10
JACINTA WAS RIGHT. We do have fancy patio furniture in our backyard. I’ve dragged the day bed with the palm-frond-patterned cushions onto the grass near the flowering gum. I’ve got my phone, a book, my sunnies and a can of cold Passiona. To the outside world I must look like a very normal and together teenager enjoying a Saturday outside, not like someone googling ‘animal ranger jobs anywhere but Australia no experience needed flights included under eighteen good salary immediate start’.
It doesn’t take much research to realise this particular escape route from my life is unrealistic. Also, it turns out you need a Certificate III in animals studies and possibly a zoology degree to work anywhere with a half-decent reputation for animal welfare. That last detail is important. There is already way too much animal cruelty in the world. Sometimes I get worried I’m a terrible person because I think I care more about animals than about humans. Not on an individual level. Just as far as entire species go.
‘Don’t get burnt, sweetie,’ Mum calls from the sliding back door.
‘Nimbostratus,’ I say, gesturing to the grey sky above me. Membership rule number eleven of the two-person Cloud-Formation-Loving Girlies Club: girlies should be familiar with a variety of cloud types so as to know when the best formations are likely to occur.
Mum shields her face with one hand. ‘What are you doing?’
I hold up my phone. ‘Job hunting.’
‘Huh,’ she says, sounding impressed, and disappears. A minute later she pops back out with a bag of my favourite cheesy chips, which she lobs at me, followed by some SPF50.
‘Nice catch,’ she yells as I grab them out of the sky. ‘Nimbostratus or not, you can still get fried. And why are you in all black by the way? I buy you such nice, bright clothes, Luce.’
‘They’re all dirty,’ I lie.
She frowns like she doesn’t believe me. ‘Want to put your Ls on and go for a drive later?’
I make a noncommittal sound.
Once she’s finally gone a little wave of anxiety washes over me. Because in terms of potential employment, the sanctuary is out for obvious reasons. The Frank is out given I can never step foot in there again. Jacinta told me she’d check if anything’s going at IGA. But maybe my parents will let the job thing slide now that they know I have a friend and it looks like I’m making an effort. That’s probably wishful thinking. But maybe I don’t even care anymore.
I try to find some perspective on my life by scrolling through the news, but it just gives me a general sense of dread and I can’t remember if that was normal before, thanks to the state of the world, or if it’s another Charlie-related feeling. I search all the socials to see if there are any hints about Tina and Lockie, but Tina’s is mostly celeb-fandom stuff and Steph’s is mostly jazz-ballet stuff and Rach barely posts at all. Then I scroll socials for a while, rewatching Bella Darling’s latest videos. She’s skinny-dipping in an emerald-coloured lake in the Texan countryside for a life bomb, then she’s talking about how capitalism contributes to eating disorders, then she’s showing us the perfect eye makeup for Christmas with a full tutorial. I feel like I know Bella, like she’s a friend, one I don’t have to make any reciprocal effort with. She doesn’t have to know me. If I could like all her posts twice I would. I tag Jacinta in the makeup one, then I DM Bella again, telling her she’s amazing, and soak up her automated response.
Finally I flip onto my stomach and drop my phone on the grass, closing my eyes against the world and wondering what it might be like to be one of those animals without a brain. Without thoughts. A starfish maybe, or a Portuguese man-o-war. Three seconds into this blissful mind experiment, my phone starts vibrating. And that’s weird, because I never get phone calls. My skin grows cold and my heart starts thick-thudding. Is this the call from the Frank security I’ve been dreading for almost twenty-four hours? Or, worse, the police? I attempt to ignore it, but the buzzing won’t stop. Suddenly, stupidly, I feel like dissolving into tears. I’m such an idiot . Could I get expelled from school for stealing? Could I get arrested ? I honestly have no idea. The only reason I haven’t googled shoplifting charges is because I don’t trust my search history not to somehow set a digital red flare blazing over our house. I didn’t even tell Jacinta that I thought I’d been caught.
