Just The Ticket Page 2

her. It wasn’t so much in the corner of her mind, as covering the whole of it, like clear plastic wrap. But when she unwrapped the moment again, it was gone. Flimsy as scribble in the sand. With every moment fixed on the mystery, the rest of life was simply a distraction. Nothing else seemed important. Still, nothing happened.

  The bus arrived and she climbed on board. As she took her seat she noticed an old blind lady outside hurrying along the footpath tapping her cane. The woman lifted her head as she heard the bus.

  “Bus, bus, stop!” She yelled, but the bus hurtled on. Do something she told herself, but it was too late. A man seated opposite her looked at her hard, then leaned over.

  “What lane are you in?” He asked with a gruff voice.

  “What lane?” she asked, searching his face for an answer.

  “The slow lane,” she finally said, almost automatically.

  He sunk back in his chair and looked the other way. The bus stopped at the traffic lights. She looked out the window at a huge advertising bill board opposite. The lens suddenly zoomed in. There was a picture of a woman who looked just like her, surrounded by books – like a scene stolen from the bookshop. She’d drunk from the little ‘Drink Me’ bottle and had grown to an enormous Alice in Wonderland – bursting out of the bus.

  When she arrived at the medical centre she took a seat in the waiting room. After a while, her name was called and she followed the doctor into her small office and sunk into the chair, wondering how to explain. Needing to say enough, afraid to say too much.

  “How can I help you?” Asked the doctor.

  “I think someone is watching me,” she said, trying to sound restrained as the feelings tumbled ahead of her voice.

  He waited, wanting more information.

  “I’ve seen cars following me,” she said.

  “Why would someone be watching you?”

  She stared at her feet.

  “I know how it sounds, but...”

  Finally the doctor said, “I’m very concerned about the things you are saying. I’d like you to see a specialist.”

  The doctor printed a list of phone numbers on a piece of paper, handed it to her and she left.

  She walked through the busy streets to the bus stop and waited. When the bus came toward her she stood and waited. She moved toward the bus, but the driver continued along the road without stopping, all the faces in the windows turning toward her as it passed. She thought that she saw his face too, but couldn’t be sure for the glare from the sun on the window.

  When she arrived at her front door it was open. She walked through the house and sat outside on the back step. She could hear fuzzy jazz coming from a radio through the open window, pressed with the sounds of a neighbour washing dishes. The cool hand of the evening breeze danced through the leaves. It was as if she was being drawn by some whisper off stage, yet strangely indecisive about it. A presence? A voice? It was fighting to push through the door as she desperately tried to hold it shut. Unable to make it stop. Somewhere a screen door closed with a metallic slap.

  You are dressed as a bride and about to walk down the aisle. The music starts and everyone turns to watch, but there is no one waiting up ahead…

  She woke with words in her head, like the line of a song: ‘you are the bride walking, walking, walking...’ She often woke with words in her head. But on this morning, the doorbell rang and she opened it to a young woman who asked if she could spare a few minutes and handed her a glossy magazine advertising bridal services. On the cover, a picture of wedding bells and a bride who looked strikingly similar to her.

  “Interesting,” she said, handing it back to her and shutting the door. She pulled the bolt across the door. If only she could bolt her mind.

  The morning light made the house look like a still life. She put the kettle on. Should I or shouldn’t I be doing something, she wondered, finding it harder and harder to make decisions about anything, in case some bird might swoop down and clutch her up as a consequence?

  Walking through the house, she closed all the curtains and blinds, reluctant to throw any more light into her overexposed life. Whatever was going on, she resigned it to some sense of internal unity. The best way to continue was to be distracted by the immediate task ahead. Live in a moment of no history and no future. To hurriedly return emails, make phone calls, and accept invitations to get out of the house.

  As she walked out the front door she saw a hubcap leaning up against the light post. On the way to work she began to see hubcaps everywhere. She was growing more and more frightened, wondering just what secret she had to keep a cap on.

  Inside the bookshop she was staring through the shop window when the phone rang.

