Chapter 6 #3
We have never once, from memory, hugged in our lives.
It feels unnatural, but so do most things, so I hug my brother and feel I ought to take a bow when it is done.
Maeve’s little eyes are on me and I have let her down with my cowing cowardice.
I promise I will hold firm on bodily autonomy from now on, little one.
‘How’s Melbourne? Is the weather still shithouse? It’s been thirty all week in Sydney, beach weather every day.’
Mum’s eyes bulge and Olivia is suddenly quite distracted adjusting Maeve’s collar. She changed her into the gingham outfit, and Maeve is clawing at her neck in discomfort.
‘Oh, didn’t Mum tell you? I have moved home,’ I say.
I want this to be our moment, I want him to care about what has become of me.
‘Here?’ Luke looks around, confused.
‘Of course here – she’s back in her old room and loving the space, aren’t you, dear? Her room in that share house was a shoebox.’ Mum is scrambling to tie that ribbon.
‘Yep, loving the space. Also, I’ve been having a bit of a hard time, so I am trying to figure out my next move.’
‘Having a hard time? What, dropping out of uni to party with your friends in Melbourne was exhausting, was it?’
‘What? No –’
‘Nora was working down there, at a gallery – remember I told you? It’s a very nice place, in a great part of the city,’ Mum says.
‘Serving wine to rich art dealers? Sounds tough,’ Luke scoffs.
‘Luke,’ Olivia starts, but seems to have nowhere to go after that.
I do not know who this person is, but I am certain I do not like him, could not like him, could not even imagine being related to someone like him. The dark clouds are settling, the black and white thinking needing no help to colour this scene.
‘Where’s Laura?’ I ask, genuinely curious and also keen to disrupt the facade he has obviously built so meticulously.
More bulging eyes and taut silence. Saying things is fraught around here.
‘She had to stay in Sydney – some last-minute work stuff came up.’
‘Oh, right. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s not a big deal,’ Luke scoffs again, as though my reading of what level of ‘deal’ the situation is, is laughable. His tone indicates he is not bothered; he is not feeling things about this eleventh-hour change in plans. How silly of me to get it so wrong.
‘Fair enough . . .’
‘So, moved back home, hey? I hope you’re paying some rent, not taking our folks for a ride.’ He laughs, but nobody else does because he is not funny. He is actually, objectively, even outside the realm of my perception and feelings, a prick.
‘Yeah . . .’
My mind is busy taking in this version of him, this performance. I am enraged already by how wrong this is going. And rage is rocket fuel.
‘We’re going to sort all of that out in the new year,’ Mum says. ‘It’s Christmas, and I’m so happy to have you all here.’
‘Would have been nice to finally meet Laura, though,’ I add, unable to help myself.
So much of how I act is in reaction to the way others see or treat me, self-fulfilling my role as the problem.
‘Would be nice if you’d stop going on about it, too,’ Luke replies.
‘Is mentioning something twice “going on about it”, do we think?’
I am honestly on a roll now; this is starting to get somewhere and I cede control to my rapidly souring attitude. If he wants a joust, I am ready to run him right through. Olivia and Mum have not blinked or taken a breath.
‘Nice to see some things never change around here,’ he snorts. ‘I can’t believe you still let her act like this.’
This is about me but directed at Mum, and there is hardness in Luke’s tone that I have not heard, or at least noticed, before. He is someone new. My heart races, back in fight or flight, choosing fight.
‘We’re working on it,’ Mum replies, sing-songy, stressed. ‘You must be keen to rest after your trip – why don’t you get yourself settled. I have your room all nice for you.’
I want to scream, I want to take hold of his shoulders and shake them, I want to punch him in the face. Assholery is a choice, brother dearest, and it is unbecoming of someone with such a ridiculous chin. But it is easy to match that energy when I do not have grounding in any idea of myself.
‘Maybe we can video-call Laura later – I can’t believe I haven’t met her yet. And I barely recognised you,’ I say with a smile, my hand to my chin.
‘So much going on in the world, it’s been hard for families everywhere to get together,’ Elsie interjects.
She is faffing, for once without clear command of the room. Luke performs a final roll of his eyes and takes off down the hall.
Timed to perfection, Dad emerges from the kitchen, blowing up a red balloon. Maeve shrieks with excitement.
‘Look what I found in the drawer, bunny.’
