We Are Not The Same Anymore

by Chris Somerville

  For the last two summers Rachel and I have been driving to her uncle’s farm to help him cut down and sell Christmas trees. This year, though, a disease has gotten to them and they’ve turned brown and dry. Rachel wanted to drive out here anyway. When we arrive the first thing we do is go look at them, standing in the low corner of a big empty field. The branches are bare and look like burned-up matchsticks and make no sound at all in the breeze. They don’t smell like pine either.

  Rachel’s uncle has set up a beach chair so he can sit and watch them. He says it’s been hard for a while, but now he’s started to come to terms with it.

  It took us two days to drive out here. In the car, with the windows down and our backs sweating, Rachel played her learn-to-speak German cassette tapes endlessly. I did try to follow along, but soon enough I’d lose interest and look out the window and worry. I was convinced she was playing these tapes so she could talk without having a conversation. I wondered if she was seeing a man from Germany. I hit pause on the tape player.

  ‘I suppose your uncle is pretty sad about these trees,’ I said.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about getting him a dog,’ Rachel said and then turned the tape player back on by jabbing it with her thumb.

  She’s the only person in her family who still talks to her uncle. I know that her parents are pretty much done with him. He once owned a chain of electronics stores, but they went bankrupt almost a decade ago and since then he’s never held another steady job. He was a builder for a time, and then he tried to make and sell pottery. Rachel still has the vase he made us sitting on our kitchen counter, even though the thing doesn’t hold water for longer than a day.

  There have also been the Christmas trees every December, though that hasn’t really panned out this time around.

  Rachel comes back inside and her uncle closes the photo album and puts it back. I don’t say anything, just look at her, and she says, ‘It was work,’ and holds up her phone. I don’t know why her uncle showed me his photographs but he’s red-faced from drinking beer most of the afternoon and, when he notices that Rachel isn’t watching, he winks at me in a way that I wish he wouldn’t.

  Rachel and her uncle don’t look anything alike.

  Outside there’s the buzzing of insects that sound like heat. The house is half-finished; there’s a blue tarp covering one end of the lounge room and there are Christmas lights running over the door frame and strung up across the ceiling so it looks like a net. Now and then a breeze will push against the tarp and flutter it. Even though it’s daytime the lights are on and blinking rapidly.

  ‘Now that you’re here there isn’t much to do, not with the trees in such a state,’ he says.

  ‘It’s nice to be here anyway,’ Rachel says.

  There’s an arrangement of white tinsel attached to the house’s front door by a staple gun. The land around here is so flat it makes me uneasy. We should have bought him a dog. Rachel’s uncle has two grey horses, which were so sick when he got them that he couldn’t bring himself to name them, and they still look too skinny out there in the heat, with their heads down, dreaming, or looking at you with their big wet expectant eyes. It always surprises me, when I’m close up, that you don’t hear the sound of a broken accordion when they breathe in and out.

  Sometimes I wonder how he can stand to be living in a place like this. What a holiday! I’ll walk in on Rachel and her uncle talking together quietly and they’ll hush up all of a sudden and look at me with expressions so similar that it’s easy to see they’re related. Sometimes they’ll be laughing and I’ll ask them what’s so funny, but Rachel will shake her head and tell me that it’s too hard to explain, I just had to be there.

  On the last day I’ll take an axe to a few of those dead trees and whack them down, and they’ll fall easy but it won’t feel as good as I think it will. On the trip home we’ll stay at a cheap, pink-walled motel. The room will have a waterbed and Rachel will lie on it, frowning up at the ceiling and bouncing herself up and down. I will be standing at the window, using the motel phone, trying to call my mother to tell her I’ll be flying down for the holidays. My mother will be either knitting in front of the television or asleep in front of the television. I will be pushing the curtains apart gently, watching a man in the motel’s car park drag a folded stroller into the back of his car. I’ll be listening to the phone ring out, waiting for my mother to pick up.

  Travelling through the air

  Beckman’s uncle George picked them up on the street to drive them to the airport. He’d called before arriving and told Beckman and his mother to be out the front in five minutes. He’d said, ‘It’s just like a real taxi service, hey?’ and then hung up before Beckman could reply. It was a Monday morning. They’d been staying at his cousin’s over the weekend and were flying back home around ten. Their tickets had been cheaper this way.

  George drove his wife’s station wagon in an agitated kind of way. He changed lanes often. Beckman had never been in a car with him before, so he didn’t know if this was the way he always drove.

  ‘I’m happy to take the morning off, it helps that I’m virtually self-employed now,’ George said. ‘If I want to go play golf, then I’m right out there on the fairway. If an emergency comes up or I feel like going to the movies, no problem. I don’t have a soul to answer to.’

  ‘It sounds pretty good,’ Beckman said.

  ‘Is work going well? Are you back there this week?’

  He nodded and said, ‘Yes. It’s great,’ and then nothing more. Although George was talkative, Beckman always found him a struggle to talk to. It didn’t help that Beckman was out of a job and so far he’d said nothing to anyone about it. He’d teach his fiction classes for two more weeks, but there wouldn’t be a position for him in the coming semester. He’d planned on telling his mother this while they were travelling together, but whenever he’d thought about it he’d ended up wanting to curl up and fall asleep.

