Review of Australian Fiction, Volume 4, Issue 2 Page 2
‘Do you like baseball?’ Shannon asked. As she poked him hard in the back with the bat we all moved in a little closer, our moonshadows stretching and reshaping around us.
‘It was a misunderstanding,’ he muttered.
She pressed the bat into his shoulder and gave a swift push so that he toppled sideways, flailing his arms.
We looked to Emma, who shrugged.
‘Next time,’ she said.
The air around us was so cold that the breath from our mouths was turning to frost. I blew out a lungful of the air and watched it take visible shape then dissipate, like a part of me finding a new place in the universe.
A Thousand Miles
Laurence Steed
The Departure
* * *
The last thing you hear is the plane taking off.
You wish you had found a way to stay grounded. Coming home means girls in short shorts, dirty white tanks, with Southern Cross tattoos etched into their ankles. Commodores going fifty, forty, slowing to a stop on side streets, turning at roundabouts just as you think they’re about to accelerate. It’s tracing circles, knowing straight lines will only lead back to the desert. It’s nights spilling out of pubs, broken dreams and a stained shirt, and you thought she liked you, but really she liked your friend, and you had to leave because his hand was reaching up her thigh and you thought you were going to be sick.
It means a long walk up the gravel driveway with your wife Hannah, your childhood echoing around you until you’re deafened by the memories. Your mother leaving messages on Dad’s answering machine, at first soft and forgiving, then stretching out into cries and curse words until long after the beeps close out the call. Postal packets signed by your father, Happy Birthday, Merry Christmas, and the gifts are great, the presents are positively spectacular but your Dad’s not there.
It means you get two Christmases, Mother Christmas and Father Christmas, and it sucks, but who are you to make the rules?
Who are you to tell them how to live their lives?
* * *
Check-In
* * *
Your mother looks older; fine hairs sprout from her chin. Her video feed freezes from time to time and you’re left with a talking picture.
She says it’s been nice to have Jack so close, but him and Abby, they’re going through a rough patch. She goes on and on about Ella, her granddaughter, your niece, and she’s just so special, you should really come see her. ‘Jack misses you,’ says your mum, ‘and Ella just had her fifth birthday. Hang on,’ she says. ‘I’ll put her on.’
The image freezes. It skips, catches up and freezes again on Ella. A talking picture. She’s loud and funny. You talk for a while about today’s lunch, Mummy, Daddy, and the Wiggles, and then she goes quiet.
‘When are you coming to play?’
‘I’m in Sydney,’ you say.
‘I have an uncle,’ she says, giggling. ‘You look like Daddy, but with muscles. Bye!’ she says, running off.
Your mum sits back down at the computer chair. ‘She’s having a hard time.’
‘You guys alright?’
‘Well, you know.’
‘You want me to come back?’
‘That depends,’ she says. ‘You’re a part of this family.’
‘Mm.’
‘Up to you,’ she says. ‘It’s always been up to you.’
You remember the day they grounded the planes, seeing lines of irate passengers queued out the doors, heading through the service building and out onto the tarmac. It was so familiar, that feeling; knowing something was wrong but unable to get a straight answer.
* * *
Flight Plan
* * *
What you’re going through is common. You’ve been away, so coming home is bound to be challenging. It’s only natural that the first time you head up the driveway you’ll remember your mother, a tilted wine glass in her left hand, saying, ‘Kids, I need to tell you something.’ And the stories, they contradict each other: it’s impossible to know what’s fact and what’s fiction.
Jack feels threatened by your constant sobriety but thanks you for it as you drive him home. Hannah hums in the back seat. Ella’s sulking but Jack doesn’t seem too bothered.
‘Ella,’ says Jack.
‘I didn’t do anything.’
‘I told you,’ says Jack. ‘I told you we had to to go but you wouldn’t listen. You don’t listen, no ice-cream.’
‘I didn’t do anything,’ says Ella, and kicks the back of the seat.
