‘On it.’
Two gins later and I finally got myself showered. That was my biggest challenge of the day, as far as I was concerned. The only thing harder than getting into the shower was getting out. I knew Cleo would take over when it came to hair, makeup, clothing, and accessories, and gin would take over with the navigating of the actual event.
The weather on Christmas Day always has a point to make. Sometimes it is thirty-eight degrees and scorching, more soupy than any human being is made to handle, and other times the sky is alight with a cast of lightning determined to pull focus from the main event. Today, this year, right now, it has opted for torrential downpour, testing the limits of all gutters, storm drains, and families forced into closer proximity to one another than they might like. I wonder about people driving to lunches, the traffic on the highway, whether there will be more flooding and devastation on the news.
‘You can’t hide out here all morning,’ Mum announces, in her public voice, from the doorway.
‘Why would I be hiding?’ I reply.
‘From your grandmother – who you should call more often, you know. She’s not going to be around forever.’
Elsie is vibrating at that heightened frequency – reactive, radioactive – and while I can see that rationally, there is no point meeting her there, I also cannot help it.
‘Sounds like projection to me,’ I reply.
‘You can’t speak to me like that,’ she hisses.
‘I’m an adult, aren’t I? Doesn’t that mean I can say what I want?’
‘You’re being extremely childish, Nora, and you promised me you wouldn’t make today about you. Remember?’ Elsie has now circled all the way around from agitation to an unsettling calm, which irks me further.
‘I’m out here trying to compose myself, so either you let me do that or you deal with the worse version of me inside. It’s up to you; you can’t have both.’
The rain continues to fall and I stay silent through willpower and pig-headedness alone. At some stage, I do not hear over the rain, Mum obviously decides to leave. Somebody else will be doing something else wrong, and I wish them well in navigating the ramifications of that with Elsie. In the meantime, I take myself back to bed.
When we stepped out into the cottage courtyard for our pre-wedding photoshoot, the cold air shocked me rigid.
‘I wonder if Amanda’s dress will be warm enough,’ I said.
‘I’m sure she’ll be fine,’ Cleo replied, as though I was concerned for the bride’s welfare and not making another judgement about her choices for the day.
We got our best angles, our new profile pictures, our proof-of-friendship selfies. And then I got another gin.
‘Maybe we should have a snack before we head over,’ Cleo suggested, so clever to veil her own disapproval in concern.
‘I am not hungry, Cleo. I don’t need to be eating all day like you,’ I replied.
There was no concealing my irritation. Cleo was quiet until we reached the sprawling lawn where white chairs were laid out in rows for the ceremony. The aisle was marked down the centre with expansive floral arrangements in mismatched buckets and containers on either side. Very high-low, shabby-chic. Cleo came alive at the chance to talk to anyone but me. I came alive at the sight of champagne flutes on silver trays. A string quartet was playing Taylor Swift instrumentals. The cold air had settled in my bones, though if anyone but me was bothered they certainly were not mentioning it, not on this special day. Everyone shivered and chattered without complaint as a sign of commitment to this couple’s love.
I chose our seats, me on the edge so I only had to sit next to Cleo, and ‘Wildest Dreams’ began. People stood and turned, but I faced forward, watching Daniel, who was waiting with his brothers and the celebrant under an ancient fig tree. His eyes were full of tears, his smile wide, his brothers practically levitating with pride. When Amanda came into my line of sight, snide comments about her big hair and poufy dress came to mind, but could not take hold; my heart was not in it. She was euphoric, they both were, and all I could think about was how many people were there. People who loved them. They all looked so happy. My throat grew hard and stayed that way until the ceremony was over.
I have regressed to a state of needing to be horizontal. At least my mattress here is not lumpy like the one I had sourced from Marketplace in Melbourne. Sometimes I feel as though my bed is my whole world, the only planet I wish to inhabit, while other times it acts like a cryogenic chamber where I can be frozen while the world moves by outside. Perhaps five minutes pass, or perhaps two hours, until Olivia is knocking on my door, wine in hand, face tense.
‘Lunch is ready,’ she says.
‘Great. And how’s Mum going, if you could rate her volatility on a scale from one to ten?’
‘Look, about a seven, but if you can keep your cool, I reckon food and wine could get her down to a five by this afternoon.’
‘I’m not the instigator; Grandma seems to acquire life force from stressing her out. She must gain a decade of life every time she makes Mum cry.’
‘Grandma’s just old and set in her ways. She means well.’
‘Just because she likes you best doesn’t mean she means well. She means very poorly.’
‘Yeah, maybe. Anyway, lunch is ready and it’ll be worse for you if you don’t come up. Just eat your food, have some wine, and imagine you’re on a tropical island or something. It will be fine.’
‘You know most families don’t require alcohol and dissociative techniques to endure time together, right?’
