Too Close to Home

by Georgia Blain

  ‘Who’s there?’ she calls out, nudging Matt with her elbow.

  He doesn’t stir.

  ‘Just us.’ A kid’s voice answers, serious, trying to sound grown up.

  Wrapping a dressing-gown around herself, Freya opens the door to Darlene. She is holding Archie’s hand.

  ‘Jesus, it’s early, you two.’ She sounds only slightly less irritated than she feels. ‘You can’t come and play now. Ella’s asleep.’

  ‘Dad’s not home,’ Darlene tells her and Freya doesn’t immediately understand.

  ‘We got up and he was gone.’ Archie confirms the story, looking at his sister for approval.

  Freya brings them into the kitchen, telling Matt to get up. It is still dim, the morning light pale, and she has to turn on the lights as Matt comes in, his eyes heavy with tiredness. The smell that emanates from his body is a heady mix of last night’s drinking and the animal thickness of sleep. She sits on the opposite side of the table to him, suddenly aware, once again, of their conversation the night before, and it hurts, leaden in her chest.

  Darlene sips from the glass of milk that Freya has poured, a thick white moustache coating her upper lip as she begins to speak, telling her tale with an awareness of her new-found grown-up status.

  Someone had come to their house after Matt had left, waking the kids up.

  ‘They had a fight,’ Darlene tells them, her dark eyes round.

  Sitting next to her, Archie also nods.

  ‘And then I heard Dad go.’ Her eyes widen further. ‘He was drunk and he stole a car.’

  Freya doesn’t understand. Everything seems out of order, confused, and she wants Darlene to explain again, slowly, but Matt interrupts her.

  ‘And he’s not there now? Your dad?’

  Darlene shakes her head, her expression grave.

  ‘So I got me and Archie dressed and we came down here.’

  Freya notices Ella at the doorway, rubbing her eyes as she stares at the two kids, the grin slowly spreading across her face. She has heard half the story from out in the hallway, and she wants to know more.

  ‘Did Shane steal a car?’ she asks.

  ‘Yeah,’ Archie tells her, ‘and he had a fight.’

  ‘Really?’

  Darlene nods.

  ‘Can we go and bounce?’ Ella looks out to the trampoline. Despite the fact she has only just woken she is ready to play.

  This is what kids are like, Freya thinks. All three of them suddenly turn their heads towards the garden, and she has to stop them before they race out there, squealing as they jump high into the air. It’s too early, she tells them, they will wake the neighbours, and as they look back at her, bodies still poised for play, she suggests that maybe they should have breakfast first.

  ‘You must be hungry,’ she tells Archie and Darlene.

  ‘Nah, not really.’ Darlene shakes her head.

  ‘I had some Pepsi and Twisties,’ Archie says, and the yellow stain is still visible around his mouth.

  It’s Matt who takes charge, and Freya is relieved. He will walk up to Shane’s and see whether he’s back. If he isn’t, he’ll leave a note for him. The kids can watch TV until then.

  Ella can’t believe her luck. She’s never allowed to watch television in the mornings. For Archie and Darlene, however, it’s no big deal.

  ‘Channel Seven,’ Darlene advises her, and the sound blares out, too loud, while Freya stands under the warmth of the shower, trying to wake up.

  As she wraps her long hair in a towel and stands naked, anxiety, anger and lack of sleep make her nauseous. She sees her thirty-nine-year-old body in the fogged-up mirror, and she looks at it without pity, before sinking to the ground, knees to her chest, and breathing deeply. Slowly, she stands. She rubs moisturiser into her skin, her fingers tracing the lines around her eyes and mouth. Untwisting the towel on her head, she begins to comb out her long, reddish hair, tying it into a plait that runs down her back. She dresses, old jeans and a grey Bonds T-shirt. Since she has been working at home she wears the same clothes nearly every day. She should make more of an effort, put on something brighter, because she can still look good, and she leans forward, rubbing the last of the sleep from the corner of her eyes.

  Out in the kitchen, Matt tells her that Shane wasn’t home.

  ‘Jesus,’ she says.

