I Give My Marriage a Year

by Holly Wainwright

  Char and Pearl both beamed and looked at the little bump in the sling, whose crop of black hair was just sticking out of the folds of fabric. Their faces were glowing, Char’s eyes looked exhausted. They were just parents, like he and Lou were, once.

  ‘Any parenting advice?’ Char asked.

  ‘Share it,’ he said, before he could stop to think about it. ‘As much as you can. Share it.’

  The beautiful new mum raised her eyebrows at Pearl. ‘Easier said than done with this one,’ she said. ‘She’s kind of busy.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Josh, feeling foolish. His time was up, the magical couple was preparing to move on to the next person who’d played a part in building them this dreamy inner-city palace. He realised, possibly for the first time, that almost all the natural light sources in the building came from above. The roof was almost entirely glass, and the exterior walls were three-bricks solid. It was a fortress. A haven.

  Pearl and Char began to drift away, stroking the baby’s head.

  But then Pearl turned around. ‘You should still send your stuff,’ she called back to him. ‘They always do tell me if it’s good.’

  ‘Or not,’ he said, although he wasn’t sure why.

  ‘Or not,’ she agreed, and they disappeared into the crowd.

  *

  ‘Are you joking?’ Mick asked Josh on the way home. He’d turned up late to the Camperdown party, drunk too many beers to drive home, had bummed a lift from Josh. Typical boss Mick behaviour, Josh thought. ‘You’re going to send her some music?’

  ‘Yeah, why not? If I’ve realised anything lately, mate, it’s to go for what’s important to you.’ Josh sounded more confident than he felt, but still, Dana’s advice hadn’t turned out to be the worst ever. He looked at his phone. He must tell her about it.

  ‘What’s going on with you?’ Mick, just this side of slurring, punched Josh in the arm.

  ‘Mate, I’m driving!’

  ‘Come on, you haven’t been yourself lately, even for a quiet prick like you.’

  The way Australian men talk to each other, Josh thought. I’ve been conditioned to do it my whole life. Mate.

  The roads were quiet, dark. Josh had taken a detour through some Newtown backstreets, enjoying cruising his old stomping ground with his old mate, old music in the speakers. He’d been feeling nostalgic lately.

  ‘Remember when we lived in that place?’ he asked Mick, slowing right down and pointing to the old share house they’d been in when he’d met Lou. It used to be a shambolic terrace with a lounge on the porch. Now it was a renovated middle-class family home, a security door across the front, windows glowing behind tasteful French shutters.

  ‘What are we doing back here?’ asked Mick, glancing up briefly. ‘I thought you were taking me home. And anyway, you haven’t answered the question.’

  ‘Lou and I are separated,’ Josh said, and he hated saying the words out loud.

  ‘No!’ Mick punched him again.

  ‘Hey!’

  ‘No, no, no! That can’t fucking be!’ Mick grabbed his head dramatically.

  ‘This is an unexpected overreaction, mate,’ Josh said, sliding the car back into drive and moving off. ‘I mean, I feel like that, but you need to calm down.’

  ‘I was your best fucking man!’

  ‘I know, mate, I know.’

  ‘You two are the best couple I know!’

  Josh didn’t know what to say. Part of him was soothed by Mick’s reaction. It was a disaster, and it was nice not to be the only one who seemed to realise this. But part of him was irritated. It was a disaster, and didn’t Mick think he knew that?

  ‘You have to fix it,’ Mick said, too loud. ‘Whatever it is, whatever you did, you need to fix it.’

  ‘I’m working on it,’ was all Josh could bring himself to say. And it was true. He was working on it.

  ‘How the hell did you end up separated? You two? Of all the crappy couples I know?’

  Mick. Mate. ‘It’s a long story. But I’m done putting myself and my girls through this shit. It’s time to sort it out.’

  Lou

  25 December, 2018

  Lou was woken up with a small knee to the eye.

  ‘Santa’s been! Santa’s been!’ Rita was screaming what felt like three centimetres from her ear.

  ‘Ah!’

  She rolled over, with Rita still attached, and opened her good eye. Next to her, Josh was asleep. How was that possible?

  She was looking almost directly into Josh’s open, snoring mouth when he was suddenly eclipsed by the weight of their flying elder daughter, landing pretty squarely onto his head.

