Mum considered this a moment. A long moment. I glanced at the juice.
‘Well,’ Mum said, after an eternity. ‘I’ll forgive you this time, but don’t lie to me again, all right?’
I nodded.
‘Good.’ She smiled. ‘In that case . . . all is forgiven.’
Mum held out her arms for a hug indicating I should hoist myself upright. This, I think, was Mum’s favourite part. The forgiving. It made her feel like a good mother, an honourable, noble mother. Her eyes shone with goodness. But the whole time she held me all I could think of was how much longer I would have to wait before I could ask my honourable mother for that glass of juice.
FERN
Wally drives me home. I’m not used to being in a vehicle at night. It’s dark outside and the noises are sharper, more delineated. The click of the car’s indicator while we wait at the traffic lights. The sound of the steering wheel moving under Wally’s hands. It’s almost hypnotic. By the time Wally pulls up in front of my house, I’m practically in a trance.
‘How are you doing?’ he asks when I don’t get out of the car.
‘Not great,’ I say. ‘Pretty embarrassed.’
‘Embarrassed?’ Wally pulls up the handbrake. It’s loud in the quiet car. His gaze settles over my shoulder, as usual. ‘Fern, can I tell you something?’
I nod.
‘Before I lived in this van, I developed an app called Shout! with a friend of mine. It allowed people to order food and drinks from their table without having to go to the bar, and it allowed restaurants not to have to employ waiters to take orders, only to ferry food back and forth from the kitchen. There are several apps like it now, but it was the first of its kind. I was the programmer – I designed it, coded it, tested it. And it was a huge success.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘Thanks. It was pretty exciting at first. But then I had to start doing other stuff, apart from coding. I had to go to marketing meetings, I had to network with investors, that kind of thing. My partner kept saying things like, “This is the most important meeting of our careers.” We’d go to cocktail parties and have to talk to people – not even about Shout!, we’d just talk about sport or horseracing or whatever the other person found interesting. I didn’t understand what I was doing there, and I hated it.’ Wally glances at me briefly, then back over my shoulder. ‘The pressure was enormous. It wore away at me. I stopped going into work. I stopped getting out of bed. I think my partner would have ditched me, but we were so close to selling. Then we did sell it, and we got this ridiculous amount of money and everyone was ecstatic and I . . . just fell apart. The night after we sold, when everyone else was celebrating, I was in the emergency department, with chest pains. I thought I was having a heart attack. I was referred to a psychiatrist and kept as an inpatient at a mental facility for nearly a month. A full-blown nervous breakdown, apparently. I was so ashamed that when I got out, I left my big successful life behind and moved to Australia.’
‘Why?’
He shrugs. ‘You can’t get much further away than Australia, can you? And I had a passport, because of my mom. I thought, over here, I’d get another chance to just . . . be me. One of the reasons I got the van was because I needed to make my life small.’ Wally shakes his head. ‘But over the last few months, I’ve been developing another app. That’s what my meeting is about tomorrow. Some investors are interested. My point is that lots of people get in over their heads. It doesn’t mean you can’t try again.’
‘Are you suggesting I try bowling again?’
He thinks about this. ‘Or not. But don’t let it scare you off trying things.’
Wally looks away from me, at the windscreen. His arms loosely grip the steering wheel and I fixate on the dark brown hairs on his arms, his slender wrists, his long elegant fingers.
‘Was it the touch?’ he asks.
I wonder if I missed a critical part of the conversation. ‘Pardon?’
‘At the bowling alley. I touched your arm. Before you screamed. Was that what upset you?’
‘Oh. No . . . Well . . . it wasn’t just the touch. It was the lights, the music, the smells, the staring. And the touch.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he says.
‘It’s all right.’
‘I should have known.’
‘You should have known that I don’t like to be touched? Why would you know that?’
‘Because,’ he says, ‘I don’t like to be touched either. I’ve learned to do it – to shake hands, to hug, to pat someone on the back – because that’s what people do. But I don’t like it.’
‘But just because you don’t like it doesn’t mean that I won’t like it.’
