30
‘LET ME GET this straight,’ I say, rubbing some sunscreen into my legs. I’m spread out on a giant tartan picnic rug under the shade of a eucalyptus on the far edge of the Evans Real Estate Summer Day Do. ‘This guy takes off and holes up in a cabin in the woods for a couple of years doing nothing, and now he’s revered worldwide? I could have done that. I love sitting around and doing nothing.’
Jacinta, Ben, Rach, Dinesh and I staked our claim about twenty minutes ago and covered our rug with as much free food as possible, the main incentive I used to get them all here and help me survive this thing. Jacinta’s just finished the audiobook of Henry David Thoreau’s Walden and she’s been giving us a rundown.
‘He didn’t do nothing ,’ she says, pointing a cucumber sandwich at me. She’s wearing a pink denim skirt and a T-shirt that says Fan Girl. ‘He grew beans.’
‘I think he was actually a pretty good writer too,’ Rach says as she pulls her hair into a plait. ‘It’s not like he just YouTubed the whole experience.’
I shrug, leaning forward and slipping a few strands Rach missed into her hand. ‘Okay, so he was special then.’
Jacinta turns to Ben. ‘What do you think, Sanctuary Boy? Do you think we all have the capacity to do something truly amazing if we can figure out what it is and that that’s what makes our lives meaningful? Or do you think we’re all insignificant blips and that meaninglessness equals freedom?’
Ben looks thoughtfully at his vegan-sausage sandwich. He’s wearing his pink zinc, thick and bright like the day I met him. ‘I think we’re all in some higher being’s version of an animal sanctuary being marvelled at and observed for scientific study,’ he says.
‘Dude,’ Dinesh says. ‘ Must you implode my brain on a daily basis like that? Also, do you think the higher beings watch us jerk off?’
‘Don’t worry,’ Ben says. ‘ No one wants to see you do that, mate.’
‘Oh, and get this, L,’ Jacinta says, turning back to me. ‘Thoreau was a transcendentalist .’
I frown, the back of my neck prickling slightly. ‘A what?’
‘It’s a thing.’ Jacinta pulls out her phone, googles it and reads. ‘“A core belief of transcendentalists is in the inherent goodness of nature. Transcendentalists saw divine experience inherent in the here and now, rather than in some distant heaven.”’
Ben glances at me with a smile. ‘Interesting.’
‘I could believe in that,’ I reply, feeling a spark of lightness in my chest.
The others keep talking while I look around the barbeque, which is taking place at our local footy oval. It’s filled up now. There must be two hundred people milling about with drinks and food and screaming kids. The DJ turns out to be a fifty-something-year-old guy with electronic turntables that literally take CDs, and he’s playing some nondescript pop music on crappy speakers.
My parents are standing near the donation station where people can scan a QR code to donate to the Franklin Sanctuary Plains-wanderer Breeding Program. Ben came early and met both of my parents and helped put up the bunting, pre-cook some barbeque food with Dad, and set up the donation station, complete with fact sheets about the birds and some discount sanctuary entrance vouchers for those who donate $50 or more. Mum and Dad adore him already, and I’m sure I’ll be getting a million questions and some kind of ‘talk’ later tonight.
I watch my parents mingling, Mum in a beautiful emerald-green sundress (peace, rest, security) and Dad in a Franklin Falcons footy jersey with a Tooheys in hand. They’re smiling as they talk to another couple, and their smiles don’t seem too forced. Maybe a tiny touch of brightness even reaches their eyes.
I’m about to turn back to my friends when I see a man dressed in khaki walking over from a dusty ute.
‘Oh my god!’ I hiss at Ben. ‘Your dad’s here! Why is your dad here? Did you know your dad was going to be here?’
Ben looks apologetic. ‘Okay, yeah,’ he says. ‘I told him about all this, and he wanted to come thank your parents for the whole donation thing. I didn’t tell you he was coming in case it made you nervous.’
Shame blooms in me. He’s seen my boobs. I could have killed him.
