Innerspace

By J R Bryant

Four close friends, a beach, a fire, a trip to remember

 

"We're ready to take flight on our next big adventure, supplies packed, minds clear… The air is charged with sherbet-zing anticipation. We're in formation. Ecstatic motion. Screaming down the hill towards the beach."

 

Moana is on the precipice of moving overseas when she discovers something about her closest friend that is too awful to bear and almost too terrible to express. Ethel's arrogant boyfriend, Isaac, found out and will do everything in his power to keep the secret. Ethel is busy playing her usual role, trying to keep the peace between the two opposing forces of Moana and Isaac. Meanwhile, the mercurial Henry is drowning in deep obsession with Moana; this might be his last shot before she leaves for good.

The friends embark on a twenty-four-hour psychedelic adventure into their own minds; their past and present lives are stripped bare, making way for the unexpected.

Will the experience bring them closer to each other and closer to understanding themselves… or will it devastate them?

 

Content warning: contains strong language, use of psilocybin mushrooms and other substances, trauma themes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Te Ra Aroha Press
• Release date: Mar 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9780473567675

Book preview

Part I

Before

Ethel

The library is busy for a Friday. The steady flow is punctuated by the tension-induced banter of tired week-day staff who just want the weekend to come. Celeste bustles over to me – I always think of her movements in this way, probably because of the high heels and tight skirts that inhibit her movement. I’m shelving romances. She brushes lint from my shoulder. I try to hold back the instinct to recoil. My smile is a grimace.

What are you up to this weekend?

Usually I say something like reading or cleaning the house because that’s a usual weekend thing, and Celeste responds with aw or sad or lame and looks pityingly at me. Her idea of fun is going into town, barely clad, and drinking until she falls over. This time I try a different approach, just to see how she reacts: I’m getting wasted with my friends at the beach.

Wow, Ethel. Celeste puts the back of her palm up to my forehead, a playful-mocking gesture. You feeling okay? I’ve never heard you say such a thing! She heads towards a customer at the counter, but pauses, looks back and squints, I thought you didn’t drink.

I don’t. Hopefully she won’t start inviting me out clubbing under the impression that I do. Drinking and I don’t mix well. Alcohol makes me nauseous if I have any more than a drink or two. I continue returning the heavily thumbed romances to their shelves. These ones are getting old. They’ll be out on the $1 rack soon and we’ll replace them with newer pulp. Their yellowing pages and the smell of cardboard and vanilla give them away. These books with their formulaic plots and two-dimensional characters don’t mean anything to me, but I hold them up and inhale anyway.

Real books have smells that eBooks can never replace. The process of the paper breaking down, slowly, releases a compound similar in structure to vanillin. So that is what I’m inhaling: the smell of books dying.

I push my empty trolley back towards the counter. A familiar foreboding figure awaits, her back straight as a ruler, grey hair pulled into a tight knot. Agatha Millen. I contemplate going into the back room where we catalogue books, just to escape her, but I see Celeste has gotten there before me. Agatha turns her head and I instinctively want to duck behind the biographies. It’s too late. She’s seen me.

Excuse me. Her tone is overbearing, even when her words are polite. She beckons with her bony fingers.

How may I help you? I try to smile.

Oh, it’s you, the clumsy one. Well, don’t dither about. I need to track down the first edition of my father’s History of Paraguay. Of course, the family has several copies, but I know there’s one in the library system and I want to ensure it is returned to us before you toss it out like those poor sods outside.

This is a fairly common Agatha request. She comes in every week asking for obscure volumes written by her family and acquaintances. Her unpleasantness forms a kind of parody of herself, reminding me of the judgemental elderly neighbours in my childhood who asked invasive questions about my broken shoes, my messy hair, my mother. I flinch but try not to show it. I can’t find the book on the system, anyway. It must have been tossed already. I’ll look into it for you.

Agatha fixes me with one of her piercing stares, emitting a kind of psychic toxin from behind her spectacles. I feel my soul withering. Thank God it’s almost the weekend.

Moana

My words land, clumsy against the varnished studio floors. We sit side by side on matching rubber mats, waiting for class to start.

What would you do if you found out… something… so bad that you couldn't talk about it?

Secrets are bad news, hun; they burn you up, Ari responds with a quick glance in my direction. Her sun-kissed arms stretch up above her head in preparation.

But what if it's… too dark to talk about, and would hurt someone you love?

