As soon as she’s alone again she reaches across to the cabinet beside her bed to check her phone. She has about a million texts and missed calls from Sebastian. She remembers what she told Libby about Tessa and Leonard, about seeing Cooper the night he died, and her heart rate picks up. Sebastian must be furious with her.
But Claire can’t quite figure out why Sebastian bothered lying in the first place. He has nothing to hide. She’s the one in deep shit, not Seb. She’s the one who’s going to have to come clean and face the music.
She gets out of bed, grabs the pyjamas her mother left for her and puts them on over the top of the ridiculous hospital gown. Her head is pounding, and if she moves too quickly she feels like she might pass out or spew, but she needs to move, get out of her room, find herself a hit of nicotine.
She goes into the hall. She finds a nurse at a station at the end of the corridor and asks her if she can have a cigarette.
‘This is a hospital,’ the nurse says. ‘We don’t actually supply smokes to our patients.’
‘Where do the smokers hang out?’
The nurse gives her a disapproving look, but explains how to get to the courtyard. Claire makes her way outside. There are a few people sitting around. Some of them are smoking, others are just enjoying the sunshine. She finds a likely candidate, the youngest person there, a guy with a broken leg and a neck brace, and asks if he can spare a smoke. He nods, reaches out with an open packet.
‘Take two,’ he says.
She borrows a match to light up, thanks him and finds an empty bench in the sun. She smokes, staring down at her feet. She avoids looking at people, making eye contact. She doesn’t want anyone to see her.
She’s almost finished the first cigarette when someone steps too close, blocking the sun.
‘Hey.’ She looks up, frowning. ‘Do you mind—’
‘Claire Forrester.’ Atticus Putland is smiling down at her. He has his arms folded across his chest. ‘I heard you got yourself in some trouble.’
‘You’re standing in my sunshine.’
He moves aside, takes a seat next to her.
‘So,’ he says, gazing at her curiously. ‘How are you doing?’
‘I’m shit,’ she says. ‘I feel like absolute crap.’
‘Yeah. I can imagine overdosing must suck.’
She prickles at that – he thinks she’s some kind of junkie. She’s about to tell him to fuck off, but Atticus speaks first.
‘I bet it feels a bit like chemotherapy. And I know how bad that is. You have my sympathy.’ He puts his hand on her shoulder and squeezes affectionately. The expression on his face is mild and friendly. He’s not judging her.
‘Every bone in my body aches,’ she says, suppressing an onslaught of self-pitying tears. ‘My head hurts. My bloody skin hurts.’
‘Yep. But tomorrow or the next day it’ll be gone and you’ll never have to feel like this again,’ he says. ‘Not if you don’t want to.’
‘Yeah. I suppose so. I guess.’
They’re both quiet for a moment. Atticus closes his eyes, lifts his face to the sun, but he’s not smiling anymore. After a while he sighs and opens his eyes again. ‘Can I just say something, Claire?’
‘If you want.’
‘You really piss me off. You give me the shits.’
‘What?’ she splutters. ‘What the—?’
‘You’ve got so much going for you. You’re so lucky and you’ve got so many talents. But instead of taking advantage of all your opportunities, you’re doing your best to waste it all. It’s like you’re trying to be a complete and utter loser.’
She starts to protest, but he shakes his head and tells her to be quiet. He’s so serious and direct that she automatically does what she’s told.
‘I had to put shit in my body. I had no choice. I had to poison myself to stay alive. You don’t. You can stop right now and you’ve got a pretty good chance of living a long and happy life.’ He shakes his head. ‘It’s so bloody frustrating for someone like me to watch someone like you piss it all up against the wall. As far as I can see, you’ve only got it good. You’re smart and beautiful. You’ve got a family who care about you. You’re getting an education. You could do anything you want. Go anywhere. Be anyone. But you choose to waste it all. You choose to be miserable.’
‘I do bloody not. I don’t choose to be miserable,’ she protests. ‘You don’t know anything about it.’
