The Beginner's Guide to Living by Lia Hills Page B

both together, sort of watching over me.”
    A woman walks past, and there’s something about her that reminds me of Mom. That’s been happening a lot. The girl tucks the heart back into her shirt. “You know, I never told anyone that before. What’s your name?”
    â€œWill.”
    â€œI’m Laura. I should be getting back to work.” She starts walking down the steps, but at the bottom she turns back. “So, I guess, I believe life doesn’t end with death.”
    And then she goes, waddling; you can’t take big steps in that kind of skirt. Waddling past a clown juggling firesticks, through a horde of Asian tourists, to the tram stop, all the way holding on to her heart.
    *   *   *
    Across the road, in St. Paul’s Cathedral, people are taking photos of the stained glass windows by the entrance: fractured wings, a hand holding a plume. I’ve got Mom’s camera with me but I don’t feel like playing tourist. Mom brought me in here once when we were in the city, to listen to the choir. It’s the only time, apart from now, I’ve been in a church.
    A woman is kneeling into the back of one of the pews, her head buried in her hands, but I can’t tell whether she’s sleeping or praying; maybe God will tap her on the shoulder if she nods off. Who knows, if I sit here long enough, with these elevated ceilings and gold mosaics, even I will hear the voice of God.
    Outside, a tram bell breaches the hum of traffic. An American tourist at the gift shop asks, How much is this angel? and the praying woman gives a sob. Guess she wasn’t asleep. Against the side wall, there are three rows of lit candles and I go over and choose one from the brass bowl—Mom was sort of a Catholic, so I guess I’m allowed. I light it from one of the others and place it in the top row. The flame shifts and I can feel the heat of the candles on my face. I lean closer and stick my finger in the wax; it’s hot and liquid and clingy, but it doesn’t burn my skin. I do it again and watch the molding of the wax on my finger, a thick layer of it like a cast. If I bend it, it cracks, turns opaque, and peels away from my skin. My fingerprints are embossed in the congealing wax.
    A lady beside me frowns. I didn’t notice her arrive, but I stare at her now as I run my finger over the flame. If I could read her mind I know it would say, Delinquent . The remnants of wax begin to melt and my skin starts to burn. It hurts but it’s manageable. I can choose to stop if I want. Not yet. I can still stand it, the smell and a feeling beyond pain. Shit. I jerk my finger out of the flame and plunge it into my mouth.
    The woman’s gone. She left the same way she arrived, almost supernatural. She probably went to find someone to chuck me out. I wouldn’t blame her. This is a place of devotion, of paying respects; I don’t belong here. Maybe I should cross the road to that pub, the one with the pig-faced barman, and let the bastard finish me off.
    *   *   *
    Dream.
    Our house shrouded in flames. They rise into the dark, annihilating my voice. My family is inside. Every time I get close, the fire repels me. At the window, I see my mother’s hand.
    *   *   *
    In the morning Dad asks me what I did to my finger. I tell him I burned it trying to save some toast.
    *   *   *
    Once Adam and Dad have gone out I head down to the station to take the train. To Half Moon Bay. Mom used to take us there when we were kids, trailing buckets to load with treasure from the sea. I wanted to bring Taryn but she’s gone for the weekend on some family thing. In my backpack: my mother’s camera and her blue dress.
    As I stare out the train window at the stream of graffiti on people’s back fences, so many different tags, I think about Socrates, and how he never wrote anything down. Plato recorded most of what we