Broken Eggshells - 2007 third place winner

Zarah Butcher-McGunnigle of Western Springs College in Auckland took third place in the 2007 Sunday Star-Times competition. Judge David Hill praised her story's authenticity, economy and "disciplined energy".

The phone is ringing. My eyes click open and I glance at the clock. Three past one - in the morning. The phone shrills and shrills like a metallic bird. Panic flurries in my chest. I fumble into the hallway. "Hello?"

"Howdy. It's Isabel . . . Isabel necessary on a bicycle?!"

"What?"

"It's me, Mandy - Isabel Grace! Is it too late to ring?"

"Uh . . . " I wipe my eyes. "Well, I was in bed."

"Oh, sorry Mandy. I just had to speak to you . . . I haven't spoken to you for ages . . ."

"OK . . ." I'm too tired to point out that I saw her just the other day.

"Well, you know I had this idea. You know that shop near that wine shop - it's empty now. It's up for rent. And I thought, what would really go well there would be a cafe! Don't you think? There aren't many around there and it gets busy so people would definitely come . . ." Her words are buzzing, too bright for the shadows in the hall and my grey nightgown. They flap through my fogged head. "I've planned out the menu. For breakfast, well, brunch, there would be . . . mixed grain muesli - two flavours: apricot and almond and coconut and currant. Do you think coconut and currant go well together? I thought of it myself."

"Um, I guess so . . ."

"And I'd have poached egg on toast with . . . either roast pumpkin spread or avocado . . . and pancakes with - no hang on. I'm not very good at making pancakes. Waffles would be easier, wouldn't it? But actually I could have savoury waffles for lunch . . . with chutney. And salad. That would be nice wouldn't it?"

"Yeah, but, um, Isabel, can I ring you back? In the morning or something?"

"It is the morning!"

"You know what I mean. When there's daylight."

"Well, well, OK. But, can I just tell you that I think I'm going to focus on my art again. I want to take photos again. Black and white. I've planned out some I want to take . . . wouldn't it be cool if I went into town and took a photo of all these people walking, like, across the road in those big herds like they do in town, and then you had just one person standing, static, in the middle? And everyone else was sort of blurred, you know?"

"Yeah . . . sounds good, but I'll talk to you later, OK?"

"OK." The only light is coming from the square of frosted glass in the front door. The outside lamp is on; I can see fat moths whirring around it.

"I thought about doing a photo, maybe a series of photos, of paper dolls. Those paper doll chains. And in one I could have scissors . . ."

"Yes, Isabel. That sounds good. But I'll call you tomorrow - I mean, in the morning, OK?"

"OK. But can you come round? We can catch up! I'm going to make banana cake! I've got rotting bananas here! The fruit flies have moved in! Ha, ha!"

"Yeah -"

"Wait, no, come on Friday. Friday - otherwise I'm too busy. OK?"

"OK Isabel. Goodnight."

"Goodnight Mandy-Pandy. Bonsoir."

I hang up. Then I crawl back into bed, pulling my fuzzy blanket over me.

I sleep in. It's nine when I finally wake up. I'm late for my job. I jolt upright. Suddenly Johnathan is there, in the doorway, smiling.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"I used my key. I tried to ring you."

"I'm late for work!" I throw off the covers. Johnathan places his hand on my waist, kisses my nose. "Ring and say you're sick. I did. We can go out to breakfast."

"But . . ." I think of my stack of marking. In the mirror my reflection raises its eyebrows. "OK . . ." I hear myself agree, and in 15 minutes we are out the door.

I forget about Isabel. Johnathan and I go to the park; feed the ducks. We drive to the waterfront and watch the boats on the glittering harbour. "When are you going to say yes?" Johnathan asks me, his left hand resting against mine.

"What?" I say, quizzical, and then I look down where he is stroking my naked ring finger.

"When it's the right time," I answer with a wry smile.

I call Isabel mid-afternoon. No one answers. I dial the number again. Still no one picks up.