Buzz, buzz, buzz.
I push myself onto my elbows, brace myself and reach for the phone. But it’s not a call after all. It’s a mammoth series of messages, all from an unknown number. I swipe open, shield my screen from the day’s glare, and read.
Hey Lucy how are u?
It’s Ben from the sanctuary
I just want to say not to worry about the whole thing the other day
I don’t know if ur worried about it or not but don’t be
Ur friend rach told me about what happened with ur brother. I’m so sorry
I get it tho. You have a very good reason to be really weird
I only told Dinesh about it by the way. The whole dingo thing
No one else
And he thought it was kinda badass and I agree
Anyway I’m sorry for my jerk of a dad. I feel crap about him banning u
If it makes u feel better he was mostly pissed off at one of the keepers for not locking the enclosure properly
I did get a ‘talking to’ about ‘not letting my hormones turn me into a stupid idiot’ tho which was probably actually worse than cleaning out the food store
Anyway just wanted to say all that
And that ninja is doing good
Sorry if it’s weird that I’ve messaged u. Don’t feel like u have to write back
Did I tell u it’s Ben?
Yep I did
Rach gave me ur number
I blink at the phone then read the messages again, trying to take all that in. My fast-thudding heart has turned into something heavy and slow, a rain cloud full to bursting. Because Ben just messaged me. But also because, if you had asked me five minutes ago who the last person on earth I would want to know about Charlie is, I would have said Jacinta, followed closely by Ben. But not only does he now know, it’s the reason he’s messaging me. It’s the reason he doesn’t want me to feel bad about the other day. I feel sick imagining the pity party that whole group were probably throwing for me after they left, Rach telling Ben how hard it’s been for me while Lockie’s eyes did that hollow-glossy thing they did for months after it happened.
Rach.
The thing about Rach is, she’s a really good person. She was my best friend. She was the only one who called me in the two months I was off school after it happened (not that I picked up), plus I overheard her stand up for me when Steph said I was in my ‘Sad Girl Era’ last month, as if my brother dying is a self-indulgent affectation or an aesthetic choice. But it’s just…the way she is around me now—or was around me when we were still attempting to hang out—wanting to carry my bag between classes as if I was physically weaker, offering me her lunch even though I had heaps of my own, looking at me like I was fragile glass it was her sole responsibility as a best friend not to break. It felt like a betrayal of the unspoken pact I swore we’d had to never be… weird around each other. To never be distant or hesitant in our friendship. To never act as if we didn’t even know each other, a draining performance of careful words. From Ugg boot-level comfortable to a too-small school shoe.
‘What?’ I’d ask, when Rach’s expression said she’d seen something funny on her phone or when I could tell she was annoyed at something her Mum had done that morning. ‘What is it?’ It’s not that I wanted her to pretend Charlie’s death didn’t happen. I just wanted her to remind me of what normal could be like. To prove it was still somehow possible to care and laugh and bitch about small, stupid things.
Her eyes would widen like a deer in headlights, as if I’d caught her betraying me somehow. ‘Nothing,’ she’d say awkwardly, shaking her head or shoving her phone away, like I’d be hurt or pissed off at her for feeling anything other than grief. ‘It’s nothing. Hey, did you see I sent you that geo assignment? You can totally copy whatever you want.’
Stop it, I wanted to yell, fury bubbling inside me. You’re making this so much worse! But my mouth couldn’t find those words, and, anyway, they sounded too harsh to say out loud when she was just being kind, really, so I drifted away because the whole thing was too weird and awkward to deal with.
I used to have this messed-up, secret idea that attention from something like your brother dying would feel good. That I would become popular in some way unrelated to my actual personality. But the reality was so different.
I drop my phone, flop down and close my eyes again. But as I lie there pretending Ben’s messages don’t exist, and try to focus on a flock of yellow-tailed black cockatoos screeching mournfully overhead, one thing he said (besides the hormones comment and the me-being-badass comment) keeps repeating in my mind: I get it . I don’t believe him. Even though it’s completely illogical, I honestly refuse to believe anyone gets what this is like. But if Ben does have even the slightest inkling, I can’t ignore his messages. And it doesn’t sound like he knows about the flashing, which makes it slightly more bearable to talk to him. I lie on my side and pick up my phone, with a tiny rush of adrenaline.
