•Gemstones (her birthstone is a tourmaline – often pink! Enhances love, compassion, tolerance. Tourmaline is protective, must buy her a tourmaline necklace or ornament)
I continue this list until it is more than two pages long, my hand now frozen like a claw and my wrist tired. I rest my body, but my mind remains busy, going, going, until it, too, is tired, overtired, gone. This is where things start to go awry. My joyous mood slowly dissipates, and by late afternoon I have pickled in my own overthinking – about growing up in this family, in this house, in this place and time. About all the ways things will be better for Maeve, and the terrifying prospect of how things might be the same or worse. Dread has slipped in under the door. Maybe I can blame the weather, at least partially. Summer afternoons, and especially those around Christmas, have a hazy kind of air to them, where nothing seems to matter, and everything feels a little grim. It is like the opposite of seasonal affective disorder, or maybe it is another version of that, where the heat and humidity take over, making life feel heavy and bleak. My body has just as hard a time regulating as my mind. The cicadas have evolved, roaring where they once hummed, and overwhelming what they used to calm. How you dress and what you can achieve with your time becomes less about you happening to the world, and more about the world (this humidity) happening to you. Survival of the sweatiest.
I check and find Dr Montague has not replied to my email requesting an extra session; she is probably enjoying quality time with her family like the monster she is. I contemplate sending another, exaggerating my current mental state, jazzing it up just a little to signal that it is aneedrather than a desire to debrief with her, but I could not be sure of what dramatic actions she might take if she believed me, or how rejected I would feel if she did not.
On days like today, air-conditioning does not even perform properly, despite it only having the one job to do; it feels like a thin layer of cold film pressed over a thousand layers of thick heat. Any momentary illusion of being comfortable melts away if I move or sit the wrong way, or dare to duck outside to empty a stagnant glass of water into a dehydrated potted plant. If I could watch a thing, or read a thing, or if I had someone to call, maybe it would not feel like this. I am prickling, and decide on a second walk, alone this time, to at least stay in motion. The lunchtime wine has become a headache, but at least I have my vape. Must stay in motion, like a depressed pelagic shark. Depressed shark, do do do do do do, depressed shark. It is only when I step out of my bedroom that I realise I have nowhere to go. And suddenly I feel ridiculous. Look at this girl, going on her silly little walk. What does she think that is going to achieve? Off to invent the concept of weekends, probably.
It is more of a furious stomp around the perimeter of our block, two acres, a loooong fence, the sun’s heat fading my last remaining energy like plastic, turning me brittle and sharp. At the furthest point from the house, the very back corner of the block behind the lily pillies that have been planted to offer everyone a bit of privacy, something shifts. The air lightens, or the sun fades, or I start to feel like a human for a second, finally. I climb up to sit on the railing of the fence and try to hold this moment of okayness in my soul. Dr Montague talks of finding glimmers – tiny moments of joy that present themselves each and every day that we can focus on. ‘Glimmer’ is not achievable as imagery for me right now, it is too ostentatious, but ‘okayness’ is not bad. Sure, it lacks a visual element, but I can create that. Let’s see – ‘okayness’ is a basalt rock. That will work. It is there, it is doing its thing, it is better than feeling like a watermelon being squeezed in one of those compressor things that people seem to enjoy filming in slow motion. Basalt may not be pretty, or sparkly, or even particularly positive, but it could not be squeezed like that either. I close my eyes and will time to stop. Or at least my heart rate to return to a normal state. Fight or flight has carried me for so many years, it will take some time to convince it that I am okay to handle some things by myself.
More than anything, I wish I had someone to talk to about this, someone who isn’t a blood relation or a random person on a Reddit page. Someone in the middle of those two extremes would be nice, which I suppose is probably a friend. Or a psychologist, but Dr Montague needs to write back first, so in the meantime I suppose, yes, I do mean a friend. Bit short on those, unfortunately.
