by Abby Wilder
Chapter Two
Lennon
I opened the door before Dad could ring the bell. He jumped up the few steps and wrapped his arms around me. "Lennon! It's good to see you, honey. How are you?" He was too happy, too bright, and his smile was a replica of Mum's, forced.
"Fine thanks, Dad."
He wasn't listening. I could have told him that I'd broken my leg, that I'd caught a deadly disease and was about to die within the next five minutes, and he still wouldn't have heard me. He responded the same way he always did. "Wow! Look at you!" He took a step back and held onto my shoulders, his fingers gripping into my flesh. "You've grown!"
I hadn't, not since I was fourteen. Around the age of twelve, I sprouted up and became all limbs and legs, and then, at the age of fourteen, I stopped. I was the same size as I was the last time he saw me. And the time before that.
I peered over Dad's shoulder at the metallic blue car which had the number plate 'HOME4U' and bold graphics of his real estate business blazoned across it. Melinda waved through the window and my heart sunk. "You brought her with you?"
"I didn't want to leave her alone all day. Don't worry, she'll just wait in the car." He lowered his voice and grinned as though we shared a secret. "Your mother won't even know she's here."
"Yeah, sure." I rolled my eyes. He turned to blow Melinda a kiss, and I closed my eyes tight to stop them rolling again.
Dad started dating Melinda before the ink had dried on the separation paperwork, and as much as I wanted to hate her, I couldn't. She was just too sweet. She had honey-brown hair cut into a perfect bob that never strayed out of place, a round face, and a cute button nose with wide eyes that were spaced a little too far apart, giving her an innocent, if not gullible look. Innocent and dumb, Grams had said when I showed her a picture, and promptly nicknamed her Bambi. At twenty-seven, she was closer to my age than my father's.
"Shelley!" I guess Dad's avoidance of using her name had lessened with time. He walked into the kitchen with his too tight smile and stood uncomfortably before Mum, who leaned against the table, her own exaggerated grin stuck on her face. She held out her hand but he wrapped her in an awkward embrace instead. Mum pulled a face from behind his back, one that feigned disgust, and I gave her a reassuring smile, though she didn't look at me long enough to catch it.
"You look good." Dad stepped back and placed his arm over my shoulder. It felt heavy and warm and I wanted to shrug out from underneath its weight, but instead, I just stood there as he and Mum exchanged hesitant looks.
Mum nodded, her face once again plastered with a smile, and opened the fridge, turning her back on Dad and calling over her shoulder, "Ask your father if he would like some lunch, Lennon."
"Dad," I waved my hand theatrically over the table, "would you like some lunch?"
Dad's eyes wandered over the strange selection of food placed haphazardly between the grocery bags and shook his head. "Thanks, but we ate on the way up."
"We?" Mum's head jerked quickly towards the window, and I visualised kicking Dad for his stupidity.
Dad wouldn't meet my gaze but he swallowed uncomfortably. "I brought Melinda up. I hope you don't mind."
Mum's smile grew wide and her eyes even wider. "Mind? Why would I mind you inviting your girlfriend to the anniversary of our son's death? Really, you must invite her in." Her eyes flashed darkly and the tone of her voice heightened with each sentence. Like her smile, I thought it might snap at any moment.
With the hand that wasn't draped over my shoulder, Dad fidgeted with his tie. "No, that's all right. She's fine waiting in the car. She understands that this is a delicate time."
Pity he didn't understand the same thing.
"I insist." Mum's expression hadn't changed, it was glued on her face, stuck there like she was afraid that if she relaxed, her true feelings would escape. There was no point telling her they already had. "Invite her in," she repeated. "You can't leave her sitting in the car like some stray dog."
Dad's head cocked to the side, his mouth in a tight line. "No, it's fine, Shelley." He drew out her name painfully. "She's fine where she is."
"Nonsense." Mum moved from her leaning post and headed for the door. "If you're not going to invite her in, then I will."
Dad darted to the doorway to block her, and I felt light under the released weight of his arm. "Fine. I will go and get her, but I'm telling you, she is okay with staying in the car."
