The Pause (12 page)

‘Four,' says Samantha. ‘I didn't drink.'

‘You were party to it,' says Ed. ‘No passive bystanders here. Anyway, a couple of us manage to pour Uncle Jimmy into a taxi and give the driver his address. And when he arrives back at his McMansion, he somehow staggers to the top of the staircase – barefoot, you understand – and steps on a thumbtack that had been dropped there. But rather than suck it up, old Uncle Jimmy starts leaping up and down like a one-legged kangaroo, yelling the house down about who the hell had dropped the thumbtack at the top of the stairs. Now I know that Uncle Jimmy's grandchildren were staying over that weekend because the same child who had dropped the thumbtack at the top of the stairs had also carelessly left his skateboard just next to the thumbtack, and in his animated leaping about to draw attention to the fact that a thumbtack had been dropped at the top of the stairs, Uncle Jimmy inadvertently leapt onto the skateboard, which was, unluckily for Uncle Jimmy, facing the staircase.'

I can feel Danica shaking next to me desperately trying to hold back a snort. I try to avoid locking eyes with her as I'm busy biting my lip.

Ed looks over at Danica but solemnly continues. ‘Now Uncle Jimmy, it must be said, was not a very proficient skateboarder. In fact, the best
that could probably be said is that he was a rank amateur, and not a very gifted one at that. And it would take an extremely proficient skateboarder – some might even suggest a
professional
skateboarder – to be able to pilot a skateboard down a marble staircase …'

Unable to hold it together any longer, Danica's snort erupts out of her nose, her eyes, her ears. It's like her head is spontaneously combusting. Tears stream down her face.

I look across at Ellie, Samantha and Nathan, who are doing the best they can to hold it together, covering their faces with their hands as if they're deep in contemplation or immensely saddened by the events that Ed is recounting in deadpan.

‘Please, Danica,' says Ed. ‘A little respect for the departed if you don't mind.'

Danica tries to cry out that she's sorry but she's too far gone and she sounds more like a pig snuffling through a trough.

‘As there were no witnesses or security cameras present to capture or recount the events as they unfolded,' continues Ed, ‘it is unclear just how far Uncle Jimmy was able to manoeuvre the unfamiliar craft down the spiral staircase. Did I mention that the staircase was spiral?'

I cover my face with my hand and shake my head because I've lost the power of speech.

‘What the autopsy report did reveal, however, is that Uncle Jimmy's head connected with most, if not all, of the stairs on his journey down and at some point along the way he acquired massive and fatal brain damage.'

Ed is forced to stop his recount of his Uncle Jimmy's demise at this point when a magma of snot erupts involuntarily out of Nathan's nose, and, in order to continue breathing, Samantha is forced to use her asthma inhaler.

Ed looks to the heavens. ‘Rest in peace, Uncle Jimmy.'

The five of us eventually end up rolling around on our chairs like upturned sea turtles and begging Ed to stop.

It takes a good five minutes before we've all recovered the power of speech. No sooner do we regain our composure than someone would snort and we'd all be off again.

‘Was that true, Ed?' asks Danica, her eyes still brimming with tears.

‘For the most part,' says Ed. ‘He was found dead on the staircase and there was a skateboard in the immediate vicinity. The rest I've sort of embellished.'

Ed's polished delivery suggests that this wasn't the first time that he's told the story of Uncle Jimmy's passing.

‘What's the moral of the story?' asks Nathan. ‘Don't drink? Don't be an asshole? Always be on the lookout for skateboards on stairs?'

‘There is no moral,' says Ed. ‘The point of the story is the story itself.'

We look around at each other, unsure what to make of it.

‘Look,' he continues when he sees us struggling, ‘you've all been through a really difficult time. Some of you are still going through it. Three out of the five of you have attempted suicide. What did Uncle Jimmy's story make you feel?'

‘Like pissing ourselves,' says Danica. ‘I haven't laughed that much in years.'

‘Raise your hand if you feel like dying right now?' says Ed.

No hands go up.

‘Life is about enjoying the little moments. You've all just had a moment. I dare say you had another one last night during your little get-together. And isn't that life? Little moments stitched together. We're all going to fall on bad times and go through sadness, through breakups, through death, bereavement and depression. It happens. It's a part of life. But those moments will pass and you'll have good moments again. You'll have great moments. You'll have beautiful moments.' He hesitates as if considering what to
say next. ‘When I was at uni my then girlfriend – technically she was my fiancée – told me that she was seeing someone else and that our relationship was over. Well, it almost destroyed me.'

