Night Swimming

by Steph Bowe

  Back in the car, after fifteen minutes of silence on the way back to the hospital, Mum asks me how it went, her voice strained.

  ‘What do genetics matter, anyway?’ I say. ‘Your family is the people who stick around and look after you. A bit of shared DNA does not a loved one make.’

  She nods. Her eyes flicker from the road to me. I think she is searching for something to say, but the rest of the trip back is in silence. The Sydney radio booming out at us does nothing to quell the tension in the car.

  The drive home from Sydney is worse than the drive there. I don’t even have a book with me. Before we left, Mum called Uncle Harry, and we endured half an hour of awkward chat with him and his wife around Grandad’s bed. Elliott was at school and Alicia was at work; neither could make it at short notice. It’s funny how, if you see them rarely enough, family members are just like strangers. Or, in Grandad’s case, you simply forget them. It was hard to tell how much or how little he remembered about his son, Harry.

  We still don’t know exactly what happened to Grandad, apart from the fact that his seizure wasn’t a stroke or a heart attack or a blood-sugar low. We won’t know the results from his tests for weeks. He might not be here for long, and the doctors might be right about the dementia, too, but he seems otherwise back to normal. I, on the other hand, feel entirely different from how I felt two days ago, like I am someone new and unknown: my father is no longer an unexplained variable in my life. On top of that, I’ve still stuffed up everything with Iris. By now Clancy will have declared his feelings for her, and she and he are probably an item, and I should be really happy for them.

  When we get back, I may or may not slam the car door behind me like the petulant teenager I am. Usually I’d help Grandad in but I’ve had rage boiling in my stomach for the past four hours and I can’t stand another moment of being with people. No one comes after me.

  I want to go out and hide in the bush up the road where Clancy and I and the rest of our classmates used to play terrifying games of hide-and-seek when we were kids, but if I go out on the road I’m bound to run into somebody, and I really don’t have it in me at the moment to be my usual polite self.

  So I hide behind the shed, and look across the paddocks at the goats. I’m not far enough away from the house to scream, and I don’t want to frighten the goats. Or Maude, who already has anxiety issues.

  I very soon discover that I’m not, in fact, angry about how pathetic my father was. Angry-sad, maybe. I sit on the patchy ground, chucking tufts of grass everywhere, and have a good, proper cry, like I haven’t in years. The shed blocks the wind, but it’s still cold, and it feels as if my tears are going to freeze on my face.

  I get a shock when Mum’s head pops around the corner of the shed. The rest of her follows. Usually, after an argument, or when someone storms off, she just waits it out. She never comes after me when I’m having a sook. She never apologises or placates. Just leaves you to your sooking.

  She does an exaggerated sigh and sits on the grass next to me. I think she’s trying to look sympathetic. I hope. It’s hard to tell, sometimes. My mum is tough. Not violent or intimidating. Just unyielding. She used to want to be a lawyer, and I reckon she’d be good in court. Resolute. It’s sometimes hard to tell whether she’s feeling any emotion at all. Probably comes from being raised by Grandad. He was never into expressing his feelings.

  I am blubbering and getting snot everywhere. ‘Why did you have to have me with someone who nicked off?’

  Mum looks distressed. ‘I didn’t know he was going to leave, Kirby. I wouldn’t deny you a father on purpose. Do you think Grandad’s responsible for your grandmother leaving?’

  ‘No.’

  She doesn’t look at me while she speaks. She’s watching the goats in the paddock. ‘Neither do I. I don’t blame her. It’s just the way things go sometimes. Sometimes things just don’t work out. We’ve got to do the best we can to be happy. You’re a fine person without a dad and I’m a fine person, mostly, without a mum—because we’ve got each other, and we’ve got Grandad, and we’ve got more bloody goats than we know what to do with. Your dad leaving was one of the hardest things I’ve been through, but I had you guys to look after. I might seem bitter about it, because trying to run a business like this on my own can get pretty demoralising, but I’m grateful. You saved me.’

  I’ve started breathing evenly again. My nose is blocked. ‘You left out Nathan and Claire. And Maude and Marianne. And Stanley. He’s sort of a higher level of goat, isn’t he? Goats are to him as we are to the Dalai Lama, I reckon.’

