Ida Read online

  They take a sip of their drink and are silent for a couple of moments. ‘Three should be okay.’

  I nod, and we watch the TV for a while as I try to think of the right words. ‘Are you all right?’

  My phone starts buzzing on the table, someone’s calling me. I look at Daisy.

  ‘Answer it,’ they say. ‘It might be a job.’

  When I don’t move they push the phone towards me. I answer.

  ‘Hello, Ida speaking.’

  Someone on the other end says something, I catch the word cafe. They’re so quiet. I turn up the volume on my phone and jam a finger in the other ear.

  ‘Sorry, what was that?’

  ‘I’m Janene, I’m the owner of Crate and Saddle.’ She pauses. ‘The cafe by the river? You applied a couple of weeks ago, sorry about the lateness.’

  ‘That’s totally fine,’ I say, watching Daisy. They’re picking at a loose bit of skin by one of their nails.

  ‘So basically,’ Janene starts, and then I stop listening.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I whisper to Daisy.

  They shake their head and wave their hand at the phone. ‘Pay attention to that,’ they say, but they grin a little.

  ‘So what do you like best about hospitality? Why would you want to work for me?’ Janene asks me. Whatever I missed before wasn’t important, it’s fine.

  Real answer: I’m good at the work and the work also pays. ‘Er … I like creating an atmosphere where people can be … comfortable? And happy and … yeah, just a comfortable atmosphere, I guess?’ I cringe at myself.

  ‘Right, right. And how much experience do you have?’

  ‘I’ve been working at my current workplace for a few months.’

  ‘Right … I was hoping for someone with some more experience. Why do you think I should choose you over them?’

  I panic. What am I supposed to say to that?

  Daisy looks at me, an eyebrow raised in question.

  ‘I have a lot of free time?’ I say. ‘I know I don’t have a lot of experience, but I am a really fast learner.’

  ‘Okay okay,’ Janene says, like she’s writing some­thing down. ‘That’s great, Ida. Thanks for your time, I’ll let you know around Friday.’

  ‘Okay.’ I hang up and put my phone back down on the table, staring at the black screen. ‘That went badly.’ She’s not going to let me know, we both know it’s going to be a no.

  ‘Phone interviews are the worst, especially when they ring and you’re unprepared.’ Daisy touches my hand. ‘Sorry, Ida.’

  ‘It’s okay I guess.’ I run my hands through my hair. At least nothing’s really changed. I messed it up but at least I haven’t gone backwards. ‘Are you all right, though?’

  ‘Dad’s just a …’ They sigh, long and heavy. ‘It’s fine. I’m fine.’

  ‘You don’t have to be.’

  They get up, take their cup to the sink. There’s a hiss as the tap is turned on, and they rinse the cup, leave it on the sink. They place their hands on the edge of the sink and their back’s towards me.

  ‘I know,’ they say, and I can barely hear them.

  They turn now and smile, but the smile doesn’t transfer to the rest of their face. ‘I might go have a nap, bit tired.’

  ‘You don’t want to talk for a bit?’

  They shake their head.

  I don’t know if this was me, was I pushed or did I do this? It feels like neither. It’s still warm, like before but more. It’s not long until I find where I need to go.

  ‘I know.’ Daisy does the not-smile as they turn to me.

  I get up from my seat and walk to them, touch their arm. ‘Do you want to talk?’

  They shake their head, resting their hand on mine.

  The lightdark burns my skin and I try to find a path but everywhere is cold. I wander, lost in the nothing. I find a way, but it’s not right.

  I’m in the bathroom. The washing machine beeps. The tile is not crooked, there is no notebook on the sink.

  I check every room, but no one is home and I can’t find Pilgrim.

  My watch ticks – the only sound in the house.

  Disconnected ties

  My phone’s on the sink where the notebook was. I snatch it up, find Daisy’s entry in the address book and give them a call.

  ‘The number you are trying to reach is unavailable. Please check the number and try again.’

  The robotic message ends and I’m left with an empty dial tone. I don’t remember how to move.

