Ethans Fal (7 page)

“I have to let you go, Ada. I’m sorry but I know you won’t go on the books, and I can’t pay you cash any more. Christ, I’m really sorry.” He runs his hand through his hair with irritation. He looks over at my stunned face. I did not see that coming. I haven’t missed a single shift. I always cover when I am asked, and I have only ever been late when some arsehole holds my clothes hostage.

“Buddy,” I offer softly, because he looks distraught. “Look it’s not that I
won’t
go on the books.I just
can’t.
I wish I could explain.” I close my eyes and momentarily drop my head…so many necessary secrets. “ Buddy, I don’t understand. Why is this a problem now? I have worked here for a year and it’s never been an issue.” I shake my head this time because this doesn’t make sense. “Are you over-staffed, maybe? No, that’s not right. You are under-staffed, if anything. Are you not happy with my work? I don’t understand, Buddy. I can’t not have this job. I need this job!” My voice pitches with the sudden panic, and the realisation that my limited income is about to be halved.

“Ada, you’re my best worker; it’s not that. Ah fuck, this fucking stinks.” He moans into his cupped hands.

“You’re telling me! You know everyone has their staff sorted for the season by now, don’t you? There are no other jobs out there. Maybe if you had told me two weeks ago, when the other places were still hiring…Shit, Buddy! Why are you doing this?” He flinches when he catches the despair in my expression.

“It’s not me, Ada, you know I don’t have a problem; But the boss, he doesn’t like a mess, and unaccounted cash on the books is messy.”

I frown because I really don’t understand. “You’re the boss? And
now
you don’t like mess?” I try to clarify my confusion.

“I’m a partner in the bar, but I’m not the big boss..” He shrugs away any hope I have of changing his mind. If it was his decision, I know him well enough that he wouldn’t see me unemployed.

“So, who’s the big boss?” My head snaps to the sound of a scraping chair hidden round the alcove out of sight from the main part of the office. Buddy looks equally shocked that there is someone else in the room.

“That would be me, Ada, or is it Artemis?” Shirtless and glorious Ethan steps into view, his towel draped over one shoulder. His hair is still damp, his toned ripped torso is dotted with patches of dried sand, like he has just stepped off the beach. But he hasn’t, he’s been here the whole time. His perfectly white, straight teeth and wide grin evidently taking too much delight in this turn of events.

I close my eyes at the sight and to stop him from seeing me roll my eyes. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction that he can affect my life with so little effort. I look up to him and tighten my smile.

“Definitely Artemis to you.” I keep my voice level, and if it’s possible his grin widens.

“Ah, but now I know what you’re really called.” He crosses his arms over his chest, the muscles of his forearms bunch and glisten with sweat.

“Only to people I like,” I snap, and go to stand. He steps forward into the space I needed, forcing me to fall back down with a bump. I squeal when my tailbone crunches on the frame of the sofa. He towers over me and I swear his eyes darken. No, there are no windows in here, that’s why his eyes look so dark, heavy lidded. No natural light.

“But we both know you
do
like me, don’t we, Ada?” His voice drops and I can feel my insides tingle, hot and a little bit damp. I swallow and lick my suddenly dry lips.
The salty air does that,
I remind myself.

“I…I–” Can’t construct a sentence or breathe.

“Don’t be a dick, Ethan. You don’t even know the girl.” Buddy interrupts with a light laugh, trying to ease the tension, and I manage to take a much needed gasp of air. It is stifling in here.

“No, Buddy, we’ve met. We had a very nice
meeting
this afternoon.” His emphasis is exaggerated, and makes my cheeks instantly flush red, which even the dimly lit room can’t mask.

“Oh!” Buddy nods in understanding–a misunderstanding, by the look on his face–and his knowing grin.
Sofa swallow me now, could this get any worse.

“Yes, Buddy, Ada is going to be my new cleaner.” Ethan steps back, actually ruffles my hair in a playful manner. I am just waiting for the light punch to the forearm, but it doesn’t come. He winks and tips his head, indicating I am being dismissed but I have lost the impetus to move. The thought that Ethan’s words meant more, that he felt more, have been brought into sharp focus. My body did react to his, I couldn’t help that; didn’t want to help that at the time. But obviously the only ‘more’ Ethan felt, was relief at not having to deal with his stinky laundry. Time to squish my physical reactions to him into a neat little box, nail it shut, and bury it on the beach next to my hope and future. Because the material affects he has are a little more pressing. However, unwittingly, Ethan has just made a homeless Ada, unemployed.

Two Years Ago

I CAN HEAR
that voice again, soft lilting. Often it is just a gentle sound in my dreams, but this time I can hear the words and they make sense to me.