  Mum shakes her head. ‘I really don’t think Stanley’s a spiritual leader. He’s as dumb as the rest of them.’

  ‘Was it weird seeing Uncle Harry today? Since you hardly talk?’

  She shakes her head. ‘No. We might not be a family who talks about feelings all the time, but that doesn’t mean we’re totally dysfunctional. We’ll see more of them once the baby’s born, anyway.’

  ‘Good. Another thing: you know how it’s Nathan’s job to do everything around here, and you never ask me to do anything even though there’s so much to do? That makes me feel like you think I’m incompetent, or that you don’t want me around or something.’

  ‘I want you to leave, Kirby,’ says Mum, exasperated. ‘Don’t look at me like that, you know that’s not how I mean it. Nathan decided to be here, after he tried living in the city, and after he tried uni. He worked out that this is where he belonged. I know you feel this is your place, and it is, but there’s so much more for you to discover. I don’t want you to miss out because you feel guilty or responsible or fearful or anything. I stayed for so long because I thought your grandad needed me, and I didn’t want to be like my mum, and I kept thinking, one day I’ll get out of here. Then I had you. And that was good. You’re a pretty special kid, and I’m not saying that just because you’re my kid. Anyone can see it. And I appreciate it now, and I accept that we can’t always have everything we want. But I want you to take the chances I missed, and the opportunities I didn’t have, and be able to decide for yourself where your place is and what you want to be doing. Once you’ve checked out your options, then you can decide whether or not to take up carpentry or the life of a goat-farmer. But just because you were born here doesn’t mean you have to stay here. You have to stop clinging so hard to this town.’

  ‘Don’t cry, Mum.’ In my entire life, I have never seen Mum cry. She is formidable, stable, level-headed. Not a crier. I am terrified. Tears are welling up in my eyes, just looking at her.

  ‘I’m not. I have hayfever.’

  I laugh. ‘You do not.’

  Then she’s laughing, too, and crying, and she sweeps me up into a big, squeezing hug. The kind she never gives. ‘You’re making me get sentimental in my old age.’

  ‘You’re only forty-two. You’re not even halfway through. Some scientists reckon we’ll all live to a hundred and fifty.’

  ‘That’s a lot of years of goat-milking and soap-making and Business Activity Statements,’ she says.

  ‘What do you want me to study?’ I ask.

  ‘Whatever you want, Kirby. That’s the point. You know I like the law, but the whole point is for you to get away from this tiny microcosm of a town and then work out what’s right for you.’

  ‘Female elephants live with their mums their whole lives, did you know that?’

  Mum smiles at me kindly. ‘I didn’t. But we’re not elephants, Dumbo.’

  My afternoon nap is interrupted by a call from Clancy. He’s got a talent for badly timed calls. I don’t feel like chatting, but I’ve been ignoring his texts since the party because I’ve been so caught up with Grandad, and my dad, so I figure I owe it to him to let him know what’s going on. As always, his voice is too loud. ‘Kirbs! How are you? How’s Cyril?’

  Marianne is curled up on my chest, absorbing my life force and making it very difficult for me to speak. I push her off. ‘Back to normal,’ I tell him. I don’t know how to expl
ain it properly: that Grandad is normal but also that we’re all on edge now, knowing what could happen, not knowing what we can do to prevent it. Feeling mortal. So I just change the topic. ‘What happened with Iris?’

  ‘God, she’s amazing. I declared my feelings and intentions and all that jazz. In song.’

  ‘Which song?’ I ask. I need to be able to create a mental picture. Acclimatise myself properly to the idea of her and Clancy together. I’ll get there.

  ‘My own composition. I should’ve worked out that she was uncomfortable about the whole thing, but I was pretty caught up with the performance.’

  Wait. ‘So, she wasn’t keen?’

  ‘Alas, no. It’s probably for the best. I’ll have more time to prepare for my drama school auditions and to study for my totally demoralising Year Twelve exams.’

  I don’t know how to react. It doesn’t actually have anything to do with me, not really, does it? ‘I’m sorry, Clance,’ I manage.

