I brought up his profile on my phone and turned the screen to her. ‘Here, have a read.’
She did. ‘Hm.’
‘What?’
‘This is a public profile?’ she asked.
‘Yeah, but he doesn’t know I know about it.’
‘I think you should read it.’ She angled the screen back at me.
SimTsiolk
blasting Rihanna. this is cray.
3 minutes ago
SimTsiolk
waves and sun and boys on a boat close by in speedos. Heaven!
14 minutes ago
SimTsiolk
out on Sydney Harbour on a YACHT people. be jealous.
1 hour ago
It took me a second to reconcile the Simon standing across the yard and the SimTsiolk on my screen.
‘He’s not on a yacht. Wait, you don’t think he makes all of this up, do you?’
Hayley bit into a piece of baklava. She covered her mouth when she spoke. ‘Probably.’
‘Or . . .’ It was just ‘or’, nothing else. I racked my brain for another explanation. ‘Or,’ I repeated when one had occurred to me, ‘maybe he just doesn’t want to post about being at Yiayia’s wake.’
Hayley wasn’t convinced. ‘Why don’t you check?’
‘How?’
‘He was here when you guys were having Easter. Check what he wrote then.’
I scrolled through his history, each larger-than-life status update now tainted by the possibility that it was, well, larger than his life. When I arrived at Easter, Hayley’s theory was upheld.
SimTsiolk
spending my day in syd volunteering at an LGBT community centre. #karmadeposit
2 weeks ago
Hayley seemed impressed. ‘Oh! He’s a philanthropist.’
‘No, it can’t be.’ The feed had been the whole reason why I didn’t act on the bucket list, why I didn’t try to convince him to come back. It couldn’t have been fake. ‘Yiayia was in hospital, maybe he didn’t want to post about that. I wouldn’t.’
‘But would you lie about volunteering somewhere?’ Hayley asked.
I was already scrolling back to Christmas. Nobody was dead, nobody was in hospital, it was just a typical family lunch and –
SimTsiolk
wonder if anyone will notice if i bring the yacht back to brissie. #whoops
5 months ago
The fictional yacht again.
‘He just . . . makes it all up,’ I said.
Simon looked to the sky and took a long, pensive drag of his cigarette. He coughed. The smoke escaped his nostrils and mouth in clumsy curls.
‘I thought he was having the time of his life up there.’
Hayley smacked her lips together. ‘Nope, he’s an A-grade bullshit artist, hon.’
Simon smothered his half-smoked cigarette with his shoe.
‘Why would somebody make up a life?’ I asked.
She shrugged. ‘I dunno, maybe he’s lonely,’ she said. ‘When I was preggers, I couldn’t drink, I couldn’t go out. All my friends decided it was too difficult to be mates with a pregnant chick and they just dropped off the face of the earth. First, I was posting as a sort of F U to them. I always wrote about Nathan and Tanya. They’d take me on these daytrips to weird places to buy ice-cream and fireworks. Totally fake. Whenever I posted, someone said they were jealous, and it made me feel a bit better about sitting in my room alone with swollen ankles and a belly out to here.’ She was showing me with her hands, but I was familiar with the concept of pregnancy.
‘I reckon it would’ve made me feel worse,’ I said.
‘Nope. You totally start to believe it too.’
‘You’ve stopped, yeah?’
‘When I acquired an Italian boyfriend named Ricardo, I deleted my profile.’
‘Was he –?’
‘Also fake.’
‘Yeah, I don’t get the appeal.’
‘It seems so stupid now, but back then I was so lonely and pretending was all I had,’ she said.
I looked at Simon. ‘If he’s that lonely, why not come back?’
‘Some things are difficult to admit.’
The plastic ball rolled to Simon’s feet. He gave it a kick. Rory scooped it up and, deciding he and Simon were now playing a game, tossed it back.
What if it was just pride keeping him in Brisbane? What if he really did want to come back?
Mum had wanted a husband, Peter had wanted to be back in the family and Simon had wanted to be back in Sydney.
