Swimming carnival.
For a person with sensory processing issues, a swimming carnival is what hell would look like. The warm, wet claustrophobia of the building, the cheering and shouting, the garish team colours, the stench of chlorine. I’d composed several compelling arguments in order to persuade Mum to let me stay home, but Mum always declined. You need to show team spirit, Fern, she’d say. It’s important to support your peers.
On the first year, I’d steeled myself. I wasn’t required to participate, at least (one upside of attending a school with no mandatory sport). All that was required was that I stand on the side and cheer. I came prepared with earplugs, but it was the smell that did me in. It was something else. It wasn’t the mild fragrance of saltwater and chlorine like I’d smelled in backyard swimming pools. It was warm and wet; stale and dank. The moment I walked inside, I felt it permeate every pore. It felt like being underwater, but without the wonderful silence. On the contrary, it was the worst kind of loud. Inside loud.
Rose had taken my hand as we walked inside, which I knew was supposed to be a gesture of comfort, but it made my skin crawl. It felt like yet another thing coating me, begging for my attention. She led us to the top of the stadium, the second row from the back, and sat me on the floor. From there, with everyone standing in front, the teachers couldn’t see us and no-one could pester us to cheer. It wasn’t ideal, but it was the best I could hope for. I felt like I was drowning. The chlorine stuck to my skin, the back of my school dress, my feet. I tolerated it, just, until Rose went to do her races (Rose, for some unimaginable reason, had signed up for the fifty-metre freestyle and the relay). ‘Just keep your head down,’ Rose had said before she left. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
I passed the time by counting backward from a million in nines. But the time dragged on and on. Just when I thought I couldn’t take it another second, Mr McIntosh noticed me on the floor and shouted for me to stand up. (Mr McIntosh was the science teacher. He had yellow teeth and smelled of onions and breath mints.) At the same time as he pointed, my team must have won something because an almighty victorious roar erupted in the stadium. In the row in front of me, a boy I didn’t recognise, with long, white-blonde hair, picked me up and spun me around, jumping up and down and shouting ‘YAAAAAAAAASSSSSSS’. My senses exploded. It was as though I’d slipped into another dimension.
I didn’t mean to hurt him. It must have been a reflex. A well-executed reflex that started with an eye gouge and followed with a knee smash to the groin. I was starting to calm down when someone touched me from behind. A reverse elbow-strike later, Mr McIntosh had a broken nose.
During the follow-up meeting, our school principal, Ms Knight, had commented that ‘the greatest concern is the fact that she hasn’t even shown any remorse’. I told her that, on the contrary, all I felt was relief, because it could have been so much worse.
I knew that in that moment, I could have killed someone.
*
I arrive at the Botanic Gardens at quarter to twelve, fifteen minutes before my scheduled date with Wally. I’d planned to use the extra time to secure a spot in the shade, lay out the blanket I’d brought from home and unpack the sandwiches. I packed honey for myself, as usual, and one honey and one Vegemite for Wally, in case he doesn’t care for honey. But as I enter through the east gate, I am alarmed to find that Wally is already here, sitting on a blanket in the shade of a tree, his long legs stretched out in front of him.
‘You’re early!’ I exclaim.
‘I always try to arrive a quarter of an hour early, if I can.’
‘Really?’ I say, in wonder. ‘So do I.’
‘Who doesn’t value punctuality?’ he says, shrugging.
‘A lot of people, actually,’ I say. ‘I think you’d be surprised.’
I arrange myself comfortably on the blanket, which is adequately sized for the two of us and not at all scratchy, unlike so many other picnic blankets. Our date had been fairly straightforward to organise, once I’d explained to Wally what a date was.
‘You’re asking me on a date?’ he said, after I’d asked him. It was a surprise since he’d clearly heard, and I couldn’t see how he would need any further clarification.
‘Yes,’ I said, as slowly and clearly as I could.
Still, he looked bewildered. So much so that for the barest second, he looked me directly in the eyes. ‘A . . . date?’