Mum folded her arms and waited for him to leave. I smiled apologetically on Dad's behalf and took a mouthful of the forgotten sandwich, as though enjoying the monstrosity would somehow comfort her.
Mum squared her shoulders and smoothed her hair. "I can't believe I was married to that man for nineteen years." She gave me a meagre smile. It was small, but it was there.
The car door opened and we heard Dad talking to Melinda in hushed tones. Melinda protested, but the front door creaked open and Mum and I exchanged a look to brace ourselves for Melinda's cheerful onslaught. As soon as she walked through the doorway, I understood why Dad was so adamant she stay in the car. The outline of her belly greeted us before anything else. My mouth fell open.
Melinda smiled sheepishly and looked over at Mum. "I don't mind staying in the car, Shelley, really, I don't." Melinda flashed me a quick smile before turning her gaze back to Mum, who had somehow managed to wipe the look of complete shock off her face, something I was yet to do.
"You're pregnant!" The words surprised me when they came out, I hadn't meant to say them out loud, but there they were, hovering in the room, more obvious than Melinda's stomach.
Melinda rested one hand on the stretched fabric covering her belly and smiled happily. "Eight months." Her eyes darted from my dad to my mum.
I didn't think it possible for Mum's smile to become more awkward, but with her lips stuck open and her teeth clenched together, I was wrong. "Congratulations." Mum's eyes were glued to Melinda's belly.
"I was going to tell you, I just didn't think it was the right time." Dad stood beside Melinda and placed his arm around her shoulder, much like he had done to me only minutes ago. Somehow, the memory of where it lay, burned cold.
"No kidding," I muttered.
Dad shot me a hard look, wincing through the tight skin around his eyes. Mum forced her gaze away from Melinda's stomach and turned around to fill the kettle. I tried to catch her eye, but she kept them trained on the kettle as if it would shatter the moment she looked away.
"Would you like a cup of tea, Melinda?" Mum's voice was strained and tight.
"No, no, it's fine." She shook her pretty head and looked over to me, her eyes pleading. It was obvious she felt uncomfortable. She didn't want to be here, and I wondered if Dad meant for this to happen to avoid having to tell Mum himself. Why else would he bring her? A rush of anger shuddered through me, but I offered Melinda a smile. As awkward as this was for Mum, Melinda didn't like it either.
"What about ginger and lemon infused water?" Mum opened the fridge door and pulled out a frosted jug. "I've got some in here, all chilled and ready to go."
"No. Honestly Shelley, I'm fine. I had a coffee on the way."
"Coffee?" Dad turned to her. "That was coffee? You know you shouldn't be drinking that."
"It was just a little cup." Melinda dipped her head.
Mum ignored Melinda's refusal, poured a glass of the cloudy water and placed it on the table. The little particles of ginger and slices of lemon settled on the bottom.
"Thanks." Melinda picked up the glass and a perfect ring of water marked the table. "This is really great. Refreshing even." She never took a sip.
The silence was heavy. And awkward. And strained. We stood around the table, waiting for someone to say something, say anything, but no one did. Melinda opened her mouth a few times, only to close it again. I thought about asking about the baby, but somehow, showing any interest felt like betrayal.
The floor of our kitchen was in no way interesting or attractive, but in that moment, it
held the attention of us all. I wished Grams were here, even if it was to say something rude or crass. Anything would be better than silence.
Chapter Three
Lennon
Once my parents separated, they became strangers. They forgot how to talk to each other. They forgot the memories they shared, or, at least, the good ones, and things became tense.
So I was surprised when Mum agreed that we would all travel in Dad's car. She rested her head against the window in the back seat next to me. Melinda had offered her the front, but Mum declined. I was surprised how well Mum was holding up. There had always been a softness to her that I felt I had to protect. I just never thought it would be Dad who I needed to protect her from.
She had told me she wanted to try for more children after Harrison's death, but Dad had been against it. Never again, he had said. And now, we were on our way to visit the gravesite of my dead baby brother with Dad and his heavily pregnant girlfriend.