‘What’s with you and Abby?’ you ask, turning to Jack. ‘You going to work things out?’
‘It’s not looking good.’
‘What about Ella?’
Jack looks out the window. ‘You don’t think we’ve thought about that?’
You take the back streets. Hannah takes a cloth doll from between her and Ella and starts up a conversation. Between intersections you see Ella perk up, sob to a smile, her tiny hands dwarfed by your wife’s. Up front, Jack draws shapes in the dashboard dust with his forefinger, occasionally kicking at an empty stubby with his boot, scuffed at the front, with a sole near worn through.
You dreaded this day. You moved a thousand miles, ‘forgot’ to give them your home number and enjoyed the silence. You left them behind for fear of sinking into that vapid city with its sky-high apartment blocks, its beaches and muscle-heads, its women, caramel tanned. When you drove this city alone, going anywhere but home, you banged the steering wheel thinking one day you would fly out and never return.
You said you’d kill yourself if you ever had to come back. And still you boarded the plane.
* * *
The Stall
* * *
Your mother’s on a crackling line, saying, ‘Tell me what’s wrong.’ You say once there was a man and a woman and they loved each other very much. One day the man sat in the car with you. He kissed you on the forehead and then left for good, and you’d only just arrived but you knew you didn’t like this city. You couldn’t tell if it was the heat, the concrete or your ‘A’s turned to ‘D’s, but the city was dead; the phone kept ringing and you had to pick it up because no one else was going to.
You say you grew up ready at any time to move streets, suburbs and states if things got too intense. That more than anything else, you learned not to trust anyone or anything, and it didn’t work, but neither did loving people, not when you knew it would have to end anyway. ‘I wish you’d been there for me at that time,’ you say, ‘but you were barely there for yourself.’
You tell her you’re worried about Ella, and maybe Abby and Jack should try harder; take a weekend away, a night on the coast and just try that little bit harder.
Your mother starts to cry. She chokes on rib-shaking, epoch-ending sobs and then hangs up the phone. You know you’ll have to ring her back and apologise. It’s then that you realise something else about this city. It breaks things: people, buildings, and relationships.
* * *
Absolute Ceiling
* * *
The first fight happens on September 15th. Jack says you are going to cry as you watch the Titans lose. You’re not going to cry. Your eyes are completely dry. He knows this, and yet he says it again, and again, until finally you’re on top of him and your mum has to pull the two of you apart.
Jack throws first a cushion, then the remote control. He calls you an arse-clown. You go at him again but your mum holds you back, pushing you by the arms back towards the kitchen.
Your mum says, ‘Maybe you’re just tired, love. What with the flight and all,’ and it’s clear that you’re expected to leave. She pulls back the screen door, leaving it half-open. You pull at the glass front door, which sticks on the carpet, the pane shuddering. She hugs you, just a little, but not too much to upset Jack. She hugs your wife too, and you head outside.
You lean back around your mum.
‘Jack.’
‘What?’
‘You’re dead.’
You walk past his car, imagining keys scraping paint. You see your elbow crash in and shatter the glass.
The front door opens and Jack comes out.
‘Bro.’
‘Mm?’
‘Titans are up. Thought you’d want to know.’
‘Cool,’ you say. ‘We good?’
‘Sure,’ says Jack and closes the door.
Hannah takes your hand, pulling you down towards the street. You stay a second longer, see them in the light, Jack moving in and out from behind the black curtains, their laughter muffled as they talk. They hug a long, ‘love you’ hug and you feel a knot in your stomach.
‘Come on, baby,’ says Hannah. As if she’s consoling you. Like she’s talking to a child. So you turn and walk down the driveway. You kick up gravel and walk back to street parking, your car half-in, half-out of the spot.
* * *
Artificial Horizon
* * *
You sit on the plane as Hannah strokes your hand. ‘It’s okay,’ she says, ‘all families are broken.’ You say, ‘Not like mine.’
