You Wish

by Lia Weston

  The sharp edge in my voice surprises us both.

  This is too familiar. The last time it happened I was fourteen. Sitting in the same place, staring at the same coffee table, listening to Dad saying he was leaving us. She forced him to tell me. I remember looking at my father as if he was an impostor who looked, sounded and talked like Dad but wasn’t. It was the first time I realised that the people who love us are also capable of ruining us.

  I have now learnt this more than once.

  ‘Have you told him about Rohan?’ she says.

  I laugh. ‘You didn’t seriously think I would, did you?’

  She says nothing, and I realise she actually did; she hoped I’d do it, so she wouldn’t have to.

  Mum interlinks her fingers in her lap and inspects her ruined thumbnail. ‘You’re disappointed in me.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Of course it does.’

  ‘I’ve never been married. I don’t know what it takes to keep it together. Just keep Gen out of it. She doesn’t need this shit.’

  Mum regards me from under thick black lashes. ‘All grown up, all of a sudden.’

  Gen emerges from her bedroom, holding a pair of sneakers that look like they’ve been buried under a tomb of jeans for many years. She stands on the backs to lever in her toes. ‘Amity, did you know Tom lost his job?’

  Amity leans over to the fruit platter and fossicks in the precise rainbow rows. Felicity, fastidiously grouping gym outfits together on an ironing board, looks pained. I suddenly wonder if she’s related to Ellie, but on the nice side of the family.

  ‘He lost his whole company, Gennie,’ says Amity, snapping the cherry off a stem with her teeth. ‘That’s much worse.’

  ‘Yeah,’ says Gen, ‘but he can always work for Mum, can’t he?’

  ‘I’d be useless,’ I say. ‘I don’t even know what matcha tea is.’

  ‘It’s whole green tea leaves made into powder,’ says Felicity, whisking a makeup brush over Mum’s face. Mum gives me a ‘See?’ eyebrow in between whisking. Felicity then comes over to Amity, misting her with something mysterious. Amity submits to it with the patience of a dog at the vet that knows it can’t escape.

  Gen runs back into her bedroom yet again for something else she forgot, and I watch Mum reading her card prompts, practising where the pauses go. She’s shut off the issue with Dad and morphed into the public Amanda Lash, the one who does yoga on cliff tops and eats plants carved into shapes, like a fifty-one-year-old toddler. I never recognised how deep the split in her personality is.

  A worrying thought occurs: I never picked any of the cues with Mica, either. How did I miss them? Maybe it’s spreading. First I can’t read Gen or Mum. Then Mica. Then everyone. Wait, maybe it’s just women. Oh, God, that’s no better.

  Gen bounces into the hallway. ‘Let’s go!’

  Before I close the front door, I see Mum framed in the kitchen, her arm around Amity, as picture perfect as her public expects. Felicity is setting up the camera tripod.

  ‘Felicity,’ I shout down the hallway, ‘do you sort your spices alphabetically?’

  Felicity looks at me as if I’m insane. ‘How else would you do it?’

  Hurray, haven’t lost my touch completely.

  *

  ‘You’re so sloooooow!’

  Gen is twenty metres ahead and swinging off a branch.

  ‘We’re not racing.’

  ‘I’m still winning. Come on, come on.’ She drops onto the track and springs away, her new sneakers barely marked on the soles. Her Ninja T-shirt isn’t even sweaty, the little shit.

  There’s been a strange shift at my place since Gen’s arrival. There are vegetables in the crisper because I figured I couldn’t feed her two-minute noodles all the time. I bought new sheets and pillows for the spare bed, and a hand towel so she didn’t have to keep wiping her hands on her jeans. Yesterday, I told her walking on her toes will shorten her calf muscles, and realised I’m only a set of matching plates away from being a proper adult. So, naturally, today I figured we’d go for a run and I’d beat her up Shatterleg to redress some of the balance.

  Yeah, nah.

  Someone has discarded a bottle of sports drink, now a seething puddle of red goo and ants. The fluorescent wattles bend as the breeze gets sharper up the hill. Gen leaps up to smack a branch that leans over the path, shaking the yellow blossoms, tra-la-la-ing a song I don’t know, and disappears around the curve as if a nine per cent incline is a mere speed bump. A rabbit scuds across the path, flushed out by her yowling.