Everybody, look over here. Let us all marvel at the pretty balloon. Nothing uncomfortable to see here, no siree.
People have surprised me with their ugliness almost as often as they have with their kindness.
I have a long history of misreading the room, taking people at their word rather than their actions, assuming their inner world was just as messy as mine, that they were at least trying their best. But people were not always trying their best. Sometimes their intention was actually to wound, to maim, to hurt.
By the end of primary school, I had a small and precarious friendship group formed through proximity, through being in class together at a small school.
Where my earlier years had been spent mostly alone, seeking refuge in the library at lunch breaks as hiatus from all of the noise, I eventually learned the importance of being part of something, even if that something was for the most part unpleasant.
Elsie reiterated this point by showing an unhealthy amount of excitement for every birthday party invitation I received, of which there were few, and none I was interested in attending.
When Poppy Elliott invited me to her twelfth birthday pool party, invitations handed out to every single member of our grade, Mum was insistent this was my moment.
But it was clear it was her moment, and I had to play along.
‘I got you a new swimsuit and an outfit for Poppy’s birthday – I’ve laid it out on your bed,’ she told me one afternoon, us both in the kitchen at the end of a long day.
‘Thanks, Mum. I’m not sure if I’m going to go,’ I replied, because that was the truth.
‘I’ve already told Mrs Elliott you’ll be there – RSVPs were due on Saturday, and she was thrilled.’
Elsie and Mrs Elliott socialised together at the golf club, Dad somehow able to fit a regular schedule of golfing around his already brimming work week.
The wives met on the first Saturday of the month, to eat lunch and drink wine and brag about their children’s latest achievements, of which I had few for Mum to discuss.
Thankfully she had Olivia and Luke for that.
‘It would probably be okay if I didn’t go, though, right? A pool party won’t be ruined by having one less person there.’
I had immediately recognised my error, understanding a fraction too late that I should have woken up with a headache or a sore stomach on the day, rather than trying to get out of it this far ahead of time.
‘Poppy is a lovely girl, Nora. I don’t see why you wouldn’t want to go. You love to swim.’
The swimming I loved to do did not involve being with thirty other people my age, crammed into the backyard pool of someone I was fairly sure did not like me at all. I preferred solitary laps at the public pool, or visits to the waterfall with Fran on the holidays. But that was not the point.
‘Just try on the swimsuit, it’ll look great with your lean legs,’ she insisted.
It was in my best interests to comply, so I did.
In my room, a green one-piece lay on my bed, tags still attached to show it had not been cheap.
A striped cotton dress lay beside it, as well as sunglasses, new sandals, and a straw bag covered in pink and green flowers.
Elsie had gone all out. I pulled the swing tags off everything and used the scissors on my desk to cut the labels off, too.
After that there was no turning back. Squeezing my body into the togs, I felt my chest constrict and I tried to talk myself around.
Elsie knocked and entered without waiting for a reply, her eyes lighting up upon seeing me.
‘I knew they would be perfect – you’ve got the body of a model, without the height,’ she said, hands clasped together.
‘The straps are a bit tight,’ I replied, pulling at the spots where they dug into my shoulders.
‘Better a bit tight than too loose and risking flashing everyone your business.’
And so that following Saturday, off to the pool party I went.
Mum braided my hair, an excruciating process I usually avoided due to the sheer pain of having my scalp touched and my follicles pulled tight.
The Elliotts lived on the other side of the mountain, in a huge house with a view.
I had hoped Mum would walk me in, and come and talk to the other mothers as she had at the few parties I had attended in the past, but Elsie pulled over at the front of the driveway and indicated for me to get out of the car.
‘I’ll be back to pick you up in two hours. Please let Joanne know I’ll come in for a catch-up then – I’ve got a few errands to run.’
Anxiety had bloomed into panic, but it was clear the only way out was through.
Walking down the driveway, I could hear shrieking and laughing coming from the back of the house.
It was difficult to walk towards the danger, when every signal from my body was telling me to run.
At least I was not the first one to arrive.
Mrs Elliott answered the door, giving me a full scan up and down, and directed me through the house to the back patio, from which there was a view of the chaos.
‘Mum said she would be back soon, she’s just running a few errands,’ I explained, a line I had rehearsed on my walk in.
‘Perfect, hon. The girls will be thrilled you’re here.’