‘You have a chance,’ says Hannah. ‘It doesn’t always have to be like this.’
But she doesn’t know your family. If she did, she’d know that most days it hurts to even hold them. That there’s a crack that runs through your family. It’s in, around the joins, and already too far gone.
Distracted, you imagine your next birthday: your mother’s made Chicken Parma and a salad with cherry toms and pepitas. You like the way the house looks, this house where once you loved and lost. Now it’s fairy lights and half-finished clothes patterns. And Jess would have loved this; to her, it would have felt like family.
On this day in 2007 you drove five hours to see Jess, popping No-Doz Plus just to stay awake. When you got there, she smiled, genuine relief at seeing you for the first time in months. Her dark curls were wet. They left damp spots soaked into her grey tee, black track pants stretched, the top puckered away from her waist. It meant a lot to her that you’d drive all that way but it didn’t make her less angry, and it didn’t mean you wouldn’t again find her slumped over in a shower recess at three in the morning.
You tell yourself you did your best, but really, you fucked it up again, same as you did with Amy, Lisa, and Jo. You’re married now, and maybe this is the turning point. Ask Jack; he can tell you a lot about turning points.
Your mum made Chicken Parma. But the dream fades. They love you so much. But still the picture bleeds.
Your hair is wet. Your armpits are soaked through; sweat dampens the cotton and Hannah rests her head on your shoulder. You look out the window. It’s pitch black and the pilot says, ‘We’re coming into some turbulence, so please return to your seat.’
* * *
A Secondary Stall
* * *
Jack’s broken up with Abby. He loves her, he says, it’s just, it’s been so full-on these past twelve months. As you wander to gate eleven, you watch the two of them, father and daughter, knowing soon they’ll have to say goodbye.
You’re going to miss Ella. She asks such simple questions. You wish everything was as simple, because you know that after the breakup things will get increasingly complicated. She’ll start a road trip that won’t end until she’s eighteen, bouncing from state to state in search of a family. She’ll never be more at home than when she’s in her father’s arms but that’s not home, not anymore. She can call her father’s name but he won’t come running. She can fly a thousand miles and still she’s nowhere near her father’s place.
You kiss Ella on the forehead, wishing Hannah was here with you instead of flying back to her to nine to five. You tell Ella you’ll call, and that she’ll be okay, but you know she won’t, and somehow so does she. She kisses you on the cheek and you hold her in your arms for just a second longer.
And as she boards the plane, holding her mother’s hand, you yell for the pilot to fly safe because he’s got your niece on board. Ella laughs, waves and then disappears behind the gate, her tiny body hidden by the men that mill around in fluorescent coats.
Your brother is crying, so you look out at the landing strip until he coughs and says he’s ready to go.
* * *
The Arrival
* * *
You think about your mother, Jack and Ella. You wonder why no one can make it work, not for kids or love, or the hope that one day, it might come back, because it’s love, it’s not Halley’s Comet. It’s love, and it’s supposed to be special, so why can’t they just keep it together?
Your mother’s excited that you’re coming home. She calls and asks what you want for your birthday. You want to say this: that you want your parents together; that you want your childhood back and two names on your birthday card; and you want to stop staying at other people’s homes because Mum, she’s up and down, and she’s going through a really rough time.
You want Ella to be spared all of this. She’s a good kid and she just wants to be loved. But how can you feel loved when the roads are so wide and there’s nothing but lit-up houses on otherwise empty streets? You would take her away if it made her feel safe. You’d take her place; go through it all over again if it meant she’d never have to feel it.
Mum asks what you want, more than anything else, and you’re about to tell her, but then it sticks in your throat, so you say, ‘Anything’s fine.’
You smile at Hannah and then hang up the phone.
‘Honey, are you okay?’
You nod.
‘It’s time to go.’
So you get in the car.
And you drive to the airport.