A car engine starts up and my body overreacts. It takes all my effort to maintain balance on the fence, hooking my ankles in behind the wooden panelling to stabilise myself in lieu of any core muscles. Across the lawn, I see a white car I don’t recognise, pulling out of the Baileys’ driveway, with a side profile I do see through the driver’s-side window. I would recognise those dimples anywhere. My stomach clenches. It is a flash, before the tyres spin and the car takes off with a jolt, confirming it is certainly, most definitely him. He has never been good at driving manual. I wonder if he has cut his hair, or if it is just tied back. I wonder if his nose is covered in the freckles that usually bloom there this time of year. I wonder if those sunglasses are new. I wonder where he is going, who he is seeing, how he is feeling. I wonder whether my not wondering these things sooner is what allowed it to become too late. This is something that might happen, I am realising, when things get too much. My focus narrows. People slip outside my field of view, and it is as though they have fallen off the edge of the world.
When Fran first met Luke, it began to feel as though I was watching my favourite person in the world become someone who, in the not-too-distant future, might remember to say hello to me when he passed through the house, on his way to visit the obviously more appealing sibling. A nightmare in slow motion, the kind that made me want to kick and scream at Luke to STAY AWAY FROM MY FRIEND. He had enough of his own – too many if you asked me. And what a sixteen-year-old was doing spending time with a twelve-year-old was beyond me, because Luke always treated me like a baby and I was almost thirteen by then, but I suppose age did not matter much when you wanted to kick a soccer ball from one end of the garden to the other. I could have been his twin and I would have failed that test just the same. Still, it made my chest constrict whenever I saw them interact. Scarcity worked in my favour and Luke needed to not be around. All of my attention was focused on sustaining Fran’s by this stage. I thought of little else; everything happened through the prism of what Fran might think or how he might feel. It was an all-consuming platonic obsession, the intensity of which easily overpowered my young mind. My focus had never applied itself to a real-life person before; I was uncovering magic without grasping the potential dangers of its power.
None of this was Luke’s fault. And luckily, hewasoften gone, doing things sixteen-year-olds do, like working and exercising and riding shotgun to the beach with his one friend who had their licence. Fran did not seem disappointed when Luke was absent, but I felt as though it was a feeling he worked hard to hide from me. He was protecting my fragile heart, surely, even as he stomped all over it.
‘Do you like Luke more than me?’ I asked one afternoon when we were in our tree.
The air was dense, and we were lounging like monkeys, eating fruit and throwing leaves to watch them scatter like confetti. Fran had been quiet and so I assumed that quiet was not only because of me but directedatme for not being my brother. When it came to his actions, or lack thereof, I could follow a narrative so far along in my mind that being drawn back to reality gave me whiplash.
‘No,’ he replied, his complete lack of elaboration only confirming my fears.
I tried to hold my breath, as though breathing would draw feelings from my stomach to my face, and must therefore be avoided if I wished to be inconspicuous in my despair. Unfortunately, flushed cheeks were the outcome of either option. Eventually I had to take a huge gulp of air and Fran turned his head in surprise.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked.
I nodded, but my opened blood vessels and inability to breathe like a normal person had given the game away.
‘I like him more than my own brother, Rah. That’s all,’ he said.
I should have asked him more about it, or consoled him about his crappy, mean brother. From what little I had seen and learned of Martin, his communication with Fran was limited to frequent threats of physical violence, and periodic enaction of said violence. He was hulking and unkind. But instead, I swam in the reassurance and thought only of myself; of Fran through the lens of how he viewed me, rather than what he might be experiencing within himself at any given moment – I am repulsed by that thought, knowing it to be true.
I wonder if the same could be said of Luke. My easiest memories to recall of Luke are ones like this, where I have felt outdone by him, despite his minimal participation in the scene. My perception, my feelings; he is barely a ghost. I struggle to remember many times when Luke and I were alone, together, and this makes me think these were scarce. Perhaps seeing him will bring more to the surface, because surely there are more experiences, shared experiences, from our time growing up together in this house. Low self-esteem, Elsie said he had, but where was the evidence? I pan the waters until I get a flash of him, no older than ten, crying in the kitchen because he had come off his bike and grazed his leg from ankle to thigh on the gravel road between the local park and our house. He was really crying – small shoulders shaking, snot streaming, wails that sounded like the last cries of an ending world.
‘Come on now, calm down, you’re fine, you don’t want your father to see you like this when he gets home,’ Mum said, searching the cupboard for the first-aid kit that contained bandages and antiseptic cream. ‘You’re a big boy, Lukey, you’re okay. You’re a tough kid, aren’t you? Stop crying, you’re okay.’