“
Light up, light up. As if you have a choice. Even if you cannot hear my voice, I’ll be right beside you dear…hmmm, hmmm
…Oh!” The singing stops abruptly and I can hear scraping and shuffling. A warm light friction on my face. “You can hear me, can’t you sweetheart?” The female voice coaxes me from my sluggish inertia. Her touch repeating its welcome contact on my face. I can feel that. I can hear her but I feel utterly exhausted by even that understanding, so how will I ever have the energy to answer? “You like my song? It’s a favourite of mine. Now, come on sweetheart, I know it’s a favourite of yours too. Why don’t you open your eyes for me and we can talk lyrics and poetry. Hell, there’s no-one in this room but you and me, we can talk hard core porn, if you’d just open your eyes for me.” She’s funny. I wonder if she knows I think so. I can feel a tingling sensation in my face, but I don’t know what is involuntary or what I control. Everything feels disconnected or at least suppressed under a weighty, womb-warm blanket. I am totally cocooned and immobile in this protective layer, but now I can hear. Now I understand and feel, and I want out. “That’s it, Arti, open your eyes. It’s a beautiful day.”

Bam! A burst of bright light and a pain so sharp, it feels like my chest had been cracked wide open with a hatchet. I croak out a garbled noise that must be amusing because the lady now looking down at me has the widest smile. “Yes!” she cries and fist pumps the air. She then takes my wrist, then her fingers press my pulse point, and in seriousness she starts silently counting. Placing my hand limp at my side, she then elevates me from lying flat to almost bolt upright with a touch of a button. “There, that’s better.” She fusses with my covers and tucks my hair behind both ears. She misses and a large section falls across my face, and I look down to the wave of hair on my breast. Wow, that is a lot of hair. When did it get so long? Wait…No!

The images that bombard me are like bullets: hard, fast and lethal. The doctor…my father…this place. Cal left us. Pip…oh, my God, my baby. Cal sold my baby to my father, and my father gave her away!

“Shit!” The woman’s voice is utter panic. I start to tremble, not gentle shaking but violent tremors, which rack my body, and flip me jerking on my side. “Shit! Shit! Stay with me, Arti! Try to breathe…Fuck!” A piercing siren goes off, and a rush of bodies attempt to restrain my seizing body. “Do you have to? I’ve only just got her to wake up?” I can’t respond, but I comprehend perfectly. This woman doesn’t want me sedated any more than I do, but it doesn’t look like there is going to be a choice. My last moment of focus is on the clear liquid poised to drop from the tiny needle. Blurred and frenzied struggles end my fight, as it had before, but now I remember everything, I remember everything with excruciating clarity. I succumb because this blissfully potent blanket is just too damn heavy, and right now, I need the oblivion it affords.

I have been awake for a few days now. Each day is a little more real yet surreal at the same time. Physically my body seems fine. I can feed myself, but I am never hungry. I can wash myself–well I could, if I was allowed to–and I can take myself to the tiny ensuite toilet on my own, when I’m allowed. I can feel everything now, but rather than the joyful euphoria one should feel at being alive, at a chance of a real life again. I just feel raw and desolate.

I haven’t spoken yet and I can see the lady, who woke me and introduced herself as Dr. Burrows, is getting frustrated. I am not fooling her one bit. Today is no different.

“You must have a million questions, Artemis, and I am here to help you.” She pulls a chair close to the side of my bed and takes my hand. “Artemis…I–”

“I would rather you didn’t call me that.” My voice sounds as cold as the sentiment I am expressing. But she looks thrilled, her smile is wide, and she bounces in her seat, looking more like a giddy preschooler than a professional psychiatrist. She checks herself, but her face is alight and eager for more. That’s a shame. I close my eyes and don’t say another word. Not for days, weeks maybe, it’s difficult to keep track of time. I have stopped eating, only taking a few sips of water when my throat is parched with pain. One of the nurses was careless enough to leave her fountain pen on my nightstand, which I carefully spent the night dismantling and carving the date 21.04.11. into the inside of my wrist. The wound seeped for a few days and has scabbed over nicely, but it did mean I have been restrained each night to prevent a repeat occurrence. I have no intention of making any more marks. I was just so scared they would do something to make me forget. I needed the permanent reminder.

Every morning and every afternoon Joan–she calls herself that, never Doctor Burrows, not since the first introduction–comes in and talks to me. She sits for an hour or so, and chats about anything and nothing, but everything she says is an open ended question and her desperation to get me to engage is a little pitiful. I don’t want to speak to her; I don’t want to speak to anyone. I just want to get out of here.