‘You do choose it. At least be honest with yourself. Nobody forces you to snort that shit up your nose. Nobody forces you to drink so much. It’s a choice, Claire. And a bloody stupid one.’
‘It’s more complicated than that. You don’t understand,’ she says. ‘I’m . . . things are hard at the moment.’
He laughs, and his laugh is dismissive but not unkind. ‘Come on, Claire. Give me a break. You know what’s hard?’
‘What?’ She doesn’t mean to sound bratty, but she does.
‘Having no choice is hard. Thinking you might die when you really, really want to live is hard. What you need to do is make a choice. Stop doing it. Be happy.’
‘You make it sound so easy. Just be happy. I wish it was that simple. I wish.’
‘But it is. That’s the crazy thing. It really is. What’s stopping you, Claire? What’s stopping you from just being happy? Huh? Do you have depression?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe.’
‘Then get it treated. See a doctor. There are things you can do. And stop putting so much shit in your body, because that definitely doesn’t help. Get it together.’ He shrugs. ‘Try.’
She doesn’t bother speaking. There’s nothing to say. She has no way of explaining or justifying herself. How can she tell Atticus what’s really bothering her? Oh, by the way, I can’t be completely certain because I’m such a useless drunk, but guess what? I think I may have killed my friend! I think I pushed him off a cliff. I’m a murderer. And I’m probably going to spend the rest of my life in gaol.
She can’t tell him that she’s so terrified of what she might have done that she can hardly breathe. That drugs and alcohol have recently become more than just a bit of fun, they’ve become a necessity, a lifeline.
‘Can I just say one more thing? Something I’ve thought for a long time? Since I first met you?’
‘Why not? Bloody hell. It’s not like you care what I think. It’s not like you’ve got a fucking off button either.’
‘The thing is.’ He hesitates, clears his throat. ‘The thing is, I actually think you’re awesome. Ever since Year 8 I’ve had this major crush on you.’
She turns to stare at him. She feels her mouth drop open.
‘Yep,’ he continues. ‘As in, major Claire-Forrester-is-the-woman-of-my-dreams crush. As in, I used to write you these ten-page love letters when I was fifteen. As in, I still think about you and wonder what you’re doing every single day. As in, I was bloody amazed when you turned up at the beach party and I got to drive you home. I didn’t care if you were drunk or not, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.’
‘Oh.’
‘I think you’re fucking amazing. You’re beautiful . . . and I mean, like, personally I think you’re the hottest girl in Walloma. But that’s not even the best thing. There’s more.’
‘There is?’
He nods.
She punches him. ‘So tell me, then.’
‘Well, for one, I think you’re pretty funny. You’re funny and tough and gutsy. And you’re smart. The tragic thing is you just don’t know it. You treat yourself like shit. And I really wish you wouldn’t.’
His words completely disarm her. She can’t pretend to be indifferent. She looks down at her feet and kicks at an imaginary stone. She grins like an idiot. She’s flattered and thrilled. She hasn’t heard anything so genuinely nice for a long, long time.
For the second time in a row, Atticus has pulled off the impossible.
When Atticus leaves, Claire returns to her room. She’s so cheerful, so confident and li
vely that she feels like she can cope with anything. She picks up her phone and calls Sebastian.
‘Claire!’ He sounds surprisingly glad to hear from her.
‘Seb?’
‘Are you okay? You scared the absolute shit out of me. Don’t ever do that again.’
‘I don’t plan to.’
‘Good. So how’s your head?’
‘It’s fine. A bit sore. Not too bad.’ She swallows. ‘Seb?’
‘Yup?’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘What the hell for? I’m the one who should be sorry. I gave you those drugs. I should have taken more care. Been a better friend.’
Claire is astounded. Sebastian doesn’t speak like this. He’s never sentimental or openly emotional. ‘Are you being sarcastic?’
He laughs, but it’s a warm laugh, not his normal brittle bark. ‘I’m not, actually. I told you, Claire. You gave me a shock. I’m not a heartless brute, I do actually care about you.’
‘Oh. Wow.’ Her eyes well up. She tilts her head back and blinks the tears away. ‘That’s nice.’