The days melt into each other; Friday arrives. The sky is thick with clouds so I don't put out the washing. I drive to Isabel's. Grey splinters of rain fall onto the windscreen.

The curtains are tightly drawn - furrowed brows. I wait on the peeling porch. The door opens. "Amanda . . ." Her eyes are apprehensive; the kind that makes others apprehensive too. "Hello . . ." Her pale face is like a startled deer. "Come in . . ."

"How are you?"

"Good . . ." she says - a reflex - I can see the black ellipses hanging in the air.

I follow her into the living room. She is wearing a dressing gown that has lost its fluff. I sit down on the couch. She perches. She sighs - stares at nothing. Her expression is glazed, as though even though I'm here, she's not. "Tea," she suddenly says. "Do you want tea?"

"OK," I nod. She fills the kettle. As it bubbles and boils, furls of steam trace a long crack in the window. "What happened?" I point.

"Oh, the heat, the steam from the jug. It'll probably break completely soon." She goes to the pantry. "You'll have to have this cup. The rest are dirty. Expensive china. Don't break it." I glance at the small towered city of dishes on the bench. She fills my cup. "Shit!" some of the hot water splashes on her wrist.

"Quick, run it under the cold tap!"

I finish making my tea. We go back to the living room.

"Is that your camera?" I touch a charcoal-coloured case on the table.

"Yeah."

"Taken many photos?"

"No." she rubs her eyelids. "I don"t know how I . . . I don't know . . ." she mutters.

I sip my tea. My tongue burns. "Look! Look at all this crap everywhere. There's a chickpea on the ground! I had chickpea curry two weeks ago!"

"Well, you've been busy," I say. She gazes at me, blank as a sheet of paper.

"Busy doing nothing." She chews her thumbnail.

"You look tired," I say. She has grey smudges under her eyes.

"Mmm."

"How is your writing going then?" I ask. "Did you send off that thing to the publisher?"

She shrugs. "No. It's not very good."

"It seemed good to me."

"Well what do you know!" She looks away; folds her arms. I bite my lip. "I don't mean it like that," she says quietly. "You know what I mean. I just . . . oh, I don't know. Nothing I do is solid. I do bits and pieces and I'm always just waiting . . ."

I trace my cup handle with a finger. "What was that cafe you were talking about?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing," she shakes her head sadly. I nod, and imagine her as a large empty jug, sitting on the counter next to the sink.

"Life is just passing me by."

"Isabel, you're only 31."

"So? You've got a great job you're happy with, an almost-husband, probably kids down the line . . ."

"Oh, Isabel, come on. Well if you aren't into the writing right now, then do your art again, like you said."

"Oh, what's the point?"

We are both quiet. The room is heavy with the grey, grainy quietness. I drink the last of my tea. She rubs her eyes again, then glances at her watch. Biiiiiiinnnnng! I jump at the noise. "What is it?"

"The banana cake." I thought I'd smelt something. She gets up; takes my cup. On the way to the sink she drops the cup. I go to the kitchen and see her kneeling on the grimy tiled floor, bone- white shards in her hands. "Oh, dear."

"F---," she says. "F---." her voice is crumbled, like stale bread. "F---." She is crying.

"Isabel?" She is weeping; she is quivering. I don't know what to do. "You're not OK are you?" I say. She hobbles up, leaning on one knee, shambles towards the oven. She jerks open the door and slides out the tin. Two saucers; a knife; a spoon; a tea towel - "You're probably supposed to let it cool first . . ." She digs the knife deep into the cake. I notice a salty tear fall onto my piece. I pick up the plate. "Well," I say, taking a mouthful. "This is very delicious. Moist and light . . ."

She nibbles, mouse-like. I feel the card in my pocket, ready to pull out and present. Waiting for the right time.

I take another bite and my mouth feels gritty. I glance down and see bits of eggshell. I don't say anything. I eat every crumb.
 

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