When I blinked, I saw Yiayia Filyo, fingers meshed together.
I felt a pang of guilt. I had given up too soon.
The flyscreen door opened and Lucas appeared, sadness etched into his face. I stood up as he approached. He pulled himself out of one crutch and hugged me tight.
‘Gutted, man.’ He squeezed my shoulder. ‘Who’s this?’
He was looking past me. I ducked out from under his arm and introduced Hayley.
His mouth fell open. ‘The Hayley?’ he asked.
She cocked an eyebrow. ‘I have a “the”?’
‘No!’ Lucas practically shouted. ‘No definite article, just “Hayley”.’
She nodded like she didn’t believe him.
He mouthed, ‘Sorry,’ as he took his seat. It wasn’t anything. That had all been sorted.
Besides, there was something more pressing on my mind.
‘I need to complete the bucket list,’ I announced.
Certain things were expected of me at the wake. I had to eat, make awkward conversation with people I barely knew, and check in with Mum every so often. I knew that. The thing was, I had no clue what to do afterwards.
It was pushing midnight when we got home. I played it safe and decided I’d just do whatever Mum did. If she went to bed, I’d go to bed. If she set herself up at the dining table with a bottle of shiraz, then I’d pour myself a glass.
She collapsed in an exhausted heap on the couch. Simon sat next to her and I took the second couch. We lost Peter between the top of the stairs and the living area. He was in the kitchen mixing his nightly protein shake.
With Simon heading back to Brisbane after the funeral, I didn’t have much time to complete the bucket list while all of its subjects were in the same city. Every time I had an opportunity, I had to be the glue. I just had no idea how.
I gazed absent-mindedly at my feet, and my eyes settled on a familiar yellow box underneath the coffee table.
That was it.
I slid off the couch and collided with said coffee table.
‘Graceful,’ Simon said. But the day had stripped his barbs of their usual sting.
I pulled the box out from underneath the table and started setting up the board game – dice, fake money, Community Chest and Chance cards, and silver tokens.
‘Koala?’ I asked Simon.
He nodded.
I held up Mum’s token. ‘Thimble?’
‘I don’t think I . . . ’ She bit her lip hard and reconsidered. ‘Okay.’
I looked towards the kitchen. ‘Peter.’
He was skolling straight from the blender.
‘Race car?’ I asked, his token between my thumb and index finger.
He lowered the blender and exhaled. ‘Not tonight.’
He left the unwashed blender by the sink and headed down to his room.
‘Don’t say anything,’ Mum said, sitting up straighter. ‘It’s hard for him.’
‘And it’s easy for us?’ Simon asked.
‘Don’t . . . ’
‘Come on,’ I said, waving them over to the prepared board game. ‘Three player.’
I woke up to a text from Simon. Come help with breakfast :)
As tempting as that was, I was going to pretend I hadn’t seen the message, then head upstairs after ten minutes and enjoy the breakfast without the whole helping part.
My phone beeped again. Lazy bitch, I heard your phone go off so I know you definitely got the message.
I kicked off my sheets.
Simon had taken over the kitchen. There was an arsenal of pots and pans over every available flame, and yolky instruments strewn everywhere.
‘Good morning,’ my brother said, over the sound of crackling bacon and our overambitious exhaust fan.
‘Hey.’ I shuffled up to the counter, wiping the sleep from my eyes. ‘What’s all this?’
‘Breakfast.’ He gestured grandly.
I was after something a little more specific.
He opened the oven, gently cursed as he removed four warmer-than-expected plates and laid them out on the counter. ‘Eggs Benedict.’
He placed an English muffin on each plate and then opened them one after the other.
‘Where did you learn to make that?’ I asked.
‘The café.’ He turned back to the stove and cracked an egg into a pot of simmering water. He snatched up the slotted spoon and in one smooth motion, he pulled the eggwhite up over the yolk. ‘You’re in my way.’