‘I’m trying.’
‘Seb? I need to tell you something.’
‘Okay.’
‘That night with Cooper.’ She closes the door and whispers. ‘I haven’t told you what happened.’
‘I can’t hear you. Speak up.’
She crosses the room, stands by the window. ‘Something happened. I can’t remember it clearly, but Cooper and I had a big fight. We were screaming at each other.’
‘Look. Don’t worry about it, Claire. I know it sucks. But you have to try to remember the good times. And you did have some. I know you did.’
‘It’s not that.’ She starts weeping. She has to use all her strength to calm herself down. She takes a deep and shaky breath. ‘I pushed him. I pushed him, Seb.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I can’t remember how it happened. I just know I pushed him off Bradley’s Edge.’
Sebastian is silent for a very long time. Eventually he sighs. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Claire,’ he says. ‘You did not kill Cooper.’
‘But I really think I did. I’m being completely serious. You don’t understand. Everything’s a blur, but I remember pushing him. I pushed him really hard. I was so angry.’
‘Listen, Claire,’ he says. ‘I can guarantee you that did not happen.’
‘But you don’t know.’
‘I do, actually. I know that if you’d pushed a mate off Bradley’s Edge it would be etched into your memory permanently. You wouldn’t forget it. You wouldn’t have some vague half-arsed feeling about it. You’d know. No matter how drunk or high you were at the time.’
‘But I remember pushing him.’
‘So what? You had a fight. No big deal, Claire. You didn’t hurt him. Trust me. I know.’
She has no idea how Sebastian can be so certain and she wonders if he’s just trying to make her feel better, maybe even sending her a coded message to keep her cool, not give herself away.
Whatever his reasoning, she does feel mildly better. She’s told someone the truth and the world hasn’t ended. She’s still here, still breathing.
He tells her to stop worrying and to get some rest. Then he says goodbye and disconnects.
She gets into bed, pulls the covers up high and curls her knees up. She shuts her eyes. She pushes thoughts of Cooper and Sebastian and funerals and long prison sentences from her mind. She thinks instead of what Atticus had said to her, remembers the glorious unfurling she felt in her belly as he spoke. Lets herself enjoy it while she still can.
64
LiBBy
After I’ve spoken to Atticus I go over and over things in my head until I stop being able to figure out what is relevant and what isn’t. Eventually it occurs to me that there’s still one person I haven’t spoken to.
Tessa.
I drive to Cooper’s house. I don’t stop to think what I’m doing, what I’m going to say or do. I don’t make a plan. I just know I need to see his mother. Ask her what she thinks. Find out if she knows anything. I pull up in Cooper’s driveway, park behind Tessa’s old Mazda, knock on the door, wait.
When Tessa opens the door I’m shocked by how bad she looks. She has lost weight and her clothes hang loose. Her eyes are shadowed, her cheekbones prominent. She looks so much older.
‘Libby,’ she says, her voice a monotone. ‘What is it?’
‘Can I come in for a minute? Can I talk to you?’
‘About?’
‘Cooper.’
She lifts her shoulders, as if to say, What’s the point?
I hesitate for a moment, suddenly uncertain, afraid of making things worse for her. But I can’t go home without saying something, and there’s no easy way, so I blurt it out, letting the words tumble and find their own way.
‘I just don’t think he killed himself. It’s not possible. He was happy, Tessa. Really happy. And I looked up suicide online and he had absolutely none of the signs that the professionals look for. He wasn’t withdrawn, he wasn’t depressed. I know he found out the night he died that you had an affair, but why would he care? It was twenty years ago. I just think . . . no, I know something else must have happened. And people have been lying. Sebastian and Claire . . . And I don’t know what happened, but whatever it was I still don’t believe it was enough to make him go up there and jump. I’m even starting to wonder if someone had a reason to want him dead, and I know that sounds crazy, but I saw Leonard Boccardo this morning and he was really drunk and really weird and he said some really scary things.’ My voice shakes.
Tessa has made no comment and her blank expression hasn’t altered. She stares indifferently, as if she’s completely disconnected. I wonder if she’s taking something – some kind of sedative.