  How old is the number? I wonder how long it’s been since I called Daisy, but the history’s been deleted from the phone so I can’t tell. The other me could have done anything on this phone and I’d never know.

  I bite my lip. I try their home number and get the same robot response. Scrolling down the phonebook, I check under M but – I can’t even believe I’m looking, my fingers sliding over the screen like ice – Mum is not an entry. Of course it isn’t.

  In here though are a lot of people I barely remember, shadowy faces that are half-remembered. I think some of them are from primary school. Two or three are from high school, but I don’t know who the rest are. Maybe I could call someone about Daisy, but then not knowing who I’m calling would be pretty awkward. What if I’m dating one of them?

  The first entry under Daisy is Deborah. I have no clue who they are, but I press ‘call’ and cringe. I’m sure the phone is going to ring out, but then at the last minute, Deborah answers.

  ‘Hey.’ They sound tired, words breathed out in a sigh. Maybe I woke them up.

  ‘I just wanted to chat,’ I say, trying to keep it casual when my palms are sweating. My voice is too high for calm. ‘Is that okay? Are you busy?’

  ‘Ida, I don’t want to talk right now,’ they say, gently but with a rock behind their words. ‘And especially not about Daisy. I can’t.’

  ‘What?’ The phone slips a little through my fingers, I clutch it tight.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ And then they hang up.

  I stare at the screen, hold it up in front of my face. After getting my clothes out of the dryer, still damp, I get dressed and close my eyes.

  It’s cold, cold, cold, I don’t know where I am. My home is lost and I want to yell but no words come out. I’m spinning, my arms feel like they’re going to fly out from my sides, pop out of their sockets, but they’re still glued to my body. I’m exposed in the bright light and the dark and I try to make a sound again, but nothing.

  The house is empty again. I find my phone but the only entry is Dad, not even Frank is in there.

  I go up to my room and see interview 2pm written in tiny handwriting. I frown, check my phone and there it is: for a cafe, it looks like. I find the details in my email, and if I leave right now, providing I don’t miss the train, I should get there just in time. I look down at what I’m wearing; it’ll do.

  I grab my wallet and keys and run out the door. There’s a parking spot at the station right down the end, so I have to run to get the train; my heart is pound­ing as I run through the closing doors and everyone already on stares at me, the unfit fat girl. I pretend not to notice.

  Once I’m sitting, I’m still breathing heavily. I’m sweating; I forgot to put on deodorant. Shit.

  The building is a few minutes’ walk from the train station and I end up being fifteen minutes early. It’s a rich area; everything is so new and clean. A shop window displays fashions without the price. I hate it. I end up sitting on a nearby bench in the street, just waiting. Maybe I can just will myself into inexistence, I don’t know. I would try to skip into a place where I didn’t have to wait, but I don’t know if I should. It’d be so easy, and I grit my teeth and remind myself I’ll probably lose the job interview if I do skip right now.

  It’s only five minutes to my interview, so I may as well go in. I go up to the counter, and tell the cashier my name.

  ‘I’ll just get Stephanie for you,’ she says, smiling at me. ‘Sit down if you want.’

  Ste
phanie comes out a couple of minutes later, dressed cleanly, perfect nails, crisp hair. She doesn’t work here I think, only owns it or something like that. It’s a chain, she probably works in the office part in a richer suburb; she’s got no idea how the cafe actually runs.

  ‘Ida?’ she asks, checking the paper she’s holding and looking back at me, a frown on her face.

  ‘Hi, yes.’ I stand up and smile as big as I can without being creepy. I hope it’s not creepy. My heart’s beating too fast.

  ‘Ida Wagner?’ Her eyebrows are drawn; her smile is tight.

  ‘That’s me.’ I refrain from turning it into a question.

  ‘Right …’ She sits down, and I sit opposite. She starts talking about the cafe. Slowly.

  She thought I was white. Mum was teased for her name; she kept hers but she gave me Dad’s. I can’t think about it.

  ‘So, Ida.’

