Aftershock Page 18

  Jules eventually found she was faced with a whole other matrix of life decisions to make: alone or not alone. She started to trust him.

  She knew that was giving him the power to hurt her, and eight years later, he did. Even though she’d told him on the phone that the baby died, it was David’s arrival home that was their worst moment. The moment she realized she couldn’t forgive him for not getting home faster, for not being there in the first place. For letting down the team. They’d already been running on fumes for a while, but that was the moment she realized nothing would ever be the same.

  Within a week, he said he couldn’t be away from her and Chloe like that anymore, left his post as a foreign correspondent and took the job as a staff writer, and started working from home. But Jules knew he was just doing it to assuage his own guilt.

  AND THAT MADE you angry? Dr. Morrow always tried to make things simple.

  Jules nodded slowly, her eyes staring widely into her memory. Angry, yes. Angry for years. Years spent in a slow-motion crash, the engine on the plane long since dead and no stopping what was to come. Six, maybe seven years of spiralling towards the earth before its final impact.

  He kept saying he wanted us back.

  He said it again and again, but it was too late, and she knew it. By the time he clued in to the damage their marriage had sustained, there was nothing left but wreckage, nothing to be saved.

  Dr. Morrow leaned forward in her seat, saw Jules notice, then leaned back and crossed her legs.

  Sounds like he missed you.

  I guess. Seems like he’s moved on pretty well.

  She had missed him too, missed the way she’d loved him once, missed being able to love him, being able to love. Maybe six months, maybe a year after the baby died, they had their first of The Conversations.

  She’d been sitting up in the bed, home from work a half day early, already back from a lung-burning run, watching Law & Order reruns and drinking Scotch. It was still light out when David knocked on her door, leaned his head and shoulders through and asked to talk.

  When she said okay, the first thing he did was cross to the window and open the curtains, let the late summer sun blast in, dust motes swirling in confusion. Jules had muted the television with a sigh. He sat at the foot of her bed, his hairline receding, his middle already soft, looked at her with his guileless brown eyes and listed all the things that made him think she was quote unquote suffering from depression: that she barely spoke to him or Chloe, flinched if he tried to touch her, slept all day if she wasn’t at work, worked obscenely long hours at a job he knew didn’t warrant it. She ran obsessively, barely ate, drank too much and never returned phone calls—although there were fewer and fewer to return.

  She didn’t really listen, keeping one eye on the silent television. She didn’t need a list. And she didn’t need help. She just needed him to go away and let her deal with her own guilt, without the added weight of his.

  He did go away, each time, with varying degrees of reluctance and relief. But he always came back, always with the same suggestion:

  Won’t you just talk to someone?

  But Jules didn’t want to talk. She wanted to shut it all down, lay a concrete slab over her bottomless well of grief. Running, Scotch, mindless television: these were what helped.

  Then, less than a year later, her first disc slipped. David seemed to think she would now have to concede that she needed him. But she didn’t. She couldn’t stand it, his palpable pining for her even though they still lived in the same house. Eventually she realized: she couldn’t stand him. But he did the laundry and the groceries and the cleaning and he looked after nine-year-old Chloe before and after school, and all of those were things Jules couldn’t do right then. She led him on, she could now, almost a decade later, admit. She let him believe that they would get to a place where they would be able to work things out.

  But ultimately, David was not actually an idiot. Four years later, the baby then dead for seven and Chloe a terrifying thirteen, he left for good. At which point she did go into therapy, and eventually added antidepressants to her daily diet of muscle relaxants and naproxen.

  Where was Chloe? Dr. Morrow was really digging today. They were five minutes over time, which never happened.

  She was going to school, of course, playing hockey— But the shrink was shaking her head.

  No. When the baby died. Where was Chloe that day?

  She was at home.

  She recalled pulling up in the driveway, seeing Maureen, the babysitter, smoking on the porch with shaking hands, telling her to go home, and then going up to Chloe’s room, where her daughter was playing silently with her stuffed animals. Then Nan and Elliot arrived, David’s parents, who always thought they knew what she should do.

