Too Close to Home

by Georgia Blain

  ‘And Lucas won’t come back?’

  She tells her that no he won’t, this is it, it’s over. ‘They are moving into their own place.’ She holds her close. ‘Why don’t I run you a bath?’

  Ella nods.

  ‘And then we’ll have some dinner.’

  Back in the kitchen, Shane is getting ready to head home. He ruffles the top of Ella’s head. ‘Gonna miss your stinky old Uncle Shane?’

  They are packing and going first thing tomorrow.

  It’s a surprise to all of them.

  ‘I mean I knew it was happening,’ Matt says. ‘But not this soon.’

  ‘You know us.’ Shane shrugs. ‘Don’t carry much with us. Job came up near home and we’re gonna go.’

  Ella starts crying, and then embarrassed, she stops herself. She wants to say goodbye to Archie and Darlene. ‘Please.’ She tugs at Freya’s hand until Freya eventually agrees that yes, she’ll walk up there with them, but Ella has to come straight back with her after she’s said her farewells.

  Matt hugs him at the door, tells him to stay in touch.

  ‘Call us when you come to Queensland,’ Shane says. ‘You’ve always got a place there.’

  It’s dark outside and she and Shane walk more slowly than Ella, who runs ahead, her thin legs barely visible, the flash of her hair a pale light in the evening.

  ‘Been a hard day for that one, and it’s not gonna be over for a while.’ For a moment Freya thinks he’s referring to Ella, and she doesn’t understand. But then she realises it’s Lisa. ‘Called the mental health team in the end. He’s gone to hospital for an assessment. Don’t know if he’s sick or angry or just shit scared.’

  Freya looks at him. ‘Probably all three.’

  ‘She’s had it tough. Been good you took ’em in.’

  Standing under the streetlight, Freya turns to him. They are both silent. She wants to tell him that she hasn’t been good at all, she never wanted to take Lisa in, and she can’t do it anymore. The words are there, ready for her to speak, but it’s Shane who talks.

  ‘She’s looked after herself a long time. Already pretty good at it when I knew her up in Brisbane. And she can look after him too.’

  He finishes rolling the cigarette he’s been holding, lighting it with his head cocked forwards. The smell of tobacco in the chill evening air is sweet, the glow of the lit tip a deep orange.

  ‘How did it happen?’ It’s all she can say, and it’s a question so broad you could answer it in any way at all.

  ‘Young, silly, next thing you know yer a parent.’

  She can see the gap in his teeth as he grins ruefully.

  She sits for a moment, resting on the edge of the wall around the house that Darlene liked, and she lets herself cry, blowing her nose as she tells him she’ll be all right. ‘It’s just change and I’ve got to get used to it.’

  ‘Things’ll settle down. You’ll see.’

  As they round the corner, Freya sees the light is on at Shane’s house. The three children are standing, silhouettes in the doorway. Darlene is about to pull Ella in, but Shane calls out. ‘She’s not staying. And you’re finishing your packing. It’s just goodbyes. That’s all it is.’

  Archie is the one who sticks his finger up at Shane, Ella’s giggle audible from a few metres away, while Darlene blows a raspberry.

  The gate is loose on its hinges, the stairs crumbling.

  Standing at the entrance to Shane’s house, Freya can see down the long, empty hallway, the bare light globe hanging overhead. It probably won’t look all that different when they go. He was right, they never had much with them.

  She hugs Archie first, surprised at the ferocity with which he returns her affection. But it’s Darlene she will miss the most. She smiles as she remembers her story about the stolen car, and as she bends down to kiss her, Darlene throws her arms around her neck.

  She and Shane are more awkward with each other, their embrace a little clumsy, and she would like to tell him that it’s been good getting to know him, but the truth is she doesn’t really know him that well. They were only just starting to find a way towards each other, and that is what is sad.

  ‘See you.’

  ‘See you.’

  ‘See you.’

  The children call out the words, until they round the corner and are out of sight, and she and Ella walk home, hand in hand, back to where Lisa still sits in the kitchen, while Matt makes something to eat. And Freya will join them, taking the chair next to Lisa, as Matt tells her what she has already guessed, Lucas is his, and Freya will not ask Lisa why she lied, she is too worn out, and this is not the time for such talk. Instead she will tell her to have a bath and get an early night, and in the morning Freya will drive her to the hospital to see her son.

  LAST NIGHT

  IT’S AUGUST NOW, THE last night of her play and the evening of the election.

  Freya watches from the middle of the back row, Matt on one side of her, Ella asleep on the other, as the two characters argue. The drama centres on the wife’s discovery that her husband now votes Family First. She moves from disbelief to anger, while he remains obdurate. As they fire words at each other, expressing their disgust for the other’s political stance, their understanding of their life together unravels, messy and ugly on the stage.

  It’s been called a brave work in the papers. A theatrical piece that relies largely on dialogue, in the mode of the classics – Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, frequently cited. An unusually political work for a woman. A sparse and powerful piece of theatre, a kitchen-sink drama that veers dangerously close to the didactic.

  The fact that its season has fallen right in the midst of the election campaign has been both a blessing and a curse. There’s been no shortage of publicity but it hasn’t translated to successful takings at the box office.

  People are worn out by politics, her agent has consoled her.

  But Freya suspects that it’s not politics that’s the problem; it’s the arts.