  ‘It’s a nice cafe.’ I try to smile. ‘It’s about the same size as the one I work in now.’

  ‘Why are you looking for a change?’

  Because I hate everything and I feel worthless. ‘I need a job with more hours.’

  ‘How many are you currently getting?’

  ‘Fifteen to twenty a week.’ I shouldn’t have told her, shit.

  ‘Hm.’ She smiles tightly in a way that I think is supposed to be sympathetic. ‘I can only give you ten.’

  I can go back, I can go back and lie, I think, and I close my eyes.

  The lightdark binds me and I want to scream at the cold; it’s burning. As soon as I think I can’t bear it any longer, I’m released.

  I lie on my back on the couch in the lounge room and I gasp at the sudden warmth. The fire is lit and crackling. I’m still shivering from the in-between, even though all traces are gone. I crawl up to the fireplace and rub my arms, sitting as close as I can. I’m not going to get back to that interview, I know. Somehow. I shouldn’t have skipped, but it was so easy – it’s in me.

  The flames dance and flicker against one another, melding and collapsing onto the bright orange, red, yellow. They move so fast – quick, darting, and my face is burning but it’s so beautiful that I don’t want to look away. I rub the bottom of my palms into my eyes and I see stars before they burn out and disappear.

  I’ve stopped shivering by now and I sit a little back from the fireplace. The bricks are covered in ash, so my butt probably is too.

  I lie down, feeling the ache of tiredness in my limbs, and I know I won’t be able to sleep. The grey clouds outside muffle the light and I can’t tell what time it is. I move just far enough away so that I won’t catch on fire, and listen to the flames. A log crackles. I’m so tired, more than ever before, but sleep remains elusive. My bones are too heavy. Everything is going to be awful forever.

  There’s no point in lying here feeling sorry for myself, so I grab my car keys.

  If I stay in one place too long, I’ll have to think about Daisy’s disconnected phones. Maybe there’s something to be said for permanence. Dad would love me. Frank would be here; I couldn’t see him in any of the photos. I’d know everything I was supposed to; there’d be no guessing or phone calls like the one with Deborah. Daisy would be here, too, painting or sketching and maybe we could take Pilgrim with us to the apartment. Maybe I’d know what to do with my life if I had the same life for more than a day. Or maybe I’d be dead. Who knows?

  As soon as I get outside, it begins to drizzle. I stand on the dusty porch for a few seconds, think about going back to get a jacket. If I go back in, I’ll change my mind. I climb into my car. The engine starts up the second time I try it and I check the sticker that says when the next service should be, but the writing is smudged.

  I reverse out of the driveway and onto the road, expecting my spluttering car to break down or blow up before I get to the street sign. We remain intact, however, and we make it to the supermarket through the rain.

  In the produce section I take apples, oranges, kiwi fruits and place them in a basket. I reach out for a lemon and weigh it in my hand. It’s waxy, shiny in the musty light. All I want to know right now is how this lemon got here.

  Until now, when I picked up this lemon, it hadn’t been significant at all. Would anything happen if I picked a different one? Was it that important, all this choice?

  Eyes closed, cold, and maybe, just maybe, a little warmer than before.

  I walk up to the lemon and pick up the one next to the first lemon. Nothing is different, its skin feels the same. It has two brown spots instead of one. I turn it over in my hands. Still nothing.

  Cold is everywhere. I find a shred of warmth and cling to it.

  I take a lemon from the opposite side of the stack. Again, nothing. There’s no fucking point, I swear. I replace the fruit and take the first one I picked up. How long has it travelled, from the farm to here to my home, just to be squeezed out and left, empty, in the compost?

  I should not be able to emotionally relate to a lemon.

  Screwing up my face, I leave the fruit section and find the cereal aisle. A box of Weet-Bix is what I want. I reach out a hand and as I do, another hand reaches for the same box.

  ‘I’m sorry, I …’ I stare, mid-sentence, at the person beside me.

  It’s the doppelganger, my ghost-self.

