The Hope Fault

by Tracy Farr

  She looks out at him. He’s standing so still, just staring at the water, at the waves. He hasn’t picked up any stones to throw, or kicked branches to turn them over. He doesn’t look as if he’s going to go for a swim. It’s too cold to swim, but he might go anyway. He used to swim when he was little – they both did, when they used to come here – and she wonders if he might now. Something in her wants to stand up, so she doesn’t feel as if she’s hiding. She could stand up and stretch and just sort of saunter down (she likes that – saunter down, that sounds good) and not say anything, just stand next to him and see what he does; see if he leans into her, puts his arm around her, or pushes her a little bit, like just for fun, like you’ d do to your little sister or your best friend or something. She wants to talk to him about the comic, about which scenes he’s going to work on next. She wants to ask him about the thing. The thing he saw. That she heard him say to Iris. She wants to tell him about the phone call. About the phone in her pocket. About Rosa.

  But something about the way he’s standing – the shape of his shoulders, perhaps the curve of them, the tightness – warns her away. He’s alone, is what she thinks. He’s alone.

  He hasn’t moved from the point. She gets up, slowly, straightens her legs and she’s up, and she turns and she walks away as quietly as she can over the pebbly stones. She knows – somehow – that, even if he hears her over the sound of the waves, he won’t turn to look at her, because he has other things on his mind. That stillness of his, it is a watching stillness. A waiting stillness. A stillness that does not watch, or wait, for her.

  There Kurt stands, at the point, thinking of The Girl (who he’s tried to draw, before, but he just can’t get her right). His shoulders shrug and twitch. His hand moves to his chin, to his forehead, worrying, then back to his pocket, for warmth; then to chin, to forehead, to pocket; and over again, anointing through the cold salt air. He can feel, somehow, the essence of what happened here – what he thinks happened here, what he thinks he saw – though he cannot be sure of its detail, or even its reality. It is an essence of grief, deep grief; maybe past grief. It does not move, the essence, the feeling. It just crouches in a ball, hugging itself to itself, making itself smaller, as small as it can without disappearing. It’s almost as if it’s afraid to move, or to stretch, or even almost to breathe. What is it afraid of? Kurt feels himself breathe in and hold the breath in, keep it there, feels it become stale – the breath – in his lungs. He feels a little faint. He lets the breath out – slowly – and it pushes out past his lips, a light whoosh, a whisper, a kiss. He breathes in, deep, then out, emptying his lungs. How very terrible it must feel to drown, to breathe water. How good it feels, the air, the oxygen. How good it feels to breathe.

  Stitch Kurt

  There’s black thread for Kurt. He’s the letter K, leaning, as if into the wind (or into her). Soft stitches feather, fill the shape of the letter, leaving space: blankness, yet to be filled. In the only-just-light of early morning, Iris stitches a pencil, its tip touching the K, making marks, drawing itself.

  Twelve missed calls

  Before she opens the door to the bedroom, Iris can hear Marti snoring, a deep rumbling, throaty and sour-smelling, fermented. As she steps into the room, Iris sees the mound of covers and rumpled bedlinen shift in the bed, hears it moan. Blonde hair tangles out from under the covers, a croaked voice manages Rice.

  ‘S’alright Mart, it’s early. Back to sleep.’

  Iris hooks her toe in the belt loop of jeans that are on the floor by the bed, lifts them to her hand, steps into them, pulls them on. She lifts the armpit of the t-shirt she’s been in since the start of the party yesterday, that she wore to the hospital; sniffs it. Rank. Jesus. She peels it off, gets a clean t-shirt from her bag.

  She looks down at the bed. Marti hasn’t stirred. Iris pulls the covers up over Marti’s head, kisses her curls.

  ‘Sleep tight. Pisspot.’

  In the kitchen, there are empty bottles, or almost-empty bottles, on every benchtop. There are cigarette butts, rollies and roaches, by the back step, outside. The days of finding ciggie butts in beer bottles and stamped out in food bowls are over, thank god. There’s a platter with dried hummus caked in a bowl in the middle, surrounded by a scattering of sagging sad carrot sticks, dry bread, grape stems. She spreads newspaper on the table, scrapes food onto it, bundles it into neat parcels and into plastic bags, bins it. She puts bowls and platters in the sink to soak in soapy water.