  She’d come on opening night, giving tickets to all her friends, too nervous to really listen to the sound of her own words. Afterwards they’d gone out, drinking too much in a loud bar, and she’d avoided Frank, who was there with Marianne, only to end up snorting lines of cocaine in the toilets with Anna.

  ‘Wouldn’t be able to do this if I was still up the duff,’ Anna had said as she’d rolled up a fifty-dollar bill.

  They’d giggled at how difficult they found it to lean down in the tight space, so much so that Freya had almost lost the entire line onto the floor.

  ‘Do you reckon you’ll try again?’ she’d asked as she snorted what was left.

  Anna had shrugged her shoulders, confessing that she wasn’t sure if she’d have the nerve. ‘Think that was my chance.’ And then she’d narrowed her eyes, looking at Freya in the harshness of the cubicle light. ‘So,’ she’d asked, ‘while we’re on true confessions – what was it like sleeping with Frank?’

  Freya had blushed. ‘Illicitly fabulous. Disgustingly tawdry.’

  And Anna had grinned. ‘No need to tell me really. I slept with him eons past. Just wanted to make you squirm.’

  They’d ended up staying out till four in the morning, and it had been like years ago, when they were still at university, young, intense and able to forgo sleep. She’d crawled into bed as the sun came up, begging Matt to lock her door and leave her alone to recover for the day.

  Tonight she wants to take in the play, to see it as someone other than the writer would see it, but it’s never easy watching your own work. The performances are strong and the direction good. Frank’s had plenty of praise, and is talking with a producer about a film next. He is talented and she knows this, although all that has passed makes it difficult for her to appreciate his work with any kind of distance.

  Next to her, Matt squeezes her hand, and she glances across at him, but his eyes are fixed on the stage. Freya had offered Lisa a ticket as well, but she didn’t want to leave Lucas by himself at n
ight. They live in a small flat, three suburbs away. Lisa works as a receptionist in a doctor’s surgery. Lucas is on medication, and spends most of his days alone in the apartment.

  The evening after they moved out, Matt had cried, helpless and lost, and she watched, her attempts at comfort puny in the wake of his distress. Leaning forward in the armchair, his whole body had heaved as he’d sobbed, his shoulders rounded, his head in his hands.

  Lucas was his, and Matt didn’t know how to live with this. ‘Because it’s permanent,’ he confessed. ‘And I don’t want him.’ He’d been horrified at his words. ‘But I have to find a place for him. Here.’ And he’d touched his heart.

  Freya had stared at the floor, also hating herself for wishing that it wasn’t this way. But it was. And each time she looked at Ella she knew she had no choice. She, too, had to find a space within herself, a way of incorporating this boy into her life, despite not wanting to.

  They are yet to tell Ella the truth, and they are both anxious about this.

  ‘Slowly,’ they have promised each other, because it’s all that they can do, unstitching the shape they have made and become accustomed to, the tear always painful in the shift necessary to incorporate the new.

  Now, as Freya sits between Matt and Ella, the actors speak their final words. It’s the wife who has the last say and then the stage fades to black. Ella stirs, and Freya kisses the top of her head.

  As the lights go up and the applause commences, there’s a shout in the audience.

  ‘Anyone know who won?’

  She looks around her, at the rows of faces, some searching for their bags, others reading program notes, many turning on their phones and checking the news. The woman in front of her tells her partner that she doesn’t care whether it’s Labor or Liberal. ‘Their campaigns were fuelled by hatred. This country is mean and low.’ Further down the row, an older man says he wouldn’t be surprised if it were Abbott. ‘Labor blew it. No principles. All they cared about was power.’

  And then someone shouts out that it’s too close to call, probably will be for days.

  ‘Could well be a hung parliament.’

  It’s the news they’d all been expecting, although Freya, and so many others, are unsettled, unsure of what this means. Are they in for more of the same or could it get worse? She leans over to the man next to her. Does he know, she asks, what the outcome will be?

  He shakes his head. ‘No one knows. It’s all up in the air.’

  Freya smiles at the expression, at the hope it conveys. Maybe there’s an alternative, perhaps they don’t have to slot into the well-worn groove they’ve always known? This uncertainty could herald a new era, and be cause for celebration after all. A miracle has been occurring, out there in the world, while we sat here in this darkened theatre. We will open the doors and all will be changed.

  She shakes her head, enjoying the thought for a moment, and then she stands, aware of her foolishness. She’s old enough to know that’s not how it is, and yet, there’s a part of her that would like to hold on for just a little longer.

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to my family for their love, and a very special thank you to my dear friend, Rosie Scott. She worked on this manuscript with me and her advice was – as always – exactly right. Without it, getting to the end would have been a lot more difficult and considerably slower.

  About the Author

  Georgia Blain has published five novels: Closed For Winter, Candelo, The Blind Eye, Names For Nothingness and the young adult novel Darkwater. She was named one of The Sydney Morning Herald’s Best Young Novelists in 1998, and has been short-listed for the NSW Premier’s Literary Awards. Two of her novels have been optioned for feature films, including Closed For Winter, which was released in 2009. She has been published internationally, with her work appearing in publications including Granta and The Independent Magazine. A collection of non-fiction, Births Deaths Marriages, was shortlisted for the Nita B Kibble Award.