Did you just call me really weird?
A few minutes go by before he messages back, which, apparently, he can only do one or two sentences at a time.
Well yeah
Clearly
But I don’t think weird is a bad thing
I mean if I thought I was some kind of animal whisperer I would 0% be trying to commune with Australia’s only native canid too
Would honestly be very helpful for my job
Like can u all shit in ONE spot please?
I can’t help smiling.
Animal shit must be a big part of your life
It really is
Before I can write back, he messages again.
Seriously tho I do get it. I’m not just saying that
I got pretty weird after my mum died
Car accident
I sit up a little. Wow. That’s so awful. And also, um, what? How did he just come out with that to a practical stranger? Like, ‘Hi, my name’s Ben and my mum is dead’? I’m as impressed as I am freaked out. And of course I feel terrible for him, but knowing Ben’s lost someone too also makes me relax a little. Like talking to him just became easier. Like maybe there’s less about myself I have to try to explain. That probably makes me a terrible human being, but right now I don’t care.
What did you do that was weird?
It’s such a personal question but I can’t help myself. He put it out there and I’m so hungry to understand. A few minutes go by before he writes back.
Okay so…
I wouldn’t let Dad throw out any of her clothes
Everything smelled like her
I used to wrap her old bath robe around the kitchen chair like she was still sitting there and put her boots underneath
Some mum scarecrow. It freaked dad out
And for a while I wore her T-shirts around the house and under my work shirt
The pink zinc is her too
Mum wore it every day
It makes me think that she might come back just to pat me on the head for being sun safe or something
I read the flurry of messages a few times. I picture him in some mauve V-neck T-shirt, too tight, and there’s a weird tug in my torso. It makes me want to laugh, and also to reach through the phone and hug him.
That doesn’t sound weird to me Sounds like an entirely reasonable way to cope with some- thing so messed up
Three dots while he types.
Thanks for understanding, fellow weirdo
I let the smallest laugh escape, then I’m messaging again.
So the thing with the dingo is… Charlie and I used to go to the sanctuary heaps when we were kids Charlie’s my brother
I wait for my eyes to stop prickling before correcting myself.
*was I felt like I could probably do anything when he was around. It was all possible. Even talking to animals…
I barely notice I’ve typed all those words before I’ve sent them. I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. We don’t even know each other. But talking about Charlie through messages is way, way easier than face to face. I keep going.
One time when I was a kid we had mice in the garage roof and dad bought all this poison. I stayed up all night trying to convince the mice not to eat it and just leave so they didn’t have to die. Charlie brought me midnight snacks in support. He fully believed in me. I swear it might have actually worked
Ahhaha that’s very very sweet
So u were weird before the grief thing then
I laugh and wipe my nose on the back of my hand.
I guess so
Me too
I talked to trees with mum all the time
She was like a science-loving semi-hippy
She said it increased our level of oxytocin which makes you feel calm
Oh I get the semi-hippy thing. My mum would say the same thing about the colour green
Yeah? Well the tree thing kind of works
Except when she made Dinesh do it and he got attacked by bull ants
He was not calm haha
I smile.
Ouch
I kind of want to ask what exactly happened with his mum but that’s really morbid and it’s definitely way too soon. I wonder how much he knows about Charlie.
I don’t think talking to trees is that weird btw. On a scale of weird I mean. It’s like a 4. Your mum sounds cool
Yeah
Thanks
She was
A few more minutes go by and I’m not sure who’s meant to message next. Finally, my phone buzzes again.
So maybe I can sort something out at the sanctuary if you want
Sneak into the system and delete ur photo
There’s fluttering somewhere in my ribcage.
