The morbids, p.3
The Morbids, page 3
I blamed vodka. I blamed insomnia. It was bad then, the insomnia, tempered only by the aforementioned vodka and the exhaustion I felt after a long shift on the floor, and it made me do stupid things. I’d been warned, but I’d let him in anyway. Every cell of my body screamed at me to stop, walk away, be careful, but I didn’t, I wasn’t. He was like a drug—one I didn’t really like but couldn’t say no to.
I didn’t do relationships, didn’t get attached, didn’t believe in fairytales or happily-ever-afters. I never had, but when Lina asked how long I was going to let him hang around, rolled her eyes like she knew this routine off by heart, I’d felt sick and scared and angry, clung on tighter.
I was dying, I wanted to say. I was dying and it didn’t matter. None of it mattered.
You’re too much, he said when he ended it, and I knew what he meant and I hated that he knew it too, but for a brief, shining moment, I’d been relieved.
And then I was just devastated—strangely, awfully devastated, by this thing I’d never wanted anyway. My insomnia got worse. The Thoughts got worse. Everything got worse. I burst into tears in the middle of service three nights in a row, before finally taking one of the valium pills I’d been carrying around in my wallet and dropping an entire carton of wine behind the bar. It confirmed all my suspicions, the ones I’d had for years. No fairytales. No happily-ever-afters. Just pain. Just death.
Nic had dragged me into the staffroom and handed me a glass half full of vodka, his expression set in a perfect mix of concern and impatience as he watched me drink it. He’s an arse, Caitie, he said. But he’s Dex. Sorry, sweets.
He was right. Sawyer’s had just been written up in Gourmet and everyone knew it was because of Dex, and I was just a waitress, so I sucked it up, got on with it, got over it. Dug up the pamphlet I’d been given after the accident and went along to that support group in that beige community room, just to see. Just in case. Careful again, same as I’d always been.
A couple of weeks later Dex was offered a job opening a new gastropub in Bondi and then he was gone. Lenny, the owner of Sawyer’s, stopped saying hello to me when he came in, and every time I went into the prep kitchen conversations would trail off and I only stayed because Nic begged me to. I was dying anyway. It didn’t matter.
‘So, what happened?’ I asked, watching him smoke his cigarette. He had a new row of Japanese characters tattooed on the inside of his wrist and I wondered if he knew what they meant.
‘Usual story.’ He shrugged and looked past my shoulder. ‘It’s not the best time in the restaurant business. Bondi isn’t what it used to be. Joel has a coke problem. Pick one.’
‘I heard the food was pretty average, too.’
‘Funny.’
I smiled. ‘It is, kind of.’
He shook his head. ‘And how are you? Still Nic’s princess?’
‘Of course.’ I looked at him. He looked different. I remembered how he’d looked before, how I’d never thought he was cute but I used to spend hours just gazing at him. ‘You know me.’
I used to think he had the most amazing eyebrows. Now they just looked like eyebrows, one cocked up in a way that I used to think was sexy but now just looked over-rehearsed. ‘Yeah, right,’ he said.
My cigarette had gone out but there wasn’t enough of it left to bother relighting it, so I tossed my butt at the sand bucket by the door and stood up. ‘See you in there.’
He exhaled, the smoke smudging his face like a thumbprint on a photograph. ‘Okay, Nona.’
I’d never even been to Sawyer’s before I came in for my interview, never really been in this part of Pyrmont, quietly tucked away between the eighties gaudiness of Darling Harbour and the sprawl of the fish markets. I’d expected something showier and I’d walked past the converted terrace twice before noticing the gold lettering on the front window, the dark, heavy door. The dining room was long and narrow and intimate, like someone’s front parlour, if that someone was filthy rich and wanted you to know it, with a long, mahogany bar along one side and a row of antique industrial cage lanterns down the middle. It was designed to impress, to intimidate, and it did. Most newbs would start their first shift whispering out of respect. I’d never been one of them; it was a restaurant, nothing more. Still, sometimes when I touched the bar I was almost overwhelmed by how solid it was.
