The Same Deep Water (2 page)

“No, I don’t have long to finish my list.”

“But it’s a bucket list. You have your whole life to finish.”

His smile slips. “Like I said, not long.”

I grip the fence harder. My world today is cloaked in a surreal fog and Guy’s adding to this by the minute. He continues to watch with the same impassive look, becoming harder to see as the sun sets.

“What do you mean you don’t have long?” I ask. He nods his head to indicate I should state the obvious. “Do you mean you’re... are you sick?”

“Euphemisms. Don’t you love them? Dying. I have my bucket list to complete first, though, which is why I don’t have time to waste.”

I reel as if a sledgehammer just smacked me in the chest, knocking me further from the edge. How can he be so nonchalant, as if telling me he’s late for a dinner date?

I’m a selfish, bad person. Here’s a dying man who wants to live long enough to fulfill his dreams, and here I am, wanting to die. My thoughts must be evident because Guy steps closer. The shock spreads to my fingers and I squeeze them open and shut, watching them tremble. My fingers feel like part of me again.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“Why? You don’t know me.”

“But you’re a good person.”

“Am I?”

“You feel like a good person.”

“Feel? But you feel nothing, suicide girl.”

The lump in my throat chokes back the need to tell him not to call me that. He can’t because I’m not.

I won’t be. I couldn’t with Guy watching me; he has to go. I have to go. I can’t do this in front of somebody else.

“Okay.” I say. “Save my life.”

He straightens. “Seriously?”

“Yes.” He can tick me off his list tonight; I can change my mind and come back again.

Guy climbs over the fence, then turns, outstretching a hand. “Let me take you home, Phe.”

I tuck my hands beneath my arms and he drops his hand. “Not home.”

“Where?”

Sensation seeps back into my limbs, bordering around the edge of my mind but the dreamlike state I’ve descended into over the last weeks remains. Reality is as tenuous as my change of mind.

“I don’t know.” I shiver, the evening sea breeze picking at the hairs on my arms.

“Should I call somebody?” he asks.

“I don’t know.” Erica. No. I can’t drag her into this again; she’s not responsible and tries to be. Friends should help each other, but the sick friend shouldn’t be a burden. Jen doesn’t know anything about this side of me. I can’t go home.

Guy rubs his face. “How did you get here tonight?”

“Bus. Walked.”

“Wait there. Let me fetch something.” He turns to leave then pauses before looking back. “You will wait there, won’t you?”

Wrapping my arms around myself, I nod. Guy disappears in the direction of the car park. The stars now prick the sky, the waxing moon throwing light on the peace of the place. The fall that beckoned is behind me now. I step further away to the bench across the footpath; the one I sat on as I lost the final fight with myself.

Guy reappears holds a bottle in my direction. “Drink?”

“What is it?”

“Water that pretends to be special because it’s flavoured and in a fancy bottle.” He holds up a cup. “I have coffee, but it’s cold. You can have that instead if you like?”

I take the bottle and grip as he sits next to me. The incessant call of the cicadas and the low sound of cars travelling a nearby road edge into my awareness. Guy gulps his coffee.

“Who were the flowers for?” I ask.

“Whoever wanted them.”

He looks ahead, long fingers curled around the cup. “You randomly buy flowers to give to girls?”

“Why not? The flowers are thrown away by the store if they’re not sold.” He smiles to himself. “I like to see people’s reactions.”

“I wouldn’t expect you find many girls here.”

“I stop here on my way home sometimes. I told you, I like the view. I bought the flowers earlier and they were in the car when I saw you.” He pauses before adding quietly, “You looked like you really needed some flowers, Phe.”

I shiver again. The headache is joined by an exhaustion as I give in to the change in my evening. “That’s a strange thing to do.”

“So’s jumping off rocks.”

“True.”

