Moonface

Moonface

Here’s how it went.

I woke up that morning at 5:37am. I remember the time because I have a habit of waking up at something-thirty-seven, whatever the hour. Felix always said it must be because I have some psychic connection to that number I am yet to understand. Well, whatever, my body clock was fucked. I hadn’t really slept for five days so the two or so hours of sleep I’d just had were good enough for me. The funeral wasn’t until noon, so I watched six or seven episodes of Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman, season one, which Felix had bought for me for US $10.90 off Amazon a week before. By the time I considered myself hungry enough to choke down some Coco Pops, I saw the clock and freaked because it was 11:47 and I wasn’t even dressed.

Em was supposed to pick me up at 11:30, and I wondered where she was. I didn’t have an outfit planned or anything, so I put on my black jeans and the Easy Rider t-shirt I stole off Felix ages ago, and then dug through my bag for my phone, which I eventually discovered was still in my jacket pocket from yesterday, and I’d left my jacket in the kitchen so I hadn’t heard the 12 missed calls from Em when I was dozily watching Dr. Quinn. Felix and I used to love watching Dr. Quinn together on the Hallmark channel. Every character in it was just so good, you know—deeply good—and that made me want to be good too. By then it was 11:56 and I didn’t even have time to look in the mirror. I grabbed my keys and hurried outside. My phone rang. 11:58. It was Em.

‘Hey,’ I answered.

‘Where the fuck are you! I was banging on your door for, like, half an hour.’

‘I know, I was watching Dr. Quinn. I didn’t hear you.’

‘Dr. who? Jesus, Soph.’ There was an angry pause, a growl of disbelief. ‘Do you want me to come pick you up?’

‘No, it’s okay.’

‘It’s already twelve!’

‘I’ll be there soon. Just—stop stressing.’

There was another pause, but it seemed sympathetic.

‘Are you okay, Soph?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Really?’

‘Well, no. But it’s fine. See you in a bit.’

‘Okay … love you.’

‘You too.’

I hung up and had to take a moment. My throat was tight, hot—my eyes stung. I took a shaky breath and tried to think of nothing. It was probably at this point, 12:01, when the numbness took over because everything from here onwards comes back in blurs. I know I jumped on my bike without a helmet and got honked at by a taxi I think I cut in front of. I know I reached the park in twenty minutes or so, and dropped my bike by our tree, the tree we etched out names into: Soph and Felix were here, 03. We even named our tree—Moonface, after Moonface in The Faraway Tree. We were kids when we did that, like, fourteen or fifteen. It didn’t feel so long ago, though.

Funerals are strange and unreal. While you’re there, your emotions and the emotions of everyone around you are so hazardous that you sort of drift along, your eyes glazed, as if in a dream. You stiffly embrace a lot of people you’ll later forget; fiddle nervously with your program which will be frayed and blotchy by the end of the day; listen absolutely attentively to the speeches, your face crumpling in sympathy when the speaker has to take a moment to recompose himself.

It was like this, exactly like this, at my grandparents’ funerals, at the funeral of an old classmate’s mother, at the funeral of my aunt who died of lung cancer. But at Felix’s funeral, it was something else entirely. To say that I felt in a dream would be a lie. I didn’t feel like I was asleep, or dreaming, or not entirely there—I felt dead. Truly dead. Dead as a doornail.

There were loads of black folding chairs set up at the park, so many that it’s the only decorative feature I really noticed. Black folding chairs and people, people all dressed up formally, and in black. My t-shirt, Felix’s t-shirt, was bright orange with a funny cartoon of Dennis Hopper on a motorcycle—I felt a bit stupid, and wished I’d put more thought into my attire. It was a pretty significant event—you’d think I could’ve made an effort. That’s what my mum wanted to say when she saw me. I could tell. When I approached her, her eyes shifted from sad and puffy, to puzzled and annoyed, to sad and puffy again in about five guilty seconds.

‘Oh, my darling,’ she greeted tearfully, stroking my hair and hugging me to her. ‘Tell me you’ve changed your mind?’

‘I’m fine, Mum, I told you.’

‘Even just a week, so you don’t have to worry about food or work or—clothes.’ Her eyes fell on my t-shirt. ‘It would do you good to get out of that house, help you forget about—’

‘I’m okay by myself, Mum, so—just—drop it.’

As I hovered away, I could feel eyes, polka dots of eyes all following me sadly, pitifully, like I was a homeless person or an orphan with a wooden leg. I was engulfed by a tsunami of condolences—

‘Sophie, honey. How are you holding up?’ ‘… such a shock …’

‘…he was so young …’ ‘… always liked to live a little dangerously, our Felix did …’ ‘… oh, how he adored you, Sophie. You were so good for him.’

