THIRTY-SEVEN
I have no idea who first mentioned rock climbing to me.
Oscar? Andrew? One of the dozens of Tinder boys with hiking emojis in their bios and thighs the size of tree trunks?
Someone once said, ‘It’s the perfect combination of strength and strategy,’ and I remember nodding along, pretending that, Yes, I too am a person with hobbies and grip strength.
But it’s Monday. It’s raining. And the thought of going back to the office and pretending I care about the pH of charcoal toothpaste makes me want to throw myself into traffic. I call in sick.
Technically, I text in sick, which is different. Less aggressive. Then I stand in the living room and announce, ‘We’re going rock climbing.’
Issy looks up from the couch where she’s braiding Gemma’s hair with the precision of a stylist and the exhaustion of a woman three seconds away from crying. ‘What?’
‘Rock climbing,’ I repeat. ‘It’s a bonding thing. Builds confidence. And triceps.’
Gemma gasps. Billie flings herself across the room as if I said we’re going to Disneyland.
Issy, on the other hand, blinks slowly. ‘It’s Monday.’
‘Yes.’
‘They have school.’
I gesture vaguely towards the shopping bags she brought with them. ‘You forgot to pack Gemma’s uniform and Billie hates preschool anyway.’
Her eyes widen. ‘Shit.’
Billie cheers. ‘Mummy said a bad word!’
Issy groans. ‘I can’t go home before Greg leaves.’
Which is, of course, the whole point. I don’t say it out loud, but we both feel the truth sitting between us like a third sister.
So, we pile into my car, four of us in mismatched leggings and borrowed runners, and head to the nearest indoor climbing gym – because, apparently, rock climbing is what people do when they’re trying to feel alive and can’t afford therapy.
The place smells of chalk dust and ambition. Everyone looks very … vertical. Like they exist beyond the nine-to-five grind – and honestly, what do all these fuckers do for a living?
I register us at the front desk and sign my life away with a waiver that I only half read. I glance at the woman behind the counter, who has biceps that could probably bench press my lazy arse. She gives me a thumbs up and says, ‘You’re gonna do great!’
I feel nauseous.
The girls are bouncing in place. Issy’s biting one of her nails, which she only does when she’s nervous. Or angry. Or both.
We get strapped into harnesses that feel like adult diapers with rope attachments. A terrifyingly enthusiastic instructor gives us a rundown on safety, belaying, handholds and how not to die.
Then it’s time to climb.
Billie goes first, obviously. A little spider monkey on Red Bull.
She’s up the tiny kids’ wall in twenty seconds, waving from the top as if she’s the star of a musical and we’re her adoring crowd.
Gemma starts climbing after her sister. Slower, more focused than Billie. She makes it, too.
Then Issy has a go on the taller wall. She’s strong. Quietly capable. She’s starting to resemble someone who doesn’t know her own strength, but who maybe wants to.
Finally, me.
I grab the first handhold and, at once, I realise this was a mistake. My arms wobble as if they’re made of gelatine and haven’t seen a day of honest work.
I’m halfway up when I make the mistake of looking down.
Everything tilts. The wall seems to pull away from me. My chest tightens. My vision blurs.
‘Shit,’ I whisper. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’
My breath comes fast. I press my forehead to the wall. Perhaps it will give me answers – or Xanax.
‘YOU GOT THIS, AUNTY J!’ Billie shrieks from the floor, a tiny, glitter-covered life coach.
I close my eyes. Inhale. And climb the last two metres on pure adrenaline and ego.
When I hit the top, I want to cry. But I don’t. Because I’m also scared of gravity and sudden public death.
I lower myself down slowly, legs shaking, until I collapse on the mat with a grunt.
Issy stands over me, hand on her hip. ‘You okay?’
I nod. ‘I think I’m scared of heights.’
She deadpans. ‘No shit.’
And then – she smiles. Not a big one. Not teeth and sunshine. But it’s genuine. And I haven’t seen one of those from her in weeks.
We sit on the sidelines while the girls tackle the kiddie wall again, trying to one-up each other.
Issy nudges me. ‘Thanks for this.’
I shrug. ‘Anytime.’
She looks down at her hands. ‘It’s nice … not being home.’
There it is again. The thing she doesn’t say. The shape of a bruise you can’t see but still feel.
‘You know,’ I say carefully, ‘you already do everything on your own. The girls. The house. The damage control. What difference would it make if you left him?’
She flinches. ‘A lot.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t have a job. Or savings. Or a clue what I’d even do.’
I lean my head against the wall behind us, watching the girls shriek with laughter. ‘Go back to uni.’
Issy scoffs. ‘Right. Because that’s so easy.’
‘You were halfway through your nursing degree before Gemma.’
‘I don’t even know if I’d be good at it anymore.’
‘You’d be great. You’re already keeping people alive every day.’
‘I can’t.’
‘You can.’
‘I’d be homeless without Greg.’
‘Oh, please.’ I roll my eyes. ‘I guarantee Mum has a divorce lawyer already lined up for you. Just say the word and she’ll take him to the cleaners.’
Issy doesn’t answer, watching Gemma race Billie to the top. Then she leans against my shoulder, quiet for a beat. ‘I’ll think about it.’
‘Good.’ I pause. ‘And just so you know, whatever you decide … wherever I am, you and the girls will always have somewhere to go.’
Issy exhales a short laugh. ‘Until you get sick of us.’
‘I’m serious,’ I say and nudge her shoulder with mine. ‘I could be living in Namibia for all I care. If you ever need a break, just say the word and I’ll have you and the girls on the first flight over.’
‘To Namibia?’