I don't know, Moana. It sounds like the plot of a bad movie. We should probably have learnt the Hollywood lesson by now, hey?

Come into child's pose everyone. Mira's voice rolls gently through the room. I've been coming here so long that I instantly obey even though I want to keep talking. That is what we come here for – to switch off our chaotic brain chatter and be told what to do. Today my mind keeps babbling What if it's not even yours to tell? I want to ask. What if it belongs to the person who should never find out? I want to talk to Ari because she is lovely and because she has nothing to do with my life outside of these walls, so it's safe. I want to talk about it now, so I don't bring it up later today when we finally go back to Atamarie Bay.

Gentle breathing. Mira’s voice drifts over as I sink deeper into a forward fold. I have been in this loop since the autumn. Isaac and I have talked about it over and over, ad infinitum, in his words. The conclusion is always the same: telling is worse. But by not telling I am trapped in this cycle of thought.

Engage your core and lunge back to downward dog. I tighten, pull back, pushing my bum high in the air, and walk my legs to loosen my calves. The secret is still buried and struggles, trying to claw its way out of a shallow grave.

---

Don't be dramatic. Isaac says. He has never approved of emotion – or of me – but here we are, co-conspirators in the same boat, sitting far apart on the same park bench across the road from the hospital surrounded by autumn leaves.

I wish I brought my camera, if only to distract me from the psychic rollercoaster. Keep it simple, he reasons, We absolutely must not hurt her. Telling her would hurt her, therefore we absolutely must not tell her. It's a perfectly constructed logical argument. Of course. But logic isn't everything.

---

Now float into your swans. Mira's voice brings me back to the studio, but as soon as I melt into my favourite pose, releasing the tension in my hips, my mind drifts back to the memory.

---

A leaf zig zags in the air before descending sideways into Isaac’s nose. Even the word hurt is too simple; it's almost offensive. It would destroy her, I correct, but I can already see his brow crinkle. Irritation. She's been through so much already.

---

Time for deep relaxation. Lie out on your backs and find your eye pillows. Mira’s voice transports me into the present, but a fragment of my mind is still with Isaac on that bench.

---

I want to make it clear to him that I know her better, that I know her best. I've known her longer. I know about the past. I want him to recognise it, but he won't. I don't know why I even care. I reach down and clasps a stem between my fingers. The star-shaped leaf is red but green and orange freckle its surface, its veins almost throb with the slow ebb of life's surrender, more beautiful and complex than anything human beings could ever create. My thoughts are too gushy for Isaac, so I hold them back.

Yes, he acknowledges, finally. We can't take that risk.

---

Welcome back everyone. Mira smiles at each of us as we open our eyes. I look around for Ari but she is packing up already, rolling up her mat and pulling on her cardi.

Time to get the kids, she blows me a kiss. Take care, sweets.

It's probably better not to talk about it anyway. Secrets are volatile. They have a way of sneaking out. My Sagittarius moon wants to talk it out, but I know it's better to seal my lips and keep contained, for Ethel's sake.

Ari turns as she heads out the door, Wait, when are you leaving? she asks me.

In three weeks.

Let’s have a proper catch up before then. Come over for tea or a smoothie or something.

I nod as I hug her. I know it will be a kale smoothie or nettle tea, but that’s probably the kind of nourishment I need before leaving the country for the great known unknown continent of Australia, like so many Kiwis before me. It’s getting so close now. I shudder. Am I really moving to Melbourne? I need a bigger city to try to make a living as a photographer although I know I’ll probably just find retail or hospo work and earn way more per hour than I could here, like half the other people I grew up with. How did my life become a cliché? I cringe at the cliché of asking that. I roll up my yoga mat and head towards the changing rooms. Isaac will be here to pick me up soon, full of his usual pompousness, and I will see Ethel and Henry: my favourite people in the world. God, I will miss them when I go.

Isaac

This part is decidedly awkward. The emporium sells all kinds of things, costumes, hardware, so it’s not a big surprise they’d stock something remotely illicit. It’s only illegal by context, I remind myself. Caterers and restaurants use them all the time. The balding man behind the counter is busy fidgeting with chains. I’m in no hurry to be judged. Several years ago, before they changed the law, there was no issue. Every corner dairy sold NOS canisters. He turns towards me.

Hello there.

Yes, excuse me. I clear my throat, I was wondering if you had any refills for my cream whipping machine. It sounds innocent enough, but he lowers his eyebrows.