  I can see strips of pink above through the scrub. The yoga girls are at the lookout. My ankle is almost back to normal. My quads, however, burn to remind me of the form I’ve lost, and my ribs remind me that I’m still not back to full lung capacity. This is shit. Who knew it took so long to recover from getting hurt? People in the movies are always getting shot in the shoulder or stabbed and they still manage to haul themselves over fences or drive a manual car. If there’s a zombie apocalypse, don’t use me as your tour guide.

  As I emerge onto the last stretch of Shatterleg, Gen is balancing on a bench behind a row of yoga girls, imitating their one-legged poses. She jumps off and dances up to me, not even slightly winded.

  ‘Now where?’

  ‘Home,’ I say, turning back down the path.

  ‘Oh nooooo,’ she moans. ‘Can’t we keep going? There’s still a track there.’

  ‘Only for about two hundred metres. It’s a dead end.’

  Her face collapses.

  ‘Okay, fine, we’ll go down to the lake.’

  Storm clouds give way to sunshine. ‘Yay!’ She skips backwards back down the path, and waves goodbye to the yoga girls. They all give her a peace sign. Homogeneous blondes are feeling generous, all’s right with the world.

  The lake is really a glorified pond, but it’s better than nothing. It’s usually deserted – there’s no shade and you’re lucky if you only get one splinter from the log benches. Gen is enchanted, however, because the glorified pond has ducklings, floating along in a fluffy daisy chain. She follows them along the water’s edge, hands clasped, cooing, before they glide off to the sanctity of the centre, away from stalking teenage girls.

  I stretch my arms up, trying to release some more air into my diaphragm. ‘Have you heard from Brie?’

  Gen plonks herself down beside me on a log and picks at a spot on her shin. ‘Nup.’

  ‘You still worried about her?’

  She shrugs. ‘I don’t care. It’s not like Mum would believe her if she told her.’

  ‘She’ll probably love having a gay daughter, though. You can add diversity to the Lash brand.’

  Gen grins and pokes the ground with a twig, drawing circles around her feet. ‘I deleted Brie from my contacts and blocked her online.’

  ‘Good start.’

  ‘Yeah, but the best bit is that if she texts I can be like “Who’s this?”’ Gen laughs as if this is the funniest thing she’s heard.

  I smile but wonder if she’s suffering from a latent head injury.

  ‘You need to find a nice girl.’

  ‘So do you,’ says Gen.

  ‘I was wondering – did you want to stay with me during your school holidays?’

  She stops picking her leg. ‘Like, all of them?’

  ‘Sure, if you want. It’s been fun, even if you eat all of my stuff and break my appliances.’

  She puts her face on her knees, but I can see she’s grinning. ‘Cool.’

  ‘Feel free to turn me down if you get a better offer, of course.’

  ‘No one else would invite me anywhere,’ she says, turning so her cheek is resting on her kneecap.

  ‘Mica might. She likes you.’

  Gen’s cheeks quickly go blotchy. ‘I like Mica.’

  ‘We both like Mica.’

  Gen turns her face back to her knees, fiddling with her laces. ‘You should ask her out.’

  ‘I don’t think Mica likes me that
way.’ At least, not any more.

  ‘She does,’ Gen says, and I feel an irrational jolt that I don’t want to analyse.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘You can see it. It’s weird, her hips kind of face you all the time.’

  I stifle the urge to laugh. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, I noticed it at the bus shelter. And you lean together when you’re not thinking about it.’

  I look at my little sister, still folded over her knees. ‘It might be more complicated than that.’

  ‘Everything is, isn’t it?’ says the fourteen-year-old philosopher.

  The ducklings bob in the middle of the pond.

  I stand, feeling my legs creak like violin bows. ‘Tell you what. If you can beat me to the gate, you can have anything you want for dinner.’

  Her head whips up. ‘Even Special Awesome Noodles?’ Special Awesome Noodles is an invention of Gen’s: two-minute noodles, grated cheddar, grated mozzarella, bacon and tomato sauce. It’s disgusting.

  ‘Even Special Awesome –’

  I haven’t even got to ‘Noodles’ when she’s off the log and belting down the path towards the car park gate. I shamble along in her wake, resigned to an evening of starch, and think how nice it would be to still be the age where every evil can be thwarted by the promise of icecream with Twisties in it.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Dad is transfixed by the paua shells studded deep into the Grace’s bar. I put a beer in front of him to distract him.

