Chapter 23 #2
‘Are you okay?’ His concern grew as he moved closer to me.
‘I’m fine. I cry a lot when I see you, can we just not mention it and move past it?’
‘Yeah, sure, yeah.’
We looked at each other, and our energy convened even as I willed mine to stay put.
‘Are your friends waiting for you? You better get going. It gets a bit methy around here this late at night,’ I said, wanting him to hurry up and get to the part where he said he had to leave me.
‘They’ve gone back to the hostel, I’ll see them later.’
‘Oh.’
I tried to figure out what this meant, him leaving his friends to be with me.
It possibly meant a difficult conversation, an apology, a date with feeling things that I was not in the headspace to entertain.
I had won the battle for his attention, but found I was in no shape for the winning of the war.
If only we could be together as strangers, enjoy each other’s company without added context or history. I wanted to keep the box closed.
‘Is that okay?’ He looked unsure, and I did not want that for him.
‘Yeah, of course. Hey, do you want to go to a party?’
‘Oh, okay, yeah. If you like.’
Cleo had tried to convince me to go with her to a party at her friend’s house, but I had told her I would be too tired and done with people after the gallery event to be dealing with share-house party dynamics.
People always seemed to want to take psychedelics and talk about past lives, or absurd business ideas they would never follow through, or divine feminine and divine masculine energies, as though this wasn’t a way to repurpose patriarchal norms for those who considered themselves more spiritual and left-leaning.
Or they wanted to get drunk, hook up, and never text each other again.
It had all become so boring by that point.
When I messaged Cleo to tell her about my change of heart, and about Fran coming along, she sent back a bunch of love hearts and kisses.
She would be keen to unpack the events of this night in coming days, to make sure I understood the emotional significance of something she knew nothing about.
Fran lingered, patient, beautiful. It was more than I could bear.
‘Remember when we went to that field party, and you got so wasted you threw up all over yourself?’
Part of my mind wanted to play ‘remember when’, while another wanted to maintain a comfortable distance between Fran and the feelings tied up in memories of us.
‘Yeah, that was the first time I ever got drunk. It was those Cruisers, they tasted like cordial,’ he said with a laugh.
‘That’s right – your spew was so red.’
Fran looked at me with eyes too warm and soft for vomit talk, and I felt embarrassed for being so gross. He barely even drank anymore; he couldn’t and he probably did not want to anyway.
‘It’s really good to see you, Nora,’ he said.
‘Yeah,’ I agreed.
We waited at the bus stop and when the 250 arrived we sat side by side through the city, on a seat up the back.
I let my thigh rest against his for warmth.
If we talked about anything, I cannot remember.
The only thing I can recall, the only part worth thinking about, is that he took my hand in his and interlinked our fingers, using his other hand to stroke the top of mine.
We stayed that way until we nearly missed our stop.
In my room, I stretch my body in an aggressive manner that I am sure works against the general principles of stretching.
I want to shock my body into compliance and hope my mind follows suit.
One is doing the best one can, given the circumstances.
One should surrender to the chaos of the day, resist allowing the colours to drain and the personhood to sever.
That would be silly-billy behaviour – melodramatic, too camp.
Steady ye horses. Oh God, the old-timey dialect is new; not good.
Shoulders back, back, back. They spring forward each time, more comfortable in the wrong place than in the right one.
Head to one side, a violent pull, and then over to the other.
One day the tension will freeze this body in ways that are no longer reversible.
I can already feel it happening. And if my ongoing physical pain starts to match what is going on mentally, I will never know another day’s peace.
Maeve is alone in the lounge room when I head up, and she is sitting under the decorated tree in nothing but her nappy, tearing a sheet of wrapping paper into tiny pieces of confetti.
The ripping sound is making her wiggle in delight.
It may be one of the presents Mum has wrapped for someone else, judging by the intricate folding and ribbonry.
‘Hey darling,’ I say. ‘Merry Christmas.’
She looks up with her bright eyes, and I feel a little bit more capable of breathing. Olivia walks in from the kitchen, her face puffy, a huge mug in her hand.
