by Emily Brewin
His voice softened. ‘It’s what married couples do, Bel.’
She stared at her bare feet planted firmly on the tiles, picturing her mother dog-tired from juggling work and kids and her father, despite her determined smile.
‘And my career?’
She caught his face in the mirror, the same clear grey eyes she’d fallen in love with, and felt a pang of resentment. He knew what work meant to her, what she’d overcome to achieve it. He knew, but he’d never really understood. How could he? He’d grown up on a leafy street in the heart of Toorak.
He didn’t know what it was like to have to prove yourself over and over again. To be told you were less, and to believe it until you finally realised success was the best revenge. He didn’t know the true cost of giving it all up.
She placed her hands on the sink and glared at his reflection.
He looked confused.
‘Do you know what happens to women’s careers when they take time off to have children?’
He puffed out his cheeks and yanked a towel from the rack, flinging it over his shoulder. ‘Why don’t you tell me?’
‘They fizzle out.’ She scratched her hair back into a tight ponytail and threw on a singlet top.
Marcus shook his head.
She didn’t have time for the conversation, either. She had a yoga class to get to, case notes to read and a speech to prepare, and to top it all off, a meeting with the partners, unexpected. They wanted her in the office at noon. It was Saturday. The thought of it all was overwhelming. Maybe it would be easier to have a couple of kids and stay home, she pondered sarcastically.
Marcus held the towel to his face, as if he’d like to disappear inside it.
‘We’ll talk later.’
He lowered it and the expectation in his eyes made her want to bolt.
On her way to yoga she pulled to the side of the road and called Bernard to organise another meeting at the hotel on King Street.
Rosie
HE’S ON THE TRAM behind her. She spotted his reflection in the window opposite, sitting two seats back. But when she turns her head slightly for a better look he leans forward so she can’t see his face. He’s wearing a hoodie and his shoulders curl tight as a boxer’s in a way that makes her throat constrict.
‘Next stop, Parliament Station,’ the driver calls over the intercom.
The teenage girl wearing earphones and a crop top across from her gets up to go. ‘Scuse.’
Rosie shifts her knees to the side to let the girl through and recalls him. The dark stringy hair he swept back from his face when he was trying to make a good impression and the lopsided smile. Petey’s smile.
A fat man almost sits on her backpack just as she reasons it can’t be Joel. He wouldn’t be the same after all these years. He was skin and bone, like her, last time she saw him, and you’ve got to be big to survive inside.
‘Excuse me. What’s the next stop?’ asks the man beside her in a broad American accent.
‘Bourke Street.’
He nods. ‘I’m going to the markets. The historic ones.’
She turns again, the other way this time, face close enough to the glass to fog it up. The earrings Petey made her for Mother’s Day last year flash in her reflection as she glances behind. They’re her favourite, misshapen skull and crossbones.
The guy in the hood isn’t moving but her senses stay pinned to him. It’s only five or six stops to TAFE.
‘Friends back home tell me they’ve got this awesome deli,’ the fat man says, making himself comfortable as his elbow pokes her.
She nods but wishes he’d shut up before looking at the opposite window again. The guy in the hoodie shifts, as if he’s about to stand.
Her eyes dart around the carriage. There’s nowhere to go, wedged between the fat man and the window. If she gets up in her bright tartan skirt he’ll see her for sure. She’s been waiting for this moment since she saw Kelly. He always said he’d never let her go.
‘They say the marinated octopus is to die for.’ The fat man peers over his rimless glasses at her.
She stares straight ahead. Deep down, she knew he was out even before Kelly told her. His parole date was etched in her brain, a homemade tattoo that never quite healed, and the bloody phone calls. He got done for trafficking six months after she left, a scam gone wrong, or right, depending on where you stood.
At the time it was hard to imagine Joel ever going down for anything. He was shatterproof, a demigod who wielded power over her like a whip. But now, with hindsight, she knows what he really was. A violent scumbag or, on her better days, a product of the country’s screwed-up foster care system.
