CHAPTER FOUR
THE NIGHT
"Hearts and thoughts, they fade away." (Pearl Jam)
I get a call from a private number at three in the afternoon, just as I'm starting to find where my sketchpad is. "Nathan," Mum comes into my room, "Telephone for you." I nod and follow her back into a corner of the family room, where a phone hangs on the wall. Mum's dressed like it isn't even New Year's Eve; like it's a normal day for her and she's just back from a hard day's work stacking baked beans for a supermarket display. I thought her and Dad would have a fancy dinner, like they always do on New Year's.
Mum wanders off and I press the phone to my ear.
"Nathan?" says the voice at the reciever; female, young, familiar.
"Georgia?" I say. "Is that you?"
"Hi, Nathan!" Georgia says, in that fake-happy tone I've come to be so familiar with. It's sad in a way I don't think a 'happy' voice is meant to be. "I know I said I'd call you once I got, you know, home, but the nurse said I could have a phone call."
"And that was me?" I say, confused. Wouldn't she have phoned her parents, or her friends? Does she have friends?
"Yes, of course it was you." Georgia replies, and from the way she said it, I can tell that there is to be no further questions on the subject. "How are you feeling?"
"Good," is my first response. I comb through my mind to find if I have something to feel bad about, but for the first time in a while, I don't find anything worth reporting. "How are you doing?"
Georgia makes some kind of disapproved noise, like a grumble. I can't really hear her properly—the reception in the hospital was always dodgy. "This morning I went for my bi-weekly assessment, and they're thinking of transferring me."
"To a different hospital?"
"No, a different ward, or something..." Georgia's speech seems to wander off. "What are you doing for New Year's Eve?"
I can tell she doesn't want to talk about it so I go along with her. I scratch at my chin; I remember all the boys in my year at school had at least some variation on manly teenager stubble, but I must have missed out on that, somehow. "I was hoping to swing by the Bridge at some point," I say, and it's not a lie. I've been thinking about it for a while.
"Which bridge? You don't mean—," says Georgia.
"No," I say. "The Balmain Bridge pub. It's legendary."
"I thought they took your fake I.D when you were admitted?"
Oh. Of course, she's right. I used to go out all the time to R-18 gigs, maybe have a few drinks while I'm at it, before the incident. I never got really drunk, per se, but it was apparently detrimental enough to my health that Doctor Joseph took my fake I.D. He would've anyway, since my wallet was handed in on my first day, and it's just a tiny bit illegal. "I completely forgot!"
"Hmm," says Georgia. "I'm sorry, Nathan, I don't know what to do. Could you get a new I.D by tonight?"
"No." I pick at my fingernails. "I guess I'll work something out. How's New Year's looking at six south?"
Georgia hums again. "It's actually pretty cool. They're setting up some fairy lights, like, super-safe ones that you put up if you have a toddler in the house," she giggles, "I guess that's the extent of the safety precautions here. Nurse Katherine said we could have pizza at midnight if we pay for it ourselves. I've accumulated two dollars seventy. I'm thinking of buying a slice for Josh, he's been really lonely since you left."
"Has he?" Josh, lonely? Didn't he have his sock collection to hold his attention?
"Oh, yeah. But maybe it's not your leaving, maybe it's the whole Y2K thing." Georgia says. "He's been writing out little notes in—what is it, computer code? The ones and zeroes? It's kinda' stressing me out by extension," she laughs, "But if it helps put his mind to rest, I don't think I'm bothered. What do you think?"
"About what?"
"The Y2K bug."
I sigh. "My Dad reckons it's crap. But I guess there's some sense to it. It's about computer code isn't it? And those numbers only go up to 1999? How do they go past that?"
Georgia giggles. I'm trying to talk about a possible dawning apocalypse and this girl giggles. "I don't know, Nathan. But I'm not going to worry about it. What's that old saying—'live every day like it's your last'. This day isn't really different to any other day."
"It's the new century in a few hours." I say. "It's a bit different. But I know what you mean. Do you live every day like it's your last, Georgia?"
"No way!" Georgia snorts out a laugh. "I'd be dead by now. But it's a nice way to think, isn't it?"
"Yeah, I suppose it is."
"Yeah," Georgia repeats, like an echo. "It's been nice talking to you, Nathan."
"You, too," I say, and go to hang up the phone.
"Wait!" shouts Georiga.
"Yeah?"
"Can we meet up?" she says. "Like, can we go and see a movie? Or a band? As friends. When I get to go home."
I want to tell Georgia that's she's probably going to be transferred to the anorexia ward, where she'll spend another glory-filled six weeks, depending on whether or not she gets better. But I don't. Instead, I smile against the reciever and thank everyone there is to thank for this lovely girl who doesn't really have a proper grasp on the situation. "Sure," I tell her. "Now go buy some pizza for Josh. And make sure he doesn't colour-code your socks while you're not looking. He used to do that all the time. Pissed me off no end."