How many do you want?

A couple of boxes should last me a while.

He retreats to the back room and after a moment, returns with two innocent-looking white boxes.

That will be 42 dollars. Jesus, the price has gone up. I remember when they were ten dollars a box. I hand over the cash. Cash is always better for questionable transactions, even those which are technically legal. For all he knows I may have the cream whipping machine at home – I may indeed require large quantities of cream for a pancake party. This is all starting to sound absurd.

He places the boxes in a paper bag and I receive them, grateful that the excruciating part is almost over. On my way out I can’t stifle my internal rant: ludicrous Government! Why did they have to make taking a harmless substance illegal? Or in Henry’s words, they are just trying to ban fun!

---

Ten minutes later I’m outside the yoga studio to collect Moana. I sound the horn. When Moana says she’ll be ready in ten minutes, it means at least half an hour. I told her to be here at 1pm, in the hope that she’s ready when I arrive at 1:30. Henry is much the same. I have given him 1:30 as an estimated time of arrival. I loosely follow Seneca’s philosophy – that we should adjust expectations in accordance with reality or do without them. My hypothesis has turned out to be accurate. Moana’s already out the door loaded with a number of suspicious bundles: bags, blankets, and a yoga mat. I bite my tongue in anticipation of her words.

Hi.

I nod to her.

Did you get the supplies? she asks, mildly anxious.

Yes, and I’m still raging that they made it illegal. NOS is probably the least harmful recreational drug in existence – they give it to birthing mothers for Christ’s sake!

Yeah, they were annoyed that people kept leaving empty canisters in car parks.

That’s right, and there was that bullshit about mouth burns from the cold gas. I add, but that doesn’t stop them selling disgusting McDonalds coffee which is also known to cause mouth burns.

Caffeine is probably more dangerous as a drug.

No – caffeine is certainly more dangerous!

Why do you have to disagree with me even when you’re agreeing with me? Moana is only slightly frustrated.

It’s a way of life.

I read that if they’d discovered caffeine now instead of a long time ago it would be prescription only.

That sounds probable.

Alcohol too.

Obviously – evidence shows it’s the most dangerous drug.

We turn the corner onto Henry’s street. Tall oak trees line the footpaths. Moana and I simultaneously realise time is running out in which to privately converse.

Isaac, I have been thinking about Ethel. She has this irritating habit of stating the obvious.

Of course you have. Look, can we not talk about it? I mean, can we just agree that we won’t say anything?

I don’t know. She is picking at her chipped fingernail polish. I can’t stop thinking about it.

That’s your problem. Don’t make it hers. I pull up outside Henry’s flat and toot the horn. Someone pulls back the curtains, clearly it’s Henry with his recognisable messy red hair. At least he’s up. Now all we have to do is pick Ethel up from the library and we can head out.

Henry

Ihave a million things to do before we leave. Isaac is tooting his horn again. Yeah, yeah, I call out, despite the fact that he won’t hear me from outside. Settle down. Now what was it I needed to do? Feed the goldfish, water the plants, pack the snacks, shorts, a warm thing, a very warm thing, towel, sunglasses…

Can you not, for once in your life, be ready on time? Isaac has barged in to berate me in order to hurry me up. It will only slow me down. It bothers me that he is a whole head taller than I am.

Calm your britches, I instruct. I’m almost ready.

You expect me to believe that. Isaac gestures around at the chaos that is my flat - clothes strewn everywhere, most of them clean. I gather a pile of freshly dried washing from the couch and dump it on my bed.

No, I respond through gritted teeth, I don’t expect anything from you. I have learnt over the many years of our friendship to lower my expectations to zero in order to avoid disappointment and frustration. You would do well to do the same!

Touché! Isaac has dropped the pretence of being in a hurry.

There’s really no reason to be in a hurry anyway. It’s not like the beach is going anywhere.

"It’s my job to round up all you stragglers. If it were up to you we’d never get there. Anyway, Moana is waiting in the car – even she was ready on time – and Ethel’s expecting us at the library in five minutes. Isaac helps himself to a beer from the fridge. It’s a random lager, left over from some party. I don’t tell him this – he has always been iffy about left-overs. What more do you have to do, anyway?" he asks as I scurry around the flat, remembering and forgetting things simultaneously.

Oh you know… I mutter breathlessly Water the goldfish and feed the plants.

