Cammie
Cars that look like that stand out like a sore thumb around here. I check my rear-view again as I pull up to the house, just in case Creeper McCreeperson decides he needs an even closer look.
Although with my cousin, Shane, on the case, I can’t imagine the guy is going to get far any time soon.
Safe. For now. I’ve got all of an hour or so before I need to turn around and head back out again.
The Friday matinee at the theatre was a hit, all thanks to the Burbank Retirement home renting a couple of mini-vans to bring the residents down for an excursion. It’s nice that our drama group has made the weekday matinee a regular for our show season; it gives the older folk a chance to come along when it’s quiet, and there aren’t as many restless kids they have to contend with.
Unlike tonight. Friday night shows are always the busiest, but isn’t that what I love the most? The noise? The distraction? The barely contained chaos?
I drop my kit bag inside the door, checking once more up the driveway for any signs of the old sedan or Shane. Chances are, the traveller will be gone by the time I’ve eaten, my cousin having given him the usual once-over and passive-aggressive warning. He doesn’t keep getting awards for the town’s best cop for no reason. The people of Burbank feel safe as long as Shane’s on the beat, and that’s all thanks to his take-no-shit attitude.
I stand in the kitchen, staring into the fridge while I decide on what to eat. The rest of the backstage crew get together at the local pub for a meal between the matinee and evening show—a ritual of sorts. Sometimes I join them, but since Jared dropped the bomb about the house on me last week, I’ve found myself spending more and more time here when I can, absorbing the memories in small, unhealthy doses.
I put myself through the same torturous routine as I do every night, pulling the plastic child’s bowl out as I prepare my basic packet meal in the microwave. The matching half-size spoon means it takes me twice as long to eat my pasta, but again, that’s okay, because it’s all a part of the process.
Of the healing.
Of ripping the wound back open straight after.
Of never forgetting.
I tidy up and restock my kit bag with essentials: water to rehydrate, and snacks for intermission. The sun has set by the time I lock up and make my way back to the car, the dark overtaking the world and transforming it into something infinitely more intimate, more mysterious.
My favourite time of day.
I pull the car around and head down the driveway, glancing to my left as I prepare to pull out onto the road with all intentions of settling my nerves by proving that the beaten-down car has long since left.
Only, it’s still there. As is its occupant. Except he’s not inside the old Holden anymore—he’s seated on the roof. Odd.
I should go over and see if he needs help, ask if he’s okay. But not only has Shane already been there, done that, but I can tell, even from this distance, that the guy is more than capable of holding his own against the monsters of the night thanks to his jacked size. Anyway, if I muck around with him, I’ll be late for pre-show checks, which would involve justifying why to our stage manager. And her wrath is not the kind of attitude I have the time or patience to deal with this week.
Steering right instead, I try my best to act ignorant to the fact the roadside creeper is still there. Yet as I drive up the road, I find myself spending more time looking in the rear-view than I do at where I’m headed.
A fine metaphor for my life.
**
“Jesus, Cammie. You almost didn’t make it.”
Our sound technician, Bevan, holds the stage door open for me as I stuff my grey cardigan into my bag, leaving me all decked out in black.
“Hey,” I say as I dart down the stairs to join the rest of the crew in the first dressing room. “At least it would have given you lot some entertainment, huh?”
With a name like Mary, you might be forgiven for thinking our stage manager is a sweet lady, but there’s nothing sweet about her rock-solid five-foot-four stature. With earplugs that could be mistaken for counterweights, and a short, choppy hairstyle that screams “I will fuck you up”, she commands the space with nothing short of tyrannical charm.
“Doodles!” she greets, using the nickname she gave me the first time she spotted my extensive ink work. “Glad you could make it back.”
Given how I’ve barely managed to scrape in on time, it was definitely a good thing I didn’t head over and check on the random car and driver. “I missed you too much, Mary. Couldn’t stay away.”
She gives me a sly smirk, and then turns to address the group. Crew members all run through their routines as Mary outlines the same rules as she does every time, adding on performance notes taken from the last show. Our riggers strap their gloves; the lighting technician making scribbled notes on his jotter as Mary gives him pointers about cues that need tightening up. The runners check each other’s outfits over, ensuring they’re still completely blacked out, our youngest member tucking his green-tipped hair beneath a black knitted beanie.
