‘Rah, wait up.’
When I turned, Fran was alone, rushing to catch up. The others were fading off into the darkness, and I found a scrap of goodwill burgeoning in my heart for them. I hoped they made it safely back to their lodgings. I hope they enjoyed their Fran-less sexfest and both managed to achieve orgasm. I was basically Mother Theresa, as I turned my attention back to Fran. Of course he followed me, because he was Fran and he made good choices, from the heart, all the time. He did not have to force himself to be altruistic, because he had that nature by default.
The sheets are strewn around me as though there has been a scuffle, and the blanket is on the floor. It is this day, the one that has always brought me the most excitement and the most anxiety – I am unfortunately a lot like Elsie in that regard. Christmas morning was too much anticipation for me as a child; I could never eat or sleep or speak in the lead-up, every present a disappointment because my imagination was too vivid. And now, it feels like a marker of time in all the wrong ways. I should be more together by now; I should have figured out how not to be such a mess. I have woken up agitated, all senses preloaded, skin itching across every inch of me as though I am allergic to being alive. Sometimes I have days like this before my period, and other times, it is brought on by an accumulation of ongoing overwhelm. My brain is swarming in that way that does not allow room for listening or watching. My phone cannot help me. I could not read a single word if I tried. A shower does not work its magic, and I can only assume Mum will not be going for her walk. There is too much to do. For her.
For me, there is not enough that warrants doing as distraction that I could undertake alone. Or, if not alone, without the perception or input of other people. Youngest adult child at Christmas is the most cursed rendering of the birth order, one I would not recommend. Olivia will have opinions if I make a salad, and Luke will make jokes about any poor attempt at desserts. Mum would rearrange my table setting, and Dad is too practical to allow fake chores to be done again. If I watered the plants or swept the veranda, he would only tell me not to bother, as it has already been done. And if any single one of them corrects me in any minor way, I might start crying because last night one piece of my dream was about being fourteen, when all my soft toys were taken to the op shop and I never got to see them again, or even say goodbye. Do they not understand that I now have the key to absorb this pain further, and feel it all anew? Every memory is here, being experienced again for the first time all at once. Sweat runs down my sides like seams, the humidity dialled all the way up. Grandma Sue will be here in a few short hours, and for that I must clean up the mess spilling out of me.
In Melbourne, I stood still on the street facing him, and tried to give my best version of relaxed and aloof.
‘Hey,’ I said.
The mascara running down my cheeks probably did not aid this impression.
‘Are you okay?’ His concern grew as he moved closer to me.
‘I’m fine. I cry a lot when I see you, can we just not mention it and move past it?’
‘Yeah, sure, yeah.’
We looked at each other, and our energy convened even as I willed mine to stay put.
‘Are your friends waiting for you? You better get going. It gets a bit methy around here this late at night,’ I said, wanting him to hurry up and get to the part where he said he had to leave me.
‘They’ve gone back to the hostel, I’ll see them later.’
‘Oh.’
I tried to figure out what this meant, him leaving his friends to be with me. It possibly meant a difficult conversation, an apology, a date withfeelingthings that I was not in the headspace to entertain. I had won the battle for his attention, but found I was in no shape for the winning of the war. If only we could be together as strangers, enjoy each other’s company without added context or history. I wanted to keep the box closed.
‘Is that okay?’ He looked unsure, and I did not want that for him.
‘Yeah, of course. Hey, do you want to go to a party?’
‘Oh, okay, yeah. If you like.’
Cleo had tried to convince me to go with her to a party at her friend’s house, but I had told her I would be too tired and done with people after the gallery event to be dealing with share-house party dynamics. People always seemed to want to take psychedelics and talk about past lives, or absurd business ideas they would never follow through, or divine feminine and divine masculine energies, as though this wasn’t a way to repurpose patriarchal norms for those who considered themselves more spiritual and left-leaning. Or they wanted to get drunk, hook up, and never text each other again. It had all become so boring by that point.
When I messaged Cleo to tell her about my change of heart, and about Fran coming along, she sent back a bunch of love hearts and kisses. She would be keen to unpack the events of this night in coming days, to make sure I understood the emotional significance of something she knew nothing about. Fran lingered, patient, beautiful. It was more than I could bear.
‘Remember when we went to that field party, and you got so wasted you threw up all over yourself?’
Part of my mind wanted to play ‘remember when’, while another wanted to maintain a comfortable distance between Fran and the feelings tied up in memories of us.
‘Yeah, that was the first time I ever got drunk. It was those Cruisers, they tasted like cordial,’ he said with a laugh.
‘That’s right – your spew was so red.’
Fran looked at me with eyes too warm and soft for vomit talk, and I felt embarrassed for being so gross. He barely even drank anymore; he couldn’t and he probably did not want to anyway.
‘It’s really good to see you, Nora,’ he said.
‘Yeah,’ I agreed.
We waited at the bus stop and when the 250 arrived we sat side by side through the city, on a seat up the back. I let my thigh rest against his for warmth. If we talked about anything, I cannot remember. The only thing I can recall, the only part worth thinking about, is that he took my hand in his and interlinked our fingers, using his other hand to stroke the top of mine. We stayed that way until we nearly missed our stop.
In my room, I stretch my body in an aggressive manner that I am sure works against the general principles of stretching. I want to shock my body into compliance and hope my mind follows suit. One is doing the best one can, given the circumstances. One should surrender to the chaos of the day, resist allowing the colours to drain and the personhood to sever. That would be silly-billy behaviour – melodramatic, too camp. Steady ye horses. Oh God, the old-timey dialect is new; not good. Shoulders back, back, back. They spring forward each time, more comfortable in the wrong place than in the right one. Head to one side, a violent pull, and then over to the other. One day the tension will freeze this body in ways that are no longer reversible. I can already feel it happening. And if my ongoing physical pain starts to match what is going on mentally, I will never know another day’s peace.
Maeve is alone in the lounge room when I head up, and she is sitting under the decorated tree in nothing but her nappy, tearing a sheet of wrapping paper into tiny pieces of confetti. The ripping sound is making her wiggle in delight. It may be one of the presents Mum has wrapped for someone else, judging by the intricate folding and ribbonry.