‘Come in.’ She pulls the door open without making any gesture of kindness or welcome. She doesn’t wait, but turns and strides ahead of me.
I follow her through the house into the kitchen. The first thing I notice is the new table. Cooper’s table. The timber is dark and rich, polished to a smooth gloss. It looks beautiful, fits perfectly in the small space. I go straight over and run my hand over its top. I have to bite back tears.
‘You got it?’ I ask.
‘Cameron brought it over. After the funeral,’ she says, and something soft comes into her eyes as she looks at it, the tiniest flicker of life. But it’s just as quickly gone.
‘Do you want tea?’ she asks.
‘No. Thanks.’
She looks at me. Her expression remains blank, almost vacant. It’s hard to believe she’s the same vibrant woman Cooper introduced me to.
‘What do you want, Libby?’
‘I want to know what you think,’ I say. ‘I want to know exactly what happened the night Cooper died. I want to know why Sebastian and Claire told me they hadn’t seen him for ages when they both saw him that night.’
‘You know this won’t bring him back?’ she says. ‘All these questions. All this pain you’re putting yourself through. You are clear on that, aren’t you? You know you won’t feel any better at the end of it?’
‘I know it won’t bring him back.’ I agree with her on that point. I don’t know if she’s right about the rest of it. I actually think the truth may help. The truth is important.
‘And you know that you will get over this? You’re young. He wasn’t your son.’
I’m not sure what her point is. That she has the right to be broken while I do not? Her words hurt and my first instinct is to protest, declare how much I loved him, but I hold my tongue. It would be degrading and pointless to argue over the validity of my grief.
Instead, I nod and say, ‘Yes, I know.’ It’s a dishonesty I’ve become used to since Cooper died. This is what everyone expects from me – optimism, this promise of recovery. I’m young, people like to tell me. I will have plenty of other boyfriends, other loves – as though people are expendable, replaceable, not individually very significant at all.
‘So, is it true?’ I ask her. ‘You had an affair with Leonard?’
She sighs wearily. Then she shakes her head, lifts the palm of her hand as if to stop me talking. She reaches over and switches the kettle on. ‘I’m going to make tea. Sit down.’
I take a seat at the table. There’s a loose pile of photos sitting on the empty chair beside me. I pick them up. There’s a school photo of Cooper on the top. He’s wearing the blue Walloma High shirt. He grins at the camera. He looks so young and beautiful. So alive.
‘Can I look at these?’ I ask.
Tessa shrugs.
I flick through the photos as she prepares tea. They are all of Cooper. Cooper as a baby, a toddler, a seven-, eight- and nine-year-old. Cooper swimming, surfing, running, sleeping. Some of them I recognise from the funeral.
Tessa brings cups and saucers, teapot, sugar and milk to the table. She pours the tea, giving me sugar and milk without even asking how I take it. When she’s finished stirring, she taps her teaspoon on the edge of her cup, rests it on the saucer, leans back in her chair.
I come to a photo I’ve seen before. A baby in a cot. Wearing a striped tiger jumpsuit. It’s the same photo Leonard was looking at this morning.
I lift it to show Tessa. ‘Sebastian?’
‘No. Cooper.’
‘But this . . .’ I shake my head. ‘I saw this . . .’ I stop and stare down at the photo. I turn it over. Cooper’s name is written on the back. The day the photo was taken. The place.
‘I thought it was Sebastian,’ I say.
‘Well, it’s not.’
‘It looks like Sebastian.’
Tessa shakes her head.
I don’t explain that I’ve seen the photo before. I sit still. Rub my temple. Try to think.
Cooper.
Sebastian.
Leonard Boccardo had been crying over a photo of Cooper, not Sebastian. Tessa and Leonard had an affair twenty years ago.
Leonard. Tessa. Cooper.
The truth is like ice running down my spine. I shiver.
‘Leonard was Cooper’s father,’ I say. It’s not a question and Tessa doesn’t contradict me.
‘Did Cooper know?’ I ask.