‘She’s not going to call you,’ I said flatly.
‘She’s not?’
‘No, she’s not. She thinks it’ll be weird for me because you’re my best friend’s uncle.’
‘Right.’
‘I don’t care and I personally think it’s a stupid reason not to give it a shot, so . . .’
I held out Mum’s business card. When he went to grab it, I pulled it out of reach.
‘You’re exclusive, from the beginning. Minimum five dates.’
‘Okay.’
‘Good.’ I lowered the card and then pulled it back again when I thought of something else. ‘And no texting games. She messages you, you reply.’
‘All right.’
‘And if she goes on about not wanting to jeopardise my friendship with Lucas, then you ask for a real reason, and if she won’t give you one, then you romance the hell out of her. I’m talking flowers and –’
Shaun laughed.
‘What?’
‘Are you going to give me her card or not?’ he asked, grinning.
I handed it over. ‘You should probably wait a couple of days before you call her though.’
His brow furrowed. ‘Why is that?’
Buckley’s had granted me special consideration, which meant I could sit my exams at a later date. I wasn’t allowed to talk to any of my peers about the contents of any test, so obviously I went over to Lucas’s place and we spoke about the contents of the test. I took notes.
‘Right, now that’s done,’ I said, putting the pad down on the bed beside me, ‘I saw your uncle.’
‘And?’
‘He has Mum’s number.’
‘Good.’ Lucas was sitting on the giant ornamental dragon. We’d gotten to the point where he could sit on a giant ornamental dragon in his bedroom in his school uniform and I’d barely bat an eyelid. ‘And what about Simon? Any progress?’
‘I spoke to him about Brisbane.’
‘And?’
‘He’s adamant he’s happy.’
Lucas scrunched his face. ‘What was your strategy? How did you go about finding out?’
It seemed like a no-brainer. ‘I asked if he was happy.’
‘That’s not a strategy.’
‘I’m sorry I can’t just concoct an elaborate manipulation off the cuff.’
‘You can’t waste these opportunities, Bill,’ he lectured. ‘He’ll be back in Brissie before you know it. You’re going to need another way to convince him to come back.’
‘How? It’s not as if I can just conjure a plan from thin air.’ I waved my hand out in front of me to emphasise the point. Looking past my fingertips, I noticed the envelope hanging on the wall.
And there was my plan, floating in thin air.
‘You right?’ Lucas asked. ‘Your eyes have glazed over.’
As soon as I got home from Lucas’s, I went straight to my room, scooped the pair of old sneakers out from underneath my bed and took a tiny folded piece of paper out of the right one. It was burning a hole in my pocket as I went upstairs to find Simon.
He was pouring himself a drink. We didn’t have any soda, so he’d decided on a vodka and water. It wasn’t the same.
He poked his tongue out and shuddered. ‘It’s not the same.’
That didn’t stop him drinking it as he walked over to the living area.
‘Your hair looks good like that,’ I said.
He’d had it dyed a light brown, and he no longer looked like an extra from a ’90s Avril Lavigne music video.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Mum picked it.’
He sat down on the couch. It was as good a time as any. I slid the tiny sliver of paper across the coffee table.
When he noticed it, it took his breath away.
‘Yiayia’s handwriting,’ he said.
I tried to sound as casual as I could. ‘Yeah, it’s Dad’s address.’
‘Bull,’ he said.
‘No bull, I’ve been there.’
‘When? Why?’
‘A couple of weeks ago. She sent me.’
‘You went to Melbourne?’
‘It was a daytrip.’
‘Did you see him?’
‘Dad? No. I didn’t know I was going to see him.’
‘How?’
‘It was this whole thing. Anyway, Simon.’ I leaned in. ‘Dad has two kids.’
He was silent, staring down at the address.
‘He didn’t even call to tell us we had two new siblings. Isn’t that terrible?’
‘What are they?’ Simon asked.
‘I don’t know. I saw a truck, so I’m assuming one’s a boy.’ That wasn’t the point. ‘We have two siblings out there that we don’t even know. I mean, it’s a shit situation, but really, what’s the difference between that and what we have here? You and Peter are my siblings, but we don’t really know each other much anymore.’
