‘Basically, you enter all your invitations and engagements into the app, and it spits out communications that you can send via text, email, WhatsApp or whatever platform you use. For example, if you receive an invitation to lunch that you want to decline, you can click on “lunch” and “regular” or “one-off” and “business” or “pleasure” then press “Go”. And the app will give you an appropriate response. Like . . .’ He fiddles with his phone, then begins to read the screen. ‘No can do, I’m afraid. I don’t do Mondays. Or Ah, would love to, but I’m slammed next weekend. Sounds like it will be a ripper! Or Have a great birthday. Wish I could be there but I’m going underground ’til I get through this busy period at work.’
I look at the responses in wonderment.
‘I still have a lot more coding to do. Eventually we’ll be able to personalise it with the person’s name, the event, follow-up excuses if they change the date, auto-phone calls to give you an excuse to leave midway through an event, and also phrases to use if you are confronted by the person in real time. You’ll be able to give it instructions to accept an invitation now but decline on the day saying you have an illness. It will also remind you what your excuse was for future communications with that person, so you don’t go making any gaffes.’
‘Wow,’ I say. To have these turns of phrase at my fingertips – to not have to ask Rose or agonise over a response for hours – that would indeed be an app I would be willing to pay for. ‘It’s genius.’
‘I think it will have a market. And now that we have investors, I’ve got work to do.’
‘So no more freelancing?’
‘Not for the moment, no.’
I consider this. ‘Is this cause for celebration?’
‘I think it might be.’ A small smile comes to his lips. ‘But how should we celebrate?’
‘Usually I celebrate by reading. But that’s not really very sociable.’
Wally frowns. ‘I often reward myself after a day of work with a few games of Fortnite. But, like reading, it’s kind of a solitary endeavour.’
We drift into silence as I ponder alternatives for celebration. After a short time, I notice Wally is staring at me. Right at me.
‘Staring competition?’ I ask eagerly.
‘Actually, I was wondering if I could kiss you.’
I giggle. Again. This time I can’t even blame the orgasm.
That night, as we make love, I don’t think about getting pregnant at all. Not once.
I see him, under the surface of the water. His hair fans around him like a halo. He’s struggling. I hold tighter. Just a little bit longer, I think. It’s almost over.
When I do let go, he is slow to rise to the surface. He’s bloated and unnaturally white. Limp. His eyes and mouth are open.
I jolt awake.
‘Fern. Fern! Wake up. You’re having a nightmare.’
I’m in my room. It’s quiet, as usual, but something is different.
Wally shakes me. ‘Fern?’
‘I’m awake,’ I say.
‘Are you all right?’
Wally hovers over me. It’s hard to make out his features in the dark room. I nod.
‘Are you sure? It sounded like you were having a nightmare.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Just I have them sometimes.’
After a moment, Wally lies back down. He scooches up close behind me so we are a pair of crescent moons. He throws an arm over me. The weight and warmth of it is a surprising comfort. I focus on enjoying it, while I steady my breath.
On this night, sleep comes surprisingly fast.
In the morning, when I open my eyes, I am looking at Wally. His eyes are closed and his long, black eyelashes lightly touch his cheeks. My eyes drift down to his shoulders, his chest. He has a hairy chest, with a freckle just above his left nipple. His body is definitely on the slender slide, particularly his legs which are dangerously close to skinny. But his arms and chest are shapely and muscular, and I admire them curiously.
Until I lurch upright. ‘Shoot!’
Wally jolts awake. ‘What?’ He scrambles around the bed, looking for his glasses. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I slept in!’
He pushes his glasses onto his nose. ‘What time is it?’
‘7.07 am,’ I say, scrambling out of bed. I haven’t slept in for years. My body is my alarm clock and it wakes me every morning without fail between 6.10 am and 6.30 am. Without fail until now. The fact that my body has failed me is unsettling enough, without the other unsettling things I’m starting to register. Like the fact that I’m dressed in last night’s clothes. Partly dressed. I’m not wearing a top or bra, but my skirt is bunched up around my waist and I am still wearing socks. My skin and teeth feel grimy. It takes me a few moments to realise that not only did I not undress properly before bed; I didn’t brush my teeth or wash my face or apply lotion to my shins or anything. I did none of it! And now it’s after 7 am! By now, I should be in downward dog on my yoga mat in the living room.
