What Does Blue Feel Like? (9 page)

Men are supposed to be tough,

but I don't feel very brave today.

Dad knows there is something wrong.

I tell him about Char and me,

about the baby,

about the cheating,

about her mum ringing me this morning.

I tell him how I feel,

like it's my fault,

like I should've been there for Char,

like I could've stopped it getting this far.

I tell him how I avoided Julie's questions,

how I don't know if I'll ever be able to look her in the eye

again.

How I don't know what to do now.

 

He doesn't tell me

to keep a stiff upper lip,

or to be brave

or even to stuff it all into a little ball and push that ball

deep inside.

He doesn't tell me off

for being a dickhead

and he doesn't ask

how I managed to stuff things up so much.

But he does tell me

about real men.

Real men,

Dad says,

are brave.

They're brave when they're scared shitless and have made

a mess of things and have to put things right even though

they don't quite know how.

They're brave enough to admit that they're wrong and have

made mistakes.

And they're brave enough to cry when they feel like it.

 

Real men,

Dad says,

are strong.

Strong enough to hold a woman whose heart is breaking

and comfort her when they want to run.

Strong enough to resist things that they know aren't right.

Strong enough to turn down a hard path to make things

right again.

Strong enough to sit with another man who's crying and talk

about feelings. That's a strength, not a weakness, says Dad.

 

Real men,

Dad says,

can talk and listen and

Real men,

Dad says,

help each other out.

 

Dad's never talked to me like this before. But,

I've never talked to him like this before either.

I told you this, he says,

but when we'd been dating for about five months,

she got pregnant.

(But Dad, I thought I was the eldest child?)

She was only twenty, and I wasn't much older myself.

When she told me, I got mad, accused her of sleeping

around, because I thought that's what men did.

Eventually, I came around.

I didn't know how we could afford it.

(But, Dad, you're like the richest person I know?)

And, oh geez, I thought her mother would kill me.

But Joan never did find out.

When your mum was about nine weeks or so along

she lost the baby.

(Oh god.)

I couldn't really understand at first.

To men, you aren't a parent until the baby's in your arms.

But to a woman, James, to a woman,

it's a different story.

She cried,

oh, Jesus, did she cry.

And all I could do was hold her.

I watched her fall apart.

She was so sad

and I felt like it was all my fault.

If it wasn't for me, she wouldn't have been pregnant.

There wouldn't have been a baby to lose.

A long time went by

and eventually she told me

that if I'd stopped holding her

she would've wanted to die.

No matter what's happened with this girl, James,

she needs you.

She needs you to be there for her.

She needs you to hold her.

It's time for you

to be a man.

A real man.

When James/Jim goes away,

his dad thinks about

the funny business

of raising kids.

Teaching them how to

walk,

talk,

and a million other things.

Watching over them like a hawk,

jumping in to save the day.

To reassure and make it right.

Then —

when they get a little older,

all you're allowed to do is

watch.

Watch them do stupid things and

dye their hair funny colours and tattoo their bodies and

drive recklessly and sneak out of the house and

drink when they don't think you'll catch them

and do all sorts of stupid stuff and

all you can do is

watch.

Because you've gotta let them go,

sooner or later,

you've just gotta let go

and hope you did okay.

My head is spinning

with everything that's happened today

and it's only ten in the morning.

Char has cracked up

(more than usual).

Dad knows about Char and me

(everything that happened)

and Mum and Dad lost a baby years before I was born

(and I never had a clue).

There's no way I can go to school today,

not with a head like this.

Why is it that everything always happens all at once?

 

I head to the beach

and watch the waves for a while

before peeling off my shirt, my shoes, my watch.

I dive in,

into the icy water

and gasp.

When I emerge,

I feel

renewed.

I wake.

A combination of dried snot and tears on my face,

perpetual knot in my stomach,

sheets tangled around me.

For a second,

it's peaceful.

Then I remember.

I can hear my parents fighting again,

and this time,

I know for sure what it's about.

They're blaming each other

for me being like this

even though it's no one's fault but my own.

I stand at the top of the stairs,

watching them fight.

‘Shut up you two! Just shut the fuck up!'

I've never sworn at my parents before,

and I didn't mean to even speak.

They stop fighting, and look at me,

astounded.

My knees crumple

and I sit on the stairs,

sobbing like a little girl.

I can't remember the last time I cried in front of

my parents.

I have to wear jeans to the shrink's.

Mum and Dad won't let me have the razor in the shower to

shave my legs,

in case I off myself, I suppose.

Mum says she'll stand in the bathroom and watch,

if I want.

No way!

I'd rather be hairy.

In the waiting room,

I look around suspiciously,

looking for crazy people.

There's only two other people in the room,

apart from the receptionist.