  ‘Hey, I just thought to myself, What’s the worst thing that could happen? She said no in a very nice fashion. And now I don’t have to wonder What if? I should not have waited so long to tell her. All that nonsense about the right moment. What a waste! Life’s short, Kirb. I think I might get a carpe diem tattoo.’

  ‘Please don’t.’

  Clancy laughs. ‘I better go. I’ve got an Ancient History essay to write.’

  Next morning, Grandad and I are camped out in the living room. He is watching TV, Maude on his lap, and I’m reading Brave New World, as if nothing ever happened. Usually, I’d be at Mr Pool’s, except Mr Pool called and told me to take the week off. He thinks I need a break after the shock of Grandad’s episode. I’m expecting Mr Pool to just keep giving me more and more time off until I don’t actually work with him anymore, but right now it doesn’t worry me, because Grandad’s here, and I want to make the most of that.

  There’s a knock at the door, a rhythmic rat-a-tat-tat.

  ‘I’ll get it!’ I call to no one.

  Iris is on the veranda, holding a wicker basket and looking meek. Her dress is patterned with pastel rainbows. It was only two nights ago that I saw her at the engagement party, but it feels much longer. She’s so gorgeous my breath goes on me. This’ll get easier, I tell myself. It has to. She hands me the basket and I am careful not to touch her.

  ‘Um, Mum put together a bit of a gift basket for you. Sort of, a “sorry that your grandad had a medical emergency in our eating establishment, hope he’s all right” package. She didn’t want to impose, so she sent me. The lollies are from me to you, and the curries are Dad’s contribution. I’d put them in the fridge as soon as you can, since they’ve got meat in them. Salmonella poisoning would be awful, on top of everything else. The rest is from Mum.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘Mum’s out with the goats, but she’ll probably call and say thanks later.’

  She nods. ‘No problem. How’s your grandad?’

  ‘Yeah, good. Still don’t know what happened to him, though.’

  She shuffles from foot to foot, nervous, like she wants to leave. I don’t know if she’ll come in, if I invite her to. I want her to stay.

  ‘I saw my dad,’ I blurt.

  ‘How was it?’ she asks.

  And then I’m off, rambling, clutching the gift basket like my life depends on it. ‘Seems wrong to call him my dad. I can’t tell whether or not I feel worse than before. It’s good, because now I know where he is and what he’s doing, and that I don’t have the genetics of a serial killer. It’s bad because all this possibility is extinguished, you know? I never really expected it, but it sure would’ve been nice if my dad had been someone who really wanted to raise me and really loved me and missed me and he just couldn’t because he was an international super-spy or something. But he’s not. He’s an academic with a family he loves and a secret kid he had years ago. And he doesn’t even think about that kid. He’s got nothing to do with me, really.’

  We’re quiet. I’ve said too much.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I…I can’t think of anything else to say that’s adequate. Just, sorry.’

  ‘There’s nothing to be sorry for,’ I say.

  ‘And I’m sorry if I overstepped the mark, the other night. Or those nights last month. I’d never want to make you unhappy,’ she says, looking down. ‘I’d like us to be friends. And not just because this would be a lonely town if we weren’t. I have to go. Restaurant’s opening for lunch. It’s been a good couple of days since the party, plenty of people coming in. So thank you, for that. Thank your cousin. I’m going to go now.’

  She steps off the veranda and is away down the path towards the road before I get a chance to say anything, before my brain can find the right words—how to explain that I was only trying to do the right thing by Clancy, how to explain how overwhelmed I am by what I feel towards her, to explain how scary that is.

  The next day, rain rolls in and doesn’t leave. I find myself regularly walking Stanley and Maude past Iris’s house, which must be more than coincidental, since I never walked past there that often before, largely because it’s on a hill. With the rain, it’s a very muddy hill. I could just send her a text message, make a call, pop into the restaurant, but that seems uncomfortably direct and I’m still at a loss as to what to say to her. I tell Clancy I’m too busy with Grandad to catch up, so he doesn’t force us together. If I just run into her, maybe it’ll come to me: how I can repair what I’m sure is broken between us.

  A few days later, in the afternoon, I see her as I’m coming back past her house. She’s standing out on the wraparound veranda. The rain has eased and she’s smiling at me, like she knows what I’m up to. Like it’s not totally creepy that I’ve been past her house three times already today.

