Chapter 2 #2
mouth as if a dam has broken. “You and I were supposed to see one another for Ilona’s birthday. That party we planned for
the fourth of January, remember? I was going to tell you then. But then Dad died over New Year’s and . . . I don’t know. I
was overwhelmed. Heartbroken. I didn’t know how to explain.”
“What happened?”
“I was out in Forbes, staying with Mum,” he says.
Aunt Daphne lives in a retirement community near Jon and Ilona in North Sydney these days, but until a few years ago, she lived in the house she bought in Forbes after the divorce.
“She was hosting a New Year’s party that year.
She’d invited Dad like she always did, and he declined—”
“Like he always did,” I finish for him, sighing fondly. “He hated parties.”
“I know. So it was wall-to-wall perms and blue rinses—you know how it was with her students and friends.” Aunt Daphne is a
former high school art teacher who ran adult classes from a large studio she built at the back of her house. Over the years,
she built an incredible community among her students, who were mostly older women. “I think Mum was probably the youngest person there except us. Ilona was in her element talking about Rodgers and Hammerstein and the kids
were hiding in Mum’s studio watching a movie so I snuck out of the party and drove over to see Dad. We’d all had lunch that
day and he seemed a bit off. Preoccupied, I guess you’d say.” Jon exhales slowly. “I let myself in and could hear them shouting
from the lobby.”
“Who was there . . . er . . . here?”
“Your mum and my dad were having a bang-up argument. I’ve never heard anything like it.”
“Mum doesn’t shout,” I protest, and I’m almost laughing at the incredulity of such a statement. Even when she was here half
an hour ago, she barely raised her voice above a whisper. And although Tad was physically imposing, towering over most people,
he was also softly spoken and by nature, calm and steady.
“I could hardly believe my ears at first.”
“What were they squabbling about?”
“Dad wanted you to have something. He said you deserved it. Aunt Ginny vehemently disagreed. That was about all I could make out before your mum stormed out of Dad’s office, slamming the door behind her. She looked so shocked when she saw me. Ashamed.”
“Jon, you don’t think . . .”
“What else could it be? He had to be talking about Wurimbirra. But you have to understand that this was an ugly fight, Fi. Your mum spoke to Dad with so much venom. I didn’t know she was capable of it. It sounded like she was ready to
murder him with her bare hands.”
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about this.” I’m instantly annoyed. It seemed to go without saying that as Tad’s only
child, Jon would inherit the house—but even Mum was baffled by the additional request we discovered when we read the will.
Tad asked that, if he predeceased Mum, Jon should hold on to Wurimbirra in its present form until the end of her life.
No restoration work, no improvements, no sale to another party until Virginia Winslow has also passed.
Uncle Tad’s lawyer made it clear that although Tad had every right to ask this of Jon, he couldn’t legally demand it. This
request—this baffling, nonsense request—was never enforceable. That doesn’t mean I haven’t felt some guilt ignoring it. As
desperately as I wanted to get my hands on Wurimbirra and even though I know to my core that me taking over this place is
best for all of us, I have hated going against Uncle Tad’s wishes. If I hadn’t been so desperate to find something—anything—to focus on after my life
imploded earlier this year, I’d never have even entertained this move.
“I tried to get Dad to talk about the argument but he said it was between him and Ginny and I needed to let them sort it out,”
Jon says. “It was obvious that he was upset so I let it drop . . . I just assumed there’d be time for them to smooth it over,
you know? But then . . .”
“He died that night,” I gasp, suddenly joining the dots. But then Jon’s words come back to me: It sounded like she was ready to murder him with her bare hands. “Wait! You don’t think Mum—”
“No! No, I don’t,” he hastens to assure me, but then he swallows heavily and my heart plummets into my stomach. “I don’t think
that now. It’s just . . . the timing, you know? I mean, I had to wonder at first . . .”
A sudden memory comes to me, of me and Lucas and Jon and Ilona and Aunt Daphne at Mum and Alan’s farmhouse in those tender
days after Tad’s death. Mum and Jon barely spoke to one another. It was odd enough that I noticed it even then, but while
Tad’s death hit us all hard, Mum and Jon were even closer to him than I was, so I figured they were in shock.
“They said an autopsy was optional because of his age but I just had to know,” Jon admits, his voice just above a whisper.
I feel instantly sick. Jon must have truly been suspicious to go as far as this.
