‘Well, you better get sure – Luke has programmed his lights to flash in time with music, and I think there’s an animatronic Santa involved.’ Her voice rises with horrified glee.
‘He’s always all show, no emotion. Christmas windows are meant to make you feel something.’
I take this opportunity to walk away, as though my words are profound. Do people who say wise things realise they are doing it? Or does the self-belief take away from the wisdom? It is hard for me to judge, when I tend to read confidence as arrogance on account of having none of my own. This is something I learned from Mum – that people who believe in themselves should not be trusted. In my room, I take out my scissors and begin to cut. Sure, my life is a hot mess, and I am perhaps broken beyond all repair, but I have never been so sure about a window design in my life. Hyperfixation is a term I now have for what my mind can do when it channels all of its energy towards one activity. And today, my window is the omphalos. There is little I feel is enviable about the way I am, but this is one rare thing. People share endless books and courses and podcasts about how to achieve flow state, but few can connect with the intensity of immersion and success of what I can do naturally when I find the right thing to pursue. Time slows, energy courses through my body, and I merge with the process like we are one and the same.
It takes some internal encouragement to face the upstairs family again, but I have a job to do. Armed with my basket of cut-outs, string, glue, tape, paints, brushes, and ribbon, I set out to choose the window best positioned for what I am imagining. Luke has his head in his wiring, perched on the cushions of the window seat, and he grunts when I say hello. Olivia has framed her window with silver tinsel and is doing something with reindeer statues on the sill.
‘You took your time,’ she says, not looking up.
‘She’s scared to compete against us,’ Luke adds.
Mum is in the kitchen, Maeve on her hip, watching in silence, her eyes narrowed. Maeve is vying for her attention, never getting enough from the only grandmother in her life. It is obvious there is only one window big enough for what I am envisioning, and that is the floor-to-ceiling panel facing out to the deck. It is perfect. Breathing deeply, I begin.
‘Does that even classify as a window, though?’ Luke asks, looking up after a time.
‘What do you mean, “classify as a window”? What else would it be?’ I reply, having no time for petty nonsense.
Usually, the bickering does not begin until the windows are finished and the judging process is underway. Luke must be scared, because my window is taking shape, and it already looks exquisite. I take out my phone.
‘Window: an opening in the wall or roof of a building or vehicle, fitted with glass in a frame to admit light or air and allow people to see out.’
‘So, can we get back to our work and stop looking for loopholes, just because your window looks like a discount shop threw up all over it?’
Luke’s mouth is open, his animatronic Santa drooping to one side in his hand. Olivia is back on her reindeers, smirk so wide I can see it even though she is facing the other way. Thank goodness for the internet in our pockets, which means the loudest person can no longer simply declare themselves right.
‘Hmm, and I bet looking at our house from the driveway, people are going to be sooo interested in your little paper cuttings,’ he replies.
I cannot discern when he became so mean.
‘I am trying to avoid using plastic this year.’
‘I saw you using sticky tape to wrap your presents earlier – is that not plastic? Don’t you get takeaway coffees? Eat chocolate bars? Use straws?’
‘I don’t use straws anymore,’ I say, but there is no point.
Luke has always taken up the opposing side of just about any argument, with the conviction of someone who has devoted their life’s work to the cause. But he never used to be this nasty. I cannot understand it, and I can. It is like he has disengaged entirely from his feelings, so maintaining dominance has become a game. Set in the wrong mould, he has enhanced only the parts of himself he values, which just so happen to be the parts I detest. He is sharper, colder, more cruel, and I suppose those traits have served him well in finance, though they obviously have not worked so well for him in marriage.
My little paper cuttings are coming together, though it is a slow process. I have Blu-Tacked the tree into place and have started to hang the birds using string and push-pins to secure them to the top of the window frame, so they have movement and depth. All I need to do is finish my figures on the largest branch, huddled together while the birds fly all around. Sure, it is not exactly accurate to have cockatoos, galahs, kookaburras, blue-faced honeyeaters, lorikeets, rosellas, noisy miners, figbirds, and golden whistlers all together like this, but I am creating a mood. I am honouring the fauna of this area. I frame the window with tiny ribbon bows, tying each by hand, one by one. It is the easiest thing in the world to zone in like this and forget about time and people and bodily needs. Real flow is calm, and calm is golden. By the time I look up, Luke is nowhere to be seen, and Olivia is sitting on the couch with Mum, wine in hand. They are watching me with similar, peculiar looks on their faces, saying nothing. My neck aches and my arms are tired; awareness comes back to my body in waves. I am starving.
With my head in the fridge, I try to narrow the mental distance between my hyperfocus and my family. That is something that usually happens in private, and I feel exposed having been witnessed like that. It is such a cerebral experience, I have no clue how it translates physically to body movement and facial expressions, but I can only assume I was strange in some way or another.
‘So, when does the judging start?’ I call, trying to sound casual.
‘It’s already done,’ Olivia replies, her voice steady and light.
I take my handful of grapes to face her, confused.
‘How can it already be done? I only just finished.’
She takes one look at Mum’s face and taps out, taking a long drink from her glass. This apparently requires all of her focus. Mum tries to smile, a thin line that does not reach her eyes.
‘Where is Luke?’
‘He’s gone for a run,’ Mum replies.
I take a moment to look at the windows, and to try and understand what is not being said. Olivia’s window is playful and chic – snow from a can painted as though it is falling on a Christmas forest of deer and rabbits. She has used light-up pipe-cleaner trees, so it will glow warmly in the night, and I know Maeve will adore it. She has framed the top of the window with paper snowflakes, which look as though Maeve had a hand in painting them with blue paint and glitter. I do not mean that as an insult. It looks beautiful. Luke’s window does indeed look as though someone threw ALL the decorations they could find into one confined space, but it has a certain charm in that kitsch maximalist kind of way. Every colour and every Christmas motif has a place, and animatronic Santa dances when you turn him on. And then there is my window, the tallest of them all but not in a way that takes unfair advantage, I do not think. Luke did get the one with the window seat, and Olivia chose before me. On my pane, two children sit in the branches of an old jacaranda tree, birds all around. Though I am clearly biased, I think it has the most heart. So why does everyone seem mad?
‘It’s very good, dear,’ Mum says, as though struggling to admit to something against her will.