The water is cool when I drink, and I hold the water in my mouth, the fizz bubbling against my cheeks as I focus on the flavour. Strawberry? Raspberry? Something more exotic? I swallow. Side by side, we don’t look at each other. Is Guy taking glances at me the way I am at him? His fringe reaches his heavy brow and every few minutes he sweeps a strand away, a gesture he probably doesn’t realise he’s repeating.

Despite the warmth of the evening; my body shakes with the awareness of what I almost did.

“Maybe I should take you to the hospital,” he says.

“No!”

“Okay. But I have to take you somewhere, otherwise, I won’t be able to tick you off my list.” He flashes me his dimpled smile.

“Your bucket list. Of course.”

“Will you write one?”

“Maybe.”

“Will you ask somebody for help?”

When I turn my head, he’s searching my eyes for the answer he wants. “To write my list?”

“No. To get well. To live your life instead of giving up.” The undercurrent of his words is clear in the intensity of the look we share. His is being taken. I’m suddenly overwhelmed by the desire to touch his face, ground myself completely with human contact, and ask him what lies beneath the deep water in his eyes.

“I’ll ask for help. Again,” I say.

“Good.” He stands. “Start with me. Either let me drive you somewhere or call a taxi.”

My bag lies in the scrub where I dropped it earlier and I grab the strap.

“Let’s go, Phe.” As Guy strides away, I hesitate, watching his tall figure as he steps into the shadows. I’m not sure I can trust a man who hangs around suicide spots, with flowers, at dusk.

But why would he save my life if he’s going to hurt me?

Chapter Two

Two Months Later

I scrape my hair into a ponytail and snap a band around as I step onto the bus. The bus is cramped with bodies and I squeeze onto half a vacant seat, next to the large woman encroaching on the remaining space. Good thing my backside is smaller than hers. Arms wrapped around her brown leather bag, she doesn’t take her eyes of her kindle, and I shuffle to the seat edge, feet dangerously close to tripping anyone else who heads along the aisle.

The journey into the city should be short, but is long thanks to the traffic. I’ve lived in Perth five months, moved over here from Melbourne after completing my Media degree. I’m not entirely sure how I fought off the competition and won the traineeship as a journalist at
Belle de Jour
, or how long I can hold onto the job without collapsing in a mess – or off a cliff. The fact the popular magazine held the traineeship open for me while I spent time in hospital, then the few weeks after as I took time out, bolsters my confidence. I must’ve impressed them somehow in the few months before my breakdown, and this vote of confidence adds to my determination to keep moving my life on.

I shudder, casting my mind back to the day I almost became a story in the local news. Sick? Visit medical professionals, they will give you medication and fix you up. Right? Wrong. If there were a magic pill, why would they be making new ones all the time? I fought against what I now know is depression for years as a kid, teen moods darker and deeper than my friends, my reality hidden from everybody but my best friend, Erica. Now she’s on the other side of the country. I moved to Perth alone and I share a house with strangers who’ve become new friends, but I’m alone without Erica.

My working world is full of the beautiful and famous, the airbrushed faces and bodies featured in ads in the magazine beside articles about the latest diets or sexual positions. Lies pull in readers and fool them that they can achieve this reality, that this world exists, and they should emulate the life at all costs. I subscribe to the lie, too, comparing my looks and lifestyle to those around who’ve succeeded. They act as if happy and free but they are trapped in the fake world they’re part of.

Watching the fable constructed around me has the opposite effect than I intended; instead of seeing through the transparency, I use the lies to beat myself up. I’m tall and naturally slender with what my gran constantly calls a ‘bonnie face’, but all I see are my faults. My less than symmetrical face, the kink in my long, brown hair that prevents me achieving the sleek look without straightening tongs, and I really hate my knees. Yes, my knees. I weigh myself every day, which is ridiculous because my weight hasn’t changed for years. The other day I noticed lines forming on my twenty-one year old brow, no surprise really considering the amount of worrying I do. At this rate, I’ll have Botox before I’m twenty-five.

Nobody in my current life realises how I obsess. Nobody but Guy has seen past the magazine-print bright and glossy picture I paint of myself. The real Phe is with the memories of death and darkness, safely sealed away again.