At this point I was starting to doubt his professed IQ. Wally was silent for long enough that I started wondering if he’d had a medical episode. Had I made a social faux pas? The brief research I’d done on the computers had confirmed that girls did this sort of thing nowadays – asked boys on dates – and yet the poor boy seemed utterly perplexed. It occurred to me that it might be the word ‘date’ throwing him off.
‘According to Urban Dictionary, a date is where two people get together for an activity when the possibility of romance between them has been broached but not ruled out,’ I explained.
Wally’s face remained blank. I sighed. This was the exact reason I favoured planning over spontaneity. Normally, when I did something outside of the ordinary – like competing in a karate tournament, or attending a librarians’ convention at the state library – I spent a lot of time planning for it. Familiarising myself with the best route to take, checking the train timetable, making sure the medical provider was running on time. But this day, it seemed, I’d gone off half-cocked. I decided to offer Wally one further explanation I’d sourced from Urban Dictionary before giving up.
‘An activity between two mutually attracted people which very often ends in one or both leaving sexually frustrated.’
Finally, bizarrely, he laughed. A funny half-laugh that seemed like he wasn’t sure if he was laughing or clearing his throat. Then he threw up his hands and said, ‘You know what . . . sure. I’m free Saturday?’
‘Me too, after karate.’
He nods. ‘What would you like to do?’
I realised a picnic was the only real option for our date, considering I don’t go to restaurants or shopping malls and the movies can be troubling if the sound is too loud or the smell of popcorn too strong. Wally stiffly agreed, and then, as if the heavens had been smiling upon us (a ridiculous expression, as heaven surely doesn’t have a face, let alone a mouth to smile with), the printer burst into life and started working and I was able to excuse myself and dash away before anyone else could ask for assistance.
Now, here we are. Fifteen minutes early.
I notice Wally is wearing the same black-framed glasses and buffalo flannelette button-down shirt with jeans and, of course, that same ridiculous hat. I have to admit, I find the sameness of him soothing. It’s always been unsettling to me, the way people change their appearance. Linda from the library, for example, changes her hair with frightening frequency. Not just the colour, but the style – some days straight, other days curled, other days scraped back to her scalp and glistening as if wet. Linda, of course, is an extreme example, but most people tend to change, at the very least, their clothes on a daily basis. A new pair of earrings or a brighter lipstick than normal. A change is as good as a holiday, the saying goes, but I’ve never found change or holidays appealing. For this reason, I am wearing my favourite sun-yellow skirt and rainbow T-shirt with comfortable sneakers. My only discomfort is that my lips feel tacky because this morning – after reading online that one should put effort into one’s appearance for a date – I’d applied lip gloss. I’d dearly love to remove it but find myself without anything in the way of a tissue or napkin.
‘What is it?’ Wally says.
‘What is what?’
‘You’re staring at me.’
‘Am I?’ I consider this a moment. Then I wonder how he even knows this, since his gaze appears to be over my left shoulder, as usual. ‘Staring competition?’ I venture. It seems as good an icebreaker as any. But after a promising start where Wally’s eyes widen slightly, he just gazes back over my shoulder. I wond
er if he has an issue with his eyes.
‘Beat you!’ I exclaim.
His expression morphs into that funny smile-frown.
‘You’re no good at staring competitions,’ I remark, pulling my sandwiches out of my tote. As I offer Wally the sandwich I brought for him, he opens his own bag and pulls out an impressive haul – an artisan loaf, a wheel of Brie, a bag of grapes, even a block of dark chocolate. ‘My goodness!’
‘What?’
‘You’ve brought a veritable feast. Where did you get all of this?’
‘All this?’ he says, gesturing to the food. ‘I stole it.’
My mouth opens. ‘You stole it?’
He snorts. ‘Of course I didn’t steal it. What kind of person do you think I am? I got it from the supermarket!’
I am sceptical. ‘Why did you spend so much money, when you can’t even afford to live in a flat or a house?’
‘It’s not that I can’t afford a house . . . I live in my van as a . . . a–’
‘A lifestyle choice?’
‘Yes.’