Ed and I share a look at this point.

‘I pretty much abandoned my life, wallowed in self-pity for months and hit the booze. I was studying economics at the time but I dropped out of uni and had suicidal thoughts. Although I didn't actually stand on the edge of the cliff, the thought was constantly on my mind but there was no way I was going to act on it because a small part of me knew that just beyond the horizon there were other possibilities. There were moments and adventures and travel that I was yet to have, women that I was yet to meet, a child or children whose very existence and guidance would be my responsibility. It wasn't much but it was something to hang on to. A little glimmer of hope. I knew that I had to stay alive. Not for the life that I was having at the time, because frankly it sucked, but for the life that was just beyond the horizon. And so I was admitted to a place not unlike this one and spent five weeks putting myself back together again. Eventually with psychotherapy and some medication I was able to move on. I went back to uni but dropped economics and switched to psychology where, one week into the course,
I met the most wonderful woman who has ever existed.'

Ed takes a breath before landing the knockout blow. ‘Our daughter will be nineteen next month.'

We look at each other and nod, but then someone mentions Uncle Jimmy and the skateboard once more and we're off again.

Ed looks at us and smiles. ‘Now get out of here, you booze hounds – and you'd better not let me catch you drinking again.'

I have a quick shower and then lie on my bed to process everything Ed told us. Life
is
about moments. Beautiful moments. The rest you just have to get through. To ride out. Especially when the black dog comes sniffing around. I think about our little party last night. I think about my relationship with Lisa, which I thought I'd lost, about Uncle Jimmy's tale of misfortune on the staircase, about Ed's story of self-preservation, and I get it. In the space of twelve hours or so I've had four moments. Moments that were worth sticking around for. Moments I wouldn't have had if I'd followed it through. Had I not paused.

I pass Sharon's group as I race down the corridor, running late because of my shower. They're on the way back from art class. I look at Sharon and smile. Her eyes glisten with what I could only call pride.

‘Where are you off to in such a hurry?' asks one of the women, whose name is Hannah and who can't quite grasp the concept that her name is a palindrome.

‘I'm meeting someone downstairs in the cafe.'

‘What's her name?' one of them shouts after me, which is followed by raucous and approving laughter.

They don't know that Lisa and I are back
together. I've kept that to myself in group. She's my delicious little secret. Our emails have become more and more intense, more and more charged.

I pass Ed as I near the lifts. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to. Ed uses an economy of words, though what he does say is worth listening to and, more importantly, he knows when
not
to talk. It's a rare commodity. Instead, he gives me a high five as I pass, which speaks volumes.

My mobile rings as I enter the cafe, which is tucked into a corner of the lobby. It's quite crowded – half-civilian, half-PJ-clad patients – but Chris and Maaaate have squeezed into a corner table. Chris is on his phone. I pull out mine and see that he's calling me. I don't actually own any PJs, so I'm in jeans and a T-shirt. I look normal. And thanks to Ed, the group, some drugs and, yes, me, I'm starting to feel normal.

‘Sorry, guys,' I say, sliding into the booth next to Chris. Chris looks at his phone and hangs up. ‘Time doesn't really mean much in here.'

‘No worries,' says Maaaate.

‘Good to see you, bro,' says Chris.

Maaaate gives me one of his complicated boys-from-the-hood handshakes. Chris is next to me so he gives me that one-armed, back-patting hug. Although he can't tell me, it's his way of saying ‘stick around'.

Chris is on his second coffee while Maaaate's onto his third milkshake and what appears to be about his tenth donut. There's more of Maaaate since I saw him last.

‘So, er,' begins Chris, awkwardly, ‘how's things?'

One thing that group has taught me is that you can't sweep things under the rug. If you try to repress stuff it'll grow like a cancer until it consumes you.

‘Okay, guys,' I say. ‘I had a mental breakdown. I went nuts. It happens. It happened to me. It can happen to anyone.' I've learnt from Ed and the group that depression and anxiety do not discriminate.

Chris and Maaaate shift uncomfortably in their seats.

‘I didn't see it coming and it almost killed me,' I continue. ‘But it's over now – I hope. I'm getting better. Any questions? Good.'

Chris and Maaaate laugh at this because I'm channelling our science teacher, Mr Williams, who always finishes his lesson preambles with, ‘Any questions? Good.'

‘Was it just what happened with Lisa?' says Maaaate.

