Being Kalli (20 page)

“You did.
You just can’t see what I see.”

When he t
urns over his fingers and mine, I can’t pull away. The only way I can unweave myself from him is if he or an external force separates me. A thought comes to mind and without thinking, I say, “You own part of me now.”

He
turns my hand over in his palm. Squeezes. “You too.”

With Mum in therapy, I’m looking after the twins this afternoon. They have emptied out their storage bucket of blocks. They are mostly strewn over the rug, the best ones in a pile between them as they start building a structure. Knowing they’re busy, I sit my laptop in my lap and catch up on social media and emails.

And wow.

In the craziness of my recent life, it seems the internet stops for no nineteen-year-old. Facebook has 99+ notifications, I have countless tweets and messages, and a tonne of emails.

I start scrolling through the emails. There’s this, that.
Spam, subscription newsletters, deals and such. Some from real people.

Then I see the
two emails from Geoffrey at Summertym Entertainment.

The
first one reads:

From: [email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Subject: Interest in meeting regarding Saturday concert

Hi Kallisto,

I wanted to congratulate you, on behalf of myself and the acquisitions team at Summertym Entertainment. I love discovering new talent and, after seeing both your performances on Saturday (the Bach piece and your original composition), I would love to organise a meeting to discuss your interest in potential involvement with us in the future.

While Summertym Entertainment records many pop and R&B artists, in the last five years we’ve expanded focus to our Feel It label which solely records artists such as stage performers like yourself. We’re looking to bring a modern, conversational edge
, and your young image and deeply moving talent is exactly what our director wants.

My telephone is attached under my signatory, so please do call if you want. Otherwise, I’m available by email.

Looking forward to discussing further!

Regards, Geoffrey

My mouth is suddenly dry, but grabbing a drink is far from my mind. I blink and my screen is still there.

Not trusting my
self, since my senses are on alert, buzzing, I have to read through the email again. This wouldn’t be a prank, right? Why would someone go to the effort of creating such a realistic email address and type so formally, have every detail perfect? Spam is always written in broken English.

OMG,
this might be real
.

Sitting on the
couch, reading from my laptop, the computer bounces in my lap wildly as my legs jitter. Looking back to my screen, it’s still there. Really there. This guy is serious. Then, as it sinks in, my hands start shaking and I wonder.

What if he s
igns me? What if I get a single or an album?

And then—

I scroll to the top of the email and check the date. He sent it the Monday after the performance: eleven days ago.

I missed the best opportunity of my life.

During my aftermath of panic, I realise I still have his second email to go through. If I lost my mind reading his first email, I’m a bundle of dread seeing the second one. I can’t think of a worse outcome than him extremely excited to sign me—me! a nobody!—to him politely withdrawing his offer because of my MIA stance.

I
have to read it, though, so I go on:

From: [email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Subject:
Fwd: Interest in meeting regarding Saturday concert

Kallisto, I wondered why I haven’t heard back from you all week. Then I thought: you had no idea I was at the concert, I’ve never emailed you before, and you must have been wary of receiving a strange email. I’m forwarding my original email below just in case you didn’t see it.

I spoke to the lead organiser for the night and he had great things to say about you, not just about this year’s concert, but about your previous involvement and your history playing the violin. Your story intrigued me and so I Googled you, which brought me to the contact form on your blog/site.

I won’t pester you again, but I’ve also attached two documents about Summertym Entertainment and Feel It. In any case, please call or email me so we can chat if you’re still interested.

Geoffrey.

In my panic I do the only thing I can. I turn to the twins and ask for their opinion.

“So cool, Kalli!” Seth cries. “Are you famous?”

“Not yet,” I say. “It might never even turn into music on the radio and at the shops.”

Tristan sticks his head in front of Seth
and taps my thigh as I sit on my feet. “But why?”

“Well, it’s lots of hard work, for one. There are lots of people like me trying to make their
music sound good and sell. Maybe this Geoffrey man and I might not agree. Lots of reasons. But most of all, it’s lots of work. I could be on a ‘tour’ which means I go on a special holiday around the world to play and talk about my songs. I might not get home until really late some nights and I could be away for days, all the time for meetings and to record playing the violin.”

“We don’t care!” Seth
says on behalf of them both. “Mummy is getting medicine to feel better, and your friend can stay here if you need to play violin.”

“Hey, guys,” I say. I grab each
of them around the waist and scoop them close. I look between them, see their eyes wide and their lips trembling. “Won’t you miss me? Do you want me to do this?”

“
Kalli
!” Tristan, croons. “We want a big famous sister.”

“Yeah!”

I lean Tristan against one side of my ribs, rest Seth on my other and I plop my chin on top of his head, smelling his strawberry shampoo. I know these boys get excited about everything and anything, but they’re babies, dependent on me completely. I did not, even with them in a giddy mood like now, expect them to be okay with this. Maybe they don’t get it.

“But, I could be away for days, maybe a whole we
e—”

“I’m not dumb! You said that!”

I bite my lip, suppressing a giggle. Okay, so maybe I’m the dumb one for underestimating them. They may not have a clue, but they want this, whatever “this” it is they understand.