‘Uh-huh.’ I unwrap my sandwich. I feel his eyes and find him watching me with a dull smile.
‘Well. You may not believe it, but I enjoy the simplicity of the van. But I do have enough money for food. I’m a freelance computer programmer remember?’ He retrieves a bread knife from his bag and begins slicing the loaf of bread, chuckling.
‘Why do you freelance? Surely you could get a permanent job as a computer programmer?’
‘I could.’ He keeps slicing.
‘But you don’t want to?’
He puts down the knife. ‘No.’
‘Another lifestyle choice?’
He grins. ‘Exactly.’
It’s an odd choice, but I find myself admiring him for it. I’ve often thought about the way people blindly fall into the footprints of their forefathers, getting jobs, buying homes, working hard and then dying.
‘Well,’ I say. ‘That’s very courageous of you, Wally.’
‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘Though my name is Rocco.’
‘You don’t look like a Rocco.’
He gives another snort. ‘And yet that’s exactly what I am.’
Wally arranges an elaborate-looking sandwich of cheese, sliced ham and tomato while I tuck into my honey-on-white. The date is going quite well so far, I think. We’ve made conversation; we’re consuming a meal. According to my research, that’s pretty much all there is to it. I’ve dismissed the possibility of getting pregnant today, obviously. Apart from the fact that it would be awkward and quite possibly illegal to have sexual intercourse in a park, I’m not ovulating. I know this because I bought some ovulation testing kits at the pharmacist, which tell me (by virtue of a smiley face in a small window) when ovulation is imminent. The booklet suggested testing around Day 10 of my cycle, with a view to ovulation occurring around Day 14, which, according to my calculations, means I’ll need a second date in just under a week to execute that part of the plan.
‘So tell me about van living,’ I say, swallowing a mouthful of sandwich. I’d pre-prepared the question. Asking questions is a tactic I use when small talk is required – it makes you appear interested while simultaneously putting all the effort of the conversation on the other party. ‘What do you like about it?’
Wally is lying on the blanket, resting on one elbow. ‘Many things,’ he says. ‘I find the small space cosy, like sleeping in a little cocoon. When it rains, I hear it pelting the roof; when it’s windy, I feel the wind up against the car. It’s like I’m out in it . . . but protected. What else? I like that I can’t have too many possessions, so when I do buy something, I have to consider whether I really need it. It means I only end up with things that are incredibly useful or very precious. I like that I’m not imprisoned by anything. Debt. Weather. Bad neighbours. My home is wherever I am.’
‘Where is the van now?’
‘Down the road. There’s a four-hour parking spot about a mile from here.’
‘Don’t you find it unsettling having to move about all the time like that?’
‘A little,’ he admits. ‘But moving around is kind of cool.’
I consider this. ‘I moved around a lot when I was a child. Not in a van though. I can’t say I found it . . . cool.’
Wally shifts on his elbow, getting comfortable. ‘Why did you move a lot? Folks in the army?’
I shake my head. ‘Honestly, I’m not sure. I would have preferred more permanence but . . . things always came up. Mum lost her job or the landlord needed us to move.’ Wally is really paying attention to me, which is both awkward and quite nice. Perhaps this is why, on a whim, I add, ‘My mum wasn’t . . . the greatest mum, I guess.’
It feels like a betrayal, for some reason. I don’t like speaking badly of Mum. It feels wrong somehow. Rose doesn’t feel bad about it. She and Mum never got along, even when we were kids. I remember hiding in the closet with Rose when we were ten, after Mum and Rose had argued about something. ‘Fern, I know you don’t understand this,’ Rose had said. ‘But Mum isn’t a good mum. You have to do what I say, okay, otherwise I can’t protect you. She isn’t a good mum, okay?’
‘Okay,’ I’d said.
‘I’m sorry,’ Wally says.
‘She overdosed when I was twelve, and my sister and I were put into foster care.’
Wally sits up. ‘Wow. Fern, that’s awful.’
I focus on the remains of the food, the grapes lolling on the chopping board. ‘I was lucky I had Rose. She’s my twin sister.’