‘Yeah,' I say. ‘That was a big part of it. But there's other stuff, too. Stuff I thought I'd let go. I'm handling it better now.'

‘So you're getting out soon?' says Chris, who obviously doesn't want to talk or hear about my other stuff.

‘Released into the wild?' offers Maaaate.

Chris glares at Maaaate.

‘What?' says Maaaate.

‘It's okay, guys. I'm not hiding from anything. No more bottling shit up. Lisa's kraken of a mother practically kidnapped her and it fucked me up completely because I didn't know how to talk about it. Release the pressure valve.'

‘Do they teach you to swear in here?' asks Maaaate.

Another glare from Chris.

‘No,' I say. ‘But they teach you to be honest.'

‘So when
are
you getting out?' asks Chris.

‘In a couple of days, maybe. There's no rush. What's everyone been saying at school?'

Chris and Maaaate look at each other.

Maaaate sucks down some more milkshake. ‘Rumour has it you threw yourself on the tracks but went under the train and it missed you.'

‘The Christians at school reckon it's a miracle,' says Chris. ‘They're all praying for you.'

This time it's Maaaate who glares at Chris.

‘It wasn't quite like that,' I concede. ‘I paused.'

‘God?' says Maaaate.

I shrug. ‘Maybe Mum. Maybe Lisa. Maybe Kate. Maybe Dad. Don't know, really. Something just stopped me.'

‘Could have been God,' says Maaaate. I often forget that Maaaate's as big a Christian as Lisa. ‘It's possible.'

‘Sure,' I concede. ‘It's possible.'

‘Then why didn't he stop those whack jobs on September 11?' says Chris. ‘Or help that little girl out your way whose mum and step-dad beat her to a pulp and then burned her body?'

Maaaate just looks at Chris and shakes his head. It's not an easy position to defend and he knows it. At least he didn't say God moves in mysterious ways or God has a plan.

‘Tell everyone I appreciate their prayers,' I say, because I do.

‘What's it like in here?' says Chris.

‘It's really nice. I've got my own room, friends, a bunch of people looking out for me, a really cool psychologist, and the food is almost edible.'

‘If any of us were going to be in here,' says Chris, ‘I wouldn't have thought it'd be you. I thought it'd be me. Or
him
.' Chris gestures across to Maaaate.

‘Hey,' says Maaaate. ‘What's wrong with
me
?'

‘Where do I even begin?' says Chris.

I look at Chris. The most together member of our group. ‘Why would you be in here?'

Chris looks down into his coffee. He picks up his spoon and stirs it. ‘You've never figured it out, have you?'

Maaaate and I look at each other, unsure where this might be heading.

‘Your old man?' I suggest.

‘Never knew him,' says Chris, shaking his head. ‘Don't want to.'

‘I give up,' says Maaaate.

‘If you say a word about this to anyone, I'll kill you.' Chris looks at us, one after the other, to show that he's serious.

‘You'll kill us?' says Maaaate, who never knows when to shut up. ‘That's a bit heavy, isn't it?'

‘Okay,' concedes Chris. ‘I might not kill you but I'll be severely pissed.'

I look at Chris and try to use my experience in group to see inside him, but soon admit defeat. He's a wall. What could it possibly be? He's a wonderful son – his mum regularly tells me. In fact, she tells us
every
time she sees us. And he's my best mate. He's academic and sporty. He's so good looking it should be illegal, but he doesn't exploit his good looks by using girls even though they drool over him. I mean, I've never even heard him talk about a girl let alone seen him with –

Chris sees the realisation wash over me and nods.

‘You're gay?'

‘Shut up,' says Maaaate about as subtly as a fox tearing into a chook pen.

Chris looks at Maaaate but doesn't contradict him.

‘Holy crap!' Maaaate's eyes widen. You can almost hear the hamster running the maze inside what passes as his brain.

‘Any questions?' says Chris, himself lapsing into Mr Williams' mode. ‘Good.'

‘I've got one,' says Maaaate.

I roll my eyes at Chris.

‘Go on,' says Chris.

‘So if you're really gay, does that mean when you have a shower after sport, it would be like me and Declan showering with a netball team?'

I look at Maaaate and shake my head. ‘Seriously?
That's
your question?'

Maaaate shrugs and seems to drift off momentarily.

‘Stop it!' I glare at Maaaate.

‘What?' says Maaaate.

‘You're imagining the whole netball-team-shower thing right now, aren't you?'

‘Yeah, so?'