That would be cool
Cool. No promises but I’ll let u know
Did I tell u Ninja is going well
She’ll probably be part of the breeding program for a bit
Then we’ll release her back into the wild with some other PWs
There’s a squeeze in my chest, and the thought of Ninja back in the wild fills me with a soft glow.
Amazing!
I hesitate, then type again.
I’m sorry about your mum. I hope you’re okay I mean obviously you wouldn’t be but you know what I mean
Yeah
Thanks
U too. With ur brother
I’ve got to shovel some animal shit now. Chat soon
I click my screen to black and stare at my reflection, then flip onto my back, lying my phone on my chest as if I can hug the conversation. I stare up at the clouds floating by above the gum tree. I’m buzzing with energy and exhausted at the same time. But before I can fully analyse whether Ben just feels bad for me or if that was something… else, Mum slips out of the backdoor and starts dragging the other day bed over next to me. She’s wearing a sun visor and a flowy kaftan, both in buttery yellow: happiness, optimism, energy. Her lower legs are bare so I can see the tattoo on her calf, the one she got before Charlie and I were born. It’s a butterfly with blue wings (serenity), the name James, and a date. My other sibling. Stillborn. It was another three years of trying before Mum became pregnant with Charlie. They’d almost given up. ‘My miracle,’ Mum had called him when she told us about him being born. Dad said Charlie coming into the world was like light rushing in.
‘You’re so lucky to have me, Lucky Lucy,’ a twelve-year-old Charlie said when we found out. ‘If I didn’t decide to be born, they would have given up and not had you. If I didn’t exist, you wouldn’t exist.’
The logic sounded very stupid to me. ‘If you didn’t exist, you wouldn’t exist either!’ I’d retorted, but that seemed to make even less sense so I gave up, shoved down the feeling of wanting to throw something at his head, and accepted the ‘Lucky’ nickname. Accepted that Charlie was the exceptional one. This was surprisingly easy to do when Dad kept the overflow of Charlie’s certificate and trophies in his office and, whenever Mum came to tuck us into bed as kids, Charlie often got her the longest (I counted, lying there aching, longing, wanting).
I once asked Mum why she got the tattoo. Why would you want a constant reminder of something so sad? She said: ‘It’s not sad to be reminded of when the world was that little bit more beautiful.’ Then, when Charlie and I were thirteen and fourteen, Mum realised the semi-permission she might have given us. She made us sign a literal contract: We, Charlie and Lucy, promise not to alter our bodies in any permanent way while living under our parents’ roof.
‘Can I join you?’ Mum asks, already lying down on the day bed. For a moment, I’m annoyed at her for intruding. But then I remember she generally respects my privacy when I’m in my room. Me lying out here is an invitation to hang out.
‘Be my guest,’ I say.
She opens the chips I’d left on the grass and offers them to me. ‘Did I ever tell you how I failed my driver’s licence test six times?’
I sit up, immediately intrigued. Mum has this habit of randomly dropping mini-bombs from her past, as if she’s been saving them up for a bonding moment. They get me every single time.
‘You what ?’ I ask, leaning over and shoving my hand in the chip bag. ‘How is that even possible?’
She rolls her eyes. ‘I blame your grandad. He was too tight to pay for haircuts, plumbers and driving lessons.’
We lie there for an hour, snacking and laughing about Mum’s reversing skills and terrible home haircuts. It’s kind of nice.
That night, at around 11 pm, I roll out of bed to grab a fresh icepack for my sunburn. Dad’s in the kitchen making himself a coffee. He’s in his too-short gingham pyjamas that show his pale ankles.
‘Want one?’ he asks, sounding glad to see me.
‘Thanks, but I need sleep to live.’
He smiles weakly and returns to pouring the steaming milk into his mug. He looks…lonely.
Mum’s already been in bed for more than an hour, given her practically pre-dawn wake-ups. It wasn’t spin or yoga this morning but a video call with an old uni friend who lives overseas. I could hear Lina’s nasal voice emanating from the living room. There always seems to be some excuse for Mum to be out of bed by 6 am these days. And then there’s Dad: Franklin’s night owl, hooting away in his little office doing whatever it is that he does all night.