  He is slightly surprised by the vehemence of her response. ‘He’ll turn up,’ he assures her. ‘Let’s just get the kids fed.’

  Freya thinks they should call the police. She is speaking softly now so that the children will not hear.

  ‘You don’t call the cops,’ Matt tells her.

  ‘Why not?’ she asks. ‘We’re not living some adolescent “running from the pigs” drama. If he was drunk and he stole a car, who knows where he is. He might have been picked up by the police. He might be in the hospital. I don’t know.’ The exasperation in her voice makes her louder than she knows she should be. ‘But we should ring them and find out.’

  Matt stops pouring milk into the bowls of cereal. He puts the bottle on the counter and rests his hands on her shoulders. Turning her so that they are facing each other, he leans in close.

  ‘Ssh,’ he tells her and his voice is soft, gentle. ‘It’s all right.’

  She looks at him, wanting to calm herself.

  ‘We’ll feed them, take them to school, and then we can deal with it from there.’

  From the lounge room, Ella laughs. The cartoon voices are sharp and tinny, cutting through the occasional mutterings and giggles from the kids as they lie sprawled across the floor on their stomachs, chins propped in their hands and legs bent at the knees, feet moving back and forth behind them; they are oblivious to the adults in the kitchen.

  After breakfast the three of them run out to the trampoline. It is cooler today, and the slight breeze in the old wattle at the back of the yard sends the silvery branches swaying. Standing at the door, looking out at the kids, Freya tells Matt that he should get them up to school soon.

  ‘You can go past Shane’s and double check,’ she says, as she turns to face him.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asks. ‘After last night?’

  She isn’t sure how to respond because she isn’t sure how she feels. ‘You can’t do that,’ she eventually says. ‘Come home so late and throw this possible bomb at me.’ She shakes her head. ‘I don’t know what to think.’

  Matt steps closer, and this time she doesn’t move away. She lets him hold her.

  ‘We don’t even know,’ she says. ‘It may not be your child.’ The thought makes her hopeful. It may all be a ridiculous mistake.

  Matt doesn’t respond.

  Calling the kids in, Freya tells them they can all buy their lunch at the canteen. Once again, Ella can’t believe her luck.

  ‘Can I have anything I want?’

  ‘You can have a salad roll and a juice.’

  Archie says that his dad lets him buy a pie and chips. And chocolate milk.

  ‘And a muffin,’ Darlene adds.

  ‘It’s not fair.’ Ella sticks out her bottom lip.

  She is about to tell her daughter that life isn’t fair, but she stops herself. The memory of her mother, washed out, and standing in the dim dustiness of the once new kitchen uttering those exact words, silences her. Her poor mother. It’s only now that she’s gone that Freya realises how hard it must have been for her. She kisses Ella goodbye and tells her she can have whatever she wants from the canteen. ‘Just this once, though.’

  ‘Call me,’ she says to Matt. ‘Even if Shane isn’t there.’ And she kisses him too, his unshaven cheek rough to the touch.

  Watching as he and the kids head up the street, Freya hopes that the momentary cheer she had felt in the kitchen lasts. It will be okay, she tells herself and, as she turns back towards the house, a hotted-up car pulls into the driveway opposite, engine idling loudly, until a young Vietnamese boy comes out, opens the passenger door, and the car backs out, motor throbbing, music thumping. />
  ‘SO, WHAT HAD HAPPENED to him?’ Anna asks. She snaps a grissini in two and dips one end in the hummus that Freya has brought over.

  Anna had called that afternoon. She wanted to talk. Freya, too, wanted to talk. But when she arrived Louise was also there. This often happened. Freya would be looking forward to time alone with her friend, only to find that a quick drink together involved others. Sometimes she used to wonder whether her place in Anna’s life was less special than she would have liked to believe. When she was younger, she would get hurt, wanting an intensity in her friendships that would affirm the importance of her existence, something she no longer expects from the people in her life.