‘You know our genders,’ Simon said.
I found myself meshing my fingers together. ‘I guess what I’m saying is, it’s been nice having you around these past few days, circumstances aside,’ I said. ‘I already have two siblings that live in another city, I don’t want you to be another one I don’t get to live my life beside.’
‘Bill . . .’
‘I know you have a great life up in Brisbane and you have your freedom and all that, but you don’t have us. And let’s face it, you need us to tell you when your hair looks shit.’
‘I do like it a lot better now,’ he admitted, combing his fringe down with one hand.
‘And I saw you cooking breakfast this morning. If I wasn’t there to move the bacon from the pan to the plates, you would have been completely lost.’
He laughed.
‘It’s your call, but . . . I think there’s a healthy middle ground between you having a completely separate life and having Mum nag you to clean your room, and I think you can find it in Sydney.’
He sipped his drink. He’d forgotten how bad it tasted. He shuddered.
‘I’m just throwing it out there,’ I added.
My door was open but Mum still knocked. She was standing in the hall in a three-quarter black dress. It was new. She’d only ever wear it once.
It was Friday, the day of Yiayia’s funeral.
Mum asked, ‘You ready?’
It depended on what she meant. If she was asking if I was dressed, then I was one shoe on my left foot away from being ready. If she was asking if I was prepared to farewell my grandmother, then no, I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t even close.
‘Almost.’
She crossed the room and sat beside me on the edge of the bed.
‘Today isn’t going to be fun.’ She’d been crying. Her eyes were bloodshot.
‘Mm.’
‘I don’t want you boys to come to the burial.’
She hadn’t let us see Papou’s.
I was trying to force my left foot into the shoe.
‘You need to loosen it more.’
‘I know how to put on a shoe, Mum.’ I rocked my ankle from side to side until my foot slipped in. ‘And I’m coming to the burial.’
‘Bill . . .’ She sighed. ‘You have to stand still and watch someone you can’t imagine your life without just . . . go away. I don’t want you to feel that.’
‘And I don’t want you feeling that alone.’
It wasn’t up for negotiation. I would be at the burial, and knowing my brothers, they would be too.
Mum didn’t fight me. She changed the subject. ‘I spoke to your brother last night.’
I pointed in the direction of Peter’s bedroom.
‘Other one,’ she clarified.
‘Ah.’
Mum hesitated. ‘How would you feel about him moving back to Sydney?’
‘He said that?’
She nodded slowly. ‘He’s considering it,’ she said. ‘He’d have to stay here for a bit, obviously, until he found a place of his own.’
‘I’d like that.’
‘Good,’
Mum said. ‘So would I.’
I exhaled and I felt my body relax a little. Simon was considering coming home. For him to admit considering it to Mum, it was definite. He was just testing the waters.
Simon was coming home and the family was coming back together. I could feel the glue setting. And I was relieved.
But then I thought of Simon and everything he’d said on the morning of the eggs Benedict about his life in Brisbane, about freedom.
If he was coming back to Sydney, I had to be certain he wouldn’t lose that.
‘You know he’s probably going to bring guys home, right?’
Mum blinked. ‘Yeah, and?’
She couldn’t have answered more perfectly.
It was the oddest thing, returning to the church. Easter was still fresh in my mind, but there I was again, and the circumstances were so different.
I didn’t cry during the service, I was focusing too hard on what the priest was saying. The service was in Greek. I caught words, occasional phrases, but I didn’t understand the half of it.
It was over quickly. Greeks didn’t do eulogies. What needed to be said was said afterwards, privately, at the burial, and then at Yiayia’s house.
But eventually, the words ran out and the last guests left. And then there were four.
It was just us, the brickwork and Yiayia Filyo’s deafening absence.
We were sitting at the dining table, Simon tapped his pack of cigarettes, Peter breathed through his mouth and Mum watched me.
‘How are you?’ she mouthed.
I still hadn’t cried. I tried to smile. I couldn’t imagine it was all that convincing.