  And Chloe stayed in her room that whole time?

  She shrugged. She didn’t want to talk about it.

  Did I tell you I broke up with Rod?

  Dr. Morrow made a note, but she was not to be distracted so easily.

  I’m just wondering if you see a correlation between Chloe leaving and your escalating dependency on the Oxy.

  No. Things keep hurting, that’s all.

  Morrow sighed and looked at her watch. Finally, it was time to go.

  DREW DROVE HER back to his house. Ten days since her arrest and four days completely clean, nothing but over-the-counter analgesics and a basic anti-inflammatory. She felt like shit and craved solitude.

  Drew opened his front door and Jules headed straight for the stairs, but as she passed the living room, movement caught her eye.

  Jules, honey, let’s go in there for a minute.

  She followed Drew into the living room, and Declan was sitting there with Rod, who saw Jules and stood up, moving quickly across the room to embrace her. She clenched her teeth, stood stiffly, willed herself not to recoil from the shirt that draped his angular frame, his stiff, mis-gelled hair. The faint antiseptic-and-sweat smell he failed to mask with unfortunate cologne.

  He told her he’d been worried, had tried to call her cell, her home, her office, Drew’s cell, and had finally driven here, to Drew’s house, to look for her.

  Then Dec here answered the door, and he’s been filling me in. How are you, Jules?

  Disturbed by Rod’s ingratiating tone, Jules looked at Declan, who warily tracked Rod’s movements but spoke to her.

  I never told him anything, Julie.

  Jules looked back at Rod. You had me arrested.

  Oh, I think we can all agree you did that to yourself. Right?

  He swept his arms around the room, trying to rope everyone into agreement.

  But the point is, now you’re getting help, which is what I was trying to—

  Declan snorted and said, Julie.

  I was speaking, Rod said, and Jules would have laughed if she’d had the energy. Rod wasn’t used to getting interrupted. His neck was already blotching in agitation. But Declan had his eyes on her now and didn’t even look at Rod.

  Listen, Julie, I told you, I have a treatment I think might help.

  I thought you said she was clean.

  Yeah, no thanks to you. Cutting her off cold.

  I didn’t know how bad it was.

  Oh, bullshit. You knew perfectly. I’ve got patients who’ve been to your clinic. I’ve heard about you. You give that shit out like candy.

  I didn’t realize you were licensed to give prescriptions, Declan.

  Well, I haven’t sold my soul to Big Pharma, Doc, but I also haven’t had complaints filed against me.

  Everyone gets complaints. And my patients get the best drugs available.

  Jules thought for one crazy, exhilarating moment that Declan might lay Rod out, but then Declan said, Julie. It’s up to you.

  Everyone was quiet, looking at her, and she realized both that it was her turn to speak and that, ultimately, as Declan had said, she had to make a choice. But she wasn’t entirely sure what her choices were, just that Rod somehow represented one,
Declan somehow the other.

  Why are you here? she asked Rod.

  He worked his mouth open and closed a few times. I told you, I was worried about you.

  He tried to put his arm around her shoulders, but this time she did recoil, moved away from him. His teeth made her think of accordion keys.

  Alright. Well, I have to go to court, thank you very much for that, but otherwise, I’m fine. You can go.

  Jules turned and walked out of the living room, started up the stairs. She needed some sleep. But Rod followed her out.

  I know about this Declan, that clinic he runs. I mean, flotation tanks? Seriously?

  Jules was halfway to the first landing, turned and looked down at him.

  I’m not blind, Jules. I saw you. On the porch that night.

  Jules shrugged. She didn’t care anymore. Things with Rod were clearly over, and whatever he thought he’d seen was insignificant. The man she had been drawn to on the porch that night was now the man who had been her rock through a week of detox.

  Bye, Rod. She turned and walked up the stairs. But Rod was a last-word kind of guy, and as she rounded the landing on the second floor, she heard:

  He’s a crackpot, Jules! The front door slamming shut behind him.