‘You have to go, Wally,’ I say.
‘Why?’ he says, at the same time as there is a knock at the door. His eyebrows rise. ‘Are you expecting someone?’
‘It’s probably my neighbour. She likes to come over and read me the by-laws of our building.’
I locate my bathrobe and wrap it around myself and Wally heads toward the bathroom. Alfie is at my heels as I fling open the front door. I only have a second to register Rose before she catapults herself into my arms.
‘Rose!’ I choke. ‘What . . .?’ Normally, I don’t mind when Rose hugs me, but today there is something strangling about it. ‘What are you doing here?’
Rose lets me go and I notice she’d managed the hug while balancing a box in one hand. ‘I missed you!’
Rose pushes past me, into the flat.
‘Why are you home early?’ I ask, closing the door.
‘Aren’t you pleased to see me?’ Rose places the box on the table. ‘Don’t answer that. Just sit down. I brought donuts.’
Rose sets the box on the table and opens the lid, demonstrating that she has indeed brought donuts. It’s odd. Rose doesn’t eat donuts very often because of her diabetes. I, on the other hand, eat a lot of donuts. Often Gayle brings a box of them in to the library and while everyone else stands around deliberating whether or not to have one, I am happily helping myself to thirds.
‘Sit!’ Rose repeats.
I look at my watch hesitantly. ‘I have to go to work, Rose! I’m already late.’
‘What time do you have to be at work?’
‘Ten. And I haven’t done yoga yet.’
I expect Rose to ask me why, but she is obviously distracted. ‘It’s just after seven, Fern. You have time to catch up if I drive you to work.’
Reluctantly, I take a seat at the table. The moment I’m seated, the bathroom door opens, and Wally comes out.
‘Hi there,’ he says.
Rose looks at me. She looks so baffled I almost laugh.
‘Rose, this is Wally,’ I say instead. ‘Wally, this is my sister, Rose.’
Wally extends his hand. ‘Good to meet you,’ he says. ‘Though I must point out that my name is in fact Rocco.’ He shoots a reprimanding smile at me.
Rose continues to stare at him. It’s strange. Normally Rose is so poised, so polite. She always has the perfect response to everything. Today, she seems like the sister who doesn’t know how to behave.
‘Pleased to meet you too, Rocco,’ she says finally, taking his outstretched hand. She holds it for longer than appropriate (maximum of three seconds, she’d always told me) and stares at him in a manner I would have considered rude. ‘You look familiar. Have we met before?’
Wally picks up his shoes from beside the door where he’d lined them up neatly the night before. ‘Not that I recall, but you never know. This world is a small place. Anyway, I’ll leave you two to catch up. Fern, I’ll talk to you later?’
It is a statement, but he poses it like a question, rising in intonation at the end
. In light of this, I decide to go out on a limb and answer it as one. ‘Sure. Talk to you later.’
Wally gives me a little salute and lets himself out with his shoes still in his hand. It’s so peculiar I find I can’t stop smiling.
I look back at Rose, who is gaping at me.
‘He slept here? Fern! You can’t just invite a strange man into your home!’
‘He’s not that strange.’ I wonder if she is referring to the salute.
‘He’s a stranger, Fern. We don’t know him. Is he the one who drove you home the other night after bowling?’
I nod. ‘In his van.’
‘That’s another thing,’ Rose says. ‘I saw Mrs Hazelbury on the way in and she’s not happy about that caravan outside.’
‘It’s not a caravan,’ I say. ‘It’s a kombi van–’
But Rose isn’t listening. ‘What did you say his name was again? Rocco?’
‘Yes. But I call him Wally.’
‘What’s his last name?’
‘Ryan.’
‘Rocco Ryan.’ Rose frowns frustratedly off into the distance, contemplating that.
‘You still didn’t tell me why you came back from your holiday early! Is everything all right with Owen?’