‘Merry Christmas, Nora,’ she says, raising her drink in my direction.
‘Merry Christmas. How’d you sleep?’
It is one of those questions to ask a person when you are staying in the same house together, like ‘Did you hear that storm?’ or ‘Can I make you a cuppa?’ or ‘How’s this heat?’
‘Slept like shit. This one was ready to party at 1 a.m.’
Olivia begins massaging her temples with her eyes closed.
She does not look well. It is not the kind of thing I should say to her, especially not since she became a mum, although I think it has more to do with the multiple bottles of wine she is drinking every night than the nocturnal wake-ups with Maeve.
I wonder how different her drinking is than mine was in Melbourne – hers certainly seems more acceptable in the context of this family.
I can’t imagine Mum topping up my glass at 3 a.m. in some share-house backyard.
‘Wine Mum’ is an identity that comes with printed glasses; Elsie bought herself and Olivia one each off Etsy as a funny joke.
She did not gift me the ‘binge-drinking twenty-something’ version.
I suppose you need to have your life together before your alcoholism is rewarded with merchandise.
On Chapel Street, I opened Maps on my phone to get my bearings, trying not to panic about navigating my way to an unknown residential location.
‘It’s not a long walk from here,’ I reassured us both.
We found the party and bypassed the people making out in the darkest corner of the front porch.
Music blared out the open window. I made it my priority to find us a drink, and to find Cleo.
Both were in the kitchen. Fran greeted her with a hug, nice to finally meet you, and she poured us paper cups of wine while making exaggerated eyebrows at us being there together.
When Fran turned away, a shadow of concern crossed her eyes, but I did not know why.
Cleo usually supported my bad decisions.
‘Should we go out the back?’
Fran nodded and followed me down the hall.
I did not recognise anyone, though I knew I had encountered some of these bodies and faces and tongues before.
I was not even really sure why I had brought us there.
There had been an unexpected encounter with Fran, and this was my reaction.
Another poor choice. The garden was a small courtyard with dirt where there used to be grass, fences falling in on both sides.
It was the kind of place that had been a rental for so long, its layers of neglect felt more like part of the design.
The wine was warm and made me want to smoke and dance and look at the sky.
The smoking was so disgusting and unnecessary; everyone else my age vaped like a normal person, but I liked to feel especially putrid, I guess.
‘I should probably head off soon,’ Fran said after a while.
He was still sipping his first drink, while I was onto my fourth. I had barely talked to him since we had arrived. By that stage my head was dreamy and my body loose. I pictured us kissing and running all the way home to my bed.
‘Yeah, early flight, I know,’ I replied.
He stopped looking at me after that. I could not figure out a way to cheer him up, to make him remember how good we could feel together, if we let ourselves. And so I went for the easy win.
‘We should kiss,’ I said, with the confidence that only comes in a paper cup, administered with a chaser of delusion.
The look he gave me in return said everything I needed to know and did not want to hear.
Olivia looks quite grey, now that I observe her more closely. All colour has gone from her face, and she is still rubbing circles at her temples with her thumbs.
‘How about I take Maeve for a bit?’ I suggest.
‘Where are you going to take her?’
‘To the airport to hop a flight to Mexico and start a new life.’
Olivia laughs at this, and I am glad.
‘She needs breakfast and a bath. Is that too much to ask? I’d love to try and get another hour before the day starts.’
It is too much to ask, but parenting seems too much to ask every single day forever, so I agree, shooing Olivia back down the hall to her room.
She mouths, ‘Thank you,’ and disappears.
Maeve is on to another present by the time I am back in the room, and picking her up seems to be the smartest option to minimise the damage before Elsie wakes.
‘How about breakfast, hey? I wonder what you want for breakfast.’
We stand in front of the open fridge, letting the cold air out, and I decide on a banana. I mash it in a bowl and sit Maeve in her high chair to eat.
‘You don’t have to mash her bananas, you know,’ Luke says as he enters the kitchen. ‘She’s eating solids, she’s nearly two.’
‘Oh, and you know so much about kids?’
‘Laura and I babysit her nephews all the time.’