I half-expect Wally to have a reaction to this. Inexplicably, people seem to have such curious reactions when I report that I am a twin. In social gatherings, often all I have to do is mention that I’m twin and the rest of the conversation is consumed by the twins in that person’s family, whether they were naturally or artificially conceived, or how their great-aunt Margaret was a twin but her brother died in childbirth. I enjoy this because all I have to do is nod and smile, which is infinitely easier than having to say anything myself. But, extraordinarily, Wally appears to be one of the few people on earth who doesn’t have anything to contribute to the twin conversation.
‘Rose is my person,’ I tell him.
Wally blinks. ‘Your person?’
‘You know. Your person. Your wife or husband. Your child. Your boyfriend. Your best friend. Someone whose name you can put down on paperwork. Someone you can share personal information with. Someone you can rely on.’
Wally unscrews the lid off a bottle of water and takes a sip. ‘Interesting,’ he says.
Conversation starts to dwindle then, so I decide it is time to proceed to the next part of the date. Astonishingly, I know what this should entail. Last night, in preparation, I’d undertaken a rom-com marathon, watching specifically for tips on the running order of a date. Trying to be scientific, I’d taken copious notes and, upon comparing them, found they had a lot in common. The first stage of each date was either a little dull or an unequivocal disaster where the person arrived late or dressed in entirely inappropriate clothing. The next stage involved each party sharing something personal. The final stage invariably involved a wacky incident such as a bird coming to eat the couple’s food or someone spilling a drink all over the other, forcing all parties to escape amid a cloud of hilarity which inevitably turned into a romance later in the show. As such, I determine that the wacky incident is the most crucial of the three stages.
I glance around for a potential wacky incident and, finding none, I open my water bottle and pour its contents over our remaining food. At a loss for what to do next, I throw back my head and laugh loudly.
Wally’s eyes boggle. ‘What the . . . Fern, are you all right?’
His enunciation is made particularly perfect by his bewilderment. My laughter dies down to an uncertain giggle. ‘I . . . don’t know.’
‘You might be the strangest person I’ve ever met, you know that?’ Wally says, shaking his head. And just as I am thinking things aren’t go
ing to plan, he laughs. ‘I can’t believe I’m saying this . . . but I like it.’
An hour later, as Wally and I pack up the picnic, I feel irritable. I’m trying to figure out the reason why, since the date – at least when compared with some of the disastrous dates from my rom-com marathon – has been an unequivocal success, when I notice Wally waving his hands in front of my face.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask.
He holds up my phone. ‘Your phone. It’s ringing.’
‘Oh.’ That explains why I was feeling irritable. The sound of a phone ringing is among the most crazy-making noises in the world for me. The tinny, repetitive sound of it. The accompanying vibration. Thankfully, my phone rarely rings. Rose sends text messages unless it’s an emergency, and if anyone else calls I let it go to voicemail. But when I look at the screen and see it’s Rose calling, I feel my heart rate increase. She’s calling. It must be an emergency.
I press the phone to my ear. ‘What is it, Rose?’
‘Oh, good, you’re there. I hope it didn’t scare you, me calling like this, but I have just heard from the neighbour and she said Alfie has been barking a lot.’
I scan my brain for a reason why Rose might be calling from Europe to tell me this.
‘Was she okay this morning when you fed her?’
I start to get a bad feeling. ‘I didn’t feed her this morning.’
‘You didn’t?’ Rose says. ‘Why not?’
‘Why not?’ I repeat, trying to make sense of the question. But I can’t.
‘Fern,’ Rose says, ‘tell me you have been feeding and walking Alfie.’
‘I . . . I don’t understand,’ I say. ‘Why do you want me to tell you that?’
There is a long silence, followed by a long, low expletive. I wait, suddenly feeling quite ill.
‘Fern! I told you I would put him in a kennel!’ Rose has her breathless, flustered voice on – the one she uses when talking to people about packages not arriving or being overcharged for the electricity bill. She hardly ever uses this voice with me. ‘You insisted! You said you would feed Alfie!’
The Good Sister Page 5