‘True,’ he says. ‘But . . . you are little bit like me.’
I open my mouth in surprise. Alike? I want to cry, What ways are we alike?
But then it hits me.
The way that Wally looks over my shoulder.
His commitment to being punctual.
His failing to attend his interview and his frustration at himself afterward.
He doesn’t like to be touched.
Wally is indeed a little bit like me. How had I not noticed this? The idea of this brings on a flood of comfort and security. Like I’m being seen and understood. I feel like a foreigner in a new country who, after months of not being understood, has finally run into someone who speaks my language.
‘You . . . don’t like to be touched?’ I ask. ‘Not at all?’
‘Some touching is okay,’ Wally says. ‘If I’m expecting it, it’s not so bad. And a firm touch is better than a light one–’
‘Light touches are the worst!’ I exclaim. ‘Light surprise touches.’
‘I’m okay with my loved ones touching me,’ Wally says. ‘Though, usually they know how to do it right.’
‘Or not do it at all,’ I agree. ‘What about sex? Good or bad?’
Wally thinks about this for a minute. ‘Good. And bad. Depending on many factors.’
‘I don’t really know what the fuss is about,’ I admit. ‘It seems a bizarre thing to do, if you think about it. How did people even discover it?’
Wally rests his head against the headrest and frowns. ‘It’s a good question. I guess Adam and Eve must have got bored in the Garden of Eden from time to time. Maybe it was a dare? Or maybe Eve tripped and fell and . . . I don’t know, landed . . . on . . . Adam?’
Wally’s cheeks are extraordinarily red, I notice. It makes me laugh a little. And after a second, Wally does too. It’s magic. People rarely laugh at the same things that I do. Usually when I laugh, other people are silent. And when others laugh, I’m still trying to understand the joke. Before long, we are both laughing so hard that tears appear in the corners of my eyes and I have to wipe them away. Wally wipes tears away too. He steals a sideways glance at me, and we lock in a rare moment of direct eye contact. It’s funny what happens then. It’s as though there’s a change in the atmosphere or something. I have to concentrate on taking a breath, which makes me aware how loud I am breathing.
‘Would you like to have sex with me?’ I ask.
Wally freezes. It is, admittedly, a sizable deviation from my plan. For one thing, there are at least two days until I ovulate. For another, at least according to the romance novels I’ve read, when it comes to seducing men, there tends to be very little in the way of ascertaining of the other party’s interest. If the novels are anything to go by, sex is supposed to kick off with the hero crushing his lips against mine after doing something to upset me. So I watch Wally’s reaction with interest.
His eyes widen slightly and his lips part, but he doesn’t speak for some time. I am pleased with this reaction. I suspect I would have felt a little startled by the crushing lips. As he contemplates my request, I settle back into the cosy pod of the van with the darkness surrounding us. I am feeling something approaching relaxed . . . until a sudden pounding on Wally’s window sends us both flying off our seats.
‘Do you have p
ermission to have your van parked here? This is private property you know.’
I recognise the voice as that belonging to my neighbour, Mrs Hazelbury. Through Wally’s window, I see that she’s dressed in her peach candlewick robe, holding it together with both hands at the throat. I can’t see from where I’m sitting but I’d hazard a guess she’s also wearing her matching slippers.
Wally unwinds his window and she peers into the van.
‘Fern!’ Mrs Hazelbury says. ‘There you are! I’ve been trying to get in touch with you all night.’
This is a surprise. Mrs Hazelbury never tries to ‘get in touch’ with me. She prefers to wait at her window and call out as I walk by on my way to work. ‘Have you seen my newspaper? It has gone missing two days in a row!’ ‘Do you know what is happening to the block of land down the road that has been purchased by developers?’ ‘Do you think the new people in flat number five have got guests staying?’
‘Your sister called twice,’ Mrs Hazelbury says, craning her neck to see further into the van. ‘Apparently she’s been calling your mobile phone all night and there’s been no answer.’
I feel a shiver down my spine; a sluice of ice water. Rose had called? Again?
What have I done now?
