Chapter 9
NINE
______
JOHNNY
Brisbane, Australia
Two months later
A sudden downpour threatens to soak me as I rush from my car to the safety of my parents’ covered porch, a bottle of wine in one hand.
I pause to shake the rain from my jacket, shivering when a few icy droplets find their way beneath the collar of my dress shirt.
The front door opens before I have a chance to knock.
“John, darling, I thought I heard you pull up.” My mother’s smile is warm today, like sunlight in winter.
My shoulders relax at the evidence of her good mood. A good mood usually means a pleasant visit. “Hi, Mum.”
“Come in, before you catch your death.” She steps back, opening the door wider.
Toeing out of my wet shoes, I place them in the corner of the porch, where they’ll be protected from the rain, and enter my childhood home. Mum wraps me up in a tight hug and I stand there for a long moment, enjoying the simple comfort of her embrace. “It’s so good to see you again,” she says.
With a quiet chuckle, I drop a kiss on her forehead. “It’s only been a fortnight.”
“That’s quite long enough between visits with your mother.” She wags a manicured finger at me but then links her arm with mine to guide me down the hallway towards the back of the house. “Lunch is almost ready. I made your favourite.”
With every step, the scent of my mother’s maple-glazed corned beef permeates the air and I inhale deeply. My mouth waters. My stomach growls. The tiny hairs on the back of my neck prickle with unease. “What’s the occasion?”
“Do I need a reason to spoil my only child?” she asks with a laugh.
I drink in the light, carefree sound, even as my throat constricts. “It smells delicious. Thank you.”
We enter the combined kitchen-dining area. My father looks up from his usual place at the table, where he’s reading the Sunday newspaper. “There you are, John.” Rising, he offers his hand. “We were about to send out a search party.”
“Sorry I’m late,” I say as we shake. It’s only ten minutes past the hour, but every minute counts in this house. “There was an accident on the freeway.”
“Well, you’re here now. That’s the important thing. Right, Margie?”
“Absolutely, dear.” Mum pulls a crisp, golden potato bake from the oven—another of my favourites—and my stomach turns a somersault. This isn’t just any lunch.
I busy myself with setting the table, and opening the bottle of merlot I brought, pouring generous servings for each of us.
By the time we sit down to lunch, apprehension weighs heavily in the pit of my stomach.
The clink and clatter of cutlery is overly loud against the porcelain plates.
Though the beef is tender, it takes two tries to get it down.
A long sip from my wine glass does little to help, the red liquid flowing bitter across my tongue.
“Thank you for lunch, Mum. It’s delicious, as always.”
She smiles back at me. “You’re welcome, darling.”
“What have you two been up to this week?” I ask, hoping to keep the conversation focused in their direction.
“We went out to dinner with Jeff and Deidre last weekend.” My father’s words kill what’s left of my appetite. I should have asked a different question. “He says you’re doing well at the pharmacy.”
I nod in agreement. “Work is good.”
Dad and my boss have been friends for years. When I finished university, Jeff was happy to take me on at the pharmacy he’s owned for more than a decade. I’ve been working there ever since. Jeff is a good bloke, and the pay is decent. I’ve had no reason to leave.
“Oh, yes,” Mum chimes in. “Whenever we see Jeff, he always talks about what an asset you are. The best employee he’s ever had.”
Smiling stiffly, I shovel a bite of potato bake into my mouth.
Dad may have known Jeff the longest, but I spend forty hours a week working for the man.
He would never say those words. He’s not that verbose, and I’m not that dedicated.
I show up on time. I do my job. I try to be pleasant about it.
But I’m in no danger of being named Employee of the Month, even if Jeff believed in such a thing.
“Although, working for Jeff was never supposed to be a permanent thing. I’m sure you’ll be ready to think about buying your own pharmacy soon.” Dad pauses, giving me time to jump in. I don’t. “You don’t want to work for someone else forever.”
“Of course, you don’t,” Mum agrees, “and what an amazing achievement it will be. Your own business.” One hand lifts to her chest as she beams with delight. “We’ll be so proud of you, John. Not surprised, though. You are our precious miracle, you know.”
I do know. All my life I’ve known what a miracle I am.
It was the last thing Mum said to me every night growing up, after she tucked me into bed and turned on my galaxy night light.
She would kiss me on the forehead, walk to the door, and then look back over her shoulder.
“Good night, my little miracle,” she would say.
As a kid, it made me feel special, knowing how important I was.
They often told me stories of their journey to parenthood.
The years of fertility treatments. The prayers they offered up to God.
The month in hospital when I threatened to come early.
They poured everything they had into me, both emotionally and financially.
After I was born, they kept right on pouring, providing every opportunity they could afford, and a few they couldn’t.
As I grew, I learned to appreciate the magnitude of what they went through to give me life.
The sacrifices they made, and the grief that came with the struggle.
It wasn’t until I was a teenager—with less than stellar report cards and a guitar clutched in my hands—that I learned the truth. After all they’d done, my parents expected a return on their investment.
Turns out, it’s not enough to simply be a miracle. If I want to keep my parent’s love and approval, I have to act like one.
“What do you say, son?” Dad looks at me expectantly. “Owning your own place is the next logical step in your career. Yes?”
I sit rigidly in my chair. My hands ache from the tight grip they have on the cutlery.
My gaze darts back and forth between the two of them as they wait for me to give them what they want.
That’s what I’m here for, right? This is why they went through hell to have me, so I could make all their dreams come true.
I’ve done my best, truly I have. I got as close to being a doctor as I could manage.
When they objected to me ‘living in sin’ with my girlfriend, I married her.
Every place I’ve lived has been within a thirty-minute drive of their house.
I crushed my passion for music until it fit the ‘hobby’ boundary they deemed acceptable.
