‘Morning, possum,’ I say, in the soft voice I reserve for Maeve only.
She is sitting up, rubbing her eyes, stripped down to only her nappy and dummy, the very bare essentials. A night-light is projecting stars onto the still-darkened ceiling, and I pull back the curtains to ease her gently into the day.
‘Let’s get a top on you, it is colder than usual,’ I say, pulling a striped cotton T-shirt from one of her piles.
She holds her arms up for me to pull it over her face, and when she is dressed, I heave her into my arms. Our dear girl, our best hope.
‘See Grandpa?’ she says, spitting her dummy onto the floor.
‘Yes, let’s go see Grandpa and Grandma and Mama and Uncle Lukey,’ I say.
Maeve’s arrival in the living room heralds a queen’s welcome, and it is no less than she expects, beaming around at the faces of those who love her the most. She tries to leap from my arms and I pass her to Dad, who is as quick as always to take his role as preferred adult.
‘We’re going to show you a game of cricket today, darling. Can you say “cricket”?’
‘Cwicket,’ she repeats, as cute as pie.
When Mum has packed the picnic and we are all dressed for the occasion, we make our way to the nature reserve through the laneway at the end of our cul-de-sac. Neighbours are making their way, carrying rugs and camp chairs and bags of food and drink. Calls of ‘Merry Christmas!’ ring out across the street. Maybe there are some good things about living like this; maybe a bubble can be made inhabitable if we commit to the absurdity of it all and do our best to care for one another. Perhaps the revolution starts with a cricket match.
Fran is trailing behind his parents, deep in conversation with his brother, and I decide not to try and fall into step with him. I will give him space to figure things out, and to have that time with Martin because it looks as though things are going well there. I give a small wave and he returns it, a hint of a smile across his face, though he does not break from whatever he is saying. Mum sets our picnic up a little way back from where the cricket pitch has been marked out around the wickets with the kind of cones that only usually come out in PE class. This makes sense, as Mr Drew was a PE teacher before he retired. I suppose it is the kind of thing that never really leaves you, that desire for order, performance excellence, and compliance with the rules. Mum and Maeve sit the match out, Mum relieved to finally have a valid reason not to join me in the outfield. It is not something I have ever relished, but today I have enough in my energy reserves to approach it without dread. And as it so happens, not a single ball comes my way for the entire match. Luke and Dad make a formidable bowling and wicket-keeping team, Olivia catches out more than one batter, and we take an early lead. From there, it is all gravy. Our team, the Willie Wagtails, will have its name on the trophy this year.
The post-match picnic gathering threatens to drag into the night, but when Maeve starts to yawn I seize my moment to make a smooth and socially approved exit.
‘I’ll be home soon, I’m keen for an early night,’ Olivia says, clutching a can of Coke in her hand.
Maeve and I enjoy the leisurely stroll home, talking about the stars. I used to think all the stars we can see are already dead, but I recently learned that is not the case. That might be the case for stars we can see through a powerful telescope, but the ones visible to our eye, those are likely to still be alive. It thrills me, this prospect.
‘I wish I was a star,’ I say, and Maeve giggles.
‘I’m a star,’ she says, without question, and of course she is right.
Once Maeve is changed, read to, and in her bed, I bring her baby monitor down to my room – for safety, but also for the joy of watching her drift slowly to sleep. As I am tucked up under my covers, there is a knock at the door, and I know in my bones there is only one person it could really be. I jump up to let him in.
‘Hey,’ I say, holding the door open.
‘Hey,’ Fran says.
I am not really sure what to say next, because this is kind of his thing and I need to give him space to say it, to feel it, so I stay quiet. It is an overlooked option, I think.
‘What if I just . . . stayed?’ he asks.
‘Forever?’
‘For tonight?’
His eyes are so heavy with longing, and I can feel his heart racing, beats carried through the air. I stand back to let him in.
Boxing Day, for real
The thing is, though, Boxing Day is not purely for cricket, or daydreaming, maladaptive or otherwise. My next instinct is to partake in my much-loved and well-practised hobby – swan-diving into the depths of the internet and busying my mind while the hours drift by. I could learn the Western Christian and even Middle Ages history of the date, I could pick up my phone before I pick up my body, read and scroll and click until I am so full of facts about the origins of 26 December that I leave not an inch for feeling to seep in. It is the immediate discomfort of ignoring the impulse that signals I must. Or I have to try, at least. A thud at the window shocks me upright; I see a small grey bird shake itself right and fly off. It is 6.51 a.m., well past time to forge a new tradition. My throbbing foot gives me an ache of where to begin. The kind of bruise that is burgeoning there will turn a galaxy of colours before it goes away.
Upstairs, I put on a pot of coffee and start chopping fruit for a fruit salad. I take out bowls, stack them on the counter, and search the cupboard for muesli and honey. The rhythm soothes. I had planned to clean the mess I made here yesterday, but that work has already been done, so instead I take the measuring tape from the drawer and measure the opening where the stained glass in the round window used to be. Dad has covered the opening with builders film to make it weatherproof. I keep the measurement numbers in my mind. Olivia and Maeve are first to rise, and I greet them as though nothing has happened, but then force myself to acknowledge everything that has.
‘I’m really sorry for yesterday, for my meltdown. I’m going to have the window fixed,’ I say, holding up the measuring tape in confirmation.
‘That’s a good idea,’ Olivia says, watching me warily as she places Maeve on the floor.
‘I’m going to work on repairing everything else, too.’