A tiny smile comes to her lips. ‘Everything is perfect with Owen. We’re back together!’
Rose is beaming. I get the feeling that I should be excited. But I’m confused.
‘Back together? But . . . did you break up?’
‘Well . . . no.’ Rose’s smile fades. ‘It’s complicated. Suffice to say, I have been worried about the state of our relationship these last few months. But not anymore.’ Her smile returns. ‘Now, I’m more confident about it than ever.’
I smile, still not totally understanding.
‘So, where is Owen?’ I ask. ‘Back at your place?’
She shakes her head. ‘He’s got to finish the project he’s working on. But he’ll be back as soon as he can. In the meantime, we need some serious sister time. Just you and me, and these donuts. What do you say?’
She dives into the box and pulls out a chocolate-iced donut for me. She has one too, after checking her blood sugar on her glucometer. When we are done, I shower and get ready, and then Rose drives me to the library. It’s not until much later that day that I realise that Rose never actually explained why she was home early.
JOURNAL OF ROSE INGRID CASTLE
It wasn’t easy leaving Owen. But if there was even a chance that Fern was in danger, it was worth it. It sounds dramatic, I realise that. Just because she’d met a guy didn’t mean she was in danger. But the statistics in this area are grim. Ninety per cent of all people with intellectual disabilities will be sexually assaulted in their life. Ninety per cent!!! Call me overprotective, but I’m going to make damn sure that my sister is going to be among the ten per cent.
I have to admit, it’s helpful, journalling all of this. And my therapist is right, the subconscious has a funny way of connecting things. Joy connects to fear. Good connects to bad. And so, on a day when I’m feeling good about my decision to come home, guess who I find myself thinking about?
Gary.
Gary was Mum’s boyfriend when we were eleven. Mum’s first boyfriend, or at least the first we knew about, after Dad left. Gary was a welcome addition to our lives at first. A novelty, you might say. He was a PE teacher. He wore shorts and trainers every single day, even on the weekends. I remember wondering if he even owned other clothes. The best thing about Gary was that when he was around, Mum was nicer.
Gary was affectionate – which was also a novelty. He used to give us bear hugs and shoulder rubs. It was strange, being touched in this way by an adult. Sometimes I liked it, but most of the time it confused me. One time, as we all sat in front of the television, he picked up my legs and began to massage them. I wanted to ask him to stop, but Mum was there and she didn’t say anything, so I didn’t either. He tried it with Fern next, but she told him to stop. Fern could always get away with those things better than I could.
One day, Gary took us swimming while Mum was getting her hair done. Fern and I were excited. I don’t know if it was the swimming or just the idea of doing something so normal that intoxicated me. Fern loved the water. When we arrived at the local council pool, she dived into the open section away from the lanes and paddled away immediately. I wasn’t as good a swimmer as Fern, and I got into the pool slowly and stayed close to the shallow end. Gary sat on the side the whole time, watching. When I ventured toward the deep end, he called me back.
‘I promised your mum I wouldn’t let you drown,’ he said, sliding off the edge and into the pool. I still remember his arms circling my waist under the water and pulling me against him. I remember his bare thighs pressing against mine. And I remember the distinct feeling that something wasn’t right about it.
‘Relax,’ he whispered. ‘Just relax.’
It was the strangest thing. There were people everywhere, all around us. And yet I was entirely alone.
FERN
Rose gets me to work on time (just). After all the excitement of her surprise return, it is a relief that my morning at the library is uneventful. The afternoon, however, is another story.
I am in the children’s corner reading to a child who has refused to take part in the school holiday singing and dancing group (Too loud, she’d said, and I quite agreed) when I hear a shout from the other side of the library.
‘Get. Out. Of. My. Face.’
The little girl looks up at me worriedly. I share her concern. The voice is deep and guttural and doesn’t sound friendly. It’s most unusual to hear a voice like this in the library.
‘Stand back! Get the fuck away from me!’
I get to my feet to try and locate its owner. I see a large man towering over Carmel. Carmel looks uncharacteristically unsure of herself. She holds out both palms toward him in a surrender gesture, but he doesn’t appear to be backing off.