On the whole, it’s been a good life. I’ve been reasonably happy. They’ve been reasonably happy with me. Then Ellie left, and everything went to shit. Now, all the neglected parts of me are howling for attention and everything I’ve ever done is still not enough and now they want fucking more.
“I’m not ready for that kind of commitment, or the debt that would come with it.” My tone is firm and even, but every word is compromised by fissures of guilt. “Maybe in a few years.”
Dad sits back in his chair with an exasperated huff.
Mum frowns, seeming baffled by my response. “John, darling, you’re not married anymore. Surely you need something productive to occupy your spare time.”
“I’ve been plenty busy,” I tell them, though I have no idea why I’m bothering to bring this up.
Music isn’t considered productive in their eyes.
“I went down to Byron Bay with the band recently. We performed at the Autumn Skies Music Festival. That took a lot of preparation.” My parents knew about the festival.
I told them before I left. They voiced their disapproval and never mentioned it again.
I followed their lead. Until now. “It was a great success,” I press on, my voice tight. “We played for a huge audience.”
Mum gives me a look of commiseration, as if my pride in my accomplishment is misplaced. “But you didn’t play on the big main stage, did you. It was a smaller space, off to the side.”
My gaze narrows. “How do you know which stage we were on?”
“We looked it up,” Dad grumbles. “We wanted to know what kind of mischief you were getting up to down there.”
“Don’t you think it’s a little undignified, John?” Mum asks gently. “Bouncing around the place with your hair flying every which way. What would your customers think if they saw you? And using that name.”
“I like the name Johnny.”
“It makes you sound like a child,” she snaps. “You act like a child when you use it.”
The words hit me like a slap. I look down at my plate, taking a deep breath. “There are plenty of musicians who go by the name Johnny.”
“John Denver had a dignified name,” Dad points out. “He was one of the most respected musicians of his time.”
My jaw clenches. “So was Johnny Cash.”
Mum makes a tutting sound. “I do wish we’d gotten you piano lessons as a child like we intended.”
“I wanted to learn the guitar.”
“Which you did, and you’ve had a lot of fun with it.
” Mum leans forwards again, her face the epitome of concern, though her tone suggests she’s dealing with a particularly petulant toddler.
“You’re twenty-six now, John. Don’t you think it’s time to put childish interests aside and focus on the things that really matter? ”
Exhaustion washes over me. I’m so tired of this question.
My parents have been asking it from the time I turned eighteen.
Ellie joined in before we even arrived home from our honeymoon.
I know music will never be more than a side hustle for me.
I know it will never make my parents proud.
But playing Autumn Skies made me happier in one day than I’ll ever be working behind a counter.
Yes, pharmacy is a noble profession, but it’s not why my heart beats.
I need music. It’s the only part of my life that feels like it belongs to me.
My lack of response has my parents glancing hopefully at each other.
Dad picks up his cutlery and returns to eating.
“Either way, you’ll have to restrict the time you spend playing guitar when you start dating again,” he says between bites.
“You don’t want to make the same mistakes you made with Ellie. ”
Mum’s shoulders sag subtly, her eyes heavy with sadness. “It’s such a shame you two couldn’t work things out.”
“She cheated on me and left me.” I flinch at the sound of my raised voice. Picking up my wine glass, I take another gulp before continuing in a quieter tone. “There was no coming back from that.”
“I know but…” Mum sighs, pushing food around on her plate. “Well, there are plenty more fish in the sea and all that.” Straightening, she offers me another bright smile. “Have you met anyone nice?”
Calum.
The name slides into place in my mind, the same way it does a hundred times a day.
His taste lingers on the back of my tongue.
His rough cheeks prickle the tips of my fingers.
The heaviness inside my chest dissolves as tiny bursts of light ricochet around my body.
My breath catches and I close my eyes, holding on to the subtle burn as long as I can.
Over the past two months, I’ve learned to welcome the discomfort that comes with memories of that night.
Frustrating though it may be, it’s still better than the nothingness inspired by anyone else I try to consider.
Despite my efforts to find a man who can take Calum’s place, I have yet to react to anyone the way I did to him.
And forget women. My libido seems to have discounted them altogether.
It wants dick—one dick in particular—and it won’t let up until it’s satisfied.
Even late at night, when I stroke myself in the privacy of my own bed, all I can fantasise about is hard muscles and large, veined hands. Try as I might to keep the men of my fantasies faceless and nameless, it’s no use. They all have ginger hair.
“No,” I say out loud, my tone rough. “There’s no one.”
I could never tell my parents about Calum, even if things had worked out between us. Their attitude towards my music is bad enough, I can imagine the horror they would betray if I admitted my attraction to men.
My parents aren’t so crass as to be overtly homophobic.
On the surface, they have nothing against queer people.
They voted in support of same-sex marriage.
If they happened across a gay or lesbian couple in their usual social circle, they may even go so far as to befriend them. To show how homophobic they aren’t.
But on a personal level, I’m ninety-nine percent sure they view any sort of queerness in the same way they view unemployment or mental illness—as unseemly business that happens in other people’s families.
Thankfully, this is one area where I know I can come through for them.
I’m not gay; I’m bisexual. I already know I can be happy in a monogamous relationship with a woman.
By the time I’m ready to put my heart on the line again, I’m certain to have had my fill of men.
I’ll find a woman I can love and my parent’s will approve of, and we’ll all be happy.
After all they went through for me, and all the ways I’ve fallen short of their hopes and dreams, the least I can do is give them another daughter-in-law. And, one day, grandchildren.
Which means I need to hurry up and find a man to satisfy this growing obsession. No matter what the future holds, I have the right to explore the unknowns of my sexuality in the here and now. It’s time I get out of my own way and do something about it.