Mum’s phone started ringing. She frowned down at the screen. She answered the call with an uncertain, ‘Hello? Oh. Hi, Shaun.’
She pushed out her chair and walked towards the front of the house. I didn’t catch much of her end of their conversation before the guest-room door clicked shut.
She was surprised he’d heard. She was glad he’d called. She was doing okay . . .
Simon checked inside the carton. ‘Last one before I quit,’ he said, turning the packet so I could see the lone cigarette inside.
I was pretty sure it was the first pack he’d ever bought.
He went out the back. That left me with Peter. He hadn’t said anything all day.
He took another long, slow, open-mouthed breath.
Beyond him, I could see Yiayia’s empty lounge chair.
I would never walk in to find her sitting there again.
It didn’t start as an uncontrollable sob, but it quickly escalated into one. Peter watched – he didn’t know how to respond. I covered my eyes and sank forward. I heard him push his chair out. I was certain he was coming around the table to hug me.
He barely made it halfway. The bottles in the fridge door rattled together as he opened it. He was clearing things out and placing them out on the table in front of me.
I uncovered my eyes. He’d taken out all that was left of the groceries I’d bought.
He crossed the room and grabbed a chopping board and one of Yiayia’s crazy-big knives.
‘What are you –?’
I stopped myself. He was slicing an eggplant.
‘I could only find one,’ he said. His voice was hoarse. He was teary too. ‘Is that enough?’
‘Um. Yeah. There’s a small tray . . .’ I was up on my feet. I raided the cupboard for the tray Yiayia had always used to make brownies in. I brought it back and stood close to Peter.
‘First, we cut the eggplant.’ He was fighting to control his wavering voice. He pushed the slices aside with his knife, like all the TV chefs did. They spilled over the edge of the table. He ignored it and reached over the bench. ‘Next, the jucchini.’
I started laughing but just ended up crying more. My nose was running. I wiped it with my sleeve.
‘Why you cry?’ Peter asked, putting on Yiayia’s voice. ‘We cook moussaka. Moussaka happy.’ He was crying and laughing too.
I glanced up. Mum was standing on the threshold of the kitchen, still holding her phone. She looked thankful.
1. Find your mummy husband.
Peter was struggling to cut. He steadied his hand and blinked hard. He continued.
‘Why does Peter always go to gym?’ I attempted, vision blurring behind the tears. ‘Who is Jimmy?’
Simon laughed. I hadn’t heard him come back in.
2. Have Simon girlfriend in Sydney.
Peter sniffed. ‘Is he nice Greek boy?’
3. Fix Peter.
‘I want shits,’ I said. ‘High quality shits.’
And for one last time, Yiayia’s voice echoed through the house.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
To my publisher Laura Harris, who believed in a pitch, and my editor Clair Hume, who helped me realise it, I owe my gratitude and a lifetime supply of moussaka – extra jucchini.
Claire Craig, you gave me the opportunity of a lifetime. The past five years have been indescribable, and the friends I’ve collected along the way – Steph Bowe, Tanya Caunce, Bethany Clark, Jack Heath, Kristi Joy, Kath Lathouras, Melina Marchetta, Susanne Gervay, Adele Walsh and Gabrielle Williams – are irreplaceable. If I had known a book would drag you all into my world, I would have written one sooner.
I can’t say much to Jace Armstrong, Laurence Barber, Rebekah Burgess-Smith, Sam Downing, Chris Field, Taylor Lemke-Berry, Regan Lynch, Elle and Sean McLaughlin, Daniel Mochan and Samuel Rooke that they don’t already know.
Tye Cattanach, your support has been overwhelming. Gail Terrey, if I don’t have my licence by the time you read this, my bad.
Finally, my family, for whom I reserve my hopes. Mum, I hope you find love. Christopher, Thomas, I hope life fulfils your dreams. And Yiayia, I hope to somehow return the favour. I can’t cook, I can’t sew, but I can give you this, a book in your honour. And it’s a start.
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First published by Penguin Group (Australia), 2013
Text copyright © Will Kostakis 2013.
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ISBN: 978-1-74253-597-5
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