‘Well, you can keep that thing away from me.' I look about the cafe. ‘There're little kids around, and you're sitting there with a netball-induced throbbing trombone.'

Chris laughs, happy to have the moment lightened.

‘How long have you known?' I ask.

‘About the netball team?' says Maaaate.

‘Shut up, Maaaate.'

‘As long as I can remember,' says Chris. ‘Even in kindergarten I was never attracted to girls.'

‘We used to hate them,' I say to Chris. ‘Girls, I mean. They were like aliens.'

‘Yeah,' admits Chris. ‘But you used to hate them in that not-really-hating them, chasing-them-around-the-playground sort of way. For me it was different.'

‘Do you …' starts Maaaate.

Chris and I look over at Maaaate. You can almost hear the stupid question formulating in his mind.

‘What?' says Chris.

‘You might think this is a dumb thing to ask but I really want to know.'

Chris groans. ‘Go ahead.'

‘Do you … er … like, dress up in your mum's clothes when she goes out?'

‘You dumb fuck!' snarls Chris. ‘I'm gay, not a cross-dresser.'

‘Okay. Sorry,' says Maaaate. ‘Thought it was more or less the same thing.'

Chris glares at Maaaate. ‘You're such an idiot!'

‘All right! Keep your shirt on. Or your mum's dress.' Maaaate bursts out laughing. Alone. ‘I'm only asking.'

Chris and I look at each other and then at the cup full of sugar packets on the table. We nod, then pick them up and start throwing them at Maaaate.

‘So what's it like?' says Maaaate after we've made him pick up all the sugar packets. Watching him squeeze himself beneath the table to get the ones on the ground is like watching a sumo wrestler trying to wedge himself into a SmartCar.

‘What?' says Chris. ‘Being gay? It's bloody hard.' Chris quickly checks himself. ‘And don't even think about saying anything about me being hard.'

‘No,' says Maaaate. ‘What's it like being, you know, with another guy?'

As insensitive as it is, this is the most sensible question or comment that Maaaate has brought to the table so far.

‘I don't know,' says Chris. ‘I haven't … I haven't been there. Yet.'

‘So how do you know?' asks Maaaate. ‘That you are … you know?'

‘You know. When you are you know,' says Chris, lapsing into Maaaate speak. ‘It's just something you know. I can't explain it but I know, you know?'

‘But
how
do you know?'

Chris glares at Maaaate. They came to visit me together in Chris's mum's car, but I suspect Maaaate will be taking the bus and train home. ‘How do
you
know you're fat?'

‘Oh, duh!' says Maaaate. ‘I look in the mirror.'

‘Same with me,' says Chris. He turns to me but looks downcast. ‘The worst part will be having to tell Mum that I won't be having kids, that she's not going to be a grandmother.'

‘Why can't you have kids?' asks Maaaate, and for once I'm with him. ‘Man, did you even watch those
Modern Family
eps I lent you?'

‘Yeah,' says Chris. ‘But it's just the whole normal thing.'

‘Mate,' I say. ‘If there's one thing that being in here has taught me, it's that there is no such thing as normal. They admitted a guy last night. He'd totally flipped. They found him naked on the beach about to swim to New Zealand because his dog told him to.' Okay, I made up the bit about the dog for effect. ‘Know what he does for a living?'

‘Dog trainer?' asks Maaaate and I can't help but laugh.

‘He's a psychiatrist. He's an expert in this stuff and yet there he was about to head off to New Zealand without a passport.'

‘Or anywhere to put it,' suggests Maaaate and even Chris laughs at this.

When we've calmed down, Chris looks at both of us and then stares off into the distance. ‘There's a storm coming,' he sighs.

Maaaate looks out the cafe window. ‘There isn't a cloud in the sky, you moron.'

I look at Maaaate and raise my eyebrows. ‘I think he means metaphorically.'

‘Then why didn't he just say that?' says Maaaate.

‘Does it change anything?' says Chris. ‘Between us, I mean?'

‘No!' I say. ‘Don't be ridiculous, mate. You're still the man.' I'm referring to Chris's position as the head of our group.

Chris and I look over at Maaaate, who is clearly about to say something breathtakingly stupid and insensitive.

Maaaate looks at Chris. ‘Nah. Doesn't change a fucking thing.'

Chris nods and I wink at Maaaate. When it mattered, he came through.

‘Though if you guys are crashing at my place,' says Maaaate, ‘you're in the spare room.'

We bombard Maaaate with more sugar packets as he pleads with us that it was a joke.