I wonder if my parents are ever in their bedroom at the same time. Is it weird that they run on such different schedules now? I noticed they sat apart on the couch on our mini-pizza and Grand Designs -reruns night, which was unusual for them. Plus I haven’t seen them baking together for open houses like they used to.
‘So,’ I say, wrapping an icepack in a tea towel, and pressing it to my arm. ‘What exactly do real estate agency co-directors do in their offices on a Saturday night?’
‘Tonight?’ Dad looks flattered I’ve asked. ‘Social-media strategy.’
I frown. ‘Really?’ I think the last time their business posted anything was probably in 2019.
‘Yeah,’ he says, smiling. ‘Gonna make some videos. The Marketing Guru podcast says videos are the king of content.’
‘Well, that’s very insightful of the Marketing Guru.’
Dad nods and takes a sip of coffee. ‘I’m just outlining some ideas for now. Maybe some styling tips for selling, or Mum and me giving tours of properties on the market. Also some promotion for the Summer Day Do. Just a bit of fun, you know?’
I cringe at the reminder of the upcoming community barbeque. ‘Cool,’ I manage, although it’s very obviously not cool. ‘I look forward to your quality content . ’
He ignores my sarcasm. ‘Hey, Mum said you were job-hunting at the Frank yesterday. Anything promising?’
A cold drip from the icepack runs down my arm. ‘Um, not really. Lots of places already have their summer staff.’
He nods, finishing his coffee. ‘That’s okay. Just keep trying. That’s all we ask.’
I roll my eyes. Really? That’s all you ask? What’s the point then?
Dad tilts his head slightly. ‘You know what a placebo is, Luce?’
I shrug. ‘Sure. A lie in the form of prescribed medication.’
He laughs. ‘Yeah, pretty much.’ Then he takes a step towards me, putting a big soft dad-hand on my shoulder. ‘It’s just that, sometimes acting like we’re doing okay can actually make us feel better.’
I frown, wondering if this is what his little social-media project is really about. ‘But it’s not a placebo if you know the medicine is fake.’
‘Well…’ Dad grimaces, clearly caught out. ‘Sure. No. It’s not exactly. Point is, sometimes you’ve just gotta have faith. Sometimes you can kind of trick yourself into believing in something and it becomes true.’
This is definitely the moment where Charlie would jump in and start one of his many debates with Dad about faith and religion. About the negative global ramifications of so many different groups of humans believing in so many different Gods, weighed against the obvious benefits of people having something, anything , to believe in. My brother used to get pretty passionate during these debates, as if the answer really mattered to him on a personal level rather than it being some intellectual exercise designed to wind Dad up. But I don’t have enough conviction in my own ideas for that. I’m not Charlie. I haven’t spent five hundred thousand hours reading about that kind of stuff online. So instead I force myself to understand what Dad’s trying to say. I think I read a thing once about how the physical act of smiling can make you feel happier. Something about our muscles feeding back to our brain. I pick a yellowing leaf off a devil’s ivy and crunch it in my fingers.
Finally, I nod. ‘Yeah. Okay. I get it.’
‘Good on ya, Luce.’ Dad grins a little too widely. And I want to ask the question that’s just started gnawing at me: if he and Mum are actually okay. I want to ask because a part of me hopes he says no. Because if he does, then I can admit that maybe, possibly , I’m not either without being the one to let the family healing process down, that not only am I not okay—I feel like the entire weight of existence is crushing me.
But I know he won’t say no, even if it’s true, and I can’t seem to ask anyway.
Then he walks over to the sink to wash his mug and the moment’s gone.
On my way back down the hall I think about Mum in her head-to-toe orange and yellow. I think about how she said it’s okay not to be okay, but then neither she nor Dad act like that’s true.
If Dad’s faith-based version of a placebo works so well, why doesn’t he drink decaf?