  By the time Jules reached the third-floor sitting room, she was pondering the irony that Rod had just accomplished what Declan and Drew and Farzan could not. Suddenly, an hour of floating in the dark, where she couldn’t see or hear or feel anything or anyone, seemed like a great idea.

  And, after all, what did she have to lose?

  Aftershock.

  When I saw the news, I was sitting in the bar at the Picton hostel, having a beer while I waited for the dorms to be swept out. Jansen was somehow still staying there, hanging around me as if we were friends, but his disingenuous optimism, his constant undercurrent of judgment, not to mention the racism, sexism and homophobia he tried to gloss over with slippery charm, made mere civility towards him taxing. I’d been using the ATM in the lobby when his voice at my shoulder made me jump.

  Chloe! Your hike took you this long?

  Three days, yep.

  I hope you are okay?

  Yeah, fine.

  I’d walked away. He’d followed me.

  Now, as he sat beside me, I tried to tune him out, stared hard at the TV behind the bar. When a headline banner reported a 6.1 AFTERSHOCK IN CHRISTCHURCH, I asked Nick to turn up the volume.

  Aw shite, more of this, hey.

  Nick had a surfer’s ropy frame and sun-bleached hair, but he was probably twenty years older than the surfers I’d met. He shook his head at the TV.

  Chandra’s sister lives down there. Had their house on the market for over a year now, tryin’ to git out. Got kids and everything.

  I was down there a few weeks ago. Ein Drecksloch. Shithole.

  I ignored Jansen. Nick gave an appalled non-laugh.

  Blood thrummed in my ears, my breath stopped cold as I watched shaky, cobbled-together cellphone footage of a road rutting apart, water geysering up from concrete crevasses, people canoeing down flooded streets. A row of houses sunk in on themselves with rooftops ripped in half. But they said it was minor, compared with other quakes. There were power outages everywhere but no injuries, and minimal structural damage.

  My dad’s down there. And his wife and kid. I thought of Char and the rescue dog she had once asked me to draw.

  Nick must have seen the worry on my face and said, Y’can try to call him, so I went behind the bar to the office. But phone lines were down all over Christchurch. Amanda’s voice mailbox was full, and David didn’t even have a cellphone. There was no getting through. Nick put a hand on my shoulder and reminded me that the city had an extreme degree of earthquake readiness.

  Back at the bar, Jansen said, I am sure they are fine. Another beer, yes?

  His glibness grated on me. Clearly, the money from his father had come through. My guidebook lay on top of the bar, and Jansen picked it up and started flipping through it, trying to make conversation and folding down corners to mark things he thought I should see, with no awareness that he might be crossing any sort of boundary.

  I was sore and tired from my hike, filthy in a deeper-than-the-skin kind of way, so I went to grab a shower while I waited for the dorms to be ready. I hauled my duffle out of the storage room and piled clothes on one of the bar’s sticky tables until I found what I needed—my towel was way down near the bottom—and left the rest of it piled in a corner while I went upstairs.

  The hot water hit me hard as bristles, hammering on my back, making my skin feel flexible again instead of brittle with cold and grime, and I lingered long enough that Chandra pounded on the door to remind me that water wasn’t cheap.

  Back in the bar, Jansen was not so much nursing a pint as performing meatball surgery on a series of shooters with three other travellers, all German, all white guys in hiking pants. They were drunk and laughing like idiots, Jansen waving his arms around wildly. Uneasy, I tried to walk around them to my bags, but when I was within reach, he slung an arm around me, and I was pretty sure I heard the word lesbisch.

  I was just telling them how you like to hike by yourself, he told me, and they all laughed again, kept laughing. Didn’t stop laughing.

  I didn’t know you spoke German, I said. His new friends wore lascivious grins, their eyes darting down, returning to inspect my face, making eye contact that was both inviting and hostile.

  It is very close to Afrikaans, he said.

  Then Chandra came and said the dorms were ready, so I started to gather my things from the corner. Clothes were still spilling out the top of my duffle and I had to shove down a couple pairs of underwear with the Germans watching. One of them smirked, raised an eyebrow, and I wanted to punch him in the throat, but instead I just punched at my clothes even faster.

