He’s anticipated this. He leans over to click open the glove box. ‘In there. Hurry up or we’ll be late.’
She grabs the bag greedily. Collects a portion of powder with the back of her fingernail and tries to lift it to her nose. Her hands are shaking so badly the powder slides straight off. Luckily it falls back into the bag. She opens the bag wider and lifts it right up to her nose, tries again.
‘Nice one,’ he says. ‘You look desperate.’
She shrugs. Snorts. Closes her eyes.
When she’s done she seals the bag, puts it in her pocket.
‘Yeah, thanks, Sebastian,’ he says sarcastically. ‘Oh, that’s no problem at all, Claire. My absolute pleasure.’
‘I was about to say thank you.’
‘This is the last time,’ he says. ‘You’re getting too full on.’
‘God, Sebastian, just get off my case, will you? I’m sad, all right? I’m probably in shock. I just need a little something to help.’
Claire goes on. Justifying. Making excuses. More for her own benefit than his, he thinks. He lets her words flow over him and stares through the window and watches as the crowd starts moving inside. He wonders what would happen if he turned around and drove away. Would he regret it for the rest of his life? Would anyone even notice or care? He has been so knotted up inside since Cooper died, so tense and wired up and miserable, he doesn’t know how he’s going to cope. He feels like he will shatter at the lightest touch.
The last funeral he went to was his grandfather’s, when he was fifteen years old. The service was like a pressure-cooker, making his grief unbearable. Not only was he sad, he felt strangely freaked out. The solemn faces. The coffin. The thought of his grandfather’s body decaying inside. The whole unfathomable concept of death. It was the first time he really understood that the adults around him didn’t control the world. And if they didn’t, who did?
‘Come on.’ He sighs and pushes his door open. ‘Let’s do this.’
They are the last inside and are forced to take a seat up the back. He’s glad. He doesn’t want anyone to look at him. He doesn’t want to hug. Doesn’t want to share grief or be consoled.
He spots his parents on the other side of the aisle. Leonard is searching the room, his face even darker than usual. He spots Sebastian and gives him a curt nod, turns back to the front. Then the minister steps up and the church falls silent.
17
LiBBy
The funeral is devastating, almost too horrible to bear. I manage to keep my tears quiet at first. I’ve been sobbing in my bedroom on and off for days and am too exhausted to make a lot of noise.
The minister gives his sermon, and then there are the more personal eulogies. A tribute from Cooper’s boss, Cameron. A funny memorial from an old football coach. A short and teary speech from one of his aunts. I listen to their words and cry silently, tears running down my cheeks and neck, soaking my collar. I don’t bother wiping them away.
I sit next to my mother in the second row. She holds my hand through the whole thing. Cooper’s mum, Tessa, is sitting in the pew in front of me. Even from behind I can see that she’s distraught, on the verge of collapse. She can barely sit straight. Her sister and her mother stay close the whole time, holding her up, wiping her face with tissues.
The minister closes with a short talk on the tragedy of suicide. He speaks about the black dog of depression, the importance of compassion, the necessity for vigilance. He says we don’t always know when someone is suffering. He says that some people are very good at keeping their unhappiness a secret.
No, I think. No. Cooper wasn’t unhappy. He wasn’t suffering. You’re not talking about the boy I loved. You didn’t know him at all and you’re wrong. So very very WRONG.
I’m tempted to stand up and shout, to defend Cooper, but before I can collect my thoughts or gather enough courage, the minister has stopped talking and stepped to the side of the pulpit to reveal a screen.
He dims the lights and photos of Cooper appear and disappear before us, ghostly fragments of a life, from when he was a baby until just before he died. Cooper riding a bike. Cooper as a kid, grinning at the camera, his face dirty and his hair wild, two front teeth missing. Cooper with his mum. With kids I don’t recognise. The melancholy notes of Wish You Were Here by Pink Floyd, one of Cooper’s favourite songs, accompany the pictures, and I hear people behind me choking back their sobs. Tessa collapses over herself, her back and shoulders shuddering violently. Her mother and sister succumb to their own grief, burying their faces in their hands.