At some point, Em must have steered me away. I guess I looked pretty damn rugged. I hadn’t showered in a while, or eaten, or slept; my fringe was plastered to my forehead from the stress of being late; I wasn’t saying anything to anyone. So Em led me off, and I remember her grabbing my shoulders in manner of a coach preparing his star footballer for the upcoming match.

‘How’s your speech?’

Oh God, speech. I had written one too, but I hadn’t printed it out. I could not believe it—I had forgotten my fucking funeral speech.

‘You’ve forgotten your fucking funeral speech,’ Em deadpanned. She must’ve read between the lines of my alarmed expression. She put her hands behind her head then dropped them frantically.

‘Shit,’ she breathed. ‘Shit. Can you remember what it said?’

I searched my brain—blank. Blank blank blank. I shook my head a little manically. I was crumpling now, teetering, swaying. I couldn’t speak. I was determined not to break down—I didn’t want all those weird people groping me with sympathy again.

Em’s eyes probed mine. She gave a weak smile and drew me into a bear hug.

‘You fucking dunce,’ she almost laughed, and her tears wet my hair.

I didn’t reply. I collapsed into her and sobbed like a little kid.

Throughout the service, I was sitting up the front next to Felix’s family, staring at old Moonface in the distance. My best friend was dead. Dead. That word didn’t seem right, or real. I got a call from Sandra, his mum, five days before. I was in Aisle 6 at the supermarket, trying to decide on a brand of toothpaste.

‘Sophie? It’s Sandra … Felix is dead.’

That was it. Three words. Felix is dead. Sandra’s voice was so quiet and hollow I don’t know how I caught it. I just felt a ringing in my ears. My mouth dried up. I heard what she was saying but I didn’t understand what she meant by dead.

‘They think he was drinking. His body washed up on the back beach this morning. He drowned.’

Her words were raspy whispers that came out slowly, slowly as I dropped to the floor. It was rubbery and shiny and off-white and kind of sticky. My phone slipped out of my hand.

‘Sophie? Are you there? Hello?’

I stared up at the toothpaste. Colgate? Macleans? Gel Strip? Ultimate Whitening? Junior Jaws? I had no clue what to pick.

‘Sophie, are you there?’

I lowered my gaze and reached for the phone. It felt heavy, like lead, and my hand was shaking so badly that it took me a few tries to put it back to my ear.

‘Sandra? I’m going to have to call you back.’

In the end, I settled for Junior Jaws. The awful irony of “Mac The Shark” popping his head out of the surf was too beautiful to ignore.

The last thing I remember about the funeral service was “Hey Jude” by The Beatles playing out of scratchy speakers. Felix’s dad used to play it on the piano all the time when he was a kid, so he always had a sentimental spot for it, I guess. Everyone around me seemed to be crying now; I could hear lots of sniffling at the line: take a sad song and make it better. I wasn’t crying. I always thought that song was overplayed and annoying so I rode my bike back home without really saying goodbye to anyone. I could have thought of a thousand better songs to play while they took Felix’s coffin away.

When I got home, I felt instantly ashamed of myself and cried for an hour. A week went by after the funeral, and I didn’t leave the house. Em eventually broke in and force-fed me vegetables.

‘You’ll die too if you carry on like this,’ she said, poking a stem of broccoli in my face. It was hard to even muster the energy to open my mouth, let alone chew. I took the fork from her and just looked at it.

‘Eat!’ Em ordered, as she pulled a lump of envelopes out of her bag. ‘By the way, this is probably two weeks’ worth of mail that was exploding out of your letterbox.’

She sifted through the pile and I furtively ditched the broccoli.

‘Phone, phone, bank, Uni, phone, bank, Country Road catalogue, phone—Jesus, paid your phone bills lately?—Indian Harvest takeaway menu, letter …’

She tossed half the pile in front of me and continued with the other half, mumbling to herself. I glanced down at the letter on top of the pile and my gut wrenched.

There was no stamp or address, only my name, Soph, handwritten. I recognized the handwriting immediately and dropped the letter as if it was dry ice burning off a wart. Em didn’t notice. She was still grumbling about how many phone bills I had.

This was impossible. Hibernation was getting to my head. I picked up the letter again as quickly as I had dropped it, and ripped it open. It contained one piece of lined paper, folded twice.

I unfolded it and read, and as I read, I was sure I was going to throw up.

‘What’s that?’ came Em’s voice distantly, as if through a tunnel. I jumped up.

‘Just junk mail. Neighbourhood Watch notice or something.’

Em grunted and started opening my bills.

I clenched the piece of paper and walked stiffly into my room. I sat down on my bed and read the letter again. It was dated yesterday:

I’m not dead. Meet me at Moonface tomorrow night. 12.37am.

Tell no one.

F.