‘Of course it makes me nervous!’ I glance around for the largest tree. ‘I have to hide immediately!’
Ben grabs my arm to stop me fleeing. ‘No! It’s fine. I promise.’
The others have stopped talking now and are listening to our conversation.
‘Is that Swervey Pervey ?’ Jacinta says, following my gaze to Ben’s dad.
Ben snorts. ‘Is that what you call my dad?’
‘It is,’ Jacinta says.
Dinesh claps his hands together. ‘Brilliant!’
‘Wait,’ Rach says. ‘What am I missing? Why does Lucy have to hide from Ben’s dad?’
Jacinta doesn’t hesitate. ‘Because we flashed our boobs at him.’
‘ Yeah you did,’ Dinesh says with a proud grin.
Rach’s eyes bulge at me. ‘You what ?’
I groan. ‘It’s kind of a long story.’
‘Please please please , let me explain!’ Jacinta begs.
‘Not now,’ I say. Because Ben’s dad has seen us and he’s walking over.
I stand up and Ben stands next to me. ‘It’s all good,’ he says. ‘Come on.’
I grit my teeth, wanting to believe him, but also knowing I don’t have a choice, so when he starts walking I do too and I hope this isn’t as awkward as I’m sure it’s definitely going to be. I wonder exactly how much Ben has told him about me. About us.
‘Lucy,’ Ben’s dad says when we reach each other. ‘This is quite the turnout, huh?’
I nod. ‘Yeah. Um. Thanks for coming.’
‘Well, thank you for the generosity.’
I manage a smile. ‘That’s okay. It was my dad’s decision. But yeah, he knows I love plains-wanderers from when my brother and I were kids, so…’ I trail off.
Ben’s dad clears his throat, fingers fiddling with some keys attached to his belt. He’s struggling to make eye contact. ‘Listen. I want to say I’m very sorry about your brother. I know it’s…it’s hard to lose someone.’
Understatement of the year, I think, but still I swallow, trying not to tear up because that must have been tough for him to say. ‘Um, thank you. And, ah, I’m really sorry about the whole…freeway thing. It was so stupid. I…’ I search for the words. ‘I haven’t been coping very well.’
He nods. ‘Yes. Ben said that,’ he says, looking over towards my parents. ‘Don’t worry. It stays between us.’
Relief floods me. I glance at Ben who looks apologetic for talking about my stuff to his dad but also hopeful I’m cool with it. A rogue soccer ball hits his foot and he kicks it back to a group of kids.
Ben’s dad speaks again. ‘Look, you can forget about that ban as well. Consider it lifted.’
‘ Really ?’ My heart leaps. ‘Thank you!’ I’m grinning now. Ben grabs my hand.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ his dad says, and smiles back. ‘And I hear you’re coming to the PW release later this afternoon, huh?’
I glance at Ben again. ‘What?’
‘We’re releasing some plains-wanderers back into the wild,’ he says. He’s the one grinning now.
‘ Ninja ?’ I ask, wondering if that’s even possible. I thought she was going to be part of the breeding program at the sanctuary.
He nods. ‘Yep. The vets reckon she’s made a full recovery. They just think she’s better off in the wild, and if they release her with some males there’s a good chance they’ll breed.’
‘Wow,’ I say, still trying to process this news.
‘So,’ Ben says. ‘You wanna come?’
I feel like my whole entire body might float up off the grass. ‘ Yes! ’
When Ben’s dad goes off to find my parents I can breathe again. Ben pulls me into a huge hug.
I lean on him. ‘My legs are shaking.’
We pull apart slightly and Ben kisses me, soft and solid, and I melt. Then he rubs the pink zinc smudge off my nose and we walk back to the others.