A picture of Cooper and me appears on the screen. We’re standing on the train platform, our arms around each other, shy smiles on our faces. We were so happy. And I’m gulping and spluttering, sobbing uncontrollably, unable to stop myself. My mother puts her arm around my back, pulls me closer. It’s excruciating, unbearable, impossible.
Only it’s not impossible at all, it has really happened, and we have no choice but to bear it.
18
CLAiRE
People give speeches, but Claire can’t bring herself to listen to the words themselves, only the broken sound beneath the words, and that’s bad enough. She stares straight ahead, trying over and over to count to one hundred. She closes her eyes and starts again each time she loses count. The little plastic bag in her pocket gives her some comfort. She imagines going to the bathroom and having another line. The very fact that this is possible makes things more bearable.
When the photos appear and that boring old song Cooper used to love comes on, she hears Sebastian make a choking noise, feels him shaking next to her. She can’t bring herself to look at him, or take his hand, or give him any comfort. The music and the pictures have broken through her shield of numbers, and she’s too busy holding herself together, making sure the steady trickle of tears on her cheeks doesn’t become an uncontrollable flood.
Cooper’s mum leads the way out of the church, but halfway down the centre aisle she stops and starts howling. She buries her face in her hands, makes a lot of noise. Claire has to blink and swallow hard to stop herself from getting equally messy. There’s a horrible moment when Tessa collapses to the ground and Claire wonders if this torture is going to go on forever and ever – all of them stuck here eternally in this claustrophobic hell – but a bunch of people surround Tessa and help her up and they all continue moving out.
Outside, they all watch the coffin being put into the back of the hearse. It’s too horrifying to picture Cooper’s rotting body inside that box, so she imagines instead that it’s full of flowers – rose petals, sweet-smelling blooms. People are sniffling, wiping their red eyes, hugging each other, and the collective grief is so overwhelming she starts to feel as if she might be sick. Shit like this shouldn’t happen.
As the car pulls away and everybody is left looking lost and miserable, Claire realises how final, how permanent this is.
Cooper is not coming back. She will never, ever, ever get the chance to make it up to him.
She’s always had it in her mind that one day she’d get a chance to explain things, apologise for the way she’d behaved when they were going out. She’s always imagined that he’d forgive her and that they might at least be good friends, if not become a couple again. Cooper was too special to lose as a friend.
It might be easier to accept his death if she could remember what had actually happened the night he died. She’d be able to grieve properly if she wasn’t so anxious and scared and full of guilt. But when she tries to recall that night the gaps in her memory are like a solid, impenetrable wall of black.
THEN
19
LiBBy
When I got home after surfing with Cooper I was still shivering. I went inside and said a quick hi to Mum, who looked startled by my bedraggled appearance. I was too cold to stop and talk, so I told her I’d explain later. I headed straight to the bathroom and ran a deep, warm bath. I took my salt-sticky clothes off and slipped into the water.
Surfing a
fter all these years had been a revelation. I’d forgotten the way time stopped, the way you completely lost yourself in the moment. There was only you and the board and the water. Weightlessness and wind and adrenaline. I’d forgotten how magic it could be.
But the surf wasn’t the only revelation that afternoon.
Cooper.
I’d had so many preconceived ideas about him: dumb, arrogant, self-centred, cold.
I’d been wrong – completely and utterly wrong. He was none of those things. I’d judged him on the basis of shallow first impressions, made assumptions based on his popularity and my own insecurities. I’d been unfair.
I was almost certain Cooper had been trying to kiss me when we knocked our heads together, and despite our embarrassment and my own frustration at my clumsiness, the thought that he might actually like me gave me a giddy buzz that made me want to squeal and kick my legs with joy.
I lay my head back against the tub and closed my eyes. I imagined kissing Cooper, getting it right this time.
