Free Smoke in the Room by Emily Maguire Page B

sleep.’
    â€˜It’s fine. Sun’s down now, though. If you want to go back.’ She held her breath, waiting, but he didn’t move or answer and, after a minute or so, she lay down on the bed, careful not to touch him.
    â€˜I know you don’t want to talk about it, but I just wanted to say that I’m sorry. I can’t imagine what it feels like.’
    He swallowed loudly. ‘It feels unreal.’
    â€˜Was it sudden?’
    â€˜No. Yes. I mean, it’s why we came here. She said she’d feel better at home and we both pretended that meant she’d get better once we were here. Even in the hospice . . . I mean, it’s crazy. I remember thinking, Jesus, thirty-five years old and I never realised there were whole buildings set aside for people waiting to die. I remember her saying “a good rest is just what I need” and this nurse giving me this sad smile, like we were united in pity over Genie’s delusion. I remember thinking “Fuck you, it might be true,” and then realised that every second person in this place is thinking the same thing. I remember thinking all that and still –
still
– being surprised when it happened.’
    â€˜Katherine. I’ve been calling since I got in from work. Is your phone broken?’
    Katie imagined Gran sitting in her navy work shirt and the pink pyjama shorts she changed into as soon as she got home. She would be holding a can of Diet Coke, looking out the side window onto the council park, shaking herhead at the take-away chicken containers and cigarette packets abandoned on the single graffiti-splattered bench. Tapping the cane phone table in frustration as the phone rang out again and again.
    â€˜Battery went flat without me noticing.’
    â€˜Is everything okay there? How’s Graeme working out?’
    â€˜Oh, fine.’ Katie propped the phone under her chin so she could refill her glass. The wine dribbled out, reminding her that this was the last cask and she was out of cash again. ‘Hardly know he’s here.’
    â€˜And Adam?’
    â€˜He’s asleep,’ Katie said. ‘He sleeps a lot.’
    â€˜Does he?’
    â€˜Mmm. Hey, did you know he’s a widower?’
    â€˜What? No.’
    â€˜His wife was called Eugenie. It’s so sad. I can hardly stand it.’
    â€˜Oh, Katherine, darling. You’re not getting involved with him, are you?’
    â€˜Jesus. I just told you the man’s wife died.’
    â€˜And you sound very upset about it.’
    â€˜Yes, I am. Because it’s upsetting.’ Katie slugged some wine. ‘Don’t you think it’s upsetting, Gran?’
    â€˜Of course it is . . . Listen, darling, I’m sending you a brochure I picked up about a childcare course running at the TAFE up the road.’
    â€˜Childcare, Gran? Really?’
    â€˜Well, why not? You’re energetic and –’
    â€˜And unstable and irresponsible, not to mention –’
    â€˜You’re talking yourself out of it before you’ve even given the idea a chance.’
    â€˜But being responsible for children, Gran!’
    Gran sighed. ‘Just have a read of it, okay?’
    â€˜Yeah.’
    â€˜And Katherine, the American . . .’
    â€˜What about him?’
    â€˜Just try not to . . . Try not to take on all his problems. Try not to get too . . . invested.’
    â€˜Right.’ Katie wished she had a temazapam to go with the last of the wine. She wished she hadn’t wasted all that money on drinks that Adam either threw up or slept off. She wished she hadn’t answered the phone or told Gran about Eugenie or been so transparent.
    The conversation had left Katie feeling jittery, fragmented. The guilt of her teenage years – the suspicion that she was coddling herself, cultivating this wacky but fragile persona just to avoid facing up to reality – returned.
    She