I don’t have to reject the contract if my brothers, my two biggest loves in the world, are rooting for me. In fact, I feel like I can do
this, be someone, leave that skank Kalli Perkins behind. In fact, I believe all that needs to be done is to speak to Geoffrey, read the terms of the contract, possibly find an agent and sign.

I just hope things will be that simple.

• • •

When A
unty Nicole comes over to see Mum for the first time in twelve years, it’s oddly like they were just chatting yesterday. I was seven the last time I was “allowed” to see her, and I remember patches of this and that. The way I’d smell berries every time she entered a room. Her knock pattern when she arrived at our house.

I’d warned Mu
m about Aunty Nicole and I. I know, terribly anticlimactic since I’ve hidden seeing her for years only to admit it once I don’t need to hide anything. But it’ll come out, since I can’t act as if I don’t know her, and the less stressors for Mum, the better.

A
s I open the front door Nicole is there, holding a big bag of Mars bars, and saying before the door fully opens, “She still likes these right?”

I smile and kiss her cheek. “Hey. And yes. She’ll love that you brought something regardless.”

Nicole gives an unsure, wobbly smile and steps past me. Just the look on her face tells me she’s thought and overthought her entrance, and this wasn’t one of them. It’s a cutthroat tense silence as she walks down the hall, and I follow behind her.

Until Mu
m steps into our view from the kitchen.

“N
i
c!”

“Oh my God, Mary?”

My aunty’s tone is more of a statement than a question. As if she’s exclaiming it, yet is so surprised she’s unsure. Heck, I would be too after twelve years.

Aunty Nicole and Mu
m end up making one of their childhood desserts together. I can’t explain it, which I guess makes it so special. There are eggs and flour and cinnamon, and I walk away to leave them to it, since it feels like I’m stealing their show with this not being a reunion in the strictest sense for Nicole and I.

We all watch reruns of
Bewitched
, and while it’s one of the old TV shows that is still great today, I don’t pretend to enjoy it the same way they do. Nicole and Mum go into fits of slapping their thighs, chucking their heads back and cackling, pointing to the TV with dead-straight arms and snorting.

I really don’t think it has much to do with
Bewitched
at all.

Though it’s a weeknight, it’s 10.30 before Aunty Nicole says she has to leave, 11 once she actually states she’s leaving and 11.30 by the time she ge
ts in her car and drives off. Mum and her wave goodbye, Mum running all the way down the steps and my aunty matching her tone, too, screaming out her window.

Once inside, Mu
m sighs and flops on the couch. Luckily for us, the boys are with Chester tonight, so we can just relax and be irresponsible kids.

The house seems strang
e with the buzzing silence.

I ask her what she thought of
the evening and she goes on about the best bits.

“Mary,” I say
after a while. “I need to know something.”

She motions as if washing her face in her hands
, and then blinks away her tiredness. “Yup?”

“How can I tell if you’re having fun or having
fun
?”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean.” She lifts her legs and pauses, hovering over my lap. “May I?”

I nod and she lays out her legs over my thighs. You’d think with eighteen years between us, and her being such an atypical mum that I’d know her inside out as a mother and a friend, but there’s a part of her I’m noticing I don’t know at all.

“Your suicide attempt, I mean. I know you’ve explained it, but how? Why? Every night before bed it’s all I
think about.”

“I’m no
t sure you’d get it.” She realises it came out wrong, then adds, “As in, no one would.”

“I think I would. I’m not the normalest out there.”

She cackles shamelessly and I can’t help but wonder that although Mum always says she’s having fun, she rarely laughs, and maybe that’s the difference.

“Do you ever ride a high for so long
, for so high you wonder what it’s like to come crashing down?” She glances at me, but I’m not going to interrupt now.

“
You know what I did wasn’t your fault. It was lots of things. Guilt for being a spaced druggie when my daughter needed me; angry I just boxed away anything that went wrong, what I’ve done in my past. At that moment in the bedroom, how you were too worried to tell me. I can’t describe the low, dreadful feeling. It cut down all my efforts to move on, be a better person.

“I didn’t feel there was a point
, since there was absolutely no way to fix the last decade. And there is a lot of regret to carry around with what I’ve done. You’re the most special person in my life and I ignored you. But bottom line is I was a coward.

“
I’m getting help on how I deal. I dealt all wrong. Talk to me tomorrow or some other time, and there’s a chance I could be smoking and popping again. It’s this huge pendulum that I go through with my moods. The first week my medication didn’t do much, but a few weeks on I’m feeling it, and the urge to go back is weak. Still, I can feel myself about to slip sometimes and it scares me. Maybe realising the severity of this all is good? Right now it just feels confusing.” Mum shakes her head. “I’m not even saying it all right.”

I have chills down my spine and my body reacts as though
it’s near freezing out. That’s how deep the shakes go. Right to my bones and through.

“Mary, I’m not forcing you. You don’t eve
n have to tell me. You’ve got secrets so big you don’t know where to start and how you’ll ever end. I get that plenty. It’s fine.”

“Thanks.
For understanding. But it’s part of my therapy plan. If I’m uncomfortable with something it’s on my bucket list to face it at one point.”

“And me?”

“You’re right at the bottom. I’ll get to you right at the end when I have the courage.”

“I’m that bad?” I say, winking, and nudging her legs with my knees.

When she meets my eyes, her look is serious, as if I’d actually knocked and hurt her, not mucked around.