Hobart
7 April 1999

My grave is open. For forty days it sits, ready, waiting. I might avoid the fall. I might not. Will someone close my bones when this is over? Feed me soup? Steam my skin, anoint me with herbs and oil?

I breathe deep as I crest a wave of pain, fists clenched.

Focus. I’m serious, Zahra. Keep. Your. Shit. Together.

And it’s over.

I collapse, arms falling against the plastic lining of the make-shift pool in our living room. Monks drone Gregorian chants from the CD player on the shelf, and the acrid scent of clary sage hangs heavy in the air. My naked belly emerges from the water, mountainous, volcanic. Outside, afternoon light filters through the leaves of the walnut tree, just now beginning to turn autumnal reds and yellows. As stillness descends, a ringing phone ricochets through my momentary zen.

‘Hi. You’ve called Zahra and Jacob. We can’t get to the phone right now. Leave a message and we’ll call you back.’ My voice sounds weirdly perky.

‘Zahra, it’s me.’ My mother’s words are thick with fear. ‘Just seeing how you’re going. Umm, anyway, thinking of you. Call us when you have any news.’

And it’s back. I set my jaw, steel myself. I’m surfing a monstrous ocean, black whirlpools swirling beneath me. All I can do is not fall in, fight the urge to let it consume me.

Stay up, Zahra. Stay up.

Jacob touches my arm, whispers, ‘Good work.’ My senses are electric, his touch excruciating, breath rank. What the fuck has he been eating? It comes to me. Pickles. But I can’t talk. Not now, because I can’t lose my balance. Stay up, Zahra. Stay up, stay up, stay up . . .

It’s over…

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