فصل 26

26

August 1993

JULES

I’d forgotten. Before the football game, something else happened. I was sitting on my towel, reading my book, no one else yet around, and then you came. You and Robbie. You didn’t see me under the trees, you ran into the water with him after you, and you swam and splashed and kissed. He took your hand and pulled you to the water’s edge, he lay on top of you, pushed your shoulders down, arched his back and looked up. And saw me, watching. And smiled.

Later that afternoon, I returned to the house alone. I took off the gingham bathing suit and the blue shorts and left them soaking in cold water in the sink. I ran myself a bath and climbed in and sank down and thought, I will never be rid of it, all this awful flesh.

A big girl. A bruiser. Legs to kick-start a 747. She could play front row for England.

Too big for the spaces I inhabited, always overflowing. I took up too much room. I sank down into the bath and the water rose. Eureka.

Back in my room, I climbed under the bedcovers and lay there, suffocating with misery, self-pity mingled with guilt, because my mother lay in bed in the very next room and she was dying of breast cancer and all I could think about was how much I didn’t want to go on, didn’t want to live like this.

I fell asleep.

My father woke me. He had to take my mother to the hospital for more tests the next morning, and they were going to stay the night in town because it would be an early start. There was some supper in the oven, he said, I was to help myself.

Nel was at home, I knew, because I could hear her music in the room next door. After a while, the music stopped, and then I could hear voices, low and then louder, and other noises, too, moaning, grunting, a sharp intake of breath. I got out of bed, got dressed and went out into the corridor. The light was on, the door to Nel’s room slightly ajar. It was darker in there, but I could hear her, she was saying something, she was saying his name.

Barely daring to breathe, I took a step closer. Through the crack in the door I could make out their shapes moving in the darkness. I couldn’t bring myself to look away; I watched until I heard him make a loud animal noise. Then he started laughing and I knew that they were finished.

Downstairs, all the lights were on. I walked around turning them off, then wandered into the kitchen and opened the fridge. I stared at its contents and out of the corner of my eye noticed a bottle of vodka, opened, half full, on the counter. I copied what I’d seen Nel do: I poured myself half a glass of orange juice and topped it up with vodka, and then, steeling myself for the nasty, bitter alcoholic taste I’d experienced from trying wine and beer, I took a sip and found that it was sweet, not bitter at all.

I finished the drink and poured another. I enjoyed the physical sensation, the warmth spreading from my stomach into my chest, my blood heating up, my whole body loosening, that afternoon’s misery ebbing away.

I went into the living room and looked out at the river, a slick black snake running underneath the house. It was surprising to me how suddenly I could see what I hadn’t before—that the problem of me was not insurmountable at all. I had a sudden moment of clarity: I didn’t have to be fixed, I could be fluid. Like the river. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so difficult, after all. Wasn’t it possible to starve myself, to move more (in secret, when no one was watching)? To be transformed, caterpillar into butterfly, to become a different person, unrecognizable, so that the ugly, bleeding girl would be forgotten? I would be made new.

I went back to the kitchen to get some more to drink.

I heard footsteps upstairs, padding along the landing and then coming down the stairs. I slipped back into the living room, turned off the lamp and crouched in the darkness on the window seat, my feet pulled up beneath me.

I saw him go into the kitchen, heard him opening the fridge—no, the freezer, I could hear him cracking ice out of the trays. I heard the glug of liquid and then I saw him as he walked past. And then he stopped. And took a step back.

“Julia? Is that you?”

I didn’t say anything, didn’t breathe. I didn’t want to see anyone—I certainly didn’t want to see him—but he was fumbling for the light switch, and then the lights came on and there he stood, in boxer shorts and nothing else, his skin a deep tan, his shoulders wide, body tapering to a tight waist, the fuzz on his stomach leading down into his shorts. He smiled at me.

“Are you OK?” he asked. As he stepped closer I could see that his eyes looked a little glazed, his grin stupider, lazier than usual. “Why are you sitting here in the dark?” He caught sight of my glass and the smile grew wider. “I thought the vodka was looking low . . .” He walked over to me and clinked his glass against mine, then sat down at my side, his thigh pressed against my foot. I moved away, put my feet on the floor and started to get up, but he put his hand on my arm.

“Hey, wait,” he said. “Don’t run off. I want to talk to you. I wanted to apologize for this afternoon.”

“That’s OK,” I said. I could feel my face reddening. I didn’t look at him.

“No, I’m sorry. Those guys were being dickheads. I’m really sorry, OK?”

I nodded.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

I cringed, my whole body burned with the shame of it. Some small, stupid part of me had hoped they hadn’t seen, hadn’t realized what it was.

He squeezed my arm, narrowing his eyes as he looked at me. “You’ve got a pretty face, Julia, you know that?” He laughed. “I mean it, you have.” He released my arm, slung his own around my shoulders.

“Where’s Nel?” I asked.

“Sleeping,” he said. He sipped his drink and smacked his lips. “Think I wore her out.” He pulled my body closer to his. “Have you ever kissed a guy before, Julia?” he asked me. “Do you want to kiss me?” He turned my face to his and put his lips against mine, I felt his tongue, hot and slimy, pushing into my mouth. I thought I might gag, but I let him do it, just to see what it was like. When I pulled away, he smiled at me. “You like that?” he asked, hot breath, stale smoke and alcohol in my face. He kissed me again and I kissed him back, trying to feel whatever it was I was supposed to be feeling. His hand slid into the waistband of my pyjama bottoms. I wriggled away, mortified, as I felt his fingers pushing against the fat of my belly, into my knickers.

“No!” I thought I’d cried out, but it was more like a whisper.

“It’s OK,” he said. “Don’t worry. I don’t mind a bit of blood.”

He got angry with me afterwards because I wouldn’t stop crying.

“Oh, come on, it didn’t hurt that much! Don’t cry. Come on, Julia, stop crying. Didn’t you think it was nice? It was good, how it felt, wasn’t it? You were wet enough. Come on, Julia. Have another drink. There you go. Have a sip. Jesus Christ, stop crying! Fuck’s sake. I thought you’d be grateful.”