  She remembers her phone. She checks her bag again, tips it up and empties it on the kitchen table – nothing. She goes to the hallway, checks the table there by the door, checks the floor behind it, underneath it. She’s about to step out the front door to check the car – perhaps it fell down under the seat – when the rain starts again, dumping and bucketing. She’s standing at the open door, framed in the doorway, trying to decide whether to make a run through the rain to the car, when Luce runs towards her, then past her, into the house. Iris steps back inside, closes the door. Luce stands there, pushes her hood back, off her hair.

  ‘Luce! Where’ve you been?’

  ‘Just – went for a walk. I woke up. Just now. Couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘Did you see Kurt?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Shit. Did you go to the bay?’

  ‘No. Just in the garden.’

  ‘Oh. Look, why don’t you go back to bed, Lu. Put some dry clothes on. Get warm. Everyone else’s sleeping in.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘And Lu?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘You didn’t see my phone, did you? Last night? What I did with it? When I left, for the hospital?’

  ‘Um, nuh.’

  ‘God, I’m going mad. It must be somewhere.’

  Luce stands with her hands in the pocket of her hoody, tumbling them under the fabric, as if she’s doing the hokeypokey.

  ‘Off you go love. Do you want a warm drink? I could bring it to you.’

  ‘Nah. I’m okay.’

  Luce turns away, slips in through the door to her room, closes it behind her. Iris opens the front door again. The rain is dumping, torrential. She can’t remember when she’s seen rain like this. Kurt is out in it. She clutches her arms around herself, rubs the top of her arm with her hand, holds herself together.

  The phone is not on the hall table, not behind it. She considers knocking on Paul and Kristin’s door, waking them up; but it can wait. Iris takes her keys, slips her feet into shoes, dashes out the front door hunching her back at the weather. She lets herself into the car, closes the door on the rain. It hammers onto the roof of the car, drowning out other sound. She pulls the lever that lets the driver’s seat back, feels around under it – coins, crumpled tissue, a used parking coupon – then reaches over and does the same to the passenger seat – supermarket discount vouchers for petrol, more tissues, bits of gravel. She puts her hand down the side of the seat, right, then left, reaches across the passenger seat and does the same at the far left, between the seat and the door. Nothing. She clambers over into the back seat, bends down, sweeps her hand under the front seats, into crevices. On the left side, one of Kurt’s hoodies is on the floor. She picks it up, holds it to her, inhales, smells sweat, unwashed hair, and a stale chemical smell of deodorant or supermarket aftershave.

  A shadow passes close to the car. Through the dripping condensation, she sees the dark Kurt shape walk slowly, as if in a procession, or in sunshine, to the door of the house. He disappears inside. She looks down, picks a long, dark hair from the fabric in her hands, rolls it between her fingers. His hair is thick, wiry, just like hers, but longer. She flicks her fingers and the hair drops to the floor of the car. She waits for a moment with her hand on the handle of the door before she opens it, and makes a run through the rain to the house.

  Luce stands with her back to the bedroom door, pressed against it. She keeps one hand on the door handle. In the other, she holds the phone. She presses and holds the button to turn the phone
on. 12 missed calls. Fuck. A message flicks up. Battery at less than 10%. Recharge now. She pockets the phone, holds her hand over it in the front of her hoody. She chews the side of her thumb. One foot is crossed across the other, the feet aligned parallel, but on the wrong side. She shifts her weight across from her left to her right foot. She pulls the phone out, presses the button, holds it, swipes her finger to deaden it. Then she launches herself at the bed, lies across it and reaches under the mattress at the far side, by the window, to tuck the phone there, out of sight. She kicks her shoes off, and crawls under the quilt, pulls it up over her head to block out the light.