When I got to the floor the fluoros were on and there was a waitress I half recognised laying out cutlery and Nic was training a newb on the computer. He glanced up and gestured at the bar with his chin.
‘Thanks,’ I mouthed.
Nic was my boss. Lenny had hired me but Nic had trained me and somewhere amid the dozens of questions I’d asked him and the hundreds of nights when we’d thought we were going to get eaten alive by Eastern Suburbs power couples and the many, many after-work drinks we’d shared, rolling from pub to pub before ending up dancing in some weird club or a stranger’s lounge room, we’d become friends. If anyone knew where the sock in my bag had come from, it would be Nic.
I grabbed an apron from under the register and tied it around my waist, positioning myself in front of the coffee machine and wrenching a filter handle free. Nobody had put the music on yet so I could hear Nic explaining subs to the newb in his thick Kiwi accent, her low ‘uh-huh’s doing nothing to convince either of us that she was listening. I gave her three shifts tops, and clicked a perfect mountain of coffee into the basket.
Sometimes in group, when we ran out of horrific stories we’d seen on the news and near misses that weren’t really near at all, we’d talk about coping strategies. Theories and tricks and ways to keep ourselves sane. Sometimes Carlos went on and on about ‘mindfulness’, which was the technical term for ‘distraction’. His psych encouraged him to practise mindfulness, gave him piles of readings on how to do it, which he shared with us, and some of us nodded and went off and tried it—and sometimes it almost worked. None of it ever made much sense to me, but sometimes when I was at Sawyer’s I felt like I got close. On a busy night I could go hours without a single Thought, without a single terrible scenario playing out behind my eyes. I was right there, in the present, twisting and timing and steaming and mixing and shaking, and my mind was actually, properly still.
After the accident, Sawyer’s was the first place I could breathe.
I’d just finished pouring two perfect macchiatos when Nic said my name. He was standing in front of me with the new girl, her face a picture of confusion and disinterest, eyes glazed like doughnuts, and I slid one of the coffees over to him as I necked the other one.
‘This is Emma,’ he said. ‘Emma, Caitlin. If you have any questions, ask her.’
I made a face. ‘I’m here to help.’ My voice was slick with sarcasm.
‘Aren’t you just?’ He sipped his coffee, then looked back at the new girl, who was studying us both with the same confused expression.
‘Ignore her,’ he said. ‘I’d say she’s having a bad day but she’s always like this.’
I arched an eyebrow, and he laughed.
‘Seriously, though, Caitlin knows everything there is to know about everything to do with the floor. And she’s super-anal about everything being done right. Listen to her, and you’ll be right.’
The new girl nodded, and I frowned. She was too quiet. You had to watch the quiet ones—they were either taking everything in and would end up running the place in three months or they were completely and utterly lost and would be fucking up your entire night. I put this one in column B.
I’d already forgotten her name. Tara? She looked like a Tara.
I started setting up my stations, hearing the boredom in Nic’s voice as he took the newb through the process of clocking on and off and ordering a staff meal.
‘Rachel’s the supervisor on today,’ he said. ‘She’s running late—puppy emergency, apparently.’
I sighed. Rachel was my least favourite staff member—or at least she had been, until ten minutes ago.
‘She’ll be here soon.’ Nic glanced at me. ‘I’m in the office all afternoon, come see me when you finish.’
‘Okay,’ Tara said. I could feel her watching me clean out my milk jugs. ‘And until then?’ She cleared her throat. ‘Until my food is ready?’ He shrugged. ‘Just, like … tidy stuff up.’ Nic hated training people, which was why he always rostered newbs on for shifts he wasn’t working, and why he always told them to ask me questions.
If you’re going to be a supervisor, he told me once, during what I thought were after-work drinks and he thought was a job interview, you’ve got to deal with the newbs.
I hate the newbs, I’d said, shaking my head. And I don’t want to be a supervisor.
Yeah, you do. Everybody does eventually.
No they don’t. They just tell you that so you’ll think they have initiative and aren’t planning on quitting the second they find something better.