  ‘Dad! Dad, Dad, Dad, Dad! Wake up!’ Stella was yelling.

  ‘Argh.’

  Lou looked at the blinking time on her phone by the bed: 5.30 a.m. It was going to be a long day.

  ‘Girls, we said six o’clock,’ she said sternly. ‘We talked about this.’

  A barely awake Josh wrapped his arms around Stella and rocked. ‘Happy Christmas, hooligans,’ he said.

  ‘It’s not six yet,’ Lou said, aware of the edge of annoyance in her voice.

  ‘Oh well,’ said Josh. ‘We can’t ruin Christmas over thirty minutes, can we?’

  If we start presents now, Lou thought, it’ll all be over by 7 a.m. It’s all cooking and drinking and fighting from there.

  ‘Small presents at six,’ she said to the girls firmly. ‘Tree presents when Grandma and Uncle Rob get here.’

  ‘When’s that?’ Stella asked.

  ‘Later,’ said Lou quickly. And then she caught Josh’s eye, his irritation at her irritation obvious.

  ‘Can we just have a nice day?’ Josh whisper-hissed. ‘It’s Christmas.’

  ‘Spoken like a man who doesn’t have to spend all day making salads and whipping cream,’ Lou said, and immediately felt bad about it.

  ‘I’ll whip cream for you, baby,’ Josh said in his comedy-Elvis voice, and it made the girls fall around laughing and it made Lou want to slap him.

  Just got to get through today, thought Lou, as she gave the girls a guilty hug and pushed them gently out of the door to go and find their stockings.

  An angry Annabelle. An anxious Rob. A distracted Brian. Josh trying to pretend everything was okay again.

  ‘Happy Christmas, Lou,’ Josh said from the bed, where he was stretching awake. ‘Another one!’

  ‘Yes, another one,’ said Lou. ‘Merry Christmas and get your arse out of bed to police those girls around the chocolate.’ And she threw him a smile, which he appeared to accept gratefully.

  ‘Let’s do it!’ Josh yelled, and swung himself out of bed.

  *

  Lou had read that every long-standing couple only has one fight. They just have it over and over until they divorce or die.

  She thought that if her and Josh’s one fight had a title, it would be Why Can’t You Be Better?

  She had friends whose fight titles would be Why Do I Have To Do Everything Around Here? or Would It Kill You To Appreciate Me, Just A Bit? And she knew backup titles for her and Josh’s fight could be Why Don’t We Have Another Baby? And Why Did You Sleep With That Guy? But, really, they all boiled back down to the original, and the best (worst): Why Can’t You Be Better?

  And the basic script of the fight would be her frustrated, and him defensive, and if there was a cheerleader for Lou in this fight it would be Annabelle, her mother, whether she was present or not. And if there was someone with the bucket and towels on the sidelines, it would be Gretchen, who was selfishly away this Christmas, but who could always be counted on for moral support and sustenance. And if there was an audience, well, she really didn’t want it to be their kids.

  Especially not on Christmas Day.

  So Lou took deep breaths at eight, applied a dab of rescue remedy to her pulse points at nine (a gift from Gretchen, who had offered Valium, but been refused) and looked at a positive affirmation on her phone at nine thirty. You Are Enough. You Are Enough. You Are Enough.
/>   By then, the girls had ripped open most of their presents and examined everything for ten seconds before deciding which of the mountain of gifts that Lou had spent months planning and saving for were worthy, and which ones were ‘sad’. She tried not to think that her beautiful daughters were ungrateful as they barely looked at the books she’d chosen so carefully and on whose flyleaf she’d written personalised messages. She’d made them all their favourite Christmas breakfast – chocolate-chip pancakes in Santa shapes for the girls, BLTs with a festive bit of holly sticking out of the top for her and Josh – and wondered why the hell she bothered as she watched them wolf it all down with barely a glance in her direction. She fixed Josh a buck’s fizz – and pretended to fix herself one too, but really she just stuck some fizzy water in her OJ, fearing what she might do if her inhibitions were loosened with booze at this early stage of the day.

  ‘Tell me what you want me to do to help!’ Josh said brightly, draining his drink.

  In the version of Why Can’t You Be Better playing out in Lou’s head, she said, ‘Why do I have to tell you what to do? That’s just another thing for me to do.’

  But . . . Christmas, so what she said was, ‘Just take the girls out with their new stuff for an hour so I can get on with everything.’