  He comes out of his resin-related trance and knocks his glass on mine. ‘Cheers.’

  There’s a new record on the pile by the counter, wedged in between the stuffed cobra and the Mr T doll: Lydia Diamond’s Come Home Soon. Lydia smoulders at us from under a seventies shag cut. She looks unerringly like Mum, though she’s wearing so much lip gloss she could wax a car with her face.

  ‘Where’s Gen?’ says Dad.

  ‘Mica’s taking her to see The Man Who Knew Too Much. Apparently I’d spoil the mood by being there.’

  ‘Well, at least you know where you stand.’ He takes a sip of beer. ‘Speaking of that, what’s happening with Rohan?’

  ‘He’s out on bail. Court date’s in a few weeks.’

  ‘Feel free to tell me his address.’

  I look at him in surprise. ‘You’re going to go and beat him up?’ My mild-mannered dad having a Liam Neeson-style revenge moment. I nonchalantly try to work out how much he knows. Checking forehead, corners of eyes, mouth’s left edge . . . No. Mum still hasn’t told him. Fuck it all, why am I still having to carry this information on my own? Because it’s not your business, I remind myself. It’s not your problem to fix.

  ‘He assaulted you and pushed my daughter down a flight of stairs,’ says Dad. ‘What would you do?’

  The more likely solution would be for Dad to talk to Rohan about longshore drift until he bores him to death, but Dad’s got a weird flinty look in his eye so I don’t volunteer this thought. ‘Don’t do it. It’s tempting, but not worth it. Besides, the last thing you need is an arrest record when you’re trying to find work.’

  ‘Magnanimity. Interesting choice.’

  ‘I’m evolving.’ I signal for a bag of chips. ‘And I only had to cut off my livelihood to do it. Salt and vinegar?’

  ‘See if they have barbecue,’ says Dad.

  I get both.

  ‘Big spender,’ says Dad.

  ‘We’re expecting someone.’

  ‘I’m thinking it’s not your mother,’ he says.

  ‘This isn’t really her scene.’

  ‘Did I tell you she wants to have counselling?’ Dad says. He struggles with the packet until I show him where to tear it. We empty both packets into the one bowl, like a lucky chip dip.

  ‘Have you told her about your job yet?’ I say.

  ‘Yes, and that’s when she suggested the counselling. Apparently we’re not communicating well.’

  To my credit, I do not choke on my salt and vinegar chip.

  ‘Just because I didn’t tell her that I was about to lose my job doesn’t mean . . .’ He thinks about this statement, and then takes a long drink. I wonder if it’s like me not telling June about my stencil work. ‘Your mother took it very badly. Worse than I expected. I thought she’d be angry, but she cried.’ He puts the glass down. ‘She cried a lot. I didn’t think her body could produce that much liquid.’

  I drink to disguise my facial expression.

  Dad takes a break to find the bathroom. I don’t tell him that it’s past the band, left at the papier-mâché Mount Vesuvius, past the kitchen and through the bamboo curtain, because he’s a guy who likes a challenge.

  ‘Hey, man, hey, how’s it going?’

  Alex jumps up, like a pixie, onto the stool next to me. His style is devolving, or possibly he’s just trying to look unemployed: he’s wearing a band T-shirt and jeans. His hair, however, is still neatly combed flat. I try to imagine him in a mosh pit, jumping in a perfectly vertical plane. What does it take to get Alex relaxed? My guess is five craft pilsners and a handful of Valium.

  ‘Do you come here a lot?’ he says. ‘Oh, man, it’s awesome, I mean look at that stuff behind the bar, crazy huh? Did you see the I Dream of Jeannie doll? It’s ancient, it’s my favourite.’

  I order him a Skittle Ape pilsner, because Alex enjoys beer made for children.

  He taps a tattoo on the bar before taking a drink, his gaze flickering around the room like a dragonfly.

  I push the chips towards him. ‘Why didn’t you tell me Kain was your uncle?’

  ‘Gotta keep it professional, you know? I didn’t want people thinking I only got the job because of him. Because that wasn’t it for sure, I mean, not giving myself props or anything but I kinda know my stuff.’

