Chapter Thirty

Pouring yellow liquid into a tall glass has my body swaying. I skull the drink in one go and top the glass again. My level of drunkenness escalates. I’m no longer happily tipsy. I’m more unsure and unbalanced, and my body is numb. I wish my stupid brain would go numb. That would help.

I bend to retrieve a straw, and when I do, “Never Be the Same” by Camila Cabello plays from within the hut. My hips instantly begin to move to the beat, but I’m confused as to how it began playing in the first place. Where are the player and the sound system?

While slowly dancing, I search the bench and surroundings of the hut for a system. I don’t find one and give up looking straight away. I’m much too shitfaced to go on a hunt.

When the previous song ends, and Sam Smith’s “Too Good At Goodbyes” takes over, I move out onto the soft sand. I’m relaxed. I’m shaking my booty, and I dance along the shore, free from all the worry caused by Arlie’s rejection. A canary yellow cocktail fills the tall glass I have wrapped securely in my hand. I throw my head back and smell the sea air. The breeze is so refreshing. The beach is alight with warm sunrays. I admire the water for its crystal patterns, which sparkle like diamonds. The sound of Arlie speeding over the waves on the jet ski drifts far, far away … The music’s all I hear. Who cares if Arlie doesn’t love me back? Not me. I’m fine on my own and always have been.

The track changes to “Break Free” by Ariana Grande, causing my movements to grow more extensive and upbeat, and for a split moment, I get the sense the songs playing are replicating my current mental state, but I’m quick to squash these thoughts because they’re insane, and I’m enjoying the fact I’m currently having a dance party for one beachside.

Puffed, and with an empty glass, I stumble towards the deck chairs. I’m halted on the spot. Arlie.

He’s lying on a chair with the stupidest grin planted on his face.

“You really are a groover and a shaker.” His grin grows. “How’d you get music playing?” he yells above the beat.

I shrug. “I bumped something and … voila.” I throw one hand into the air. “Do you want a drink?” I shout with one eye all scrunched like a pirate.

Arlie shakes his head. “I’ll pass.”

“Your loss.”

Finding the jug full of the concoction I made, I pour another glass and walk towards the deck chair beside the one Arlie’s stretched out on.

I plonk down. Half the contents of my glass spill down my leg and onto the sand. “Bugger,” I groan before tucking the straw between my teeth and sucking away on the sweet, sweet juice, not caring I’m covered in alcohol.

“You’re enjoying those, aren’t you?”

“You bet your sweet arse I am.”

“Hang on.” Arlie climbs off the chair. “Let me turn this music down; it’s blaring.”

“Whatevs.” I giggle. Holy hell, I’m drunk. My head’s spinning. The beach is spinning, but Arlie’s not. He’s the only object not out of control in my vision.

Arlie disappears from my view. I close my eyes, relax back into the chair, and keep sipping away.

The volume of the music becomes minimal.

I instantly miss it and want the volume turned louder. I need to turn it back up.

I can’t get up. I don’t move.

“That’s better,” Arlie says, causing me to open my eyes.

We lie side by side in silence. The sun lowers toward the horizon. My drink’s empty, and my body’s so relaxed I feel like I’m floating on the gentle waves filling my vision. This is paradise.

“Can I ask you something?” Arlie suddenly says.

“Uh-huh.” Nothing’s going to ruin my state of relaxation.

“You don’t have to tell me about it, but I’m hoping you will.”

I don’t reply.

“When you were planning to leave, you said, well, you blurted out you weren’t a doctor anymore.”

“Yep!”

“You said you were a receptionist when we were back home in Melbourne.”

“Spot on.”

“So you’re a receptionist?”

“Not just any receptionist.” I roll onto my side. “I’m a receptionist for an escort agency,” I whisper, wiggling my eyebrows.

Arlie doesn’t react.

“Right? Pretty epic, huh?”

Arlie half-heartedly laughs. “Well, it’s definitely interesting. So, what, you answer phones, and you book jobs?”

“Nope!” I lie. “I have phone sex daily.”

“What?” Arlie reacts this time by straightening his torso and staring.

“1800-I’m-A-Whore, Melinda speaking.” I portray my sexiest voice. “How may I service you?”

Arlie swings his legs over the side of the chair. He’s now wholly sitting and staring.

“It makes for some super long days, but it’s rewarding for someone who doesn’t get laid like me.”

“Hold up. Hold up. What?”

“You asked. I told. It’s my job.”

There’s a long silence, and I struggle to contain the laughter trying to force itself from behind my pressed lips.

“I don’t believe you. I think you’re messing with me.”

“You’ll never know.” I laugh, relieved to have parted with the pressure of my humour.

“No seriously, is that what you do?”

“Yep.” I laugh harder.

“Well, fuck!”

“Fuck with my mouth is right.”

Arlie doesn’t seem amused when I hopelessly struggle to sit the same way he is. “Are you lying again?”

“Yep.”

Arlie blows out a sigh of relief. “Seriously, you had me going then.”

“Good.”

“You answer phones and take bookings, right?”

I nod.

“For an escort company?”

“Yep. That part was true. But I’m not even sure if I have a job anymore.”

“Why?”

“Because my boss did not seem impressed I was taking this time off to come here. Plus, things there have been so weird. Like, my boss is acting strange. I think she’s had botched plastic surgery or something. I don’t know.”