  “Is it you?” asked the caller.

  “Sorry, who did you want?” She asked.

  But the woman had hung up.

  “You’re very quiet,” said her colleague, now beside her. “Are you ok?”

  Her thoughts spun around like marbles making their way down a funnel.

  “Something’s going on,” she said but ran out of words. She had to keep the game under the radar of the everyday. Desperate to lighten the load, but caught between what was happening and afraid of ruining the secret. It could be a trick. Like living with a half-read book or a shoelace undone. She’d joined the ranks of those who live in the gaps - whose questions go unanswered.

  On her way home from work that night she wandered through a closed shopping mall, looking inside the empty shop windows. She heard the strains of a familiar song, that same song. It was coming from the only shop with lights still on. As she passed by the shop window she saw a life-sized picture of herself hanging on the wall looking back through the glass at her. She kept walking, still looking. She couldn’t be sure. Maybe it was her or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was real, but then, was it true? Like shifting on each foot. From one possibility to another, she wanted something to verify. Finding that felt like finding the end of the rainbow.

  It is dark and there is the soft sound of flowing water, as if someone has left the tap running. You are walking down the street through ankle deep water, as if the tide is coming in.

  So much water everywhere in her dreams. She was nearly swamped in waking life too, floating, awash in a world of mirrors. Constantly flexed to expect everything, anything and nothing.

  Outside the days filled with rain. Windows everywhere wept. She filled her bag with laundry and walked to the local Laundromat. Rows of washing machines faced off against dryers. She heaved clothes into the washer and pushed in coins zombie-like. Arms and legs like levers and pulleys. The rhythmic sound was a comfort and she sat hypnotized, as if feeling the slow turn of the earth.

  Dull laughs from the television on the wall rose above the churning machine and dropped again. For a moment it seemed they were laughing at her. I’m getting worse, she thought and walked over to the television and changed the channel.

  Up on screen was an advertisement, and she caught a glimpse of the woman’s face briefly: hers.

  To simply ignore what was happening was to live in denial. Like lingering at some train platform, waiting for more information before making a judgement. It must be some sort of strange test, she thought. Sooner or later the truth would reveal itself. That was only reasonable. The furious crescendo and swift halt of the machine catapulted her back into action. She moved the wet load of clothes to the trolley, trolley to dryer and pushed in more coins.

  A shot of the outback with jumping kangaroos and the sound of a didgeridoo came on screen. She adjusted the volume. The presenter was interviewing a weathered looking aborigine about his story - stolen as a child from where he lived. ‘It’s sad,’ he replied and tilted his hat to hide his face from the camera.

  The rain was pelting down now and the windows were fogging up. She was alone in the bright laundry room. It occurred to her suddenly to lock herself inside, holding herself hostage and starving to death over the next few weeks. Maybe then someone would notice? She knew this th
ought was a plant. Her friends were somewhere on the periphery of life. Their scripts were comedies, character-driven dramas or action films.

  The machine beeped to tell her the load was dry, and she folded it into the basket and headed home. As she reached the front door to her house she heard quick footsteps behind her. Rushing to feed the key into the lock, she felt someone pulling at her. She clung to the door handle screaming as the man wrestled for the keys. Her screams rang out in the neighbourhood, from behind a thick veil of silence, like an iron curtain. It surprised her just how loud her voice really was. After a few seconds he had the keys and ran down the dark street.

  After a moment, she left the washing and continued down the street. As she walked, a taxi pulled over next to the footpath a little way ahead. The door swung open and it sat waiting. A sign to get inside. Somehow she knew this.

  As she approached with each step her thoughts raced. And if she did get inside, how much farther would it take her away from what was real? She stepped on, past the taxi door and it slammed with a bang.

  'You lose.' The words chimed in her head. She reached the corner and turned down the street with a wave of emotion and, for a moment, wondered if even her own feelings were real anymore.

  As she continued a few people passing her frowned or shook their head at her. She couldn’t decide if she was angry or