“That’s why the funeral was delayed?” At the time, Jon told us that we had to wait a few weeks to bury Tad. And the funeral was a significant affair, with publishing folk from all over the world traveling to attend. The delay stretched out the acute
phase of our grief and left us stranded in a heartbroken limbo for weeks, but it made enough sense that I didn’t question
it at the time.
“Yeah, this was a big part of it. I got the preliminary results the day before the funeral. It was entirely conclusive—Dad
had a massive cerebral aneurysm. There’s no way his death was suspicious. Maybe the stress of the argument hastened things,
but I could never blame your mum for that. His time was up, that’s all.”
I release a giddy sigh of relief. She drives me crazy but there isn’t a sinister bone in my mother’s body.
“Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”
“I couldn’t tell you, Fi. Not while I waited for those autopsy results.
What would I have even said? It all happened so fast. The autopsy came back.
Then we had the funeral. The next day, we read the will and the lawyer told us about those stipulations about not renovating or selling.
After what I overheard, I suspected Dad was about to change that, but the lawyers said he hadn’t contacted them, so I couldn’t be sure. ”
“But why would Mum be so determined to stop him from giving me this house?” I ask uncertainly.
“I don’t know. But what else could they have been talking about?” We sit on the phone in silence for a few moments, each of
us pondering that. Eventually, Jon sighs. “This is part of why I was so paralyzed over the past ten years. I hate that house
and you love it and Dad knew all of that and he burdened me with it anyway. So was I supposed to obey the instructions in the will, or trust my interpretation
of a thirty-second argument and assume he had seen sense and was about to change it? The only person who knew the absolute
truth was your mum. I did ask her a few times, but she always shut me down. You know how she is when it comes to difficult
subjects—she’d have walked through fire to avoid that conversation. So I sat on that place for ten freaking years. It was weighing so heavily on my mind and you seemed so sure this was what you needed for this next part of your life. I
just couldn’t say no. But . . . my God. In some ways . . . I already wish I had.”
“Jon, I need this.”
“You know I had nightmares as a kid in that house.”
“Your parents were divorcing at the time. Everything was chaotic and your dad happened to live in a big spooky house. It’s
only natural that you had some bad dreams.”
“Fi. I don’t think they were dreams.”
“Don’t be silly—”
“I was lying in bed and a man was hovering over me. He was whispering something. I can’t remember what he said but his very presence was menacing.
I just remember the terror and screaming but no one came to help.
It felt like I was alone with him, and then all alone, forever.
” My cousin is not playing around. There’s no mistaking the fear in his voice. “This is one of my earliest
memories and it’s a huge part of why I never could feel safe there. You want to know the truth, Fi? I walked out the door
five minutes after you left the day of the wake and I haven’t been back there since, not even once. That house has haunted
me forever and now I’ve passed it on to you.”
“It was just a dream . . .” I try to protest, but something about this conversation feels different to Jon’s habitual histrionics.
The stale air in Tad’s office has been cool since I stepped into the room, just like the rest of the house, but as I sit on
the sofa, the temperature seems to plummet, until I’m shivering and the hair on the back of my neck starts to rise.
“Even the worst nightmare couldn’t be this vivid after fifty-odd years,” Jon says heavily. “I can’t explain it, but Fiona,
you need to be careful.”
“Look, I’ll grant you that in its current state, it does feel like some kind of Halloween-themed haunted house,” I admit,
but my voice is rough. I stop and clear my throat, then try to force a lightness into my tone as I promise, “Once I’ve cleaned
the place up and finished the restoration, this place won’t even feel spooky!” I picture my mother at the front door, shaking
with frustration that I’ve taken on this house and dropping hints about its dark past lingering, and I shiver again. This
is so silly. I got exactly what I wanted—exactly what I know I need for the next chapter of my life! Why am I letting my family unnerve
me?
“I better go, Fi. Just . . . you know I love you, right?”
“Of course,” I whisper, and I’m suddenly misty-eyed. I know Jon loves me and he knows I love him, but I think the last time we said the words was after Tad’s wake. We aren’t that kind of family, ordinarily. “And I love you too.”
“I know you don’t like asking for help—”
“I ask for help when I need it.”
“Right,” he says wryly. “You do know I’ve met you, right? Just . . . don’t be a stranger, okay? Keep me posted and let me know you’re okay?”
“Absolutely.”
After I hang up, I sink back onto the dusty sofa and look around the room.