Satisfied we’re all suitably threatened into making sure the show goes off without a hitch, Mary sends us to our stations. I make my way toward front-of-house with Bevan and our other spotlight operator, Susie.
“Kelly came into the pub,” Bevan states, his head down. “Probably a good thing you went home for dinner.”
“Yeah?” I try to act aloof, but they both know how relieved that near-miss will make me. Small-town gossip doesn’t allow for many secrets.
“She said Jared paid you a visit last week,” Susie adds. “Seemed real happy about it.”
“Bet the bitch did.” The three of us round the steps that lead up to the balcony and our stations.
“You haven’t seen him in ages, though.” Bevan glances across at me.
Rehearsals, especially technical ones when we have to fine-tune our sequences and cues, leave a lot of time for chatting over the headsets. A lot.
“Nope.” I pull my gloves and water from my bag, and then tuck it beneath Bevan’s sound desk. “He wants me to sell the house.”
“What?” Susie tosses her belongings on top of mine, Bevan promptly shunting them all aside with his foot as he takes his seat. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I was in denial, I guess. Hoped if I didn’t talk about it, then it wouldn’t happen. He said he wants to cut all ties from me.”
Susie frowns, shaking her head. Jared may be her second cousin, but the two of them couldn’t be any more different. “He’s a right arse, isn’t he?”
“I’m not ready to move.” I stay focused on my fingerless gloves as I tug them on, one by one. “But I don’t think I have any choice.”
“Bullshit.” Bevan pops his cans over his ears and flicks the power switch to tune in. “You’ve got options, Cammie. We’ll talk about it after, yeah? Mary’s doing a mic check.”
“Shoot.” Susie dashes off to her stand as I make my way behind the last row of seats to mine.
I put my own headset on and flick the power switch before turning on the spotlight so it can warm up.
“Spot one?” Mary calls through the line in hushed tones.
I glance over at Susie as she wrestles with her cord.
“Spot one?” Mary repeats less enthusiastically.
I flick my mic switch and answer, “She’s tangled at the moment.”
“Hello, Spot Two.”
Susie finally slides her headset on and shrugs across the rows of seats at me. “Did I miss my call?”
“You sure did,” Mary replies. “One box to Susie.”
The after-party is always a messy affair, and being a not-for-profit, the drama group doesn’t like paying for the food and alcohol. They’d rather reinvest any money made into the next production, which is why we have a penalty system. Any infractions during the run of a show incur a payment of a box of beer, or wine. Simple. Knock on wood, I’m still on nothing owed.
“Cam, you on?” our head rigger asks.
“Yeah, I’m here.”
“Make it quick, guys,” Mary warns.
“Make sure you find me after, Cammie,” he says. “The missus has some stuff for you to take to the fundraiser on Wednesday.”
“Sure thing.”
“What are you wrapped up in this time?” Susie asks.
I slide my gels out to check they’re still okay—no spots, or melted patches. “Kindergarten has their disco.”
“You still doing that?” Mary adds dryly.
“I am.” My light illuminates the wall next to the stage as I slide the cover out to check I’m good to go. Susie’s matches mine on the other side. “I have the time spare, so I figure why not?”
A collective groan comes from Susie and Bevan as Mary orders hush over the line. The house lights dip on her cue, signalling five minutes to curtain.
The familiar panic creeps in as the chatter of the audience dies down, the last people rushing to their seats. My gaze roams over the rows, mind-mapping where all the children sit. We’ve got plans in place should there be an emergency, but even so, the worry within doesn’t settle until I know where the children in the audience are and what their closest exit is.
The cue comes through for the house lights to go out entirely, and I position my hands on the grips for the spotlight, turning my focus instead to the welcome burn of the brilliant light encased beside my arm, and the show that unfolds before us.
An hour and a half of bright colours, movement, and rowdy tunes.
An hour and a half where I can pretend I’m anywhere but here.
Anywhere but where she isn’t anymore.