  And so, by 10 a.m. on Christmas Day, Lou was alone in her lovely little house surrounded by breakfast washing-up, mountains of torn wrapping paper and a carpet of homeless plastic toys.

  *

  By 2 p.m., Lou’s mother was crying in the kitchen.

  ‘It’s just getting harder and harder to deal with him,’ Annabelle was saying. ‘He barely says anything anymore.’

  ‘He’s barely said anything forever, Mum,’ said Lou, simultaneously chopping parsley and stirring raspberry syrup. ‘I always thought that was one of the reasons you got on so well.’ She glanced at her mum’s prosecco glass. ‘Have you had a lot of those, or . . .’

  ‘No, Louise, he’s not just being quiet. He’s sick.’ Annabelle grabbed Lou’s wrist, which was not at all convenient in that moment. ‘Forgetting things, saying words that don’t make sense. Sometimes I look at his eyes and he’s not . . . there.’

  Lou stopped stirring for a moment and thought about that. A ping of recognition. She couldn’t remember having a proper conversation with her dad for months. ‘Shit,’ she said, and wiped her hands on the tea towel draped over her shoulder. ‘What does Rob say?’

  ‘I haven’t mentioned it to him yet.’ Annabelle emptied her glass, and Lou took it from her and put it down.

  ‘Well, why not? He’s a doctor. He’s probably already noticed himself.’ He’s a doctor, but of course you’re talking to me about it, she thought but didn’t say.

  ‘It just makes it all so real, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Mum!’ Lou scolded. ‘You’ve got to advocate for Dad. If what’s happening is what you’re thinking is happening, he needs you to champion him.’

  Annabelle was quiet. ‘You could,’ she said quietly.

  ‘I could what?’

  ‘Advocate for him, whatever that means.’

  ‘Mum, I have a full-time job and two small children . . .’

  ‘Three children, with that husband of yours.’

  ‘Do not start that today, Mum – this is Josh’s house,’ Lou said, turning from the stove. ‘And no-one here has forgotten what happened at that surprise party. You’re lucky we still let you in . . . so not too many more bubblies, please.’

  ‘Josh’s house,’ Annabelle scoffed. ‘As if.’

  ‘That is exactly what I mean,’ said Lou. ‘This is his house as much as mine and it’s our family home. Be nice.’

  And as she grabbed a tray of roasted potatoes out of the oven, she added a note to herself: You too, Lou.

  *

  By 4 p.m., the girls were flying loud and high on sugar and Lou’s brother Rob was fighting with his boyfriend Toby in the driveway.

  ‘Do you think I should go and say something?’ Annabelle asked Lou from her position at the window.

  ‘Like what?’ asked Lou, who was the only one sitting at the kitchen table, still spread with much of the food she’d spent days making. Stella and Rita were screaming at each other over their Christmas toys in the back garden, Josh was over at the bench making some complicated and messy festive cocktail that he insisted Rob would love, and Brian had fallen asleep on the lounge. Or he was pretending to have fallen asleep on the lounge.

  ‘Like, it’s Christmas, so stop making a show of yourselves in front of the neighbours,’ Annabelle said. She never sounded closer to her northern English roots than when she was drunk.

  ‘You would never say that to Rob,’ Lou said.

  ‘I don’t know why he’s here, anyway, that man,’ Annabelle said, motioning to Toby. ‘Did you even invite him?’

  Lou sighed. ‘Of course I did – he’s my brother’s partner. They’ve been together for three years.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Annabelle. ‘Partner! Nonsense.’

  ‘Mum, just . . .’

  ‘What have I done now? Seems I can’t do anything right around you, Louise.’

  Lou stood up and started clearing, just as Josh came over carrying almost-overflowing martini glasses filled with brown goo and topped with cherries.

  ‘Oh, Lou, are you tidying?’ he asked, looking around. ‘What about Christmas pudding?’

  ‘What about Christmas pudding?’ she asked. ‘We had pavlova and chocolate cake.’

  ‘Oh.’ Josh’s face fell a little. ‘I thought . . .’

  ‘She didn’t do Christmas pudding, Joshua,’ said Annabelle from the window. ‘I know. It’s not Christmas without pudding, really, is it?’

  Breathe, Lou. Rescue remedy. Gin. Whatever.