20
COOPER
I called Libby on Monday to let her know I’d stained the easel and she could pick it up whenever she wanted to. She wondered aloud how she should do things. Atticus’s birthday was on Thursday, and a group of his friends were going to his place. They wanted to surprise him. Should she keep the easel hidden in the car and sneak out to collect it after dinner? Did I think she’d be able to carry it alone or would she need help?
‘I know what,’ I said. ‘Why don’t I bring it over during the party? You can text me just before you’re ready. I’ll be the birthday-present delivery man.’
‘Really? But isn’t that too much?’
She sounded surprised by my offer. I was surprised myself. I didn’t normally volunteer to work at night.
‘Nah. It’s nothing,’ I insisted. ‘I’m happy to do it.’
21
LiBBy
I was thrilled when Cooper said he’d deliver the easel. Not because it made things easier, but because it would be another chance to see him. Every time I thought about Cooper I felt a pleasant buzz of anticipation; when I talked to him my pulse quickened and my cheeks grew warm.
I was looking forward to the party for reasons that had nothing to do with celebrating Atticus’s birthday. The only problem was that Atticus and I still hadn’t sorted things out, and every time I thought of his stony face the night we’d kissed, my joy dissipated. The party would be beyond awkward if we didn’t talk beforehand. I had to ring him, clear the air.
I tried his mobile, but it went straight to voicemail. I sent him a text asking him to call me. I checked my phone endlessly. I sent a second text. I even tried calling him again before I went to bed that night, but still there was no answer. I didn’t hear back from him until the following day.
He sent an email.
To: Libby Lawson
From: Atticus Putland
Subject: Sorry
I got your texts. Sorry to take a while to respond. Was busy yesterday with family stuff. Cousins and uncles and aunts. We were all celebrating my positive prognosis. You know how it is!
I thought I’d respond by email – not because I’m contrary (though I am) – but because this could get long and texting is a pain in the arse.
Anyway . . . I owe you an apology. So here goes. Sorry I was a jerk the other day. You didn’t and you don’t deserve it. In my defence it kind of sucks being told that a kiss you enjoyed wasn’t met with the same eagerness from the other party.
Anyway, seriously, Libby. I love you. You’re one of the best friends I have. And if you’d been keen to go to bed with me I would have jumped at the chance. But I want you to know that I’m not in love with you. I may be mildly humiliated but I’m not pining or heartbroken. So no need for any weirdness or pity or guilt. It’s important to me that things get back to normal between us. You’re a gal, and I’m a bloke, and life is short, and I thought why not? That’s it. Honestly, if I thought you were the love of my life I’d tell you so, and I’d also fight a lot harder to make you see the light.
Truth is, there is this girl. A girl I’ve liked from a distance for a pathetically long time. But she’s never even looked at me, never even noticed my existence. She’s HOT in a totally upper-case kind of way. (Seems I like to shoot far above my weight. Sad story of my life.)
Anyway, don’t feel bad. And don’t you dare avoid me. And don’t think you have to avoid telling me about your love life if you’re ever lucky enough to have one – otherwise now you know I’m always happy to oblige in the physical sense :) because I’m generous like that . . .
And hey, I understand that maybe a scrawny guy with no hair and chemo-brain might not be the most appealing character in the world. But out of concern and curiosity, you weren’t turned off because I smell bad or anything, were you? Sometimes I worry about this shit I’ve been putting in my body. It’s all totally poison – crazy stuff, poisoning myself to make myself better. Seems like an unworkable paradox.
To: Atticus Putland
From: Libby Lawson
Subject: Sorry
So glad you feel this way. Thanks so much for emailing – I’ve been feeling horrible. I love you too. You’re a very dear mate.
BUT WHO IS THIS GIRL, ATTICUS? WHO?
(And of course you don’t smell bad! Well, you smell like coffee. You always smell like coffee. Oh, and paint. Coffee and paint.)
To: Libby Lawson
From: Atticus Putland
Subject: Sorry
Eau de coffee and paint. Maybe I should bottle it and sell it on Ebay?
