14.

“Where are we going?” I asked as Katya examined the contents of her suitcase scarcely.

“A beach house,” came her quick reply. She felt under her recklessly folded clothes for something and obviously having found it, smiled. The case was promptly zipped and we were on our way to my place.

“And who exactly does this house belong to?” I wondered aloud as the tram moved us along. Katya watched out the window, tears just a memory now. A vague sense of excitement wafted like an enticing scent around her as she answered.

“It’s my fath…” she paused and then corrected herself, “Steven’s.” Her tone frosted the name. The tears weren’t just a memory, they were a prevalent memory. I made a mental note to try and distance our conversations far away from the problems she was escaping. I wanted her demons to vanish in my presence, like mine did in hers.

“He said he bought it for mum,” she continued, “but it’s his. They barely ever go there, anyway. It’s just for when he feels like throwing a party.” Her contemptuous tongue elaborated.

“Are we catching a bus or a train there?” I inquired whilst packing. Katya wandered through my room, exploring. It felt overwhelmingly plain in contrast to the mural room in her house and I was a little embarrassed.

“I was actually hoping we could drive.” She replied tentatively. I tried to censor the coldness that permeated my body. With Katya’s car now living in a lake, her suggestion clearly pointed toward mine. It was an old Ford that mum had given to me as her parting gift. I hadn’t driven it once since she’d left. I didn’t like driving and I certainly didn’t want to drive it. The car was haunted by my mind, consumed by the spirits of thoughts I couldn’t clarify.

“Is there no way of getting there by public transport?” I asked hopefully.

“No quick way.” She answered. It became clear that she had already decided our mode of transportation. I didn’t want to argue, so I compromised.

“Would you mind driving?”

“No problem,”

Katya’s suitcase and my bag shared the boot. Her guitar sprawled like a sleeping child on the back seat and we took up residence in the front, music blaring and windows open. It was a warm day. Early morning clouds had made way for the sun and the temperature was slowly warming to just above comfortable. The anxiety of driving unfocused itself, though remained constantly like the tick of a clock. The morning’s depression had faded into non-existence and I was mostly content as Katya once again led us away from the city.

The kilometres passed by in seconds as a strange sense of familiarity coursed through me. Being with her in this car felt reassuringly normal; it was as if all the Saturday drives with mum to various op-shops had manifested within the situation. The tick-tock of anxiety was slowing gradually and becoming less audible. For the first time in ages, traveling in a car wasn’t an ordeal. I was free to enjoy the brazen wind’s cool. The countless worries and negative scenarios that typically dwelled inside my head were gone. As we neared the soothing serenity of the sand and sea, a completely foreign emotion known as happiness came over me. Katya too appeared delighted, her soft cheeks raised by a calm grin.

The horizon beckoned ahead of us. We’d passed a small beach town and could clearly view the sea when Katya’s words drifted.

“Not too far, now.”

The sound of speech evaporated as we turned off the main road and forged along a private looking track. At the end of it, hidden mostly by trees was an amazing beach house.

“This is us,” she said. The car halted. We sat gazing for a few moments. The place appeared like one of those dream houses that couples spend years fantasizing about. It was grand, attractive and out of easy sight. This was the kind of place I’d fantasized about.

We got out of the car and retrieved our belongings. Katya set hers beside the door and picked the keys out of her pocket. Fondling them, she faced me with a weird expression.

“I’ll just apologize in advance for the house. It’s Steven’s show-off piece. He likes to bring people here so he can brag without speaking.”

“That’s okay,” I replied, already claimed by Steven’s intentions. Katya sighed inwardly before slipping the key into its hole. One turn of the wrist later, the house was unlocked and open. Katya brought her case and guitar in and I followed suit, stepping in and dropping my bag inside.

It was majestic.

The massive room I found myself standing in was obviously the party room. To my left was a bar which came with counter, fridge and cupboards that I imagined bore many fine liquids. To my right was a couch, a coffee table and a plasma screen television. Against the wall on the side opposite the entrance was a fancy jukebox, silent but with lights constantly flashing. I briefly wondered how much electricity went in to producing those flashes and why the machine wasn’t unplugged when no one was around. The centrepiece of the room was an expensive looking pool table similar to those the professionals use. It stood triumphantly on the gentle carpet that gave the entire room an undeniably homely quality. I thought back to what Katya said about her father and knew that he’d strategically placed the table where it was for maximum effect among visitors.

“Pretty impressive, isn’t it?” She asked sarcastically. I couldn’t pretend to be indifferent. This was the haven I’d wished for whenever I felt like getting away: a secluded beach house with music and pool and alcohol. It was like architects had studied my mind and built from a blue-print from my dreams.