He’d laughed. You do, though. You’re always bossing everyone around as it is.
We’d had this conversation a lot, over and over since not long after I’d started; me telling Nic this was just an in-between job, just a break from my real career, and Nic telling me I should think about making it more, and me rolling my eyes because waitressing was not something you did for the rest of your life—no matter how short that life was going to be—and that was the whole point.
You’re good at this, Cait. You actually care, he said. He always said. Nobody else in this place does.
I’d given him a look, hopefully scathing.
You do. You just have to be nicer to the newbs. Maybe start by remembering their names.
Yeah, right.
You’ll change your mind, he’d said confidently, and I’d finished my beer and changed the subject, knowing he was wrong, and that even if he wasn’t, it didn’t matter. This was all temporary.
‘You okay?’ he asked, when the newb had wandered off. He sighed, pressed a button under the register. From behind me, I heard a soft, brushy drumbeat, a piano.
I looked up from the frothing wand I’d been scrubbing. Whoever had been making coffee for the prep cooks had left it covered with a fine web of hardened milk froth. I thought about pointing it out, but it was probably him.
‘Of course,’ I said, smiling. ‘Always.’
‘I was going to message you yesterday,’ he said, flicking a switch. The fluorescent lights went dark and the lanterns crackled to life. Everything changed, softened. The bar turned rich and dark and the velvet curtains glistened. Tara was on the other side of the room, straightening an already perfectly set table, and the light from the filaments bounced off her shiny blonde hair like a rose-gold tiara.
‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘Honestly.’
He put his empty coffee cup down on the counter and I picked it up and put it in the washing-up bucket behind me without thinking. When I turned back he was leaning forward on his elbows. Up close he was overdue for a shave, uneven tufts of stubble poking through the skin on his cheeks. ‘Are you sure? You look tired.’
‘Yeah.’ I gave him a smile. ‘I just didn’t sleep well last night.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Big night?’
I laughed. ‘Maybe.’ When I’d first told Nic I wanted Tuesdays off he’d spent weeks pestering me for a reason—his guesses ranging from a second job to a tempestuous fling with a married man on a very tight schedule to Alcoholics Anonymous, which had felt uncomfortably close to the truth—and he still occasionally tried to trick me into telling him.
‘You know it wasn’t up to me,’ he said, as I did a quick check of the spirits. ‘Lenny’s been desperate to get him back for ages. I swear he sabotaged that whole Bondi thing.’
I rolled my eyes.
‘Good Food are writing it up as a homecoming. It’s a big deal. Expensive, too.’
‘No raises for the floor staff this year then?’
He shook his head. ‘No raises for any of us. Not when you’ve got talent to pay.’
I scoffed. ‘What talent?’
‘Besides, word’s out. He only started yesterday and he’s only sous until he settles back in, but we’re half booked today, only two open tables tonight. On a Wednesday.’
‘Great.’ I turned around. ‘Are they all going to want autographs too? Should I put a reserved sign at the end of the bar for his groupies? Take a tour through so they can see the great man at work?’
Nic ignored me.
I tipped my head towards Tara, walking out of the kitchen carrying a plate of food. ‘Have you warned her yet?’
‘Very funny.’ He smiled. ‘I wasn’t just blowing smoke up your arse, you know? You really are the only person here who knows what they’re doing.’
I laughed. ‘Thanks.’
He watched her push the staff door open, the plate too precarious in her hand. ‘What do you think?’
I shrugged. ‘Not much. You?’
‘She’s sweet. Young.’
‘How young?’
‘Nineteen.’
‘Jesus.’ That explained it. ‘One of Lenny’s hires then?’
‘Shhh,’ he chided, glancing around as though to check we weren’t overheard. ‘Look after her, okay?’
I bit my lip, knowing what he meant. Wishing I didn’t.
3
SATURDAY, APRIL
‘Seventeen dollars for cereal? But you can’t afford a pair of jeans without holes in them?’