Past the glaring heat of summer, we were not quite into the full harshness of winter, but it was coming. The town of Puruwai was a summer town, a lakeside refuge that tourists flocked to, but in the winter it shut down, leaving only a core of locals. The holiday homes were boarded over, the little carnival down by the lake closed its iron gates. The cafes and shops that lined the narrow main road closed their doors, and Puruwai became a ghost town, sullen and depressing. You could be forgiven for thinking that with its crystal blue lake and snow-capped mountains, Puruwai would be picturesque in the winter, but it wasn't. The low-lying cloud that clung to the ground each morning and each evening created a dreary effect that was hard to shake. And that day, as I looked out the window at the grey and listless sky, overcast, with just a hint of storm clouds rumbling over the mountains, I felt as though the town could sense my mood and was reaching out in solidarity.
We passed the little white church with its single spire jutting into the sky, and I looked to see if I could catch a glimpse of Sienna among the crowd gathered outside. I waved when I saw her pink dress fluttering in the breeze, but she just stared at the car, wondering who was waving at her from the back seat of a tackily sign written vehicle. It wasn't until we were nearly out of sight that it dawned on her and she waved enthusiastically.
I shuddered as soon as we passed the stone walls with the white letters 'cemetery' engraved on them. I never liked cemeteries. Where some people found comfort, I found chills that crept up my spine and tingled at the base of my neck.
We must have made a strange group huddled at the gravesite; a frail lady holding back the tears as the wind danced with the hem of her skirt, another, young and soft, gently caressing her swollen belly, a man torn between the two, and me. I doubt I would have stood out to anyone watching. I tended to melt into the background of any landscape. I had none of the bold colours of my mum, and none of the garish self-promotion of my father. I was muted, smudged.
Mum clutched a bouquet of flowers: gypsophila, baby's breath. She leaned down and placed the bouquet tenderly on the manicured grass. Her fingers trailed along the stone, tracing the etching of his name.
Harrison Robert Donnelly.
Dad brushed a tear away and drew Melinda close, his hand hovering protectively near her belly. Melinda reached up and placed a kiss at his temple where his hair was flecked with grey. She leaned close to his ear and whispered, "I'm going to give you a little time." She gave Mum an apologetic smile and headed towards the car.
Dad came close to Mum and placed a hand on her shoulder, hesitant and unsure. Instead of pulling away like I expected her to, she leaned in and let the tears fall. It was strange to see my parents embracing again, joined by the grief they shared for a life so brief.
I drifted away from them. An overwhelming dread settled in my stomach and I needed space to breathe. Often, I wondered what it would have been like if Harrison had survived. Would he have saved our family?
The wet ground squelched under my feet and left flattened prints in the grass. I walked down the row of perfectly lined gravestones and wondered at the lives they represented. Lives summed up with a name, a date, and sometimes a few words of comfort. I thought of the bodies lying decayed and decrepit under the soil, but I never pictured Harrison that way. I always pictured him as I had last seen him, lying perfect and untouched in his miniature coffin.
Mum and Dad took me to the funeral home with them, never knowing that while they argued, I snuck over and peeked inside the coffin. He was so perfect. Little button nose, perfectly developed hands and small, wrinkled feet. He seemed to smile as he lay there. Until he didn't. As I reached out to touch him, his eyes opened and terror flooded me. He looked at me intently, as though he could see into my soul, and I saw the shadow of his memory. It never left me. I didn't tell Mum or Dad. They never knew I looked into that little blue box. They never knew what tricks my mind played on my young eyes.
Tall, broken trees fragmented the symmetry of the cemetery, and through them I spotted a boy sitting on a gravestone. He sat still, staring at nothing, the only movement was his hair blowing in the breeze. As I got closer, I recognised him from school. Judah Mitchell, the boy who walked around with an ever-present scowl, hunched shoulders and hands stuffed in his pockets. I didn't know much about him. He wasn't liked. He never smiled. And he hardly ever spoke. Well, not really. Sometimes he grunted, and sometimes he swore, but not often. But out here he just looked alone, a boy with dark hair, colourless eyes and an even darker expression.