  Iris has her hands in the kitchen sink, in the hot alkaline slick of soapy water, the squeak of clean glass against her fingers. She looks up at the clock on the wall. The shower has been running for twelve minutes. She listens to water hammering against tiles, the old pipes clunking in the walls. Outside, it’s still raining. The sun’s up now, but you wouldn’t know it, the sky dark with cloud, the air thick with sheets of rain, everything grey, monochrome, colour stripped out, washed out, gone.

  The shower stops running. The cupboard door opens, closes. The tap runs in the basin, stops, runs again for longer, stops. Iris lifts another glass from the soapy water, runs a cloth around the rim, smearing lipstick. She hears the bathroom door open. She worries the cloth at the red stain until it’s gone, then places the glass mouth-down on the tea towel on the draining board. She feels Kurt behind her, close to her, but off to one side, just outside her peripheral vision. He smells of soap, shampoo. He puts one arm around her, leans his head down onto her shoulder. His wet hair hangs down her back, drips water. She wipes her hand on her t-shirt, lifts it to his hand on her arm, pats it, rubs it, squeezes it, pats it again. He removes his hand, and whispers something that sounds like sorry.

  Unmaking a home

  Kurt, Paul and Iris sit at the kitchen table, finishing breakfast, drinking coffee in the warmth, putting off starting the day.

  ‘Is Auntie Mart okay? Is she up yet?’

  ‘I can’t hear her snoring so she must be awake.’

  ‘You’re so rude about your sister!’

  ‘She was so pissed. Christ. Will she ever grow out of it?’

  ‘Marti?! Fat chance. And she wasn’t the only one.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ Kurt mutters into his coffee.

  ‘Where’ d you disappear to last night, Iris? Chas and Evie were looking for you when they left. We couldn’t find you anywhere.’

  ‘Oh, nowhere interesting. Now, if anyone wants anything from the kitchen, speak now or forever hold your peace. I’m going to start packing things into boxes, and I think most of this is headed for the Good Sammies. I’ve started a box for what I want to keep, and one for Rosa, things I want to show her. Books and things. Oh, and have either of you seen my phone? I had it last night.’

  ‘Maybe someone took it? Last night, by mistake?’

  ‘I’ll ring it for you. Hey, Andy was funny, wasn’t he? At the party. Pissed as a fart, as usual. Nup, sorry. Straight through to voicemail. Must be turned off.’

  ‘Bugger. Thanks anyway.’

  ‘Andy Wineries, or Andy Arsehole?’

  ‘Wineries. See that woman he was with? The tall one? Poor Marie.’

  ‘I can’t believe you asked Andy Arsehole. And he came.’

  ‘I didn’t ask him. I thought you did.’

  ‘You kidding? He’s an arsehole. I should know, I worked with him for five years.’

  ‘Taught him everything he knows?’

  ‘Ha ha.’

  ‘It was good though, the party. I’m glad we did it. Like the opposite of a roof raising.’

  ‘A roof falling in.’

  ‘A housebreaking.’

  ‘Unmaking a home. Oh, god, that sounds so sad.’

  Paul hugs Iris. She leans her head on his shoulder, her cheek against the scratchy wool of his jumper. ‘Not sad, mate. It was good, this place. Good times.’ He kisses the top of her head, unfolds his arms from around her, lets her go.

  Kurt is sitting at the table, watching them. He shakes his head, almost smiles. Paul leans down to his son, surrounds him with his arms. ‘Good times, eh?’ He bunches his hand into a play fist, noogies Kurt’s hair. Kurt shrugs away from him, shrugs out of his hug, but smiling.

  ‘Sure. Let’s go with that.’

  ‘And here we are, the three of us! Our little old family. It’s like we’re getting the band back together for a final farewell gig.’

  Kurt rolls his eyes. Iris shakes her head, but smiles. And then Marti’s there, the whole great morning-after mess of her.

  ‘Fu-u-u-uck. I need a coffee and a new brain.’

  ‘Marti!’

  ‘She lives!’

  ‘Some might call it living. Is it morning?’

  ‘It is. Kettle’s boiled. I was going to make another plunger. Sit down, Mart, I’ll get it. You look like you need looking after.’