I hadn’t slept more than a few hours since Lina’s postcard arrived. The night before I hadn’t slept at all. I hadn’t called her despite her plea, and I knew she would be angry. I felt awful, sick with shame and confusion, annoyed that I couldn’t just pick up my phone, tap out a generic congratulatory text and hit send. It had been days and I’d tried so many times but I couldn’t do it.
I felt scared. I didn’t know of what, but at three in the morning that was what I felt the most.
Everything was soft around the edges but deceptively, painfully noisy, every sound bouncing off the polished concrete floor and high, blindingly white ceiling. Someone put a fork down on a table across from ours and I jumped, looking around in alarm.
‘I didn’t buy them with holes in them, Mum. The ones with holes in them are expensive. These’re just old. And it’s activated granola.’
‘Well, if you didn’t spend all your money on granola and cigarettes, you’d be able to afford new ones.’
I heard Jack scoff and caught his eye for a second.
‘Activated granola.’ Mum shook her head in wonder, as Jack’s phone vibrated on the table. He picked it up and started tapping furiously, ignoring us. ‘Only in Newtown. And it took twenty minutes to find a park.’
I sighed. I needed to sleep. I hadn’t even ordered the granola—she had—but somehow I was responsible for it, because I’d been running late, because I’d misread the time, and I’d called her at the last minute and asked if we could move brunch closer to the city. I picked up my coffee and finished it in one gulp.
‘Big night last night, Caitie?’ Dad asked.
I didn’t answer, just gave him my best half-hearted smile as I dropped the cup onto the saucer off-centre. I felt sick, couldn’t concentrate. Mum and Dad kept talking and I tried to listen but everything hurt and their voices were so far away.
‘… like a brewery, honey. Seriously.’
‘How’s that job of yours? Have you given any more thought to … ?’
‘Honestly, Caitlin. What should we … ?’
‘… coming down? Is that it?’
I caught the waiter’s eye and flicked my fingers at my empty cup. She didn’t stop, but gave me an understanding nod.
‘More coffee? Really?’
‘… ice? I saw something on A Current Affair.’
It always went like this, ever since the accident—not that they knew about the accident. They knew something, maybe. They knew that I didn’t come home anymore, that I dodged their calls, but they didn’t know why. Dad thought I was on drugs. Ice and heroin and benzos, with a side of ecstasy and bulbs. Maybe ketamine. Whatever was in the news that week. I wanted to tell him I wasn’t, but it was easier not to.
‘… just don’t want to get stuck there like we did last year. That hotel the insurance company put us up in was disgusting. Didn’t even have a pool and the bar didn’t sell spirits, remember?’
I didn’t know how long I’d been staring at the pepper shaker in the middle of the table, but it was shiny and my eyes clung to it, stuck fast. I blinked, trying to catch the conversation.
‘Are you going somewhere?’ I asked.
Mum looked at me, exhaled in a heave that made her entire chest fall. ‘Yes, Caitlin.’
I stared at her. When I was little, people used to say we looked alike but now you’d be hard-pressed to see the resemblance. She was bigger in every way, years of boxed white wine and desk jobs filling out her torso and plumping her cheeks. Her hair was cut into the customary style of the mid-fifties set, dyed into something that was supposed to look natural but was too blocky, too many shades of copper and gold and ash. Her eyes were frowning at me but her forehead hadn’t moved, and I wondered if she’d had her botox topped up recently.
‘Oh,’ I said, ignoring her tone, forcing myself to sound pleasant and interested, pulling out my ponytail and putting the elastic band between my teeth as I re-did it. ‘Where?’
Mum frowned at my mouth, at me. ‘Bali, Cait. For the wedding.’
I went cold, twisting my hair tightly and biting on the band so I wouldn’t have to say anything.
‘I can’t believe you didn’t tell us Lina was engaged. We had to find out on Facebook.’
I took the elastic out of my mouth and put it back in my hair, waiting.
A plate of food was dropped in front of me, too loudly, the smell of bacon too overwhelming. Another waitress put my coffee down and I picked it up, drinking half of it in one go.