She checks the window again. He’s standing now, fingers white-knuckled on the seat in front. She wants to slide beneath the seat. She wants the fat man to hide her in the folds of his oversized jacket.
‘And there’s this tea shop.’
He steps into the aisle. If she’s quick, she can slip out the doors before him and make a run for it. She grabs her backpack and rises to her feet.
‘I’m more a coffee guy myself. We don’t drink much tea back home.’ The fat man manoeuvres his legs to let her past.
She stumbles, falls, feels her palms on the sticky tram floor. And then it’s too late. He’s above her again, filling the aisle, blocking her escape. He grabs her arm.
She leaps up. ‘Let go of me!’ Visions of the warehouse flood her brain, the dirty grey light and sour smell of him on top of her. She’s come too far to let this happen.
‘Whoa.’ He does a double take, steps back and the hood falls off his head.
Finally, the fat man stops talking.
‘Sorry,’ he says holding his palms up. ‘I was just trying to help.’
The tram stops and people twist in their seats to watch the commotion.
She glares at the man in front of her, chest heaving, searching for Joel. He’s nowhere to be seen. A guy with the wrong-coloured hair and pleasant eyes stares back instead.
‘Sorry,’ he says again, this time to the rest of the tram.
It’s too much. The relief hobbles her. She needs a moment to catch her breath. Then she pushes past the guy in the hoodie, out of the tram, onto the street, and runs, non-stop, until she finds a quiet corner to hide in and to count her blessings.
When she finally gets to TAFE, Skye says Rosie looks ‘peaky’ as she redoes her lip gloss.
Rosie dumps her backpack on the floor next to her chair. ‘Just had a fright.’
Skye pulls it out for her. ‘What happened?’
She shakes her head and sits down, puffing her cheeks out. ‘Did you do the essay?’
‘Yeah,’ Skye says, apparently unconcerned by the change of subject.
A guy with dreadlocks down to his waist walks in followed by Danny. Skye rearranges herself in her seat and pushes her shoulders back. Danny smiles in their direction.
Skye grins back and Rosie rolls her eyes.
In class she can almost pretend her life is normal, even though it’s not. Her classmates sense it too. They leave her alone at break time and grow guarded when she hovers at the edges of their conversations. Sometimes it’s like staring through a pane of glass. No one except Skye knows about Petey. She’d asked straight out, the way she does, if Rosie had kids.
Up the front, Danny fires up his laptop and drapes his jacket over the back of his chair, like he’s right where he belongs. She rummages through her backpack for the essay while Skye lays hers on the table in front of them. Skye’s writing is like a series of bubbles and she puts love hearts over her I’s instead of dots, the complete opposite to Rosie’s block-like letters.
Her fingers wipe the paper. It’s slightly sticky at one corner with Petey’s lime cordial. She rubs the whole lot flat with a rough hand. It was hard yakka getting it finished in the dim light at the fold-out table last night. But here it is and she’s peppery with pride. She glances around the room to disguise it. The girls in the next row giggle together while the
dude with the dreadlocks fastens his hair into a towering bun on top of his head. One of the long ceiling lights flickers overhead.
‘How’d you go?’ Suddenly Danny stands above her, a stack of papers in hand.
The essay topic had stumped her at first. She stared at it for ages waiting for it to work its way into her brain and make sense. It didn’t. Then she got mad. It was always the same, the sharp slap of failure that made her throw down her pen and push out her chair.
Why fucking bother? Vera was right, maybe she did always take the hard road. She went to the fridge for a beer. Life was too tough. Petey had thrown a tantrum at bedtime and her head was still spinning with the effort of holding back. Sometimes she was a hairbreadth away from losing it completely, especially when she was dog-tired from work and didn’t get a second to herself. Her anger was like lightning, fast and dangerous, scaring the shit out of both of them.