  It stares at me and I stare back. It’s more opaque than it has been. Its vacant stare starts to make my skin itch, and I spin on my heel and walk to the next aisle. It can’t touch me, so it’s fine, I tell myself – my beating heart, my sweating hands.

  I turn around anyway, to make sure it hasn’t followed me. The aisle is empty. When I turn back around, though, it’s in front of me. I stop and stare, its eyes are different: wicked, sharp. It smiles like at the train station. This is not the same doppelganger from the other aisle.

  It keeps staring at me, then its eyes flick over my shoulder. I turn, and then sure enough, the doppelganger from the cereal aisle is there.

  I freeze, face composed, but my armpits are starting to sweat. I swallow once, then march up to the biscuit section and take what I want. These ghosts cannot scare me.

  Or, they can’t know that they do.

  They follow me as I walk around the supermarket. There are two, and I wonder how many more there are.

  What are they? Myself, obviously. But from where? And one of them is more solid, I’ve got no clue what that means. And there’s no way of ever finding out. I kick the bottom of the nearest shelf and my toe throbs in pain.

  I get some milk out of the huge fridges at the back of the shop and in the reflection of the door I see there are three doppelgangers following me now.

  Swallowing what feels like a literal lump in my throat, I walk on and snap up a tub of yoghurt. Nothing’s bothering me, everything is fine. One hundred per cent fine.

  My shoes are louder than they should be and my breathing comes out in lightning storms as I make my way up to the register to pay. Once in the car, my stomach rumbles.

  The rain clears on the drive home. When I get there, Dad’s still somewhere else. I make a tea and open the packet of biscuits, their sweet smell wafts out.

  It’s then that I see the doppelgangers have followed me home.

  I take my tea upstairs and don’t look at them. The tea stains are still on the wall, stark and as noticeable as ever. I scan the room; there’s still no sign of Daisy. The valley is the same as it always is as I sit down in front of the window, sipping my tea. The doppelgangers have stayed downstairs.

  After the tea’s all gone, I place the cup on the sill. I unlatch the window and it takes a couple of goes; it doesn’t feel like it’s been opened in a long time and bits of paint flake off as I wedge it open. Once it’s open enough, I pick up the cup and let it fall onto the bricks below. It’s not a loud smashing sound, the china breaks with a noise closer to a thud. Waste of a cup, really.

  When I poke my head out to see properly, it’s smashed into hundreds of tiny pieces, stark white against the bricks.

&n
bsp; It’s cold and I wander, floating, through the dark light. In this void, I find a bit of warmth and cling to it without moving; I can feel it in my fingertips.

  The teacup’s in my hand, half empty. The valley is safe, beautiful and making me want to live here forever, but I know I can’t. I swirl the rest of the tea and watch as the browns change in the light.

  I drink the rest, colder now and tasting a little shittier. I put the cup on the windowsill again, but this time I only stare out the window. Mindless destruction quota filled for today.

  In the glass, there’s the reflection of a doppelganger coming up the stairs. My spine stiffens automatically, I feel the blood rushing through my body, ready for me to run. I don’t think they can hurt me; they can’t touch me, at least.

  Standing, I face the other me. It grins and I try to ignore it, try to ignore my heart beating faster and faster.

  The second doppelganger is here, now, next to the window. They nod at each other, and then the second moves its arms like it’s opening the window. The window in front of me does not shift. My eyebrows knit. We’re in the same space, but not.

  I take a step closer to see what it’s doing. It clambers up onto the sill and, placing a hand either side of the window, it launches itself out.

  I’m cold and light and cold cold cold and then there is no warmth when it ends.

  The sides of the windowsill leave my hands and bits of paint chip off under my hands. The ground rushes, opening its arms huge and wide in welcome and I scream as gravity drags me down.

  I shut my eyes and concentrate, panic closing my throat and I can’t breathe. I need to get as far away from here as possible.

  This place is colder than ever before. My arms are stuck fast and the bright dark is lighter and more impenetrably black than ever before. I try to wrench my eyes open, but I can’t. I can’t get rid of the feeling that I need to.