  In the back seat his mother was quiet and looking out the window. She was wearing lipstick and earrings and still liked to dress well for air travel.

  They’d flown down for his mother’s aunt’s birthday. She had turned ninety. There’d been a party at her place and now, weaving through traffic, Beckman could easily recall the look of displeasure on her face when the birthday cake had been put down in front of her.

  In the airport’s car park George climbed out and lifted their suitcase from the boot. Beckman’s mother grabbed it off him before he could put it down and said, ‘Thank you, I’ve got it from here.’

  George nodded to the both of them. ‘I forget how strong you are sometimes. You should have seen her when she was younger,’ George said to Beckman. ‘She used to be able to whack a nail into a wall with one hit.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ his mother said.

  ‘The other kids used to come around to see her amazing feats of strength.’

  Beckman’s mother didn’t say anything, but walked ahead of them in silence, and George looked over at Beckman and nodded his head with his eyebrows raised and his eyes closed. They walked across the car park and as soon as they entered the terminal George said he needed to use the bathroom.

  ‘No one ever thinks I can do anything,’ his mother said once George was out of earshot. ‘They act so nice because they think I’m old, but that’s worse. It’s much worse. You just wait.’

  ‘He was only being friendly,’ Beckman said.

  ‘I don’t need friendly anymore. I have enough friends.’

  After checking in their suitcases and going through security, they had half an hour to pass. The three of them went to the bar near their departure gate. They sat at a table in the corner. The walls around them were glass and Beckman watched three planes take off, one after another. He liked to think he was a rational person, but each time an aeroplane left the ground it seemed like it was lifted into the air
by magic rather than engineering. He’d bought himself a whisky and slugged it down at the bar, then taken a beer back to their table. He drank it as fast as possible; he was hoping to get at least one more in by the time they’d boarded the plane.

  ‘Beckman, you’ll make yourself sick,’ his mother said.

  ‘I’ll take sick over anxious,’ he said. ‘Or fear.’

  ‘If the idea of getting your stomach pumped when you’re a kilometre up in the air doesn’t scare you,’ George said, ‘then I don’t know what will.’

  ‘I don’t like flying,’ Beckman said.

  ‘No, I know,’ his mother said. ‘When he was a kid we used to have this kite, do you remember?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘He used to have a fit if anyone ever flew it. He’d work himself into hysterics. He and his father used to fight about it every time it was windy and his father wanted to fly it in the park. Beckman would beg him to leave it on his bedroom wall. You really don’t remember that?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I guess there’s a lot of things I’ve forgotten.’

  ‘It comes with age,’ George said.

  Beckman looked over to their gate, where about twenty people were standing in a row, most of them alone, staring into space. A few people were wearing suits and had newspapers folded under their arms. Since his father died his mother had moved house seven times. She was retired and on a pension, so none of the moves had been brought on by economic necessity, it was just that every eight months or so she’d pack everything up and go to a different house.

  Whenever she called on him to help her move her belongings, Beckman always agreed to without asking why she was going through it all over again.

  ‘Maybe we should line up,’ Beckman said.

  ‘Soon, but not yet. Relax a little,’ his mother said. ‘I don’t see why everyone’s in such a hurry. No matter how fast you find your seat the plane’s not going to take off any faster or slower. Do people know that?’

  Beckman finished his drink and started peeling off the bottle’s label. His mother was making a point, he thought, of taking her time. Their flight was announced and Beckman took his glasses off and put them on the table. He was thankful that his mother hadn’t yet mentioned that they used to belong to his father.

  ‘Showtime,’ George said. ‘I’ll hang around here until you guys take off.’

  ‘You should wave at us,’ Beckman’s mother said.

  ‘I’ll shout at you like I’m on the dock and you’re on a cruise.’

  Beckman felt ill. He wanted to order another beer, but they didn’t have enough time. The sky outside was clear and held aeroplanes.

  ‘I need you to come by once your classes are over,’ his mother said to him. ‘My shower is clogged and I want you to take a look at it. At the moment I’m showering under a trickle.’

  ‘I can pay for a plumber,’ Beckman said, because he was starting to feel guilty every time she mentioned his work.

  ‘Who says you can’t fix it? I’m sure you would have made a fine plumber.’

  ‘What about Robert?’

  ‘He was supposed to be an electrician.’

  Beckman felt angry at his brother then, for no real reason other than that he wasn’t around; Robert didn’t like dealing with anything at all family related and he always made the excuse he was busy at work.

  ‘You’d get pretty good money,’ George said. ‘For doing something like that. Still, though, you could probably afford it on a university salary.’

  Beckman nodded and looked away from his uncle’s gleaming, too-earnest face. He wondered what would happen if, right then, George happened to explode.