‘Bed! Now!’ she’d screamed while he stormed tears. She had an essay to write, dishes stinking up the sink, a lunchbox to pack and no clean clothes for tomorrow. It all piled up, a mountain too big to climb.
Later, when he finally fell into a crumpled sleep, she hated herself.
‘I’m sorry, mate,’ she whispered as she kissed his hot, sticky cheek. It’d all be good again in the morning.
Back at the table, she sculled the beer, picked up the pen and reminded herself what she was working for.
She squints up at Danny.
‘All right.’
He considers her a moment then nods and says, ‘I look forward to reading it,’ before moving on to Skye, who gives him a sugary smile.
Isobel
LACHLAN ANSWERS HER PARENTS’ DOOR with an air of reservation.
‘Isobel,’ he says, hesitating before kissing her on both cheeks. ‘How are you?’ His voice trails off at the end as if he thinks he might regret asking the question.
‘Good, thanks.’ She assesses his hair. It’s short at the sides and quiffs up over his forehead the way her favourite barista’s does. Only Lachlan is twenty years older than Elroy. ‘You look well.’
Lachlan examines her just as coolly. ‘You too.’
‘Is Mateo here?’ She peers over his shoulder into the dull hall. She hopes he isn’t. She’s not sure she could cope with her brother’s partner at the moment. They’re incompatible at the best of times.
Lachlan shakes his head. ‘He’s at home,’ he says as he moves aside.
She stands outside a little longer, steeling herself.
‘Marcus?’
‘Just getting his jacket from the car.’ She looks back towards the front gate and wonders what’s taking him so long. He’s been skittish all morning, jumping every time his phone rings and staring into the middle distance as his bacon burnt on the stove.
When she finally told him about the three fertilised eggs, he looked at her blankly so she wondered if he understood.
‘I go back in next Friday for the implantation,’ she said, expecting a better reaction.
But a ‘that’s good’ was all he managed before going back to the newspaper.
‘Lachlan, how are you, man?’ Marcus approaches, hand outstretched.
The sleeves of his white shirt are rolled up, just so, to reveal tanned forearms. He shakes her brother’s hand in a way she admires, firm and businesslike but respectful.
‘Sorry it’s not under better circumstances.’
Lachlan shrugs, and in that instant she spies the lonely little boy he was when they were young. Different from the other round pegs, as their mother said when he insisted on doing drama classes. For years she shuttled him off to them every Saturday morning because their father refused.
Years later, on a visit home from Sydney, Lachlan announced he was gay. Her father mumbled something about acting while Grace jumped up from the table to hug him fiercely. Isobel watched, separating the mash from the steak on the plate as Lachie cried.
At fourteen he’d left a note on the desk in her bedroom, a scribbled confession that made her heart contract. When she couldn’t think what to write back, she covered a page in hugs and kisses and put it in his room. She knew he’d told her because he couldn’t tell their parents. They didn’t have time to listen; there was enough on their plates.
Their father came around in the end too, although he still referred to Mateo as Lachlan’s friend.
‘Are they here, Lach?’ A call comes from the depths of the house.
‘Yes, Dad.’
They follow Lachlan down the hall to where her father sits, a solitary figure on the couch in the lounge room. She glances about for signs of her mother, waiting, despite herself, for the bell-ring of her voice.
‘She’s in bed.’ Her father rubs his face with two old hands. ‘Hasn’t got out since the turn.’ He looks at them, bleary-eyed. ‘Sit down, for Christ’s sake.’
Isobel lowers her handbag to the floor and perches on a chair opposite her father. Marcus sits in the one beside her. Its grey vinyl upholstery makes him look washed out.
The room is drabber without her mother to lighten it. The wallpaper is more faded and the dark wood furnishings heftier. Grace brought things to life with her chatter, although it drove Isobel mad.
Her mother had a habit of talking to anyone and everyone as if they were old friends. She would draw people out with easy laughter and inquiries so they couldn’t help but respond. People told her their problems. It was hard sometimes, standing in the shadows, wishing she would listen at home in the same way.