Georgia laughs, says, "Bye, Nathan," and the line goes dead.
-
It's four in the afternoon and I'm packing a small, black backpack with all my money in my wallet, safe and piggy bank from years ago I only just found under my bed combined, a jacket in case it gets cold somehow, my bus pass, a water-bottle, my blue Polaroid and a few muesli bars. I feel like I might as well have packed for a hike through the Apalachian trail, but I figure it's better to be prepared.
Mum appears in the doorway. "Where are you off to?"
She looks over me, sees my 'Frogstomp'-inspired t-shirt with the least daggy pair of jeans I own, a pair of Levi's Mum bought for the year ten formal last year (it wasn't as formal as it sounds) and my black canvas shoes. For me, this is 'dressed up'. "Leichhardt." I say. "Dad said I could go to one of my mate's parties."
"Dad said that?" Mum raises an eyebrow.
"It's nothing big," I say. "It's just...It's just Wills and a few of his friends, few of my friends."
"Will the parents be home?"
"Yeah,"
"Are you sure?"
"One hundred per-cent." I nod, firmly. Maybe if I nod enough times, Mum will believe me. She does settle back a little, crossing her arms over her chest.
"Alright," she says, "Just make sure you don't die from the impending apocalypse."
Her tone is so serious but I can't help the laugh that bubbles up my throat. "I won't, Mum. Thank you."
-
It's four thirty p.m, and I'm nearly ready to leave—in fact, I am down the hallway from the front door, when Harry and Kieran stand directly in front of one of my knees each. "Hi," I suggest to them by way of peace offering.
"Where are you going?" Kieran asks.
"A mate's." I say.
"Can I come?" says Harry.
"No."
"Can I?" says Kieran.
"No."
"You're mean," says Harry.
"You are mean." Agrees Kieran.
"Sorry, guys," I apologise, trying not to let the rising feeling of rush, rush, hurry up take its toll on my voice. "I'll see you after the fireworks, right? Have fun."
"Boom-boom," says Harry.
"Yeah," I say, and ruffle his hair. "Boom-boom."
-
For a New Year's Eve, the Iron Cove bridge isn't as bare as I thought it would be. There is still the odd exericise junkie plodding along with their Walkman metaphysically welded to their eardrums and partially their souls, and there are people, not crowded, but scattered oddly, everywhere. They aren't dressed like they're going to parties—instead, it's like they're coming home from work, or somewhere. I feel like it's a dose of reality. Not everyone is thinking the world ends tonight. These people have lives; they aren't going down just yet.
I walk along the bridge, skimming my hand over the edge, listening to my Walkman play Silverchair's new album, the one they're playing tonight. I'm hoping they play Leave Me Out, even though it's years old and not really that popular with the rest of the crowd. But it's probably my favoruite grunge song of all time, right next to Nirvana's Heart-Shaped Box, of course. Since it's summer, the city is far from the nightly shroud of darkness, so the sun is still hanging albeit low in the sky. I wonder if it's worth photographing—words can't really explain it—but time is going by fast and the opening band is coming on at six.
When I get there, the pub is half-empty. I stand outside, mulling over how I could possibly be granted entrance to an R-18 gig without parental guidance, and watch people slowly fill up the tables and chairs through the windows. I get the realization that I probably look like a clueless backpacker, and I feel a blush crawl over my skin, like Janis used to pull at the carpet with her claws. I flick my wrist out and check my watch, sighing when I see there's still another hour until Silverchair grace New Year's Eve with their prescence.
I'm scanning the opposite road for the cafes, wondering gently if I should bolt across and grab a long black before it's too late when another body slides down onto the steps next to me.
"Hello," says the body. I turn to face it, and the body appears to belong to a girl, seventeen or sixteen, wearing a black blouse underneath a bra (I don't know much about female underclothes, but doesn't it usually go the other way 'round?), a white skirt that goes a few centimetres above her knees with some kind of a lattice-y lace pattern fraying the edges, and bare feet with a string of multicoloured beads around her ankles. She has wavy, white hair, dyed but soft, that goes halfway down her back, and a lip ring. I shuffle backward from her a little.
"Hi," I squeak. If the boys from school were here, they'd tease me for being intimidated by a girl, but if they saw her they would think twice. The girl fiddles with the zipper on her leather messenger bag. "Uhm," I say, "You here for Silverchair?"
She doesn't seem to hear me, because she says, "If I ask you a question, will you answer a hundred per-cent honestly?"
"Yes?"
"Does this look stupid?" She asks, a softness to her face, pointing to the black bra over her shirt.
"No." I say. I don't know what to say; her green eyes seem to see right through me.
"Answer honestly." She says in such a voice it makes me shiver.
"Yes," I blurt, then, "Don't girls usually wear their bras under their shirts?"
-
(Raisa's pinboard in the media section)