The Beginner's Guide to Living (11 page)

I touch the mirror but it's cold, so I concentrate on my hand instead, run my fingers over the skin with its tiny crevices, the knuckles, my nails where they go from white to pink. The palm with its lines, one of which is supposed to reveal your destiny, but I don't know which one it is. Not sure I'd want to. These are my hands but it's as if they belong to somebody else.

I close my eyes, put my hands over my face, hear my breath going into them, feel the moisture in it. There's memory held there. If I were to stop breathing now, because that's all it takes, isn't it, the stopping of breath? One lifetime extinguished. So fragile. If I were to stop, my body would drop to the floor, and I'd still seem the same for a while, as if asleep. I can imagine it if I concentrate, and visualize my body slumped on the floor, as if every part of me has been waiting all this time to become part of everything else, to remember what it once was.

13. Do my mother's memories live in me?

ARROWS AND MAXIMS

I
'M WRAPPED NAKED AROUND
Taryn when we hear someone in the house.

“Who is it?” I whisper, grabbing for my clothes.

“Probably Samara. Mom and Dad aren't due home for ages.” She snatches at my T-shirt, tosses it back on the floor. “Don't worry, she won't care.”

There's a knock followed by Samara's gravelly voice. “You there, Taryn?”

“Yeah, I'm with Will.”

“I'll come back later, if you like.”

“No, it's all right, you can come in.” I raise my eyebrows at Taryn but all she does is laugh. “She knows we're having sex, for God's sake. Don't be so shy.”

I make sure I'm covered as Samara comes in and sits on the end of the bed, her eyes roving over my bare chest.

“Got off work early and thought you might like to go for a swim. I'm going down to the lake.”

“Samara's just got a job at a Nepalese restaurant,” says Taryn, sitting up. The duvet falls to her waist. I want to lift it up and cover her but I know it will only make them laugh.

“It's only until I can get enough money together to hit the road again. What about going down to the lake?”

“The water'll be a bit cold, won't it?” says Taryn.

“Maybe,” Samara says, “but it's so hot and I'm dying for a swim.”

“What do you reckon, Will?”

“Sure. Missing a few more hours of study isn't going to make a difference. Anyway, it's Friday.”

“I'll be in the kitchen making us something to eat,” says Samara, getting up. “By the way, I've got a present for you, Will.”

She leaves the door open, but Taryn pulls me down on top of her, wrestles her legs around me. “Pity we can't go skinny-dipping. Now that would be fun.”

She feels so right against me, her mouth, her thighs, the life in her skin. And those eyes. She lets me look into them, doesn't flinch, until we both crack up.

“Get dressed, lover boy,” she says, almost pushing me onto the floor.

*   *   *

The breeze off the lake is liberating after the heat. Taryn heads straight for the water as soon as she's stripped. Samara has a book of quotes by the Dalai Lama for me. “Aphorisms,” she says.

“Aphorisms?”

“You know, short statements that say something profound.”

I think Samara's decided she's my guru—she'll be asking me for ten percent of my income soon, which from lawn mowing isn't that much. “Oh, yeah, I just didn't know that's what they're called. Wittgenstein used to write them. And Nietzsche. I remember seeing some in one of his books.”

“Nietzsche. Talk about depressing. I tried reading him, can't remember which book of his it was. What an elitist prick. If you ask me, Western philosophy is too much in love with logic. No heart.”

“You reckon?”

“Absolutely. There's no mystery, no place for what can only be felt.”

“So, what about,
I would only believe in a God that knows how to dance
?”

“Now, that I like. Who said it?”

“Nietzsche.”

“You're kidding me. Still reckon he was an elitist prick. You coming?”

“In a minute.”

Samara pulls off her dress, straight over her head. I guess some things are genetic. She's wearing a blue bikini and she's tanned. Her belly button is pierced. The wind's forming patterns over the lake. Except for a family down at the other end of the beach, we're the only ones here. The kids are digging a huge hole, three of them working together like a mini construction company. Their mother is stretched out on a towel reading a book. Can't see what it is from here.

I pick up the collection of aphorisms, small and square-shaped, drop it open randomly to see what I find:
Peace won't come from the sky.

I look up at the concentrated blue, almost purple. The clouds are like scrawled statements above the lake. There's a rim of scraggy eucalyptus trees around its edge. Taryn's waving to me from the tannin-stained water, her body hidden to the waist. She blows me a kiss. Only Samara's head is visible, already far out on the lake.

I close the book, check there's nothing in the pockets of my shorts, and then I go for it, straight down the beach, my feet shoveling back the sand, smashing through the water, body arched into a dive—that perfect instant before impact—the water cold as I enter it, cold enough to remind me who I am.

*   *   *

That evening, in my notebook, next to a quote from Wittgenstein, I write:

APHORISMS

by Will Ellis

 

[1]

To open your eye is to risk getting something in it.

 

[2]

A dead leaf is still a leaf.

 

[3]

A bird cannot fly without ruffling a few feathers.

 

[4]

You're unlikely to find a person's heart between their legs.

 

[5]

The dead belong to the living.

 

[6]

Bird shit often contains seeds.

Memory.

