‘The Neilsons’ daughter Leah is getting a divorce, she just announced it to the family. On Christmas Eve, can you imagine? And after they re-mortgaged their house to pay for that wedding.’
‘Hmm,’ Luke says.
We exchange looks, him fearful I will reveal his weakness at this opportune moment, a rare chance for me to achieve the upper hand. I hope my silence communicates that we are not all participating in the competition he has running in his mind.
‘But not as bad as the Roberts’ son. I think his name is Brent. Is his name Brent, honey?’
‘Yep, it’s Brent,’ Luke replies.
‘He’s apparently gone completely off the rails. Drugs. Can you believe that? They don’t even know where he’s living at the moment. He could be one of those people sleeping in a tent in Centenary Park for all they know. His parents must be devastated, there’s no coming back from that. But anyway, I’m not one for gossip, so best not to say anything more about it. I’m just shocked.’
Neither Luke nor I have anything to add. We give each other another look, one that signifies we do not agree with Mum’s assessment of things. It is nice to share that look; Elsie luckily does not notice. Brent was in Luke’s grade at school and from what I remember, he was a shy, awkward kid who used to carry his pet lizard around everywhere. I feel a new kinship with him that I would not have identified at the time. In fact, I am sure I would have actively avoided him for fear that proximity to his wrongness could signify I was of similar stock. This is a connecting thread I share with a lot of people, many of those who struggle the most with things like drugs, and misfiring brains, and overwhelm, and the effort it takes to continue being alive. I am not sure why it is not taught at a secondary or even tertiary level that it can be very hard to be alive, that sometimes barely scraping through is the best you can manage.
Mum is connected to that thread, too; she always has been. She has remained on her path of avoidance, her judgement of others a protective factor. Perhaps it is so important to keepthosepeople over there, like I once might have done with Brent Roberts, because she herself can feel the tug of that thread. And maybe my judgement of her keeps my mind from turning in on itself, my own protective factor. Are we so different, then? If her judgement is directed towards those who live in her town, while I reserve mine for those to whom I am blood-related? If there is one thing I appear to have inherited from my mother, it is avoidance.
Fran appears at the far end of the street, and I wave wildly above my head to try and get his attention. For a second I think he catches sight of me, but then he turns and does not react, so I guess not. Luke grimaces at me, as though I have embarrassed myself by waving at a friend. We have differing views of what should bring about embarrassment. Olivia falls back into step with us, a glass of wine in her hand that she did not have before.
‘Where did that come from?’ Luke asks.
Olivia points across the street, in a direction so general it barely attempts to be an answer. Her eyes are unfocused and her balance is definitely off. I wave her away when she tries to take the pram back.
‘It’s fine, I’ve got it,’ I reply.
‘Maeve is not an “it”,’ she says, though all jumbled together into one almost incomprehensible word.
‘I meant the pram . . .’
‘She’s my child, not yours,’ Olivia says, anger flaring out of nowhere.
She yanks the pram handles from my hands, glass still in hers, and nearly topples Maeve over in the process.
‘Ease up there, mate,’ Luke says, with an embarrassed expression on his face. I watch his armour re-emerging.
‘Fuck off,’ Olivia replies, in a voice raised enough to signal danger to my nervous system, and perhaps even to those around us as well.
This deviation from the set course has Mum’s attention.
‘Liv,’ she scolds, with a smile, as she looks around to see if anyone has overheard.
‘I’m enjoying a glass of wine on Christmas Eve with my family, so shoot me,’ Olivia replies, gesturing with the hand that has the wine in it, and managing to pour half of it down the front of her dress.
‘My guess is it’s been a little more than one glass,’ Luke adds, performing again, and helping no one.
‘Let’s start heading home,’ Mum says, her voice now clipped and level.
We turn as a group but Olivia does not. I am exhilarated by her lack of compliance. She has never made more sense to me than she does right now, with the culmination of everything I have observed and learned about her these past few days. Rooted to the spot, one hand on the pram, one hand still holding a nearly empty wine glass, she is looking up to the sky as though she is admiring the stars. Perhaps she is astral projecting.
‘Do you want to go home and get your jammies on, Maeve?’ Mum changes tack by addressing her grandchild directly, and this approach has me holding my breath.
‘I think the neighbourhood has seen enough Byrne family drama for the night,’ Luke adds, now a breakfast radio presenter, apparently.
I do not know who he is performing for but it is not doing us any favours as the receiving assembly, other than to signify he has no qualms going for the upper hand himself when it suits. If I were ever to betray his confidence, it would be now, to implore him back to the humanity I glimpsed. Having already had my say about his character, I remain silent, while Olivia takes two deep breaths, in, holding, out, and resets her face.
‘We don’t even know how to act like real people,’ she mutters, defeat in her voice.
I wait for her to add to that statement, though I do not disagree. Luke scoffs, for a change, any sign of lingering compassion now quickly rendered and sealed away, while Mum looks alarmed.
‘Are you feeling alright?’ Mum asks, perhaps unable to comprehend that anyone might think she is not doing a stand-up job at the ‘being a real person’ act she has been perfecting for a lifetime.