I roll my eyes. ‘You know what I mean.’
She nods and then leans her head on my shoulder. ‘I do,’ she whispers quietly before sliding her hand into mine.
Issy and the girls stay for one more night.
It’s one of those quietly perfect evenings where no one says they need it, but you can feel it in the way Billie curls up in my lap without asking, and in the way Issy stops checking her phone for updates from Greg.
We make spaghetti and meatballs, mostly because I had all the ingredients except for meatballs, which I panic-bought at the deli on the way home in a moment of domestic delusion.
We eat in front of the TV. The girls tell me stories from school with the chaotic confidence of unreliable narrators. Issy sips her wine slower than usual.
I fall asleep on the couch during the Frozen credits. The last thing I remember is Gemma whispering, ‘Don’t wake her, she looks tired,’ as if I’m some wounded Disney princess.
They sleep in my bed. All three of them.
When I get home from work the next afternoon, the apartment is quiet in that weirdly echo-y way that only comes after something loud and chaotic has left.
They’re gone.
There’s a box of chocolates on the kitchen table and a card made from folded printer paper. On the front, Gemma’s handwriting says: WE LOVE YOU AUNTY J in alternating colours of crayons. Inside, Issy has written: Thank you. For all of it. PS. Don’t throw this card out. Gemma will ask.
I eat one of the chocolates immediately. Something caramel. Possibly life changing.
My phone buzzes.
Abbey:
Just checking we’re still on for tonight?
Me:
Yep. Getting changed.
It’s technically the truth. I’m still in my work pants and eating chocolates with one shoe off. So, I change into jeans that don’t scream corporate trauma and head to pottery class.
I arrive five minutes late and spot Abbey already perched on a stool, apron on. As I walk in, the teacher is mid-instruction about ‘centring your clay energy’ – whatever that means. Abbey whispers as I settle on the stool next to her, ‘You were thirty seconds away from getting
a where the hell are you text.’
‘Relax,’ I whisper back. ‘I’m here. Let’s ruin some clay.’
She mutters under her breath about something that includes ‘chronically late’ and ‘liability’, but it’s too quiet to be sure.
The instructor turns to glare at us. ‘Ladies. If we could hold comments until after the demonstration?’
Abbey and I share a look – we’re fifteen again and about to get sent to detention.
We try to focus.
Try being the operative word.
The teacher does a whole delicate, sensual demonstration of throwing clay on the wheel, hands gliding over it like something out of Ghost, except it’s just her, a very intense low ponytail and a zero-tolerance policy on backchat.
When it’s our turn, she crouches next to me, guiding my hands, and I prepare myself to hear her whisper life-changing wisdom into my ear. Instead, she says, ‘Your pressure is uneven. Breathe with the clay.’
I breathe. I press. I overcorrect. My mug collapses.
The instructor inhales sharply and shoos me away. She takes over my wheel to ‘salvage what’s left’ while I step aside and watch her work with the guilt of someone who ran over a houseplant.
Abbey, meanwhile, has created something vaguely dick shaped. Whether on purpose or by accident is unclear, and I’m not brave enough to ask.
We look at each other and burst out laughing – actual belly laughter.
It’s the kind of laugh I haven’t had in months. Maybe longer.
Our instructor couldn’t be more pissed.
Afterwards, Abbey and I grab dinner at the little Italian place across the street. The waiter gives us bread and a bottle of wine without asking. We are that kind of table.
Abbey takes a slice of pizza and says, ‘So, Project Jamie. How’s the rebirth going?’
I shrug, tearing myself a piece. ‘I tried being mysterious in museums. Educated in bookshops. Dipped a toe into the true-crime doco lifestyle.’
‘Any standouts?’
‘I lost two nights of sleep over a man with a history of childhood trauma and taxidermy. So, no.’
Abbey winces. ‘Yikes.’
‘I also tried rock climbing.’
‘You?’
‘I know.’
She chews slowly. ‘And?’
‘I discovered I’m terrified of heights and possess the grip strength of a damp paper towel. So that hobby’s out.’
She nods thoughtfully as if she’s compiling data. ‘What about surfing?’
‘And end up on Bondi Rescue?’ I ask, taking another bite of pizza. ‘No thanks.’
‘Painting?’
I nod and swallow. ‘I was thinking maybe OnlyFans.’
Abbey levels me with a look.
‘Or,’ I offer, ‘the foot pic one? No face, just toes. Anonymity and income.’
‘That wouldn’t work,’ she says, sipping her wine. ‘Your second toe is longer than your big toe. It’s weird.’
I glare. ‘It’s a Greek toe. It’s classical.’
‘It’s unnatural is what it is.’
‘I’d argue it’s niche. And weird always pays more.’
She snorts, then wipes her mouth. ‘Whatever. What about my run club?’
I physically recoil. ‘That’s a hard pass.’
‘You’d enjoy it. Early mornings. Gets the endorphins pumping. We get coffee after. Sometimes a swim.’
‘That’s a cult.’
She ignores me. ‘I’m picking you up Saturday morning.’
I raise my brows. ‘Don’t bother. I won’t answer the door.’
She smiles sweetly. ‘I’ll keep buzzing the intercom until you do.’ ‘You wouldn’t.’
‘Oh, I would.’
We fall into silence – the good kind, full of carbs and comfort. I swirl the last of my wine and stare at her. This friend. This person who saw me come undone and stayed.
‘Thanks,’ I say quietly.
‘For what?’
‘For showing up. For making me show up.’
Abbey shrugs. ‘That’s what sisters do.’
I nod. ‘Even for sisters with mutant toes?’
She raises her glass. ‘Especially them.’
And we clink.