‘Oh, sorry.’ I stepped back and he repeated the process with another egg.
Lucas wanted me to ambush Simon armed with the fake statuses. I wasn’t sure. One, I couldn’t tell him about the statuses without first admitting that I’d stalked his profile, and two, it felt like I’d be trapping him into coming back. It had to be something he wanted.
‘Come on, help.’ He cracked another egg. ‘The bacon’s done. Put one on each muffin piece.’
He nudged the frypan’s handle so it pointed at me. I gripped it and walked the pan over to the plates.
‘How’s work at the café?’ I asked.
‘It’s good.’
‘Where is it again?’ He’d never told me, but dropping in the ‘again’ made it feel less like he’d shut me out of his new life.
‘Have you heard of New Farm?’
‘No.’
‘It’s in New Farm.’ He was scooping the stray floating bits of eggwhite out of the water. Eventually, he placed the slotted spoon back down on the counter and examined my handiwork. ‘How did you go with the bacon?’
‘Well, it was a complicated task, but I think I managed it.’
‘Just.’
‘Shut up.’
He snorted a laugh. ‘Relax, I’m kidding.’
‘Is that it?’ I asked, lowering the pan back onto the stove.
‘What?’
‘Was there anything else I needed to do?’
‘Nope.’
‘So, you texted me saying you needed help, but all you wanted me to do was take a few pieces of bacon off a frypan? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you wanted to hang out.’
‘Shut up.’ He looked back to the simmering water.
And that, right then, was the closest I’d felt to him in ages. I sensed an opportunity.
‘Simon?’
‘Mm?’
‘Are you happy in Brisbane?’ I asked.
He didn’t answer right away. He scooped the first egg out of the water and placed it on the nearest plate, on top of the bacon. ‘Yeah, it’s good. I like it,’ he said.
It wasn’t exactly a ringing endorsement. I pressed on. ‘What specifically?’ I asked.
‘Oh, off the top of my head . . . I have my own space. It’s like . . . You know what it is? Freedom.’ He continued to plate the rest of the eggs. ‘You don’t have any idea what it’s like to be able to do whatever you want and never have to worry about what someone thinks. I can be myself, wear my clothes, have my hair.’
I wondered if he seriously thought he was a purple-and-orange-highlights kind of guy.
‘And,’ he added with a certain amount of emphasis, ‘I can bring guys home.’
It was loaded, and I didn’t believe it for a second. I had seen Mum around Lucas for most of my life, and him saying that sold her short.
‘And you couldn’t here?’ I asked.
He tilted his head forward.
‘What?’ I persisted. ‘Did you try?’
‘Did I need to?’
‘Yes, you needed to.’
He was pouring the hollandaise sauce over each plate. Because when you’re having a heavy-ish conversation about a parent not accepting your sexuality, the hollandaise sauce cannot wait.
‘You can’t say that when you didn’t even give her a chance,’ I added.
‘It doesn’t . . . ’ Simon stopped pouring for a sec. ‘It doesn’t mean I wasn’t afraid to, all right?’
I knew when to stop pushing. ‘All right.’
‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘I have control over my own life. It’s nice.’
The conversation had found a natural end point, and just as well too, because Mum appeared from nowhere. ‘Hi, boys.’
‘Hey.’ It was about as heavy a greeting as I could manage. I still had no idea how to talk to her about Yiayia. What did I say? What could I say?
Simon dropped the bowl in the sink. ‘Hi.’
‘What’s all of this?’ Mum asked.
‘Breakfast,’ he said, without the grand gesture this time.
‘Did you really need to use so many pans?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Who’s going to clean it all up?’
‘Bill.’
‘Apparently, me,’ I added.
Mum flicked the kettle on. ‘Simon, today we’re going to fix your hair and get you a suit that fits,’ she said.
He raised his eyebrows at me. I got that he was trying to tell me that this kind of overbearing mothering was why he’d moved away, but there was no way he could turn up at the funeral looking like he had the day before.