  Once they’d said goodbye to George – after he’d clapped Beckman on the shoulder roughly and called him ‘Captain’ – and once they’d lined up and then walked across the tarmac and up the thin, ladder-like staircase into the rear of the plane, Beckman hunched in the aisle to look for their seat numbers. A man wearing a pocket-covered khaki vest was already sitting in the window seat of their row. He looked like he was on safari. Beckman nodded at him once, then ushered his mother into the middle seat. He sat down in the aisle seat, clicked on his seatbelt and put a stick of gum in his mouth.

  ‘It was nice of George to drive us,’ his mother said, after she’d sat down and arranged herself.

  ‘Yeah, it was,’ Beckman said. ‘He’s good value.’

  ‘I know he’s financially secure but I still think he’s miserable.’

  When the plane taxied down the runway the flight attendants went through the safety instructions. They told everyone to watch, even if they’d flown before, and Beckman stared at them, trying to look attentive, though he was thinking about the time he walked across the campus one night and there had been spotlights beautifully illuminating the university’s sandstone walls. It had been cold and a choir had been standing around outside, practising in their scarves, and Beckman had been overwhelmed by the kind of sentimentality he’d been spending most of the semester trying to eradicate from his students’ work. He felt guilty that this was something he couldn’t share with his mother. It was the kind of anecdote she usually enjoyed.

  ‘I hate this bit,’ his mother said when the plane paused before it picked up speed for take-off. ‘Everything else I’m fine with. Just this bit.’

  Beckman nodded. He arranged and then rearranged his feet on the floor in front of him, trying to make them somehow feel right. There was a rush as they accelerated down the runway; the front of the plane tilted upwards and then they were in the air. Beckman looked out the window at the roofs of houses, and as they climbed higher he saw the deep blue of the harbour and, further out, the ocean. The plane shuddered and started to level out.

  ‘Well, I’m glad that’s over,’ his mother said.

  ‘Not yet,’ Beckman said.

  The fasten seatbelt light was still on above their heads. His mother put her hand on his forearm. He realised he was gripping onto his armrests. He loosened his grip and let go and then rubbed his hands.

  ‘They’re cramped now,’ he said.

  ‘You shouldn’t be wearing your father’s glasses either, you’ll ruin your eyes.’

  ‘I can see pretty well with them.’

  Her own glasses made her eyes look bigger and sadder than they really were. She said, ‘Your hands wouldn’t hurt if you ate more bananas.’

  He heard the clean metallic click of a seatbelt being released behind him and someone bumped into the back of his seat as they tried to get up. A flight attendant said, ‘Please stay seated.’

  ‘Okay,’ a woman’s voice said.

  ‘Just until the seatbelt light has been switched off.’

  Beckman looked through the gap between his seat and his mother’s but he couldn’t see much, just movement now and then. Even so, he could tell the woman behind him was agitated. Now and then he could hear her voice, but not what she was saying.

  They rose above the clouds. Out of the window now it looked like a snow-covered field, with gaps like pools of water that fell back down to the ground.

  The seatbelt light went off. The woman behind him immediately got up, again bumping his seat, and headed for the bathroom at the rear of the plane. Beckman leaned into the aisle to see her, but he didn’t get a good look at her, just her dress and long dark hair. He straightened himself back into his seat.

  ‘What’s happening?’ his mother said.

  ‘Nothing,’ Beckman said. ‘I don’t know, I can’t see anything.’

  ‘Maybe she’s going to throw up.’

  ‘Maybe,’ he said.

  His ears were blocked and he kept chewing his gum, but he didn’t mind the feeling so much. It made him feel like he was floating, his head half-submerged, in the bath. He coughed to clear his head. His mother looked like she was about
to fall asleep.

  Later, inside the aeroplane’s cabin, he was lulled by the hum of the engines. It was a comfort. Down the aisle, towards the front of the cabin, the flight attendants had brought out the food cart. Beckman checked his wallet, but he hadn’t thought to keep any money on him. He spat out his gum into a tissue and put two more pieces in his mouth. In an hour or so they’d be back on the ground.

  The flight attendants progressed through the rows. The cart came to their row and each of them – Beckman, his mother, the man in the safari suit – politely shook their heads.

  The woman who’d been seated behind him was still in the bathroom. Beckman wondered if he should tell anyone about her. He worried he was the only one who had noticed her absence. Maybe she was travelling alone.

  ‘I think I feel like a wine,’ his mother said.

  ‘Do you want me to call for one?’ Beckman said. ‘They’re not that far down the aisle, I could call out.’

  ‘No, don’t. I’ll be home soon. I drank enough at the airport.’

  Beckman thought of his mother’s house, and how she had moved her television into the bedroom so she wouldn’t have to get up most of the day. Whenever he visited he always ended up sitting on her double bed late at night, on the side she never occupied, watching it, with her asleep beside him. She said that she fell asleep every night with the television going.

  The food cart finished its run. The woman still hadn’t returned. Beckman heard the overhead compartment above him open. A flight attendant was rummaging through it and Beckman turned to look at her. When she reached her shirt rode up a little and he saw a flash of tanned skin, just above her hip. He looked away.

  ‘Excuse me, did anyone see that woman’s bag?’ the flight attendant said. ‘She said it was small and purple.’

  ‘Under the seat,’ a man’s voice said.