Later there was guilty pleasure in the way the Nottingham mothers resisted it. They preferred quasi-intellectual conversation and sophisticated small talk. Grace’s brashness went down like a sinking ship.
When her father called the night before to say her mother had had a minor stroke, her speech was the first thing Isobel asked after.
Lachlan scratches his nose. She wishes he would say something to comfort their father. Isn’t that what he came down from Sydney for, to play his part in the family? But he’s useless. If she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes she still wouldn’t believe he was capable of directing a stage full of professional actors. This house does the same to him as it does to her, makes them small again.
Marcus’s phone beeps, upsetting the silence. She can tell it takes all his strength not to check the message. He notices her watching and clasps his hands under his chin. ‘Righto. What are we thinking here?’
She’s grateful for his efficiency, despite the fact it’s because he wants to get away.
‘Wouldn’t you like to see her, pet?’ her father interrupts.
It’s the moment she’s been dreading. He’d told her on the phone that her mother had trouble speaking and that she needed extra help. He said ‘help’ softly, so she pictured him lifting her onto the commode in their bedroom.
‘She’s not asleep?’
‘Why don’t you go and check?’
The others wait for her reaction.
‘I will. After.’
Her father sighs so she says ‘after’ again, with more conviction.
‘We think it’s best you get some support,’ Lachlan says, finally. He makes it sound as if they’ve thought it over, considered other options, which they haven’t. Not really. It all happened too quickly.
‘Maybe one of us should help out,’ Lachlan had blurted down the phone line, because it needed to be said. ‘How’s your schedule looking?’
She should have known he’d try. This day had been a long time coming. Even before the illness her parents were growing less capable, but neither she nor Lachlan had time to spare.
‘How’s yours?’ She could almost see his eyebrows shoot up at Mateo on the sidelines.
It didn’t take long for them to come to the conclusion that a nurse or a carer would be best, what with Lachlan’s upcoming show and the baby.
‘Baby?’ Her brother gasped in surprise.
‘IVF.’
The silence that followed was frustrating.
‘So, no baby yet?’
‘Not yet,’ she’d snapped back. ‘But soon.’
Marcus leans towards her father. ‘We’d organise proper care, Jim. Money isn’t an issue.’
But her father digs his heels in. ‘You’re right, money isn’t the issue.’ His voice wavers and she can’t bring herself to look him in the face.
Marcus clears his throat and withdraws diplomatically.
Her father is staring at them; she can feel it, desperate for one of his children to do the right thing. He would, if the tables were turned. He’s that kind of man. Reliable. Loyal to a fault. But she won’t and neither will Lachlan. The thought of being in this house, helping her mother shower and dress and go to the toilet, is, frankly, paralysing.
She resorts to the courtroom delivery she’s renowned for and states their case. ‘What Marcus means, Dad, is that Mum needs expert care now. She deserves it. You can’t possibly look after her on your own.’ She draws a deep breath. ‘None of us can. A nurse will shower her and administer proper pain relief.’
Lachlan nods. ‘It’ll give you a break.’
Her father rubs his eyes, and for a moment she thinks she’s convinced him. Then her mother calls out from their bedroom off the hallway and he prises himself from the couch, shaking his head.
‘She needs me.’ He doesn’t look at them and the sight of the worn woollen jumper riding up his back makes her feel like a traitor. Marcus uncrosses his legs then goes to the kitchen counter.
‘Tea, anyone?’ He learnt long ago not to expect coffee in her parents’ house.
Lachlan runs a hand through his sandy hair, upsetting the quiff. ‘Shit.’ His face is blotchy. ‘Are you sure you can’t help out,’ he says, ‘now you’re off work?’
She glares at him while Marcus fills the kettle.
‘And you live so close.’
‘It takes me an hour to get here, Lachlan.’
Old tension between them freshens.
‘Plus, I’m very busy.’
‘With what?’ He straightens his t-shirt to give his stomach more room.