“I’m sure you have a job to go back to.”

“I’m not even sure I want to go back when I go home. I hate that job.”

“You hate it?”

“Yep.”

“Okay then. Will you go back into medicine do you think? You’re also a doctor, or were a doctor?”

“Was. Am. I can still practice medicine. Like, I’m still registered, but I don’t.”

“How drunk are you?”

“Very.”

“Do you want to talk about this?”

“Whatever floats your boat. I’m cool, dude.”

Arlie laughs.

I fall back into the chair.

“So you stopped practicing because of a death.”

“Not because of a death, but because I caused the death.”

“That’s what I wanted to ask you about. I wanted to ask at the time you said it, but you were trying to flee and were worked up. However, I’d like to know.”

“I don’t talk about it.”

“Maybe you should.”

“Maybe.”

“I’ll listen if you want to tell me.”

Tell Arlie about the life I took. Explain everything.

I think not. It’ll kill my current impressive buzz.

“Another time,” I say, kicking my feet into the air and shuffling until I’m comfortable. I again watch the gentle waves skirting into shore.

Arlie doesn’t say another word. The sun drops even farther towards the horizon. It’ll be night soon, but that doesn’t mean the party needs to end. I must find the energy to clamber over to the bar, find out how to turn the music back up, and do it.

I don’t move. Instead, I think about the life I took in detail, like I didn’t want to.

“Have you ever killed someone?” I say, almost inaudibly.

“Apart from my mother, no.”

“You didn’t kill her. Someone at a train station did,” I reply without emotion or sensitively.

There’s a long pause. “He took her life, yes, but I sent her. Now he does twenty years in a jail cell, and I get to be on this island with you. It doesn’t seem right, does it?”

I laugh. I shouldn’t laugh, but I do. “You never killed her—he did. You also never sent her there—it’s what happened. You couldn’t control the situation.” I find Arlie’s response ridiculous in my booze-soaked state.

Arlie doesn’t reply.

“You know what, Arlie? A wise, highly flamboyant gay dude once told me that when our number ticks over, that’s it, and no matter what we do, the result will always be the same. So you can lock yourself into eternal damnation until your number arrives and blame yourself, or you can grow some lady balls and live your life.”

“Chris?” he asks.

“Yeah, Chris. He says Leon Drucelli would have died that day regardless if I had made the call or not. Do you believe we can’t change the course of someone’s untimely death? Do you think it’ll happen anyway?”

“My sister does. Me? I’m still undecided.”

“Your sister should meet Chris.”

Arlie chuckles lowly.

“It’s the guilt. It’s too much to handle.” I roll onto my side to face Arlie.

“Why do you feel guilty?”

There’s a long silence.

“He was very sick when he arrived at the hospital. Diagnostics was kind of my talent as a doctor. Between you and me, I failed at surgery and emergency medicine. Too clumsy.” I let out a sharp, short laugh. “But on the medical ward, when tough cases came in, I always seemed to find the answer.”

“That’s a good thing.” Arlie stares into my eyes.

“It is until you get it really wrong.” I stop, take a deep breath, then continue. “That day, the day Leon came in, I’d concluded we were looking at two different bacterial-type illnesses. Leon was deteriorating fast, and I had to make a call. If I didn’t, he wouldn’t see the morning.” I take another long, steady breath. “I decided to administer a highly controversial drug, which nowadays works wonders in saving lives. Back then, though, it was still going through the trial stages. If I was right, he’d live. If I was wrong, he’d die.”

“And on this occasion, you were wrong?” Arlie says softly.

“No, I wasn’t—that’s the thing. In his autopsy, it turned out I was right.”

“So how is it your fault?”

“Because I intubated him. I’d done it a million times before, and every single time, I’d nailed it. That day, I shoved the tube down his oesophagus and took the wrong track. I placed it in his food pipe, not his windpipe. He died from suffocation. So it was my fault.”

“And you’re human,” Arlie says matter-of-factly.

“I had a duty of care to not only him but also to his family. By the time I realised what I’d done, it was too late. He passed away, and no matter how many times I pumped his chest and wished I could bring him back, it never happened. I couldn’t call time of death. I couldn’t even move from his bedside. In the end, I was led out by my colleagues.”

“I’m sorry this happened to you. I can imagine how making those calls and performing those procedures do come with huge amounts of stress.”

“I’d never felt stressed by my job. The thought of going back, helping people—now that’s a whole bundle of killer heart attack stress for me now.”

“Did you love being a doctor?”

“With every beat of my heart. It’s all I ever wanted to do.”

“So go back and do it. Life’s too short.”

“And kill someone all over again? I don’t think so.”

“And save someone all over again.” Arlie’s eyes don’t leave mine when he stands and then sits beside me.

“I can’t, Arlie, even though I wish I could.” A single tear drips from my eye down my cheek.

Arlie’s quick to swipe it away. “How about another drink? I’ll turn the music back up.” He grabs my hand. I need someone to hold my hand right now.

“Okay,” I whisper.

And as Arlie lets go of me, then walks away, I find myself shocked at the fact I spilled the details of the most horrible thing I’ve ever done in my life to him. Apart from Chris, I’ve never told anyone the complete story before.

Holy shit! I just told the entire world.

What is it about Arlie that makes me want to confess to him everything about my life, everything I feel, and everything I am?