Hah!

Do you think I’ll need anything with sequins?

What kind of weekend are you expecting?

Well, you never know. I throw a sequinned waistcoat into my old uni backpack with the broken zip.

Moana sounds the horn from the car and Isaac looks around in irritation. That girl, he grumbles.

I’m just about to head out the door when I remember: Torch! Sunhat! Sunscreen!

I’m expecting Isaac to complain about me again, instead he follows me into my bedroom with an unusual expression on his face.

What’s up? You’ve seen a ghost or something?

No – well – not exactly. Has… has she… He gestures towards the car and Moana. Has she said anything strange to you lately?

What are you on, man? It’s Moana you’re talking about here. She’s always saying strange things. The kinds of strange things that I like and that Isaac abhors, but he doesn’t need to be reminded of this.

Oh, never mind. He is being dismissive now. Isaac who is perennially dismissive of Moana. Isaac who detests the otherworldly, the unstable, but never quite seems stable himself. Why should I be surprised? But something seems wrong. What has Moana said?

What’s going on? My heart is racing. Moana. Everything Moana. Is there something wrong with Moana? Is she sick?

No. Nothing like that. It’s not to do with her. She’s fine. Look, it’s best we don’t talk about it. Isaac is being so unlike his usual cocky self. It makes me wonder… maybe something significant has shifted. A glimmer of hope shines.

She’s changed her mind about me. I speak my thoughts, before I have the chance to hold them back.

God! You’re so full of yourself!

It’s okay, you can tell me I try to be nonchalant, but Isaac is silent.

I give up all semblance of togetherness, Please tell me.

I’m down on one knee, my hands clasped as if in prayer. Isaac is used to my flamboyance by now, which irritated him so much in our high school years. Obviously, it would be just my luck that Moana would change her mind the minute she decides to leave the country and move to Melbourne. Either way I have to know.

I beg of you, I raise my hands. The front door opens.

What are you – oh – sorry to spoil the moment. Moana obviously has to come in at exactly the worst moment.

It’s alright. Isaac seems delighted. Henry was just proposing – again – and obviously, I’ll have to tell him no.

Hah! I try to laugh it off, but my cheeks are bright red. I was just pleading with Isaac to be able to take my sequinned waistcoat. He’s worried I will upstage him.

Well, I hate to get in the way of whatever this is, but Ethel will be waiting. Let’s get a move on!

Just like every other glimmer of hope with Moana, I feel it slipping away. I’ve ruined it. Fuck.

Part II

Arrival

Ethel

Atamarie Bay, that first time, is still so clear for in my memory. The whole journey out was inflamed with anxiety. Looking back makes me realise what a nervous wreck I used to be.

---

Breathe. I close my eyes for just a moment, wary of the road in front, hands steady on the wheel. Picture the dandelion clock. The white tufts drifting in the air. Just breathe. Accept. Allow. Breathe in. Release. The anxiety fades a little. It's the technique the mental health nurse taught me. Everything’s fine. Breathe in: Accept. Breathe out: Allow. My battered VW Bug and I rolling and bumping slowly over the hills, getting further away from town and closer and closer to the beach. I hate driving on the open road alone. An arrogant red Ford is tail-gating me. Asshole. I pull over to the side and let him pass. Stupid Henry and his stupid organising. Why did he have to arrange this for a work day? Why am I doing this alone while my two best friends are already at the bach having fun with some guy I don’t even know, drinking beer in the sun, no doubt, while I’m stuck in a hot stuffy car freaking the fuck out. Never mind that I have to arrive alone and awkward, never mind that we are supposed to be doing something I've never wanted to do before in my life.

It will be good for you, Henry kept assuring me. You need to unwind, get over your anxiety disorder, let go.

Right now I need a quiet, empty room. I wish I’d never left work. The studious peace of the library always calms me. This is the last place in the world I want to be – on the open road, by myself, on my way to meet someone I don’t even know.

---

Six years later and I’m on the same dusty gravel road sitting next to that stranger. This time I’m in the passenger seat of Isaac’s ‘90s hatch. He’s driving, taking the sharp corners in his stride. I’m safe and, more than that, I’m on my way to another adventure.

Henry and Moana are in the back seat. They look so placid that for a moment it’s as if none of the conflicts of the past few years ever occurred. I’m probably the only one who knows about them anyway, the only one not involved, the only one everyone talks to about