Chapter 21
Mum says the Bennetts will not ever speak to her again if we do not go and admire their light display tonight on which they ‘spent twenty thousand dollars on lights from England’ to create.
It seems like a statement born of a particularly dull game of telephone, which is essentially what living in a close-knit community is, because why twenty thousand dollars?
And why England? Going to look at Christmas lights is another Christmas Eve tradition in our house, regardless of our neighbour’s illumination budget, and it is perhaps my favourite.
Christmas Eve is to me the main event, a celebration without any of the pressure.
There is no set meal, no set seating, no set conversations.
It is all anticipation, everything magical and full of potential – the perfect time to view a human feat of excess that may otherwise be considered environmentally irresponsible.
By sunset, Mum is waiting in the living room, pacing in front of the fireplace with her light-up earrings switched to the most erratic setting.
It is almost as though she seeks to overstimulate herself on purpose.
She is not great at being still, and it gives me pause.
I suppose she usually hides her busyness so well, with craft and cleaning and food preparation and decorating and dieting and judging other people for what they wear or eat or say.
Maybe she is setting the pace necessary to keep her life in motion; maybe she too is overwhelmed by what might arise if she comes to a halt.
‘Oh, honey, that skirt is so crinkled,’ she says, frowning as she looks up at me.
My silk skirt is creased, but I had thought of it as the kind of piece that is elevated by an ‘I don’t care’ kind of attitude.
Quiet luxury, the internet says. I have spent my life chasing an ‘I don’t care’ attitude and I really thought I had nailed it with this look.
Apparently not; I have perhaps instead landed on something closer to roaring garbage.
Most of the time I dress with the aspiration of not being perceived, so I find it hard to switch into public-facing mode and know how to dress appropriately.
Silk skirt and vintage Garfield Christmas tee is clearly not the winning combination, but it is too late to do anything about it now.
I have insufficient energy for any kind of reaction.
Olivia arrives to draw focus and we are all glad for that.
She is wearing a creaseless forest green linen slip dress with gold jewellery and red lips – just Christmassy enough, without the need for flashing earrings or classic cartoon characters in Santa hats.
‘I wish Dad was well enough for me to leave Maeve with him. I’m dreading carting her around, she’s so difficult at night,’ she says.
‘He would have loved that, they get on so well,’ Mum says.
‘I can take her,’ I say, wanting to try trusting myself again.
Olivia smiles and heads to the kitchen to pour herself a glass of wine while we wait for Luke. She tosses her drink back in a few fast gulps. Our brother makes his entrance in a T-shirt printed to look like an ugly Christmas jumper.
‘Do you want a drink?’ Olivia asks him, holding out the bottle of wine from the kitchen as she pours herself another.
‘I’m good, I’ll save my party for tomorrow,’ Luke replies.
I have to wake Maeve from her blanket nest on the couch to lift her into her pram, and she is not happy about it.
The Christmas lights street is one cul-de-sac over, and thank goodness our street has collectively agreed to stay out of the lights business, because Elsie does not need that additional stress.
The evening is thick, but the dusk sky more than makes up for it.
‘We should take a photo for Dad,’ Mum says, looking to Luke expectantly.
‘I’m on it.’
He holds his phone up at a strange angle and we all crouch awkwardly in the middle of the road to fit into frame.
I put my hands on my hips, looking away, because I don’t know what else to do with myself.
When Luke shows us the results, I see that Maeve has perfected a head-tilted, gentle smile and I try not to be too envious of an almost-two-year-old’s comfort and ability to be perceived.
Cockatoo Crescent is already buzzing with locals and fully alight, despite it not being quite dark when we arrive.
The most logical approach is to start on the left side of the street and do a clockwise loop, but Mum immediately takes off to the right to talk to a neighbour and Olivia rushes ahead to talk to Marla Bennett, who she often complains won’t leave her alone.
I anticipate, and hope, that Luke will spot someone he wants to talk to, but he does not.
We are the least compatible pairing in the family, I am now aware, locked into some kind of silent truce in front of the others, and I decide to focus on a running commentary for Maeve so I don’t feel the awkwardness of having nothing to say to my brother.
