‘Nora was working down there, at a gallery – remember I told you? It’s a very nice place, in a great part of the city,’ Mum says.
‘Serving wine to rich art dealers? Sounds tough,’ Luke scoffs.
‘Luke,’ Olivia starts, but seems to have nowhere to go after that.
I do not know who this person is, but I am certain I do not like him, could not like him, could not even imagine being related to someone like him. The dark clouds are settling, the black and white thinking needing no help to colour this scene.
‘Where’s Laura?’ I ask, genuinely curious and also keen to disrupt the façade he has obviously built so meticulously.
More bulging eyes and taut silence. Saying things is fraught around here.
‘She had to stay in Sydney – some last-minute work stuff came up.’
‘Oh, right. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s not a big deal,’ Luke scoffs again, as though my reading of what level of ‘deal’ the situation is, is laughable. His tone indicates he is not bothered; he is notfeelingthings about this eleventh-hour change in plans. How silly of me to get it so wrong.
‘Fair enough . . .’
‘So, moved back home, hey? I hope you’re paying some rent, not taking our folks for a ride.’ He laughs, but nobody else does because he is not funny. He is actually, objectively, even outside the realm of my perception and feelings, a prick.
‘Yeah . . .’
My mind is busy taking in this version of him, this performance. I am enraged already by how wrong this is going. And rage is rocket fuel.
‘We’re going to sort all of that out in the new year,’ Mum says. ‘It’s Christmas, and I’m so happy to have you all here.’
‘Would have been nice to finally meet Laura, though,’ I add, unable to help myself.
So much of how I act is in reaction to the way others see or treat me, self-fulfilling my role as the problem.
‘Would be nice if you’d stop going on about it, too,’ Luke replies.
‘Is mentioning something twice “going on about it”, do we think?’
I am honestly on a roll now; this is starting to get somewhere and I cede control to my rapidly souring attitude. If he wants a joust, I am ready to run him right through. Olivia and Mum have not blinked or taken a breath.
‘Nice to see some things never change around here,’ he snorts. ‘I can’t believe you still let her act like this.’
This is about me but directed at Mum, and there is hardness in Luke’s tone that I have not heard, or at least noticed, before. He is someone new. My heart races, back in fight or flight, choosing fight.
‘We’re working on it,’ Mum replies, sing-songy, stressed. ‘You must be keen to rest after your trip – why don’t you get yourself settled. I have your room all nice for you.’
I want to scream, I want to take hold of his shoulders and shake them, I want to punch him in the face. Assholery is a choice, brother dearest, and it is unbecoming of someone with such a ridiculous chin. But it is easy to match that energy when I do not have grounding in any idea of myself.
‘Maybe we can video-call Laura later – I can’t believe I haven’t met her yet. And I barely recognised you,’ I say with a smile, my hand to my chin.
‘So much going on in the world, it’s been hard for families everywhere to get together,’ Elsie interjects.
She is faffing, for once without clear command of the room. Luke performs a final roll of his eyes and takes off down the hall.
Timed to perfection, Dad emerges from the kitchen, blowing up a red balloon. Maeve shrieks with excitement.
‘Look what I found in the drawer, bunny.’
Everybody, look over here. Let us all marvel at the pretty balloon. Nothing uncomfortable to see here, no siree.
People have surprised me with their ugliness almost as often as they have with their kindness. I have a long history of misreading the room, taking people at their word rather than their actions, assuming their inner world was just as messy as mine, that they were at least trying their best. But people were not always trying their best. Sometimes their intention was actually to wound, to maim, to hurt.