The only other thing I knew about him was gleaned from overheard schoolyard gossip. Rumours that he had killed someone. Some people said it was his brother, but I didn't believe that. If he had, then surely he would be rotting in a juvenile detention centre, not casually sitting on his brother's gravestone.
He didn't look my way as I approached. His eyes were vacant of everything except sadness, and it was that sadness that I recognised. It had touched me before, and it drew me to him.
A chill wafted through the air and I wrapped my cardigan closer, hugging myself and looking down at the gravestone. Ruben Douglas Mitchell and the date of his birth and death. He was only sixteen when he died, a year younger than me. It scared me that a life could be summed up in so few words.
"Hi," I said quietly.
He seemed startled when I spoke, as though I had broken him out of a daze. He looked up but didn't say anything. Even though I knew who he was, it didn't surprise me he had no idea who I was. To be fair, despite going to Puruwai High School for five months, no one noticed me, and if they did, they only knew me as Sienna's cousin.
"Hi," I said again when he did nothing but stare.
He straightened himself on the gravestone, cleared his throat and peered at me intently. "Blue." His voice was husky.
"Blue?" I repeated.
He laughed nervously and tilted his head to the side, so his hair fell into his eyes. "Sorry, I was off in my own world." He stood and held his hand out. "I'm—"
"Judah Mitchell," I finished for him. "I know."
"We've met?"
"We go to the same school."
"But we've never spoken."
I'm not sure if he meant it as a question or a statement, but I shook my head. "I have. You haven't."
Colour flooded up his cheeks and he licked his lips. "Sorry, guess I'm just not used to people listening."
There was nothing special about him in that moment. He had burnt brown hair swept off his face and a curious smile. But it was his eyes, so lonely they made my chest hurt, that stood out the most. And the fact that they were stuck on me. I just didn't know why. Not then.
"He drowned." Judah nodded to the gravestone.
"Oh." I wasn't sure what to say in reply. I wanted to ask what happened. I wanted to ask if the rumours had any truth to them, but it seemed rude just to blurt it out. "Sorry."
Judah shrugged, squinted from the sun that had managed to peek through the clouds for a second, and tilted his head to the side. "It happens to us all at some stage." He pause
d, studying me, and I found myself staring at the gravestone, unsettled by his unwavering stare. It wasn't something I was used to. "You?"
I hesitated a moment before answering. It seemed wrong to talk about the dead. Wrong to talk about Harrison. "Same."
He lifted his brows questioningly.
"Brother, I mean, not the drowning part." I stumbled on my words, unsure of the etiquette in discussing the dead. It wasn't done in my house. For every other day of the year, it was like Harrison never existed, apart from when he was reflected in the tears of my mother. "He was just a baby, never made it into this world, not properly." I wanted to tell him that the sadness I saw in Harrison's eyes as he lay in the coffin was the same sadness I saw in his, but I didn't.
"I'm sorry." His gaze moved to where Mum and Dad's dark figures huddled over the gravestone. "Your parents?" he asked. I nodded. "And the pregnant one? Your sister?"
I laughed, knowing that to others it would seem the most likely conclusion, but it sounded hollow and empty, and nothing like me. "She's my dad's girlfriend."
"I see." His eyes dipped to his wet shoes before returning to lock on mine.
I broke my gaze away and looked over to where Melinda leaned against the car, glued to her cell, fingers tapping furiously. "She's alright, I guess. Kind of hard on Mum, especially when she lost a child and Dad didn't want to try for another." Bitterness stained my voice. I didn't know why I was telling him so much. Maybe it was because I felt like I could never really talk about my family to my family. Maybe it was because I didn't know him, not really, not then, and it was like writing on an empty page. Maybe it was because he looked at me so openly, as though he already knew me, or wanted to know me, and I felt I owed him the truth.