  ‘I know.’

  He glows like a lightsaber. ‘Thanks, man, thanks, means a lot.’

  ‘I bet you got extra Kris Kringle Kookies, though.’

  Alex laughs, and then sighs. ‘I liked being at IF. It had a good vibe.’

  It’s weird that being stuck next to your uncle and never talking to anyone translated as a good vibe, but everyone’s different.

  My father has been corralled by girls – his students, for sure – on his way back to the bar. The girls laugh too loudly, touching his arm, spines curving. Dad smiles down at them like an Irish wolfhound surrounded by puppies, bemused but happy for the attention. Alex watches, leg jiggling.

  ‘Thanks again for your help with it all.’ I spin the coaster on its edge. ‘I’d never have picked up the AI plan without you. Though I guess it must be kind of weird to intentionally do yourself out of a job.’

  ‘Yeah. For you, too.’

  That’s one way of putting it. ‘I’ll keep my ear open for any IT positions.’

  ‘Nah.’ He shakes his head. ‘Got something already lined up with my dad. I keep working for relatives, it’s totally weird. I’ve done heaps of interviews for other places, like heaps, but keep missing out. I don’t know why.’ Drummity drummity drummity go his hands. ‘But thanks, man, thanks for the thought.’

  The girl closest to my father clutches his sleeve and laughs. Alex eyes her, clearly baffled as to the strange pull this older man is having on a group of twenty year olds. Dad catches my eye and waves. The girls all turn to look. Alex automatically straightens his spine. His toes have taken up the rhythm that his hands were ticking. He’s a human metronome with varying speeds.

  ‘Your dad does environmental engineering, right?’ I say.

  Alex rolls his eyes, reminding me of Gen. ‘Yup, yup, yup. Land renewal, invasive plants, hydrology, that kind of stuff. It’s boring as batshit. And I’m doing admin as well as IT, which totally sucks. I hate admin. There’s like tenders and stuff. You ever filled one of those out? Man, it’s like the worst. The worst.’

  Dad reluctantly leaves his fan base, a bit of colour in his cheeks to make up for the faded tan.

  ‘Plus he wants me to help with staff,’ continue
s Alex. ‘He needs a new sedimentologist because his last one got like poached or something. How am I supposed to interview people about sand? I don’t know anything about sand. Who studies sand for a living?’

  ‘Alex,’ I say as Dad rejoins us, ‘there’s someone I’d like you to meet.’

  Northcote is littered with murals, backjumps and paste-ups, none of which are mine. In fact, you could draw a radius around this whole area and not hit any of my work. I didn’t notice that until now.

  Sunlight floods the street but forgot to tell the wind to dial it down. I dodge couples pulling bulging shopping bags, students with their ears plugged with music, girls with striped scarves wrapped around their throats and over their chins, spindly legs emerging from hooded jackets. Pigeons peck at a discarded souvlaki, ignoring the shreds of iceberg lettuce ground into the footpath. Past the organic greengrocer where one mango costs six dollars, past the charcuterie where the butchers never smile, and left at the cafe where customers eat plates of scrambled eggs with pesto for dinner.

  There’s a hat in the garden, next to the rosemary hedge. The hedge is a perfect square, leaving just enough room for a stone urn full of pink geraniums in the centre. It’s one of those symmetrical yet pointless designs that people seem to like when they need to fill two square metres of front yard.

  ‘June.’

  The hat tilts. June is on her knees, pulling up soursobs. She scrambles to her feet and brushes at her skirt to disguise her surprise. ‘Hello, Tom.’

  I’ve been downgraded from ‘Tommy’.

  The white veranda is spotless, as are the two white chairs, white table and brick footpath. Even the ironwork trim looks as if it’s been scrubbed. Junebug’s tiny perfect cottage, squeezed between two broad-shouldered bungalows.

  ‘Garden looks good.’

  She swivels to survey it. ‘Apparently I’m the first tenant who’s bothered to try to keep it tidy.’

  It’s as if we used to work together, rather than having two years and nine months of relative intimacy. At least she’s being polite rather than going for me with a hedge trimmer.

  June tucks her hair back into place under the hat brim. Behind her, the cottage door is painted matt black. ‘Were you after something in particular?’