A man in his forties who blinks a lot

and a girl about my age

wearing a T-shirt that says,

Keep staring – I might do a trick
.

I have the feeling that I would get on well with her,

but we're not exactly at the school social.

The door opens eventually

and a woman who doesn't look that much older than me

steps out and calls my name.

This must be the shrink, I guess.

I put on my mask

of composure and happiness

and follow her into the room.

 

She tells me her name is Vivian,

which matches the name on the certificates on the wall.

This woman must've had Botox

because there's no way someone who looks that young

can have done that much studying.

Botox for sure.

And she's wearing jeans — jeans!

Wonder if she has razor issues as well.

She must go crazy, listening to people and their problems

all day.

She asks me questions about school, and music,

trying to get me to talk, I guess.

She asks me how I ended up in her office.

I tell her I can't sleep.

Tell her that Mum and Dad found condoms and alcohol

in my room.

Tell her they've overreacted.

Tell her it's nothing.

It's like a test,

see if she's got a bullshit detector.

She tells me that there's no point wasting my parents'

money if I don't want to be there — won't do anybody

any good.

If I don't want to be there, I should leave,

because you can't help someone who doesn't

want to be helped.

She says that sometimes you have to hit rock bottom

before you can start going up again.

I know what she means.

I tell her that I want to be here,

can't live like this much more.

I wasn't planning to say that.

It just slipped out.

She must be good.

I still don't say anything, waiting for her to give up and tell

me to go away like the school counsellor always did.

But she doesn't.

She waits.

Suppose I'll have to talk.

I ask her if she'll tell my parents what I say.

‘No. What is said in this room stays in this room. But if you

tell me you're going to go and do something that places

yourself or other people at risk, I'll have to act on that.

Deal?'

I guess.

This woman must be crazy,

wanting to listen to my problems.

Wonder what she's getting paid to do it?

I don't tell Mum and Dad what we talked about,

even though I know they're dying to find out.

Tim asks if I'm mentally stable yet,

and I thump him,

then grin.

Mum's bought me a box of wax strips for my legs,

a peace offering I guess.

She shakes one out of the box,

rubs it between her hands,

and puts it on Dad's chest ...then rips it off.

The scream brings the neighbours running.

But Mum, Tim and I grin like Cheshire cats.

I know

it's a temporary high,

but it feels good.

That night we sit on the lounge room floor

watching telly,

eating pizza and drinking Coke.

That's happened about two times in our house.

Mum and Dad are big on table manners and health food.

It feels good,

doing something so different and yet so normal.

After dinner,

I have a bath,

with heaps of bubbles.

I make bubblemen, sitting on the edge of the bath,

and give myself a Santa beard.

Then I sink into the steamy water,

and chill.

It feels so good, it should be illegal.

I'd forgotten

about natural highs.

Jim knocks at the door

and Char's dad answers.

Before he lets him in,

he gives Jim a warning.

‘Despite appearances,

Char isn't better yet.

So, go gentle.

And if you hurt her,

you'll rue the day.'

Jim walks up the stairs,

knocks on the bathroom door.

He goes in,

takes off his clothes

and gets into the bath with Char.

Water splashes over the sides as they adjust themselves,

bodies settling against each other,

slippery as fish.

Eventually,

Jim sits with his legs straight out

and Char's back rests on his stomach.

He holds her tight,

kisses her neck,

tenderly washes her hair with bubbles and water.

He's clumsy at the hair washing,

not so good with long hair,

but he's gentle.

He thinks about what his dad said.

And he holds her tight.

Jim doesn't sleep over

and I'm lying in bed, feeling

relaxed

sleepy

calm

peaceful

almost — good

when my phone beeps

with a message

from Guy.

In an instant

that feeling is gone.

I've basically done to Guy what Jim did to me.

The knot in my stomach is back.

With a vengeance.

What am I going to do now?

How can I tell Guy

that I had a bath with Jim?

That it didn't mean anything?

That it meant everything?

At least,

I suppose,

I'll have something to tell the shrink.

The next day

I visit Guy.

His mum looks at me with undisguised curiosity.

I vaguely wonder what Guy's told her about me.

She's about to show me baby photos of him

when he comes downstairs and tells his mum off,

tells her to leave me alone.

She likes me,

I can tell,

and I wonder how to tell her

that Guy's probably going to hate me soon.

I don't even know how to tell him.

I take her up to my room,

hug her,

kiss her,

but she pulls away.

I can tell

that she's about to tell me something

that I'm not going to like.

My guts clench up

and my throat closes.

She's looking scared.

I can tell she's working herself up to it.

How bad can it be?

Suddenly

she blurts out,

‘Jim washed my hair.'

This must be some kind of sick joke.

Why would Jim be washing her hair?