  This evening, however, she’d been surprised at the irritation she felt when she arrived at Anna’s to find Louise lying on the Danish leather sofa drinking a glass of wine. It was partly because she didn’t like Louise all that much. Matt has pointed out to her that this isn’t surprising, given their history. When Louise made her film from Freya’s play, Louise took all the credit and it irked her. She knew this often happened with film, but she’d expected more from a friend. There’d even been a couple of interviews in which Louise had referred to herself as a co-writer of the script.

  ‘Speak to her about it,’ Matt had said at the time.

  But Freya didn’t see the point. Louise would only become defensive.

  However, this wasn’t the only reason why Freya felt resentful as Louise raised a hand in greeting. She had genuinely wanted to speak to Anna this evening. She had needed to talk to someone about Matt and his recent revelation. But she’s reluctant to do so in front of Louise.

  Lying back on the Wegner sofa that she’s always coveted, Freya tells them both the story of Darlene and Archie’s visit the other morning. When she confesses to having wanted to call the police, Louise shakes her head.

  ‘Jesus,’ she says. ‘Thank God Matt was there to stop you.’

  Freya defends herself: ‘It wasn’t an entirely stupid response. Kids turn up on your doorstep at six-thirty and tell you their dad isn’t there, that he’s been in a fight, that he nicked a car and drove off drunk.’

  She knows the whole situation is coloured (and the choice of word is unfortunate) by the fact that they are Aboriginal kids. She doesn’t need Louise to point this out to her, but still she does.

  ‘I mean that makes it highly charged to call the cops.’

  ‘Anyway,’ she continues in response to Anna’s question about what had happened to Shane, ‘there was no need. Shane was there when Matt stopped off on the way to taking the kids to school.’

  She explains how Matt had called her as soon as he had got into work, telling her that Shane had spent the night next door. Slightly pissed and wanting to continue drinking, he had called out to the Tongans who had moved into the other half of the semi. He had woken Darlene to tell her that he was just going over the fence, he’d be with the neighbours, she should come and get him if she needed him.

  He had drunk with them until he had fallen asleep on their lounge-room floor. He had come home through the back door, missing Matt’s note out the front. The kids weren’t there and he had no idea where they’d gone.

  ‘You had me worried,’ and he put his hands on Darlene’s shoulders, shaking her slightly as he spoke to her. ‘You can’t do that,’ he told her. ‘You hear me? You stay put when I tell you. Jesus, girl.’

  Darlene glared back at him, sticking her tongue out as she did so.

  ‘What nonsense have you been telling your Uncle Matt?’ He looked from his daughter to Matt, who gave him half the version that Darlene had fed him that morning.

  ‘Jesus,’ he’d said, shaking Darlene again.

  Shane then stepped back and knelt down to her level. ‘You said I had a fight and crashed a car?’

  She shrugged her shoulders and turned away from him.

  He called out to Archie who had slunk into the darkness of the corridor.

  ‘You been saying this nonsense too?’ he asked. But Archie wasn’t answering, nor was he coming out.

  ‘I hate you,’ Darlene said, ‘and I don’t want to live with you anymore.’

  At this point, Matt had decided it was time to leave. Besides, he had to get Ella to school and then head into work.

  ‘I told Ella not to go telling all the other kids that Shane stole a car and was in a fight, but I don’t know if it did much good,’ Matt had said. ‘As soon as she got to the gates, she started on about it to that girl, what’s her name? The one with the curly blonde hair. Anyway, I stopped her that time, but I’m sure she told the others.’

  Now, as she recounts the story to Anna and Louise, Freya tells them that she likes Darlene. ‘I admire her, you know.’

  They don’t really understand.

  She tries to explain. Darlene was angry with her dad for going next door to get pissed and she chose a very clever way of getting even with him. She told them a tale that not only fed into their preconceptions of Shane (despite the fact that they didn’t want to hold those preconceptions), but was also a way for her to express her worst fears about what might happen to him.

  ‘It was smart,’ Freya says. ‘And effective.’

  She pours herself another glass of wine, rubbing her toes into the softness of the silk carpet at her feet.

  ‘It was pretty irresponsible of him to leave the kids alone.’ Anna changes the music, and then sits again, her long slender legs crossed in front of her.