I'm sitting on Mom's knee, her arms around my shoulders, my legs reach only halfway to the ground. She's telling me a story about an old man sowing seeds in his field and I like the way she's touching my hair. “It's a story from the Bible,” she says, “it's called a parable. It's meant to explain things.” I touch her face, feel the tiny hairs above her lip, see the light coming out of her eyes. As she continues her story about the old man and the seed, I let my cheek fall against her chest.

*   *   *

On my way to breakfast the next morning, I see Adam in the living room by the wall unit, staring at a photo of Mom. His body is bowed into it; he doesn't see me.

*   *   *

Saturday night, Taryn and I go and see
Casablanca
—she's into old films. In the café after the movie, I show her the aphorisms I wrote in my notebook. She likes the one about opening your eyes.

“I might have a go at writing some,” she says.

“There's something I like about them.”

“Me too, except they're a bit of a cop-out.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it's a nice idea that you can explain things in the space of a few words. But you can't, of course.”

She takes my pen and begins doodling a star on her paper napkin. I look at the posters on the walls, a mix of old and new films. A few of the titles read like aphorisms or quotes, one I recognize from
Macbeth
:
The Sound and the Fury
. I skim the foam off my hot chocolate. “It would be nice though if you could find the answer to every question in a single line. One truth that you could cling to. Or a piece of it, at least.”

Taryn holds up the napkin. Next to the star and a chocolate stain, she's written:
Run naked through your fears.

*   *   *

Seb's composing his favorite sandwich—it has everything in it that could conceivably be found between two slices of bread. He's invited me over to listen to the CD of
The Anatomy of Melancholy
he bought last Monday, the day I confessed.

“So what did you do on the weekend?” he asks, swallowing. “I called but your dad said you were out with Taryn.”

“Yeah, we went to see a movie. And I'm not telling you which one.”

“Fair enough.” He offers me a bite of his sandwich. I decline. “Mom said you did a runner last time you were here.”

“Yeah, well, couldn't stand the sympathy.”

“She does that sometimes. She's just worried about you, that's all. Thinks you should be seeing someone.”

“I am.” I smile. “I'm seeing Taryn.”

“You know what I mean.” He goes to the pantry and gets a handful of Coco Pops and crunches them into his sandwich. “There's a party, Friday night, at Ritchie's. You going?”

“Don't know. Friday night, Taryn and me are…”

“What? Going to a yoga class?”

“Watch it!”

Seb chews his sandwich, his features focused around his mouth. He swallows. “Maybe you should take it slowly.”

“What? With Taryn?”

“Yeah. I mean…”

“Since when were you the expert on women? Jesus, you've never even been laid.”

“Neither had you till about a month ago, so, don't go pulling that crap on me. Anyway, Mom reckons it's a bit dangerous getting involved with someone so soon after your mother died.”

“Well, that's just crap!”

Seb's face wedges into a frown. “She was only trying to help.”

“Look, I'm fine, all right. So you can tell her not to worry.”

“You're fine, are you?” he says, bits falling out of his sandwich. “Then what happened with Henkel the other day? You never did shit like that before.”

“People change.”

“Not that fast. I hardly recognize you … you're…”

“What?”

“All over the place.”

“Why? Because I gave Henkel a hard time, and I've got a girlfriend?”

“No, it's more than that. You can't see it, but I do. It's like…”

“What, Seb? You jealous, or something?”

“It's like you're angry at me, at the whole universe, because your mom died, and I get that…”

“Oh, you do, do you?” I shift my weight as he puts his sandwich on the counter. “What do you want me to do? Pretend she never died?”

“Of course not.”

“You know you can't just fix this with some ideas you've discussed over dinner with your mom.”

“Will.” Seb's hand is up in front of him like a surrender as he moves closer, and for a second I think …

“Don't you touch me.”

“I wasn't…”

“God, I am so sick of people…”

“Trying to help?”

“Trying to tell me how I should be doing this.”

There's a divisive silence. Seb moves toward me again.

“Don't, just, don't,” I say. My heel collides with the table. “Shit!”

And then for the second time in a month I leave that house at a sprint, and I don't stop until my chest is pumping so hard my throat starts to ache. I lean forward onto my knees, try to take hold of my breath, even though I sense I'm not done with running yet.

*   *   *

Mom's photo's gone from the wall unit. Adam doesn't come home for dinner. Dad cooks pasta and manages to burn the sauce. My favorite Paradise Lost T-shirt gets mangled in the washing machine.

Will, don't forget the party at Ritchie's Friday. I'll be there. Bring Taryn. Seb

In my notebook I write:

[7]

If life could be explained in one sentence, it would contain no words.

MANTRA

“W
ILL YOU TEACH ME
TO MEDITATE?”

“Sure,” says Samara, looking at Taryn over the top of her glass of mint tea. “I've never taught anyone before, but if you're interested, Will, then you need to know about it.”

With all this chaos, what I need is something to calm my mind. “When?”

“How about tomorrow afternoon? I'm not working till six.”

Taryn pivots on my leg. Her bony butt is digging into my thigh. “But Wednesday I've got my dance class.”

“Exactly. He can't learn with you around.”

Taryn has her back to me so I can't see her face, but I feel her body shift. She turns and whispers in my ear, “Am I distracting you from your spiritual journey?”

Not a serious bone in her body.

“Around 4:30 tomorrow, then?” asks Samara.

I go to answer but Taryn's mouth is pressed against mine, her lashes against my cheek. Right now leaving my body behind is the furthest thing from my thoughts.