

I don't know what else to do.

***

I get out of bed and throw on a shirt and some jeans, then splash some cool water over my face in the bathroom. The girl staring back at me in the mirror looks like absolute crap—mascara streaked under her eyes, red spidering through them in tiny veins, cracks in the surface of an otherwise glossy sheen.

Brushing my teeth, I hear Whitney getting louder. My heart is breaking; hers is stuck on repeat. I scrub harder, harder, till my gums feel raw, and when I spit the toothpaste out, blood is swirled through it like strawberry topping through an ice cream sundae.

Wrenching the towel from its spot by the basin, I scour it over my mouth. I've gone from hurting and feeling so alone to burning up with anger in the space of three minutes.

Grabbing my phone, I barrel down the stairs, ready to get the hell out of there.

"Lee Lee."

Head down. Eyes to the floor.

Just keep walking.

"Lia, wait, baby." Her voice trembles, and I hear the tears without having to see them.

Grabbing my keys from the hanger beside the door, I twist the door handle, yanking it open. A cruel spring breeze floats through, and she shrieks, a cry so damn heartbreaking it stops me in my tracks.

Then she's screaming. Heartbreaking, gulping, painful sobs that don't just hurt my ears, but my very soul.

I slam the door shut, and turn around.

She's on the floor, scrambling to collect all the photos that the wind sent dancing from the coffee table. She picks one up and clutches it to her chest, her tears dampening the surface. Her hair is wild around her, all frizzy and loose and free, and her fingers move like crickets, fast, in a fury, clicking this way and that. From what I can tell, she's simply too far gone in herself to separate reality from what’s in her mind.

"Mum ..." I drop my keys and phone on the side table, then bend down to help her, picking up photos and placing them back on the coffee table. Seeing my actions, Mum slows her sobs, reduced to hiccoughs of sadness that still bear the ghost of depression.

When I'm done with the floor, I manage to retrieve the photos held firmly in Mum's grasp, prying away her fingers and then placing the shiny film on the table with the rest of them.

Whitney's still blaring throughout all of this. I get up and hit
stop
on the track, and it sets Mum off again, and she's crying and screaming and clutching pictures to her chest, holding on to these memories that she should have already let go.

"Turn it back—back on, Lee Lee." She grabs my wrist, those thin fingers digging into my skin.

And I want to. God, if Whitney can stop her pain, then I want to. But today, I'm hurting too. And sometimes I want to be the kid, not the adult who's always there for her dependent family member.

I don't have Duke.

"You have a boyfriend," I say, shaking my head. "You shouldn't do this ..."

She blinks, as if taken aback, and then her head starts shaking, her eyes wide in panic. "No," she whispers. "No, no, no, no, no,
no,
NO!"

I drop to my knees and place my hand on her back. She shakes, her whole body vibrating to the frequency of hurt and sadness. "Hey, I'm sorry," I say in a soothing tone, rubbing little circles between her shoulder blades.

Silence coats the room in a thick wash. It's murky and deep and I don't know how to break it.

"Sing with me?"

I press my eyes shut.

I need to get out of here.

"Please?"

When I open my lids, Mum's face is inches from my own. Her eyes have calmed, and even though she's still clutching her favourite picture to her chest, I can tell she's lost some of the psychosis that seemed to take her over just moments ago.

"Will you come to the doctors with me if I do?" I try. So far, we’ve booked ten appointments. She’s made it to three in the last year, each with varying levels of success. It's the same every time—here are some support networks you can join. Let's talk about your alcohol levels. But she doesn't take their advice seriously, and until she takes it seriously, she won't realise how much she needs their advice. It's a vicious cycle, but each time I go, I hope for something more. Antidepressants, maybe.

If only there was some form of pain relief that healed the heart, I'd prescribe some for her, and more for me.

Because as hard as it is for her life to be so ruined, watching it fall to pieces can be even worse.

"And I ..." Mum whispersings, her voice soft and melodic. A tiny smile graces her lips, but doesn't reach those sad blue eyes.

She reaches out and squeezes my hand, her sweaty fingers tight against my own. There's so much hope in that gesture—so much desire for solidarity behind it.

I feel horrible for bringing up Smith when she so clearly wasn't ready for it.

She's my mum.

And now more than ever, she's all I have left.

"I will always ... love you ..." I sing, and her mouth breaks into this wide grin that makes my heart melt.

I'd do anything to have her smile like that all the time.

It's a ghost of how she used to be.