‘Are you going to have to pluck all the brown leaves off the trees next?’
‘Go easy, it’s a tricky time of year,’ he says. ‘If this place is looking its best for the holidays, that’s alright by me.’
Dad says some version of this each year. He will not partake in the much-loved family tradition of complaining; that must have come from Mum’s side. I watch him with Maeve in his arms and see myself, see why I gravitated to that same place. Not every human connection has to come in verbal form.
‘Noraaa!’ Elsie calls from the deck.
‘Can I leave Maeve with you?’
Dad and Maeve grin at each other and both nod. Perhaps some facts about tools will counterbalance the image focus, and everything will be okay. Back in the kitchen, Mum is scrubbing the sink.
‘Your brother will be here soon; would you mind wiping down the windowsills?’
She nods at a cloth and spray on the counter. I swallow the indignation and remind myself that it is completely fair to be asked to help. I am a grown adult who has moved back home to sort my head and my life out; it is the very least that could be expected of me right now. But something about being asked removes my motivation to ever want to do a thing, and I have to reprogram my brain like a hacker to allow myself to follow through. This involves reimagining the scenario so the cleaning becomes my idea. It would be a nice thing to do for my mother, and I want to do a nice thing for my mother. And if it is my idea, then of course I will do an incredible job. When the windowsills are sparkling, I take leave before I can be asked to do anything else. It is not that I do not want to be helpful, only that my energy must be preserved.
The main bathroom is unchanged, tiny green floor tiles and perfectly clean grout. My reflection in the mirror looks tired of me, but at least I can recognise it as myself. This is new, and worth pausing to appreciate. Despite already having showered downstairs this morning, I strip off and let the water warm up, then turn the tap to make it colder once it does. My ensuite does not feel the same. It is soulless and new – all grey tiles and prefabricated cabinets, made to appeal to the largest number of people while reflecting the personality of no one. Not like our cavernous nineties main shower, three out of four walls are tiled rather than glass so it almost feels as though you are closing yourself into a coffin or stepping into a cave. I have spent countless hours in here. No shower has ever had pressure as good as this one.
What Luke needs, really, is someone who cares enough, while simultaneously not caring at all, to see him for who he is without any of the attachments he has added, chin and otherwise. The same thing I need, the same thing everyone needs. When we meet today, I will hold his gaze, I will get a sense of what I can say and be to try and connect on a level of genuine emotion. I will not let our predetermined roles carve an unsuitable path. And I will love Laura, because he loves her. I will find a way to get to know this person who was once that boy with the skinned leg and the real tears. We can be close, if I try hard enough.
When I finally emerge from my steamy sensory-deprivation cubicle, the front door slams. Dad took the stopper off the screen door because he did not like the way it bounced when it caught, and now instead of slowly finding its way shut, it slams. People sound angry before they even enter the room.
‘I’m home!’ I hear Luke declare, as though this is a sitcom or a holiday movie and he is the protagonist with a big personality and an even bigger heart.
Mum and Olivia and Dad and Maeve must all be there with him in the living room. I don’t hear Laura, although perhaps that is because I can only hear Luke. His voice has always been the loudest in the room. Mum says Laura is more reserved, classy, understated. I get slowly back into my leggings and giant T-shirt. There is a need for me to make an appearance, but too much of my company seems to bring the mood down, so I moderate myself, for everyone’s sake. Luke is waiting for me by the time I enter the room, but there is no Laura.
‘Nora,’ Luke says, in an exaggerated kind of way, as though I am the next contestant on his game show.
I must stop imagining this is anything other than real life. Similes are naught but a defence mechanism. I must associate. Reassociate? Hyperssociate?
‘Hey.’
‘You look wrecked – did you have a big one last night?’
Luke’s teeth and chin are staring at me and I guess for now I have to follow the script.
‘Nope, just my face.’
‘Well, how are you? Am I going to get a hug?’
We have never once, from memory, hugged in our lives. It feels unnatural, but so do most things, so I hug my brother and feel I ought to take a bow when it is done. Maeve’s little eyes are on me and I have let her down with my cowing cowardice. I promise I will hold firm on bodily autonomy from now on, little one.
‘How’s Melbourne? Is the weather still shithouse? It’s been thirty all week in Sydney, beach weather every day.’
Mum’s eyes bulge and Olivia is suddenly quite distracted adjusting Maeve’s collar. She changed her into the gingham outfit, and Maeve is clawing at her neck in discomfort.
‘Oh, didn’t Mum tell you? I have moved home,’ I say.
I want this to be our moment, I want him to care about what has become of me.
‘Here?’ Luke looks around, confused.
‘Of course here – she’s back in her old room and loving the space, aren’t you, dear? Her room in that share house was a shoebox.’ Mum is scrambling to tie that ribbon.
‘Yep, loving the space. Also, I’ve been having a bit of a hard time, so I am trying to figure out my next move.’
‘Having a hard time? What, dropping out of uni to party with your friends in Melbourne was exhausting, was it?’
‘What? No –’