‘She wanted me to peek in your window and make sure you weren’t lying dead on the floor,’ Mrs Hazelbury says. ‘I have to say, I did notice a small dog in there while I was looking, which I’m certain is against the rules of the body corporate.’
‘I left my phone at home,’ I say to no-one.
‘There was a man hanging around earlier too,’ Mrs Hazelbury continues, taking a closer look at Wally. ‘It wasn’t you, was it? No. He was bigger and his hair was lighter.’
In the back of my mind, I think of the mystery man who visited me at the library. The same guy? Perhaps I’ve forgotten to pay a bill and they are sending someone door to door? But I put that thought aside for the moment. ‘What did Rose want?’
Mrs Hazelbury throws up her hands. ‘How should I know? Perhaps you should go and call her back instead of idling in this car all evening, keeping everyone awake!’
After finishing her inspection of Wally’s van, she gives us a nod and wanders off. I reach for the door handle. ‘I’d better go,’ I say. ‘Sounds like Rose is worried.’
Wally frowns, gazing just over my shoulder again. ‘Just because she’s called doesn’t mean you’ve done something wrong, Fern.’
I feel the tingle again, low-level dread, this time in the pit of my stomach. ‘Unfortunately, in my case, it does.’
‘She’s very . . . involved in your life, isn’t she? It feels like she calls every time we’re together.’
‘Rose is protective. She’s looked after me all my life, so she knows the . . . situations I find myself in. If it wasn’t for her . . . who know where I’d be? Last time, she called she saved Alfie’s life, remember?’
Wally doesn’t respond.
‘Anyway,’ I say. ‘I’d better go call her.’
I slide out of the car and slam the door. Wally waits until I’ve made it up the stairs and am safely inside. It’s funny to think that only a moment ago, I was asking Wally to have sex with me. Goes to show it really does just take a moment for everything to change.
I have seventeen missed calls, all of them from Rose. There is also a text message: CALL me ASAP. I run through a mental list in my head. What could I have done? Alfie is lying contently on the couch. The oven is off. Mrs Hazelbury didn’t report anything out of the ordinary. What else could it be? I am still running through possibilities when my phone rings again.
‘Rose.’
‘Fern! Thank god. I’ve been so worried.’
‘Why have you been worried?’
‘Because! I told you I was going to call tonight at 7 pm. I wanted to see how Alfie was. I called and called, and you didn’t respond.’
I wait. ‘That’s it?’
‘That’s it? Fern, you could have been lying dead in a ditch for all I know.’
‘What would I be doing in a ditch?’
‘Fern!’ She exhales exasperatedly.
‘I don’t remember you saying you were going to call,’ I say. ‘What time is it over there?’
‘It’s two hours after we were supposed to talk,’ she says. ‘When you didn’t answer, I had to go through my emails to find Mrs Hazelbury’s number and then I asked her to look through your window and check that you weren’t dead!’
‘I know. She told me.’
‘I was really worried, Fern.’
Rose sounds agitated. I, on the other hand, am flooded with relief. I missed a call. Not ideal for a worrier like Rose. But no-one has been harmed. No-one has died.
Everything is fine.
‘Where were you?’ Rose asks.
After everything that’s happened, it takes me a moment to remember. ‘At the team-building night. We went bowling.’
There’s a short silence. This is exactly why I hate phone calls. A silence can mean so many things. Has the call dropped out? Is she taking a sip of her drink? Is she waiting for me to say something?
Finally, she speaks. ‘You went bowling?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why? Is this because of the new boss?’
Rose knows how much I loved Janet. ‘Yes. It was compulsory for all staff to attend. It didn’t go well,’ I admit.
I hear her exhale. ‘Oh, Fern. Did you get overwhelmed?’
‘A little,’ I say, deciding not to tell her about the sensory meltdown. Rose worries too much as it is.
‘You must be tired,’ she says. ‘How did you get home?’
‘A friend drove me.’
Another pause. ‘Which friend?’
‘Wally.’
The longest pause yet. ‘Is Wally a guy?’