  I play it cool, pausing casually as if I’m only there because Stanley’s eating the grass outside their house. ‘I was in the neighbourhood…I mean, obviously, because I live two kilometres that way, and we don’t really have neighbourhoods. I just happened to come over.’ My attempts at playing it cool are perfectly transparent.

  She nods. ‘I’m glad. Do you want to come in?’

  ‘Are your parents in?’ I ask. What I should be asking is, Is it okay if I leave Stanley in your front yard? I’ll pay for any damage he causes.

  ‘Up at the restaurant. It’s fine if you’re here. They, um, they know. How much I like you. Somehow, Mum knows everything in my life. It was not unlike West Side Story: I sang “I just met a girl named Kirby” the day I met you.’

  I laugh. I am smiling so hard my face hurts. I try to still my hands, stop the shaking. I fail. ‘Sadly, we don’t have enough young people in Alberton to form gangs that can dance-fight. Fight-dance.’

  She laughs. It’s the best sound. I close the gate and leave Stanley out the front and my umbrella dripping on the veranda. Grandad is superstitious about having open umbrellas inside, and I’ve inherited that odd superstition along with the one about not putting new shoes on the table and about throwing spilt salt over your left shoulder. Grandad would never have let us keep Marianne when he was younger—when I was a kid, he wouldn’t even let me bring wattle into the house for fear of bad luck. Though he’s less fervent in his beliefs now, he would not have been happy about me climbing on that ladder, either—the risk of accidentally walking underneath it would have been too great.

  There are still cardboard boxes half unpacked in the hallway. The house had more furniture, older furniture, when the Hendersons lived here. It’s a totally different place now, with furniture that you slot together, from a place like Ikea. Mr Pool would not be impressed. There are trinkets everywhere. Plants in geometric vases, funny little sculptures, and different lamps in every room.

  Iris leads me to the kitchen. ‘We don’t have any Milo,’ she says. ‘Sorry!’ She makes me a Nesquik. ‘Do you want to see my room?’ I do.

  Her room is an explosion of colour. Dresses bursting from her closet. A wall of photos and inspirational quotes and
art prints. Another wall swathed in a rainbow of fabrics. The room is so incredibly her.

  ‘Let me show you something,’ she says. She fiddles with the Venetian blinds, snapping them shut so the room goes dark but for slivers of light. She flicks a switch near the door and the walls light up with slowly rotating constellations, emanating from the central globe. She sits on her bed and smiles up at me, uncertain. ‘It’s a bit childish, I know.’

  ‘It’s not. Or it is. It doesn’t matter. I like it.’

  ‘It’s way more magical from here.’ She stretches out on her bed, close to the wall so there’s a space for me. I lie beside her, gazing up, and it is more magical. We’re lying there, pressed arm to arm in her single bed and I can hear her breathing. I am feeling a bit electric. My heart is beating like the wings of a tiny, panicked bird, which makes no sense because hearts aren’t like birds at all.

  ‘I loved all those novelties as a kid.’ Iris’s voice is soft. ‘Lava lamps and kaleidoscopes and glow-in-the-dark stars. Pretty, sparkly things. Seems silly, to still have fake stars when there are real stars outside.’

  ‘I don’t think so. It must be nice to fall asleep inside this. A cocoon of your own little galaxy. I still love those glass balls with the lightning inside, the kind you touch and the electricity goes to the point where you touched it. We’ve got one at home and I plug it in every now and then and pretend I’m a witch. It was probably my grandmother’s.’

  She turns on her side and props her head on her hand so she’s looking down at me. Her face is lit by slowly turning stars. ‘Where did she go?’

  ‘Everywhere. Before I was born she was in Sydney, and I think she spent a lot of time in Thailand and Indonesia and Cambodia. I have a shoebox full of postcards that she started sending when I was tiny. The past few years, she’s mostly been back and forth to South America. She comes home to see us, but not very often.’

  ‘She sounds cool. But not your typical grandma?’

  I shake my head. ‘Not very grandmotherly. But that’s okay. Just because you have grandkids doesn’t mean you don’t get to be your own person anymore. I’d rather she be happy doing her thing than miserable back here, baking scones with the CWA.’