  On my way out of the bar, Jansen grabbed my arm, fake-pouting.

  Chloe. You are mad because I have a little fun?

  I jerked away, narrowing my eyes at his grammar, which was more awkward than usual. His eyes were a bit glassy and he was swaying. I could feel the Germans watching me.

  I don’t give a shit what you do. And I turned, again, to go.

  But Chloe, and Jansen again grabbed me by the arm, stepped in close, and touched my cheek with his lips before I could stop him. No hard feelings, okay?

  Something around his neck caught my eye.

  What’s that?

  I’d seen that knotted leather string before. Jansen looked startled but recovered quickly, pulled it out to show me.

  From our friend. Remember? His fish hook.

  He gave it to you?

  I was sure I’d seen Tanga, our ride from Kaikoura, putting his good luck totem around his own neck. I was sure of it.

  Yes. His matau. For good luck in my journeys, he said. You were there, you did not see?

  I shook my head, disbelieving.

  We had a special relationship, in the front seat, he said. Do not be jealous.

  It was more than I could stand. You’re such an asshole, I said as I turned away, and if nothing else, the look on his face would always be worth it.

  I shouldered my duffle and went to my dorm, put my valuables in a locker, still felt unclean, had another shower, got hungry and went back to the bar. I’d hoped Jansen and his Germans would be gone, and they were. I saw the Belgians, also looking cleaner, heading out for dinner. They invited me, but I wanted to try David again.

  I still couldn’t get through.

  Could be a few days, hon. But the worst of it’s done with.

  I thought about Char and wondered if she was scared or just used to it.

  Nick placed a bowl of chicken stew in front of me. I sat alone, read a few chapters of a spy novel with half my brain while the other half wondered if I should return to Christchurch. I was worried, especially about Char, but I didn’t see how my being there would help anyone. I would just be making the situation harder, like if they’d had
to go stay at a friend’s or something. I would keep trying to reach them, and I could just as easily do that from Piha. After I found Lee.

  THE NEXT MORNING, I couldn’t find my guidebook. It wasn’t where it should have been, in the outside pocket of my pack. I remembered Jansen flipping through it the night before, so I went to look for him. But Jansen was gone too.

  I’m sorry, love, he packed out last night.

  Chandra was working at the front desk, Nick in the office behind her. I could see through the office to the empty bar on the other side.

  Yeah, said it was real urgent, like. Some family thing? Took a cab to— Hey, Nicky, didn’t that German boy take a cab to the airport?

  Yeah, real late, like midnight, he left.

  Not really an airport, Chandra said. More like a long driveway they fly tin cans off. But it’s quite cheap, to Wellington. Now, you staying on?

  I went to get my moneybelt from my locker and unzipped it on my way back to the front desk.

  It was empty. Standing in the front foyer, I was slow-motion swallowed by a vortex of doom as I yawned it all the way wide open. All my cash, my bank card: gone. Only my passport remained. I felt sweaty and sick, the panicked vertigo of knowing something was disastrously wrong but still trying to grasp the extent of it.

  You alright? Chandra asked from behind the desk.

  I think someone stole my money.

  Chandra’s eyes searched my face, gauging crisis level. Aw, shit. Well, listen, hon, I can hold your bed for a couple of hours. You just let me know what you want to do.

  Back in the dorm, I shook out my sleeping bag, lifted the mattress, took everything out of my locker and put it back again.

  But I knew. I knew everything.

  I’d left my moneybelt in my duffle, left my duffle in the bar when I’d showered yesterday afternoon. That was the only time when it hadn’t been on my body or in my locker. And I’d left Jansen in the room alone. I kept going back to his abrupt kiss on my cheek. No hard feelings.

  I’ve been angry at a lot of people at a lot of moments in my life, but his easiness, the obviousness and my own stupidity combined to seize me with a whole new kind of rage: it was physical, it jolted down my limbs. I pounded the side of the lockers with the heel of my hand, over and over, until I was scared one of us would break. Hot tears burned my eyes.