Who is the girl, you ask? Well, that’s for me to know and for you to twist yourself in knots wondering . . .;)
To: Atticus Putland
From: Libby Lawson
Subject: Hmmmm
You know, Atticus, I can play the mystery-crush game too.
I think I’m starting to like someone myself . . .
To: Libby Lawson
From: Atticus Putland
Subject: Hmmm
WHO?
To: Atticus Putland
From: Libby Lawson
Subject: Hmmm
Not saying.
To: Libby Lawson
From: Atticus Putland
Subject: Hmmm
Very interesting . . .
Rest assured, I will find out.
I have my ways.
22
COOPER
The text from Libby came at about eight on Thursday night. I already had the easel packed in the boot. Earlier that day I’d wrapped it in butcher’s paper and tied string around it, my sad attempt at making it look a bit fancy.
Atticus lived in East Walloma. Eastside wasn’t breathtaking and impressive like the Hills, where Sebastian lived, but it was still a lot posher than where I lived. It was an old, sedate part of town, close to the beach, a short walk to the main shopping strip. The houses were mainly extended weatherboard cottages, or well-maintained bungalows. Front yards were tidy, lawns mowed, fences taken care of. VWs and Volvos and Audis sat shiny and smug in driveways. Old oak trees made a canopy over the streets. The area felt calm. Safe. Secure.
It was only a ten-minute drive from where I lived in West Walloma, but they were two different worlds. Westside was ugly. The houses were small and squat, made of pale brick and red tile. The lawns were overgrown and any fences were either broken or badly neglected. There weren’t a lot of trees in Westside and those that were there were scrappy. In summer the sun blazed down relentlessly. In winter it seemed stark, a hundred miles from anywhere. It reeked of indifference and neglect.
I stepped onto Atticus’s front verandah and rang the bell. A very tall man answered the door.
‘You must be Cooper.’ He ushered me inside and led me down the hall, talking all the way. ‘I’m Ryan, Atticus’s father. Libby told us you were coming. Thanks for bringing the easel. I’m sure Atticus is going to appreciate it. Libby said you made it yourself? That’s a pretty good talent t
o have. Working with timber, that is. Making stuff. I work in a pathology lab and I’m pretty much useless with my hands.’ He stopped at a closed door. ‘Anyway. That’s his room. I’ll leave you to it.’
I watched him walk back towards the front of the house and wondered what I was supposed to do next. I didn’t know whether I should knock or just walk in. I didn’t want to get it wrong, ruin the surprise. I stood there for a moment, the big cumbersome parcel in my arms, feeling like a dick.
I could hear voices. Laughter. I tapped lightly on the door. Waited. When nobody came, I put the easel down and got my phone from my pocket. I texted Libby.
I’m here. Standing right outside Atticus’s room. Got the easel.
A moment later she opened the door, slipped into the hallway and pulled the door closed behind her. She grinned. ‘Hi.’
‘Hi.’
‘You wrapped it.’ She tugged gently against the string. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes bright. She seemed kind of breathless. I could smell something sweet and alcoholic on her breath. ‘Thank you so much. I didn’t even think of that.’
‘Just butcher’s paper. Sorry. Didn’t have anything better.’
‘It’s cool,’ she said. ‘Industrial chic.’
Libby pushed open the door and we stepped into the room. I saw immediately that the easel would be put to good use. The walls were covered in paintings. They were bold, oversized, and so arresting I had to stop for a moment to take them in. It was obvious that Atticus had a lot of talent, but his work was so gloomy I wondered how he slept at night.
‘Brilliant, aren’t they?’ Libby asked.
‘Amazing.’
Libby’s friends, Cate and Hari, came over and joined us. Cate kissed my cheek, smiled warmly, said hello. Hari said hi in a less friendly tone. The four of us surrounded the easel, hiding it from Atticus. I recognised him easily from school. He was sitting on the sofa, surrounded by people. He was so busy talking he didn’t notice what we were doing until the girls had positioned the easel right in front of him.