Olivia and I watched from the living room, shocked into silence by our indestructible brother’s emotional moment of undoing. It scared me, I remember; it made me avoid bike-riding and venturing anywhere near that road or that park for a long time. To try to take away the lens of my perception, I can also accept there was a difference in the way our crying was treated in this house – mine an inconvenience, sure; attention-seeking, dramatic, but almost expected; whereas Luke’s was perhaps more distinctly disallowed. He must have taken that on, it must have contributed to his own view of things. It was not as though Mum had told him directly: boys don’t cry. She was not a caricature, or a movie villain. She loved him, she wanted to console him, to calm him, to make sure he was okay. She hugged him and bandaged him up well. But still, the implication was there. Different players, a different field. And Luke, I am sure, adapted the best way he knew how.
6
21 December
Luke’s arrival on the mountain is anevent. The impression Mum has rendered preceding his appearance is one of a star quarterback set to return to the small town he outgrew, a place that celebrates him with a grand parade every year while he excludes it from his bio. She is the town mayor, beside herself with the responsibility of getting this one moment exactly right. Elsie would never admit to favourites, she is too nice for that, but Luke is certainly the child she is most intent on pleasing. An implication, perhaps, but what do I know? I wake to the vacuum overhead – anxiety in audio form – and when I look at my phone, I see it is 6.04 a.m., my growing dysregulation already grapefruit-sized and lodged in my throat. Rolling over so my face and ears are pressed into the pillow, I let out a silent scream. It isn’t enough; I need to break something priceless, or jump off a cliff. Kicking my legs helps, as does punching my fists into the mattress. The release of energy helps to regulate what is left in my body. Here we go again, folks, another day.
In and of itself, it is not my brother’s arrival causing this, but rather the week, the exhaustive list of planned neighbourhood events, the expectations, the lack of downtime. Dr Montague and social media have educated me around autistic burnout, giving me an understanding of why I can no longer do many things that used to be part of my regular routine. I have regressed, in clinical terms, or crashed out, to use more fitting internet language. What I previously understood as my own rudeness and inadequacy, I now know as signals of distress. Capacity outmatched by expectations, never a fair fight. Social undertakings are the hardest, the simple act of being around people draining nearly every drop of self I have worked hard to collect. There is a hole in my bucket, dear Liza. And every recovery period feels harder than the last, never quite bringing me back to my prior energetic starting point. I have genuine fears I may one day end up a melted pile of human remains, identified only by my dental records. But, one must continue on, hold on to hope despite all evidence. Stop being such a self-indulgent little shit. I hoist my tired limbs out of bed, motivating myself with the thought of tiny fingers, auburn curls.
When the warmth of the shower water cascades over my hunched shoulders, I try to imagine the stress of the day washing away with it. Breaths like circles, around and around. Yes, I am remembering, Dr Montague, even if you still have not replied to my email. All of these tools she gave me seem like toys sometimes – colourful distractions to keep my little mind occupied while the real stuff happens somewhere else. I try to imagine my existence at literally any other point in history, and how quickly I might have come to an ill-fated end. Peasant Nora definitely died before puberty, of that I can be sure.
Turning the shower off is almost as difficult as getting in. I dress my damp body and have a ‘ghost in the machine’ kind of flash, as though I am watching this person from the inside as she struggles to put her legs into her leggings without falling. It scares me enough to squeeze my eyes shut until I am fully dressed, which makes the whole endeavour take twice as long, but I feel more fused together when I am done, so it is worth the effort. Leggings fulfil their promise to keep everything compressed.
The kitchen is empty when I finally make my way upstairs. Sun streams in and the rays catch my feet as I slide across the floorboards in my socks. Always socks – my feet need protecting. I need protecting. And it is fun to slide, that does not change with age.
‘Morning.’
Olivia is pressed and ready for the day like Mum’s favourite tablecloth, greeting me without looking my way. I watch her for a moment, trying to see her clearly – her experience of being alive. She is throwing back tablets with a glass of chilled water, and Maeve is tottering around her feet in a bright onesie, chasing the dust dancing in the light, her curls matted at the back in an adorable bedhead nest.
‘Morning, Maeve,’ I say, that new voice back again.
