‘It would be much easier to do this by email,’ says Mac from the corner of his mouth. ‘I told you that’s what you should’ve gone for.’
‘What?’ my mother interjects, sharply. ‘What’s going on? Is there something you don’t want to say?’ Neither Mac nor I answer. ‘Ivy?’
That’s right; go for the weak one.
‘I.. it’s nothing,’ I reply, all wide-eyed innocence directed at the screen. ‘Ow!’ My head swings to Mac. ‘What did y’do that for?’ I ask, rubbing my leg in the place he’s just pinched.
A line draws between his brows as he glares down at me then, as quick as a flash, he presses a button on my laptop—the one that enables, or in this case, disables the Wi-Fi connection.
‘Listen,’ he says seriously. ‘You’re a grown-up already. It’s time to start acting like one.’
‘What do you mean,’ I bluster. ‘You’re the one cutting them off.’ I gesture back at the screen as Mac makes a very Scottish noise from the back of his throat.
‘Stop worrying about what people will think for once in your life. You don’t need anyone’s approval. They’re your parents, for God’s sake.’ He uses both hands to point at the screen of my laptop. ‘If you can’t tell them the truth, you’re fucked. There’s no shame in being imperfect. They’ll still love you.’
I blink back the sudden sting of tears, and for the first time where Mac is concerned, I don’t have an answer. Not a comeback, rebuttal, or a snipe because his knife was honed and well-aimed. And the truth just fucking hurts.
‘Deep breath,’ he says, taking my hand in his. ‘You’re about to join their ranks—becoming a parent, I mean. Think of all the payback you’re due.’ Mac presses the button to reconnect the Wi-Fi, and the ridiculous connecting tone for Skype immediately begins to play.
‘George, sit down. There’s nothing wrong with the power cord; it’s just the wifey connection.’
‘It’s Wi-Fi, Stella,’ my dad corrects.
Mac sniggers, and I suddenly see myself in my mother.Christ. It’s started already.
‘I told you you should’ve paid a bit more for one of them dongle things. Oh, look—there they are!’ My mother’s dark hair and round face fill the screen.
‘Ma, sit back,’ complains Mac. ‘You’re so close; your face looks like a road map.’
‘Macormac,’ my father admonishes in a subtle warning tone. He sits next to my mum, the brilliant Australian morning sunshine lighting the room behind them.
Mac squeezes my hand again. ‘Parent-ites,’ he announces, ‘Ivy has something she needs to say.’
‘Oh, me first!’ says Mum, excitedly.
Mac frowns, but I jump on that bad boy of a reprieve for however long the ride will last. ‘What’s your news, Mum?’ Because mine is going nowhere. Not for a few months yet.
‘We went to Uluru—such a fab place, wasn’t it, George?’
‘I’m sure I got that email,’ Mac replies, poker-faced.
‘The people looking after the sacred site—the Abordiginald tribe—were so welcoming.’
‘Aboriginals, Stel,’ my dad corrects again.
‘Was that no’ what I say?’ she says, turning to him with one eyebrow raised. As usual, Dad opts for discretion over valour. Or in other words, he has more sense than to argue. ‘And I’m sure I heard Gordon.’ Her face gets larger on the laptop screen, suddenly looming nearer, like she’s about to impart a secret. ‘That wasn’t his tribal name, by the way. Anyway, Gordon said his tribe preferred the titleingenious.’
‘Indigenous,’ Dad says quietly, as both he and Mac struggle not to laugh.
‘Listen, Ma, put it in an email again, would you? I’ve got a flight later tonight, so my time’s limited for being moral support.’
With my free hand, I pull the fine hairs on his arm.
‘Jaysus! What was that for.’
‘Traitor,’ I hiss. ‘You haven’t got a flight.’
‘No, but I also haven’t got all night.’