A few hours later, Ben and I are driving through a gate into a cattle farm, following behind three other Franklin Sanctuary utes. The property is about a hundred kilometres north of Franklin, far, far away from any windows, and it’s apparently perfect plains-wanderer habitat. It’s just us in the ute and I’m so glad. Even though I had a good time at the Summer Day Do, I’m socially exhausted from the largest number of actual friends I’ve ever had. Now there’s nothing I’d rather do than be with animals and Ben.
‘So, the cattle graze on the native grasses and help keep them to just the right height for the birds through a grazing regime,’ Ben explains as we bump along a cleared path on the inside of the perimeter.
Late afternoon sun reflects off the dust we’re creating, making it sparkle gold all around us.
‘The landholders work with another conservation organisation to make sure the PWs are safe here,’ Ben says.
‘So, it’s pretty much the opposite of a paved alfresco dining area,’ I say, briefly glancing at a YouTube Jacinta’s just messaged me of two unidentified birds mating.
‘Pretty much.’
After a few more minutes of driving, the utes in front stop. Franklin Sanctuary staff jump out, along with Ben’s dad, and they unload a few animal carriers from their back seats.
‘This is so cool,’ I say.
We get out and climb up in the tray of Ben’s ute, where we have a perfect view but we’re not in the way of the release. Our feet dangle over the edge. Our thighs touch and I feel a warm jolt of anticipation at the thought of what we might do after this, when neither of us has to go home and we have hours together in his car. I try not to think about Ben leaving for uni soon, that we’re going to be in completely different worlds, that I have no idea where this might go.
The carriers are lined up on the grass a few metres away, and one of the sanctuary staff is filming everything on her phone and I get that feeling again, like I’m in exactly the place I’m meant to be. And, okay, maybe nothing matters to the universe, or in the cosmic scheme of things, or at all , because everyone’s going to die in the end. But in a weird, contradictory way, then maybe that means I can just… choose what matters. Like, maybe ‘nothing matters’ isn’t the rule but it’s more like: nothing matters, therefore there are no rules. So you can make them up yourself.
So, maybe I choose that anything can matter. Any tiny or massive thing can be important to me if I say it is, like my next breath or the flavour of passionfruit or my friends or saving Ninja—even if her species, like ours, won’t survive for eternity. Because maybe a world that’s a little kinder and brighter and more beautiful, even for one second, is inherently a good thing, a thing that matters. Right? Please let that be right.
Can I live in a universe where you or anyone you love can die at any moment? Where the only meaning you get is the meaning you make yourself? One with black holes and aching, longing, wanting feelings that don’t magically go away just because you understand them?
‘Hey,’ Ben says, taking my hand as we keep our eyes on the carriers. ‘Remember how the other night we were talking about being afraid of dying? Like, it could have so easily happened already and it could happen any time.’
I wonder if he’s been reading my mind. ‘Vividly,’ I say.
Ben turns to me then. ‘Well, I was thinking…we didn’t die. I mean, we haven’t died. Like, we’re here now. You know what I mean?’
I stare into his eyes, lovely lashes golden in the light. ‘Yeah. I know exactly what you mean.’ He means we’re alive, we’re alive, we’re alive . And the way he said it has soaked the moment with a kind of urgent joy, like knowing there’s always a possibility this might be our last hour on earth could make life better, not worse. Like a life bomb times infinity; this terrifying, transcendent, ongoing moment.
‘Sorry this place smells like shit,’ Ben says, gesturing at the cow manure on the grass around us, which actually smells sweet and earthy. ‘Why does this happen every single time I try to be romantic?’
I laugh, leaning my head against his sun-warmed shoulder. ‘I’m getting used to it.’
We watch as the sanctuary staff gather around the carriers and I finally realise what this release is, besides the obvious. It’s defiance in the face of meaningless and death. It’s pure hope. Then, all at once, they open the doors and five plains-wanderers burst out into the wild.
I scan the swirl of feathers, hoping I’ll recognise Ninja so I can see her one last time, but I shouldn’t have worried because of course there she is, running and flapping, wings beating like a heart, until she’s off the ground, flying for only a few seconds at about window height, like a tiny, happy miracle.