‘Don’t forget it’s Carols By Candlelight tonight – I hope the weather cools a little by then,’ Mum says, keeping us on track with the schedule.
‘Sounds good,’ Luke says with a nod.
‘Should we get some more wine today? I’ll need a lot to get through all of that,’ Olivia says. ‘Especially if Jamie’s going to be following me everywhere.’
‘He’s always been sweet on you,’ Mum says, smiling.
‘Yeah, well, he’s quite intense about it,’ Olivia replies.
‘Please be nice to him, he’s a good boy. The Kingstons are good neighbours.’
‘Of course, Mum. I’m always nice.’
Protest is caught in my throat as tension fills my head until it might pop. I do not worry about Jamie and Olivia, but I have sworn myself to constant vigilance of his even looking Maeve’s way. If only he knew I am less constrained by civility than most; I long for the chance to impart this to him in the least respectful way possible. And with me here, energetically, there is no way I can hope to achieve acceptable small talk with Mum where she is currently idling. Because what is the midway point between Carols by Candlelight and brutal slaughter? Is it mangoes? I guess we could talk about how good the mangoes are this season and our shared desire to splash out on a full tray. It probably will not come to that; she is too busy. And right now, we have to run the gauntlet of the largest shopping centre in the region, poorly designed as it is, the week of Christmas. That is our focus.
Luke finds a parking spot at the furthermost point from the lift, on the roof where people usually only go to smoke cigarettes on lunch breaks, or to contemplate throwing themselves off the edge. We make an executive decision to split into two groups – Mum and Luke are heading to Myer and I am going to help Olivia wrangle Maeve for her photo before going to the bookshop for my gifts. We will meet back up on the boardwalk for lunch overlooking the crystal-brown lake. Stepping out of the lift into the scrum, the air-conditioning hits with almost as much force as the mass of people. People don’t even have to be loud to be exhausting; it is an energy thing. Maeve immediately starts to cry.
‘Well, this is going to be fun,’ Olivia scoffs.
Her sarcasm prickles, aimed at the only one who cannot bite back. As though Maeve is ruining her day, specifically; as though the small child has any choice about being here in the first place; as though she is not trying her best.
‘Okay, Elsie,’ I reply.
Olivia does not react, and it is probably for the best. I take over the pushing of the pram, which becomes more like navigating a living, breathing obstacle course the further in we go. There are tantrumming toddlers and scheming teenagers and newly in love couples who refuse to let go of each other’s hands to allow people past and oldies who have to walk very slowly.
The queue for Santa winds away from the North Pole area in the centre of the thoroughfare, past half a dozen shopfronts, where the people queuing leave gaps for other shop-goers to enter and exit. It is chaos – kids in their best, most uncomfortable clothing railing against the tyranny of being made to stand still and wait. Olivia’s bad mood is palpable.
‘Do you want to go and get anything else done? You seem . . . tired,’ I say, doing my own impersonation of our mother. ‘I don’t mind waiting here, I can hold our spot in the line.’
Olivia eyes me with suspicion, and I hold her look. Eventually she capitulates.
‘Well, if you’re offering. I’d love to run up to Mecca and grab a setting spray – would you mind?’
She is gone before I answer the question, Maeve unaware that she is now under the sole care of her underdeveloped aunt. The friction now gone, I am back to base-level discomposure. I used to think this feeling was anxiety, that I hated crowds because I worried too much. But having had my face time with anxiety, and now understanding more about my nervous system, I can identify it as sensory overwhelm. Being here, in these lights and surrounded by these people, drains me of what little I have. I am powering down, warning light flickering to indicate I only have a certain amount left in the tank before everything turns black. Maeve is almost out of her stroller straps by the time I realise the wiggling is her tiny escape. She is reacting to the sensory torment almost as much as I am.
‘Do you want to get out, sweetheart?’ I ask.
I unclip her and place her on my hip, but she thrashes until I set her down. She stays put with one hand on the pram, as Olivia must have taught her in a city far busier than here. The queue is moving so slowly, though I do not doubt it is difficult for the workshop elves managing things on the frontline. My mind drifts to the party, to Fran’s head on my shoulder. To what that might have meant, despite the other news. It could have been a peace offering, or an explanation as to why we will never find peace. His not hating or ignoring me feels more hopeful than I should allow it to be; it obviously does not mean what I need it to mean. My thoughts are slow, basking in the idea of us being together. It is only when I look down that I realise Maeve is gone.
My vision constricts and I choke on my breath. There are so many people everywhere, children everywhere. I try to scan my proximity, but panic is not allowing me to focus, it only spins my head and blurs my eyesight. Dissociation is now a reflex. Perhaps I should be calling her name, but fear has stolen my voice and my ability to speak. Shopping centres are such common places for abductions, despite the surveillance. I read too much news. And it turns out everythingisbad and everyoneisawful. There is a tap on my shoulder and I turn to face the woman standing behind me in the queue. She is a blob of skin and hair, saying words I cannot distinguish.
‘What did you say?’
‘Is that your little one?’ She points to the front of the queue, where the head elf is standing hand in hand with Maeve. The woman in the elf costume looks slightly concerned, but Maeve is beaming as bright as a star.
‘Thank you,’ I mutter, and I dash forward to close the distance between us.
‘Here’s your mum,’ the elf says, and Maeve walks into my arms without fear.
I cannot apologise, or thank her. I can only cling to the small body in my arms and try not to allow the ‘what ifs’ to drown me. The bad things that could have happened did not happen. But they came a lot closer than I can take. My body is shaking by the time Olivia gets back. I have to wring my hands and hold them tight to stop them from thrashing.
‘Are you okay?’ she asks, obviously clocking my terror.
‘Yeah. Maeve, she walked over to the elves, I got a fright,’ I try to explain.
‘Oh, right. Well, they had the spray anyway. I finally got to use that voucher Mum gave me last Christmas, when I was living on the literal other side of the world.’
The void between someone who has glimpsed tragedy and someone who is unaware is impossible to explain, so I can no longer make small talk with Olivia now either. Maeve is happy enough to sit next to Santa for the photo – apparently on his lap is no longer a thing – and we do one photo of the three of us that we think Mum and Dad might like for a laugh. My face looks haunted, and Olivia thinks it is the funniest thing. Strange how my smile makes her mad, but my fear makes her laugh. This is not really the truth, but I feel like believing it anyway, on account of the unfolding badness all around. I buy books for everyone on autopilot, thankful I made a list. By the time we meet the others for lunch, I am ready to disintegrate. Lunch drags out three glasses of wine long, and Maeve is the only thing that keeps me whole.