There’s something about Rose’s tone that irritates me. Of course she could never just be happy that I have a guy friend! I also feel irritated at myself. Why do I need her to be happy? That’s the strangest thing about having a sister, in my opinion. The way you can be mad at them and want their approval all at once.
‘Yes. He’s a guy.’
‘Where did you meet him?’
‘At the library. He was taking a shower.’
‘A shower?’ Rose sounds mad.
‘He doesn’t have a shower,’ I explain. ‘He lives in his van.’
I glance out the window and am pleasantly surprised to see the van is still out there. I squint at the driver’s seat, trying to spot him. The van is in darkness but it’s possible that he’s in the back. Maybe he’s already gone to sleep? I kneel on my couch to get a better view.
‘So let me get this straight. You’ve been bowling tonight, and you were driven home by a man who lives in his van?’
From my kneeling spot on the couch, I replay the sentence in my head and find it accurate. ‘Yes.’
‘Fern, you need to be careful. This man could be trying to take advantage of you. For money or food or even sex!’
I smile at the last part. If only she knew.
There is a knock on the door. I startle and fall off the couch onto the floorboards.
‘Fern! Are you all right?’
‘Fine,’ I say, straightening up. ‘Er, Rose . . . I’ve got to go. Someone is at the door.’
‘At this time of night–’
I end the call and get to my feet. Almost immediately the phone starts to ring again, but I ignore it, flinging open the door.
It’s Wally.
‘I didn’t answer your question,’ he says.
‘What question?’
Wally’s cheeks turn crimson. ‘Well . . . we were talking about Adam and Eve? And you said . . .’
He drifts off. I wait. Wally rubs the bridge of his nose under his glasses.
‘I said . . .?’
Wally lets go of his nose and steps into my flat, grinning. ‘Are you really gonna make me say it?’
‘Say what?’
He shakes his head. �
��You are funny.’
I’m not sure why I’m funny, but as he sweeps me into his arms and presses his lips to mine, it seems moot, as I couldn’t have answered him anyway.
Sex with Wally is a pleasant surprise. The few times I’d had sex with Albert, it had been with duty, even with curiosity, but each time he crawled his way around my body I could barely think of anything else but the moment it would be over. With Wally, I find myself having a lot of thoughts. Thoughts of . . . Maybe we could try this next?, or What is it that you are doing there and why does it feel so good?, and How can I arrange for us to do this all the time? The fact that I was trying to get pregnant escaped my mind entirely until the moment it was over. When I do remember, I can’t find it within myself to care.
‘Is it safe?’ he’d asked, when we were both naked and he was hovering over me.
An odd question, I thought, but then I supposed it was important that one felt safe when they were in a new environment. I’d taken a few moments to ponder this, finally determining that while it wasn’t impossible that a madman could burst into my flat at any given moment wielding a handgun, neither was my flat war-torn Syria. So, after an appropriate amount of consideration, I’d replied, ‘Yes. It’s safe.’
And that seemed to be the right answer because everything commenced rather quickly after that.
Afterward, I couldn’t stop giggling. When Wally asked me why, I couldn’t explain it. A physical reaction, I decided, was the only explanation.
‘I think I had an orgasm,’ I said. ‘I mean . . . I’m not sure. How do you know, do you think?’
Wally rolled over so he was lying on his side. ‘Actually, I’m not sure,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Shall we google it?’
‘Good idea.’
And so we lay there, in bed, googling orgasms and clicking on articles. After reading eight or nine articles, we determined that it was very likely that I’d had one, but it would be better to try again so we could be totally sure.
Wally leaves before morning, which makes me like him even more. As much as I’d savoured the night with him, I am keen to keep my morning routine intact. There’s been enough disruption this week, I decide. But as I go through my yoga poses, I find I’m still thinking about him. I imagine telling Rose about my relationship with Wally. Wouldn’t that be something? On television and in books, sisters always talk to each other about these kinds of things, teasing each other about boys, confiding secrets. I imagined Rose gasping and giggling and demanding sordid details. I imagine her helping me get ready for a date and begging for details afterward. It would be something I’d quite enjoy, I decide.
The Good Sister Page 9