‘Sorry Maeve-y, it would be a shame for you to learn so soon your aunty is a whore.’
‘Seriously, Luke. Take it outside if you’re going to talk like that. Or, better yet, don’t talk to her like that at all.’
I stand, doing my best to avoid looking at Olivia, Maeve, or Fran.
‘Do you have anything to say for yourself? And Fran sitting here, too, probably no idea there’s something seriously messed up with your head.’
‘Stop,’ I say, because it is all I can say.
‘Like you’re one to talk,’ Olivia says, now standing too.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘We met your little friend this morning, trying to sneak out. You’re the one who’s married, you’re the one who should have something to say for yourself.’
I am no longer a participant in this row, though I am both subject and observer. Fran is pressing buttons on one of Maeve’s light-up toys to keep her attention elsewhere.
‘Laura and I broke up. I’ve done nothing wrong,’ Luke spits, as though his sleeping with my classmate is somehow not at all comparable to my sleeping with his.
Before anyone can say another thing, Elsie walks through the front door, arms laden with grocery bags.
‘I need a little help, here,’ she says, stopping as she senses discord. ‘What’s going on?’
No one says a word. The silent tension builds until Maeve bursts into tears. Olivia crosses the room to pick her up off the couch, and Fran stands.
‘I’m going to go,’ he says, taking steps towards the door.
‘You would be proud to learn your headcase daughter has been soliciting the . . . services . . . of older men around town late at night,’ Luke says, careful not to swear again in front of Maeve, or Mum, and risk losing the moral upper hand.
‘Just as proud as you would be of your married son sneaking young girls into his bed, I’m sure,’ Olivia replies, still bouncing Maeve on her hip to soothe her cries.
Mum is quick to shut it down.
‘That’s enough. What a fine show of yourselves you’re making in front of our neighbour, what would –’
‘SHUT UP!’ I scream, all energy from the meltdown I did not have at the hospital ready to erupt.
Luke makes an ‘I told you so’ face to Elsie, and it is more than I can handle.
‘Cover your ears, Maevey,’ I say, voice shaking, and she does as I ask. ‘I can’t believe I am the one this family acts ashamed of, when you are right there,’ I hiss at Luke. ‘And I would be more upset if you liked me at this point, so you can go fuck yourself, Luke.’
Nobody moves or says a single word.
‘Don’t worry, Elsie, I am going to my room. I know how upset it makes you when someone exhibits poor mental health in your presence.’
Without waiting for a response, I flee to my room, leaving Fran upstairs in the mess of my family. I strip off my clothes and climb into my shower, sitting on the tiles until the scalding water has covered my skin. My eyes start to sting and my body aches with the force of how much I cry. This is what Christmas is actually like.
My crash-out does not summon happy memories; instead it has me searching for those dreadful enough I may have actively hidden them from view. While my graduating summer with Fran was one of the best, that Christmas was one of the worst. Elsie did not mention our late-night kitchen meeting again, but she carried the same energy towards me into the next day’s festivities. I had no idea what had brought on her anger, or how to stop it being directed towards me. It was Olivia’s first Christmas in London, and Luke had stayed in Sydney because his work had become exceedingly busy that month. Grandma Sue was with Uncle Sam’s family, as per the yearly rotation. Dad worked right up until late on Christmas Eve. Perhaps when added together, all of these variables created the equation that resulted in me being the problem, or perhaps I had done something else entirely, of which I was not aware. Knowing I had done wrong, or been wrong, I stayed in bed until nearly 11 a.m., resting, hiding, and it was only the irate rapping on my door that roused me, sent me jumping to my feet and into a more full-scale panic.
‘Yep, coming, just getting organised,’ I called back, throwing piles of clothes and books and paper into my wardrobe and ensuite – anywhere I could conceal my mess.
Elsie opened the door and looked around my bedroom, taking it all in without reaction. My paint-stained sleep T-shirt and bird’s-nest hair did me no favours, contrasting so thoroughly with her crisp white linen pants and red blouse. She kept her hand on the doorknob, and took a few breaths before she spoke.
‘Lunch will be ready at one, and I don’t think it’s too much to ask that you make an appearance before then, if not to give me a hand, then at least to exchange gifts with your father and me,’ she said.
‘Okay, I’ll be ready soon. I will jump in the shower and come up straight after that,’ I replied, my pulse building in my neck.
‘You should open up your windows to air this room out, it stinks,’ she said, disgust in her voice.