  ‘I guess so.’ Freya hates this battle she always has with herself whenever she thinks about Shane, which is far more often than she would like. ‘When Ella was a baby, we used to leave her alone in the flat with a monitor on so that the neighbours could hear if she cried out. They’d go in to her if she did.’ Freya shrugs her shoulders. ‘How much worse is Shane’s behaviour?’

  There’s a slight breeze this evening, and she looks out to the courtyard. The lights along the stone walls throw the feathery leaves of the jacaranda into a silvery silhouette. A tall eucalypt in one corner bends precariously, its limbs dancing gently against the darkness of the evening sky.

  It’s quiet here, she thinks to herself, suddenly aware of the absence of traffic, raised voices, goods trains and aeroplanes. There is only the softness of Chet Baker singing, his voice dulled by smack, and the sounds of their own voices.

  Freya speaks without thinking. ‘They’re always at our house.’ She is referring to Archie and Darlene, and she’s surprised at the tiredness in her tone. She likes them, but there are times when she would like to be alone with Ella and Matt, just the three of them, and it feels as though this happens rarely now.

  Neither Anna nor Louise know what she’s talking about and they aren’t sufficiently interested to clarify the matter. Louise asks Anna about her latest film, and as they both begin to catalogue the sins of the director, Freya goes to the bathroom. Washing her hands, she listens to the soft murmur of their conversation. She opens the mirrored cupboard and looks at the rows of cosmetics and creams, all in plain bottles, labelled to look like medicinal products, anti-luxury, when they are, in fact, obscenely expensive. She takes a moisturiser out and smells the sharpness of citrus and verbena before rubbing the cream into her hands.

  When she comes back out, the talk has drifted. Anna is standing with her back to the open doors and she is swaying slightly in time to the music. She is wearing a short skirt and a striped singlet, clothes that would look ordinary on anyone else, Freya thinks. She has been running her hands through her thick dark hair and it sticks up in places, lying flat in others.

  Louise is telling her about her attempts to have a child with Scot and Alistair.

  ‘We’ve tried twice now,’ she says.

  ‘So how do you actually do it?’

  Anna’s eyes are focused on Louise and her smile is bright, intense, as she stops her slow movement to the sound of the song and sits once again, waiting for a response.

  ‘It’s kind of strange really,’ and Louise shifts uncomfortably
on the couch. ‘They go off into the bathroom, do the deed and then give me a sterilised jar of sperm. I use a syringe.’ She pours herself another wine. ‘It was Alistair the first time, Scot the second. We’re taking it in turns.’

  ‘So do they hang around while you go and do your bit?’ Anna’s grin is bemused.

  ‘They did the first time, not the second.’

  ‘And have you worked out all the stuff for afterwards?’ Freya asks.

  Louise isn’t sure what she means.

  ‘Their role, your role, how you will live, financial responsibility – I don’t know,’ Freya says. ‘All that stuff.’

  ‘As much as you ever can. I mean they want to be parents, not uncles. So we’re looking at joint financial responsibility for the child, and joint custody once I stop breastfeeding.’

  There’s a slight irritation in Louise’s response and Freya tries to mollify her. ‘I guess you can never really plan for the future,’ she says. ‘You like to think you can, but it’s often no more than just a vain hope. Even when you have a family in the traditional way.’ She utters those last words as an apology for the ease of her own situation.

  Anna wants to go back to the details of their attempts to conceive. She has always liked talking about the nitty-gritty of bodily functions; sex, illness, food, injuries – they fascinate her.

  She wants to know whether Louise has read the articles that say a woman is more likely to conceive if she has an orgasm.

  Louise has. She smiles with a certain embarrassment, and Freya must admit that she too feels slightly embarrassed at the mental image Anna has implanted. Louise drains the rest of her glass. She sits up on the couch, and is about to make a joke, but then changes her mind, stopping mid sentence.

  ‘It’s lonely,’ she says. ‘And I didn’t expect it to be like this.’

  Freya leans forward to take her hand, but Louise just pulls away.

  Anna hugs her. ‘I want a child too,’ she tells her. She runs her long fine fingers up and down Louise’s forearm. ‘But Paolo won’t even consider the idea.’