‘Look at the snowman, he’s winking. And Santa is parachuting from the roof. That’s funny, isn’t it? Oh, but I don’t like the Minions. Why are Minions still a thing? It’s a bit silly, isn’t it, Maevey?’
‘So, you and Fran still close?’ Luke asks.
It could be a light question or a heavy one, and it is up to me how I choose to respond. I do not have to mirror people’s energy back to them, I can stay attuned to my own, if I can figure out what it is at any given moment.
‘Sort of,’ I reply.
‘So, what happened there? He didn’t look too thrilled to hear about you and Levi.’
Despite being the one to have told Fran about Levi, in quite a dramatic and slut-shaming way, his tone right now does not seem judgemental, more curious, though he is not exactly apologetic for blowing up at me in the first place.
I envy his ability to be so utterly shame-free.
There does not seem to be much point in avoiding honesty, and I wonder if it is my own masking that has denied us that up until now.
‘Me, I think,’ I say, shrugging.
‘Oh, right. Well, I hear that.’
‘Is that what happened with you and Laura? I’m assuming the Poppy thing means you two are broken up?’
Luke looks at me quickly, sprung, and seemingly upset about it.
Men really do find it traumatising to be confronted with the things they themselves have done.
But I took my cue to mention Poppy from his bringing up of Levi, so I do not understand why it would be upsetting for him.
He looks around to make sure no one has overheard me, and when he realises we are entirely alone, takes a breath.
‘I think so,’ he finally replies.
‘So, you are separating, then?’
‘Apparently.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s fine. She met someone else, apparently after we decided to break up, but who knows.’
Perhaps we are more alike than either of us would care to admit, or perhaps this is just a shared experience that brings with it the opportunity to bond over not being wanted by the people we care about most. I am not sure how to express any of that, so I try for a rueful kind of smile and we keep walking.
Siblings are complicated; life is complicated.
‘I’m sorry I told you to go fuck yourself,’ I say, surprising myself.
‘It’s fine. You’re not the first,’ he replies.
‘You could try being kinder.’
‘You could try shutting up.’
He has attempted a playful tone, but I take the direction anyway, searching unsuccessfully for Fran in every front yard we pass.
I am starting to feel anxious about seeing him, about having to explain yet again why I have done something that may or may not have hurt him.
Mum finds her way back to us about halfway along the street, and she has gathered intel to share with the group.
‘Now that everyone is using those LED lights, it only costs a couple of dollars to have them running for the whole month,’ she reports.
‘That’s not bad,’ Luke says.
Mum does not stop for breath.
‘The Neilsons’ daughter Leah is getting a divorce, she just announced it to the family. On Christmas Eve, can you imagine? And after they re-mortgaged their house to pay for that wedding.’
‘Hmm,’ Luke says.
We exchange looks, him fearful I will reveal his weakness at this opportune moment, a rare chance for me to achieve the upper hand. I hope my silence communicates that we are not all participating in the competition he has running in his mind.
‘But not as bad as the Roberts’ son. I think his name is Brent. Is his name Brent, honey?’
‘Yep, it’s Brent,’ Luke replies.
‘He’s apparently gone completely off the rails.
Drugs. Can you believe that? They don’t even know where he’s living at the moment.
He could be one of those people sleeping in a tent in Centenary Park for all they know.
His parents must be devastated, there’s no coming back from that.
But anyway, I’m not one for gossip, so best not to say anything more about it. I’m just shocked.’
Neither Luke nor I have anything to add.
We give each other another look, one that signifies we do not agree with Mum’s assessment of things.
It is nice to share that look; Elsie luckily does not notice.
Brent was in Luke’s grade at school and from what I remember, he was a shy, awkward kid who used to carry his pet lizard around everywhere.
I feel a new kinship with him that I would not have identified at the time.
In fact, I am sure I would have actively avoided him for fear that proximity to his wrongness could signify I was of similar stock.
This is a connecting thread I share with a lot of people, many of those who struggle the most with things like drugs, and misfiring brains, and overwhelm, and the effort it takes to continue being alive.
I am not sure why it is not taught at a secondary or even tertiary level that it can be very hard to be alive, that sometimes barely scraping through is the best you can manage.