To distract myself from the encroaching thoughts, I check work emails on my phone. A message alert sounds and I flick across to the message:

Guy texts me daily; at first it was weekly and then more frequently as time went on. Two months have passed since our weird meeting and we haven’t met since, even though we’re in the same city. Guy’s become a friend, the distant kind you never see, but who’s always there to talk to on the outside of real life. Not that we talk about much, and he never talks about himself, mostly he checks in on how I’m going.

Guy’s pushing me to start my bucket list, as promised.

The beginning of my list is scrawled on a note pad at home. Guy wants us to meet, compare, and see if there’re any we share, that we can do together. I’m wary. The relationship between us can’t go beyond this weird connection underlying everything. Guy’s part of a night I’d rather forget.

I reply.

How much time does he have?

I glance around at the commuters, business-suited and tired even at 8.30 a.m., stuck in their rut. My future life. The bus lurches to a stop and the lady’s bag slides off her knee, spilling the contents over the floor. I shove my phone into my bag and bend to help her. She frowns, not meeting my eyes, and grabs the packet of tissues I hand her. No thanks or acknowledgement are offered.

Climbing from the bus, I’m jostled, a guy stands on my toes, and then I’m propelled through the street in the direction of the ten-storey building I work in. On the way, I duck into the coffee shop and wait in line for my morning mocha. Ross, the barista who always has a smile for me is serving, his deep brown eyes sparkle in amusement as I stumble over my words. He has that effect on me. The minute I look into the dark brown eyes that match the chocolate he sprinkles on my morning coffee, I’m lost.

Maybe because of my lack of recent dates, but I fantasise about his full mouth on my lips, and the slender fingers that brush mine when he hands me the cup, stroking my skin. Occasionally, I catch his scent; coffee and vanilla, with a hint of expensive cologne. Once when passing through a department store, I thought I smelled the brand. I doubled back to the men’s fragrances section and ran through a selection before the mix of scents confused my brain and the realisation what I was doing embarrassed me.

“For you, lovely Phe,” he says with a smile, the words I wish were only for me but are spoken to every girl who passes through here.

“Thanks.”

One day I’ll say more than my order, my name, and a ‘thank you’ to Ross, but on the conveyor belt of customers, there’s no time to chat. So I return his smile with the false confidence that rests on my surface, and leave.

****

Red pen covers the paper on the desk in front of me, obscuring the majority of the typed text. My body floods with stress, which is processed into head-pounding frustration, then tears threaten. My boss, Pam, could choose a different colour or use pencil. The words scrawled in red mock me, especially the capital ‘NO’ and ‘RE-WRITE’.

Pam began working at
Belle de Jour
in the weeks I was away; my original boss, Nora, was headhunted by a bigger publisher in Sydney and left suddenly. If I’d met Pam at my initial interview, I doubt I’d have taken the job. Pam knows I’m lucky to have the job, even more so since my absence, and takes advantage of my gratitude. I attempt to keep my head down until I’ve proven my worth but biting my tongue becomes harder each day.

My daily tasks are everything Pam can’t be bothered doing: answering her emails, fielding her phone calls, and fetching lunch from the nearby deli. After large hints from me about learning to write articles, Pam relented and allowed me to, but on something she chose. Excited I might write my first feature piece, my heart sank when I was given a list of facial products to write a comparison of.

This is my fourth draft.

How hard can it be to write an article comparing moisturisers and serums correctly?

I glance around the open plan office, which is half-empty, most people are in meetings I’m not privy to. I should be watching the phones, but the red on the paper steals my patience and I grab my bag. Heading through the expensively furnished room, past the pictures of magazine covers, awards, and accolades, I reach the elevator.

One tear manages to escape my eye and I catch the drop with a finger, cursing. My make-up will run down my face if I don’t get a grip.

In the lobby, I pause and pull out my phone.

I hit send on the message to Guy.