We heard Peter’s heavy footsteps on the stairs.
‘Is he wearing school shoes?’ Mum asked.
Her question was answered when my younger brother arrived at the top of the staircase, rocking the Buckley’s blue and gold.
‘I don’t think so, mister,’ Mum said.
‘What?’ Peter asked.
‘You’re not going to school.’
‘Why not?’ he asked.
‘Neither of you are,’ she said.
I had my first exam and I couldn’t care less about it.
‘I’ll get in trouble,’ Peter said.
Mum opened the cabinet and grabbed her usual mug. ‘No, you won’t. I’ll call them.’
‘But I’m fine. I can go.’ His trademark stubbornness had reared its head. ‘It’s not –’
Mum slammed the mug down on the counter. A large piece broke off. ‘You’re not going to argue. Your grandmother had a heart attack, Peter, you are taking the day off school,’ she growled.
She stared at him, wide-eyed, until he retreated back to his bedroom. She exhaled and looked down at what remained of her favourite mug. She swore and held one hand to her face.
‘It’s fine,’ Simon said.
‘No, it’s not.’
‘I’ve got it.’ He guided her aside and started to clean up. ‘Go sit down. Bill will bring you your food.’
We did as we were told.
‘Cutlery,’ Mum prompted.
Simon was standing in the kitchen, holding out a knife and fork. I took them and hurried back. Mum cut a small piece of sauce-covered muffin and ate it.
She hadn’t even started chewing when she said, ‘It’s nice.’
Simon’s chest swelled. ‘Thanks.’
I was still standing close to the table. Mum cut a larger piece and asked, ‘What are you doing today, Bill?’
Find your mummy husband.
‘Nothing. Might go to Lucas’s after he finishes the exam.’
Mum nodded. Simon approached with plates for the both of us.
‘What about Peter? Did you make some for him?’ she asked.
‘It’s on the counter,’ Simon said.
‘Take it down to him, will you?’
I volunteered. Peter’s door was shut. I knocked and he told me to go away. I said I had breakfast if he wanted any.
I left the plate by his door.
While I ate, I was worried Mum
’s outburst had forced Peter back behind his wall. She had been right, but I didn’t want to lose my younger brother all over again. My fears were put to rest when I came down after breakfast.
Not only had Peter eaten, but he’d wiped the plate clean with the English muffin.
The mother-husband situation was probably the most straightforward of Yiayia’s demands. I already had someone who was husband material, and if not husband, long-term partner material. Shaun had his life together and he came with strong recommendations, and the only reason Mum wasn’t willing to give it a shot was because he was Lucas’s uncle. Like our friendship wasn’t strong enough to survive her breaking up with the uncle I didn’t know Lucas had a month ago.
It took about an hour to walk to Shaun’s workshop. There was no front door, only a crudely painted Entry sign and an arrow that pointed down the side. I followed the path and the sound of sawing.
The yard was a mess of scrap timber and abandoned projects.
The rear roller door was up. Shaun was standing inside, slowly guiding a piece of wood into the teeth of the blade of a bandsaw. I waited until he was finished sawing before I said, ‘Hello?’
He switched off the machine and lifted his goggles up to his forehead. It took him a second to recognise me. ‘Will?’
Okay, not quite.
‘Bill,’ I corrected.
‘Of course. Sorry, Bill. Hey.’
He stepped forward, tore off a glove and held out his hand. I shook it. It was coarse. He smelt like sweat and sawdust.
‘What can I do you for?’ he asked.
Straight to the point, I liked that.
‘I’m actually here about Mum.’
He tilted his head down slowly, as if considering just how awkward the conversation was about to get. ‘All right.’
‘Do you like her?’
It took him a moment to figure out how to respond to that question. He settled for, ‘Yeah. She seems like a lot of fun.’
‘Long-term “fun”?’
He laughed. I cocked an eyebrow.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘long-term. I thought I was clear. I gave her my number.’
She hadn’t mentioned that.
The First Third Page 19