  Her face as she walked past Josh with the plates must have said enough, because he put the glasses down and started back-pedalling. ‘No-one really likes Christmas pudding, of course,’ he said. ‘You could just have a fake one on the table, couldn’t you?’

  ‘Don’t be so ridiculous, Joshua,’ snapped Annabelle.

  The door slammed and Rob was back inside, alone, trying to compose his face into any expression other than devastated.

  ‘Where’s Toby?’ asked Josh. ‘I’ve made him a humdinger. And you, Rob.’

  ‘Great,’ said Rob flatly. He walked over, took the glass of chocolate mess and downed it. ‘Ugh.’

  ‘Guess this one’s mine then,’ said Josh, taking a glug of the second glass.

  ‘Why don’t you ever pay attention to anything going on around you?’ hissed Lou from behind him, feeling her frustration at absolutely everything tumbling inside her.

  ‘What?’ asked Josh.

  ‘Daddy! Daddy! Will you come and jump on the trampoline with us?’ Lou dodged a running Rita, narrowly avoiding dropping the plates on the kitchen floor.

  ‘Hey, Rita, slow down!’ she snapped.

  ‘Oh, Reets is just excited, aren’t you, Reets?’ yelled Josh. ‘Yes, I will!’

  ‘Is that a good idea?’ asked Lou. ‘You just drank half a bottle of Baileys in that thing.’

  ‘Of course it is!’ Josh said. ‘It’s always a good idea to jump, isn’t it, Reets?’

  ‘You’re forty-one!’ Annabelle called sharply. ‘You’ll put your back out and then you’ll really be useless!’ And she giggled to herself.

  Lou shushed her mum but silently agreed with her. And then all this mess will be mine, she thought silently. Oh, wait, it already is.

  Rob was staring at the table, stone-faced. ‘You’re well rid, son,’ said Annabelle. ‘Don’t think another thing about it.’

  ‘Shut up, Mum,’ said Rob. He looked up at Lou. ‘I’ve got to go after him. Do you mind?’

  Lou looked around at the crap all over the table; at her mum, keening for a fight with someone; her dad, seemingly passed out. The girls, manically leaping with their drunk dad.

  ‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘Go!’

  ‘But Mary and Pat aren’t here y
et!’ Annabelle cried.

  ‘Who the hell are Mary and Pat?’ asked Rob.

  Good question, thought Lou. But Rob was already closing the front door behind him.

  ‘Your dad’s cousin Mary – you’ve met her a thousand times. She and Pat are down from Mooloolaba. We’ve plenty of dessert for them, haven’t we, Louise? I told them cake and champagne.’

  Suddenly Brian stirred on the couch, sat up and looked around, his eyes terrifyingly empty.

  ‘Where the fuck am I?’ he shouted, as loud as Lou had ever heard him.

  *

  By 9 p.m., Lou was lying on her bed, in the dark, alone.

  She was fairly certain that Stella and Rita were still awake and downstairs, mindlessly staring at The Christmas Chronicles and eating chocolate.

  She could hear Josh playing music in his guitar room, talking loudly to someone, probably Ahmed from down the road. He’d somehow appeared at some point and been press-ganged into joining Josh and Mick, who’d also arrived unannounced, and drinking a ‘Christmas port’, despite neither Christmas nor port being of any interest to him.

  This is normal, Lou told herself. This is probably the most normal Christmas anyone has ever had.

  So why couldn’t she stop sobbing?

  An hour earlier, she’d been standing in the middle of her living room, lost. She’d managed to get her parents into a taxi, against Brian’s strong objections, and she’d messaged Rob about an appointment for their dad as soon as humanly possible.

  She’d cleared up as much as she could face. She’d comforted Rita who had, of course, gone flying off the trampoline and split her lip. She’d fed everyone who’d come through the front door. She’d smiled politely at her ‘cousin’ Pat’s awful, misogynistic Me Too jokes. She’d arranged her face in a ‘pleased to see you’ smile when Mick walked through the front door with a six-pack and a mate she’d never seen before.

  It was all normal.

  But in all that chaos, she’d been searching for Josh. He was there, in the house, but he certainly wasn’t at her back. Did he see her, doing all she did? Did he think to hug her, to bolster, to offer to help? Did he let her know she wasn’t alone in this emotional family mess, in this mundane slog of manual labour that was supposedly a gift to be able to give to your family?