  ‘I have bruises. Drinking bruises. Look.’

  ‘You were doing party tricks. Badly.’

  ‘God.’

  ‘There’s your coffee.’

  ‘Plunger coffee! Like the eighties all over again.’

  ‘Mart, love, once you’ve had your coffee, could we get those boxes from your car?’

  ‘Boxes?’

  ‘Oh, Martina Diamond, don’t you dare tell me –’

  ‘Calm down, cabbage. I was pulling your rope. Car keys are in my bag. The boxes are in the back seat. I bathed in eau de cardboard box all the way down from the city. Oh, here she is! Morning, Lu! How’s my little baby today?’

  ‘Mum, get off. You stink like a pub.’

  ‘Darling!’

  ‘What? You do!’

  The morning rolls on, and they’re all in and out of the kitchen, the house’s warm hub.

  Paul says, ‘I’ll take a load of bottles into town, to the recycling.’ ‘Will the rain clear, do you think?’

  ‘We should go for a drive. Do the recycling on the way. Make a day of it.’

  ‘Oh god, listen to you! You’re like a grandad. A Sunday drive. In your cardigan. With your slippers.’

  ‘We could go to Sugarloaf Rock.’

  ‘There’s no point going in this rain.’

  ‘Or the wineries.’

  ‘Right. The baby’s down for her sleep. Who’s going where? Ah, Marti, I didn’t expect to see you before lunchtime. How’s the head?’

  ‘Fucking awful.’

  ‘Is there any coffee left?’

  ‘In the plunger, Kris. We could go to that café. The new one. Out by the lighthouse.’

  ‘I don’t want to spoil the party, but someone needs to pack this house up. You go if you want. Take Luce and Kurt.’

  ‘God, no –’

  ‘Prefer to help me pack?’

  ‘Actually, yes –’

  ‘Excellent. Good on you, Luce. That makes one of you. Now, nobody’s told me they want anything. I guess it’s all going to charity, then.’

  ‘Nothing for Faith and Hope?’

  ‘Dad jokes. Sunday drives. It has come to this. Kristin, you’re a lucky woman.’

  ‘Aren’t I?’

  ‘How about we pack today, and wait and see what the rain does before any outings are planned. It’s got to stop some time.’

  ‘Rice is right, as always. Okay, well I’ll get sorting in the shed, like a proper dad. Or grandad. Kurt, give me a hand?’

  ‘Sure. I’ll bring your cardigan and slippers.’

  ‘Are they really doing this? Finally? Naming the sprog?’

  The table’s spread with plates, mugs, glasses, jugs, the contents of the cupboards all clean now, washed after the party. Marti’s sitting drinking coffee. Every now and then she moves one of the glasses or plates in front of her, without actually packing anything. Iris sorts, wraps, and packs as they talk, slowly moving everything into boxes.

  ‘Yeah. Kristin said they want to do it here, before we go. The plan is to do it tomorrow.’


  ‘Why now? Why the rush?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. God, why am I bothering to pack this stuff? I should heave it all into a pile for the skip.’

  ‘Have they decided? The name?’

  ‘Don’t think so. Said they would though. Obviously. By tomorrow.’

  ‘God, they’re hopeless.’

  ‘Luce is all excited, so that’s something. She’s got some plan, I think. She’s being secretive.’

  ‘She’s always secretive. She’s fifteen. Fifteen’s just another word for secretive.’

  Iris wraps plates in newspaper that she’s been stockpiling for weeks, that she’s brought from the city down to the house for the purpose. Her hands are darkening with newsprint, words and images transferring themselves onto her skin.

  ‘Remember when you chose Kurt’s name?’

  ‘God, I know. What were we thinking? I was mesmerised by that beautiful Cobain boy – a boy in a dress! That hair! That stripy t-shirt! – his music, his everything.’

  ‘Did you ever think about changing your Kurt’s name? When – you know –’

  ‘Not really. Our Kurt was Kurt by then. You remember. He was only a year old, just walking, but we couldn’t imagine him not being Kurt. Rosa got stuck into us, but –’