Sottopassaggio Read Free

nod.
    â€œThe guy is coming around to do a new valuation of the house but basically everyone agrees that it’s not the best time to sell right now. They all say that house prices are still rocketing and that the best place for my equity is right here.” He taps the table to show where
here
is.
    I nod again and sip my tea.
    â€œI don’t want to rent it again though. It was so much hassle last time.” He looks around the room before adding, “So I guess, what I need to know is if you’re going to stay here. Or are you going back?”
    I open my mouth to speak, but then close it again.
    â€œMaybe you haven’t decided yet?” Owen prompts.
    â€œYeah …” I say.
    Owen nods. “I have to get back to Melbourne,” he says.
    I nod.
    â€œI’m missing Beverley and we have that trip planned for the beginning of May,” he says.
    â€œTrip?” I question.
    Owen nods. “We’ve rented a camper van. We’re driving along the south coast. I thought I mentionedit.”
    I shrug. “I don’t think so, but yeah, that sounds great.”
    I picture our father’s camper van parked outside the house. Forever gleaming. Forever outside the house, always ready for the imminent, but never actually realised trip across Europe.
    â€œSo?” Owen nods at me, his eyebrows raised.
    I frown at him.
    â€œWill you be OK?” He leans across the table and stares into my eyes.
    I glance away to avoid the intensity of his gaze. Since the accident expressions of love or sympathy just make me cry, and I’m exhausted with crying.
    â€œIf you need me to stay longer,” he says.
    I sigh. “No, I’m fine,” I nod. “You’ve done so much already, I’m sorry to have …”
    â€œNo, this has been good.” Owen lifts a pile of papers from the table. “I had to deal with all this,” he says.
    I nod.
    â€œSo?” Owen asks.
    I realise that this is the third time he has asked the question. I look at him blankly and perform the mental equivalent of pulling straws.
    â€œHere,” I say. My voice has an unintended aggressive quality.
    Owen smiles at me, encouraging me to continue.
    â€œI can’t really think about anything else right now,” I say. “I need the space I guess.”
    Owen wrinkles his brow in concern and sighs.
    The music is swelling again and I can feel pressure building behind my eyes, so I force a smile and stand.
    As Owen shuffles paper behind me, I stand in the window and watch the sea and think about the dozy dreamlike quality within my mind.
    I once dreamt I was falling from a skyscraper and when I awoke, I was convinced that I knew something new; that I knew how it feels to fall from a skyscraper, and though it was only a dream, though it never happened, I can still remember the sickening, free-fall sensation today.
    Right now, I feel as though I have dreamt my own death; I feel like I know how it feels to have died.
    I feel detached from the outcomes I always worried about, detached from the endless goals I was building towards, a relationship, a good job, a home of my own … They’re all gone, all irrelevant. Equally all of the options seem to fit just fine. Here or Nice, what’s to choose?
    I lie down on the sofa and close my eyes and listen to the rise and fall of the music and the rustle of paper behind me. The feeling of dozing while someone works nearby is reassuring and wonderful. It will be hard when Owen leaves.
    As I doze I forget where I am, and then as I linger on the edge of dreams I become confused about which sofa this is and I think I am back home in my flat in Nice, and then that I am on the sofa of our childhood home. As sleep overtakes me I think that Owen, behind me, is my father.
    When I open my eyes everything looks more, almost too much. Too much
like itself
.
    The information from my senses seems fresh and different; everything looks a little sharper,