Rather than lying or contradicting Katya’s feelings, I said nothing.

“I’ll show you around,” she spoke before leading me to the kitchen. Black tiles reflected strands of sunlight that drifted in through the curtains that covered a sliding glass door. I could see the beach from where I stood. To my left was another counter, this time with a sink in it. A larger fridge and more cupboards took up seemingly no space. On my right was a dining table, placemats already set with coasters and cutlery out.

“Why is this place so clean?” I asked.

“Mum can’t stand a mess.” Katya answered. “She used to come by and clean my house until I told her to stop.”

I was shown the contents of the fridge and cupboards. Both were stacked with food and drink that took ages to expire.

“Steven likes everything to be prepared for when he brings company, so he stocks up each time before he leaves.” Katya explained. My house doesn’t have this much food in it after a trip to the supermarket, I thought.

Past the dining table was a door that led to a hallway. From there were three rooms: Katya’s, her parents’ and the guest room. I didn’t see the inside of any as Katya quickly took me back into the kitchen and then out through the glass door and onto the patio. Two lawn chairs sat dormant, watching the sea. I mirrored them momentarily as I took in the view. The sand stretched either side of us without a single human entity in sight. I turned to Katya and smiled.

“I’m glad we came here.”

Her demeanor lightened, the link between her father and the house apparently disappearing. She gazed inside for a second.

“I feel like opening a bottle of wine.” Her words delighted. Within minutes we were sitting on the chairs, an audience to nature, drinking the best red I’d ever had. I considered whether it was an old bottle that Steven had been saving, but thought it best not to inquire into the subject. I figured that our being here probably wasn’t permitted, so anything else didn’t really matter.

I felt so peaceful and nurtured where I was that I couldn’t help but think of my mum. I knew she would have loved this. I tried to shake her away, however, the notion of absence pulling me down. As if Katya could sense it, she took my hand and got up.

“Let’s go inside,” she said, “I’ll make us something for dinner.”

The bottle of red was empty by the time we’d finished eating. Katya soon rectified that by opening another and without warning day had become night. We sat on the couch in the party room, our minds working in reverse as we traded memories. Katya was in hysterics over a tale about me soiling myself in Grade 1.

“I ran out of class really embarrassed and hurried to the toilets. I locked myself in a stall and took off my underwear and, not knowing what else to do, flushed them down the dunny!” I laughed, though at the time it had not been at all funny. Then again, most of my childhood memories walked along the border of comedic and traumatic.

“So anyway,” I continued, “I had told one of my friends about it, so he knew I had no undies on. During lunch, when we were all playing footy on the oval, he announced it to the entire yard and I spent the next ten minutes running away from every boy in the school.”

Katya laughed wildly as the story progressed.

“Did they catch you?” She asked.

“Eventually, yeah…” I chuckled, glad to be remembering such an awful moment with fondness.

“And what happened?”

“They stole my pants and put them on the highest monkey-bars!” I exclaimed gleefully. Katya poured us each another glass of wine as she thought of a story of her own.

She began explaining that she used to go through a packet of ice-creams a day when she was a kid. She reminisced over the flavour and the texture until I could virtually taste it. A light of childish excitement was evident as she talked.

“My parents would go shopping and bring home a packet – the next day I’d get yelled at for eating them all. They weren’t even very good ice-creams, I just got addicted to them for some reason. I’ve got an addictive personality, I think.” She giggled and drank from her glass.

It didn’t matter though,” she resumed, “the next day mum would go shopping and get me another packet and we’d repeat the whole process. Dad kept saying they were bad for me, yet mum wouldn’t stop buying them! I knew they were bad for me but I couldn’t stop eating them!” Katya laughed uproariously but then suddenly turned silent. Discomfort made an unwelcome return as I sat unsure of what was going on.

“I think I might go to bed.” She said quietly.

“Bed?” I asked incredulously before seeing her expression and realizing I shouldn’t have.

“Are you okay with sleeping in the guest room?” She inquired whilst rising from the couch. I followed suit.

“Yeah, that’s fine,” I answered, wishing I was sleeping in hers.

Within moments we were in the hallway, a small distance forging between us. “Good night,” her voice echoed in my ears.

“Yeah,” I said, “good night.”

As I nestled under the blanket and settled into the darkness, I surmised that Katya’s abrupt solemnity must have been caused by the memories of her family. Then I thought about my own family. My absent mother whom I missed more with each passing day and my drunken father whom I could barely stand to look at. I thought about my own family and thought about Katya’s.

It’s not that similar, I told myself. I’m not in that bad a way yet.