I scan the area around them. A few people quietly vacate their computers, gathering in small groups closer to the door. Gayle watches from the front desk, her ear pressed to the phone. I cross the floor quickly to stand beside Carmel. Up close, I can see the man is shaking and sweating. He appears to be in quite the state.
‘Excuse me,’ I say. ‘Are you requiring some assistance?’
He looks at me. ‘Who the fuck are you?’
‘I’m a librarian,’ I say. The children, I notice, have stopped singing and dancing. The whole library is silent, which is unusual for this time of the day.
‘A librarian?’
He seems surprised by this; I take it as evidence that he’s found himself in the wrong place. ‘Yes. You’re in the Bayside Public Library. Where were you hoping to be?’
‘I need my money!’ His eyes look bizarre, large and black like a cartoon character’s. He grinds his jaw and picks at his fingers. He is clearly agitated. In his right hand, he holds a pocketknife, the small sharp blade pointing outward.
‘I’m sorry, but weapons aren’t permitted in the library,’ I say. ‘I’m going to have to take that.’ At first, he doesn’t protest, but at the last moment he shifts, extending his arm with the blade. It narrowly misses my shoulder.
‘Fern,’ Carmel says quietly.
‘Hey!’ I cry. ‘You almost got me.’
‘Where’s my money?’ he says. ‘Do you have it?’
‘We don’t keep money on the premises,’ Carmel tells him. Her tone is sharp and authoritative, but he mustn’t take well to it, because he lunges forward, jabbing the knife at her. I pull her backward by her shirt and frown at the man.
‘Careful! You could hurt someone with that.’
The man looks right at me for the first time. ‘Where’s. MY. MONEY.’
The man is sweating, panicky. He must be really worried about his money.
‘It must be frustrating, not knowing where your money is,’ I say. ‘It ruins my entire day if I lose something, believe me. Most likely, it will tu
rn up. In the meantime, why don’t you sit down on this beanbag and I’ll read you a book?’
He doesn’t sit, but I walk to the nearby cart anyway. A copy of Michelle Obama’s new book is waiting to be reshelved. ‘How about this one? You’re lucky it’s here, this one has a lot of reserves on it.’
He doesn’t appear to be listening, but it’s amazing what people pick up, even while distracted. People with ADHD, for example, retain information better if they read while walking or engaging in simple play. I open the book. ‘When I was a kid, my aspirations were simple,’ I read. ‘I wanted a dog. I wanted a house that had stairs in it, two floors for one family.’
The library has cleared out, I notice, as I read. Carmel is still beside me, a little too close if I’m honest. The man continues to pick at his fingers. I notice they are red raw and make a mental note to recommend aloe vera once I finish reading.
After five minutes, he finally slides into the beanbag. He rests the pocketknife on the floor beside him. I pull up a second beanbag. We are sitting like that when the police arrive. As they handcuff him, he says loudly, ‘But we were reading a book!’
I shove it between his handcuffed hands. ‘Keep it.’
When I turn around, Carmel is standing there.
‘I’ll pay for the book,’ I start, but before I have finished talking Carmel has enveloped me in a suffocating hug.
‘That was very brave,’ Carmel says later, as we sit side by side in the stationary ambulance. Both of us are unharmed, but the ambulance officers have wrapped blankets around us in case of shock. I’d feel far more comfortable if I could get back to work in the library, but the ambulance officers – and Carmel – have been quite insistent.
‘Do you think that man was on drugs?’ I ask Carmel.
‘Yes, I do. The police think it was methamphetamines.’
Janet once told me that, in her previous job, due to the location of the library, she had come across a lot of drug addicts. The library, being free and cool in summer and warm in winter, became a sort of refuge for them. People complained about it, apparently, but Janet was their biggest supporter. The library is for everyone, she used to say, but some people need it more than others. She told me about a young woman – barely a teenager – who died of an overdose inside that library. The girl was a regular, apparently. Janet said she was sad that the girl was gone, but happy that the library had been a safe place for her for so many months. She had attended the girl’s funeral and erected a little statue in the garden for her. That was the kind of person Janet was.
The Good Sister Page 11