by Ella Baxter
I see her nostrils twitch as she smells the new aroma I’ve made, but I can’t tell if she’s into it or not.
‘And you would know this yourself, being in the industry, but you’re already a bit paranoid that everyone around you is dying. After my mother went I clung to every person I met. I was a bit possessive, perhaps, as Jack has probably told you.’
‘Did you go to her funeral?’
‘Yes, we had a small one here—it was really special. I was there in the room with her while she was made up, and then my sisters and I all took turns helping to do her hair. She loved her hair a particular way, a very high French twist; we got there in the end.’
I think about what it would have been like to style my mother’s hair for her viewing. How carefully and slowly I would have brushed it out with the blow dryer wand, making it glossy and smooth. A full ritual in itself. I would have loved making her look so beautiful and peaceful. She would have loved it and I needed it.
‘Thanks for seeing me,’ I say. ‘I really want to work here. I’m not usually this open with people I’ve just met.’
‘To be honest, we really need you.’
Shell turns to the receptionist. ‘Barbara, am I wrong, or do we have a bunch of things that need doing now?’
‘Oh, there’s plenty to do!’ Barbara says, lifting up a vase full of fresh flowers. ‘This water needs changing for a start.’
‘I’ll do it,’ I say.
‘Perfect,’ Shell says.
When I’m done with a few odd jobs, I find my way to the bathroom and step inside the first cubicle. I kick the lid of the toilet closed then sit on it. I am not sure if it’s grief, but I have found myself seeking solace in bathroom stalls and I wonder if it’s because they are the only individual-sized room available in public. There could be a market in providing people with calm places to be alone with their thoughts. Maybe then I wouldn’t find myself so close to human waste while contemplating profound things.
I tap my feet on the tiles, grateful that I’m here. My body and mind seem at ease in this environment. I am pleased and relieved. It’s a strange thing to have a physical form that grows and moves around you. I have always been the pilot of this mass, not particularly integrated with it. But now, as I look down at the length of myself, I feel combined. Grieving my mother’s physical form has made me connect to my own. We are our bodies, at the end of the day. I touch my own cheek with one palm. I am using a part of myself to touch another part, I am two parts of a whole. I shake my head, because it’s all quite unbelievable.
I hear the door to the bathroom open.
‘Amelia, I’m so sorry to disturb you, but there’s someone here to see you and, well, we’ve put him in the arrangements office because he was starting to make quite a fuss.’
‘Who?’ I ask, standing up. ‘Who is here?’
I leave the cubicle and find Shell standing outside the bathroom door, nervously dipping a teabag in and out of a large pink cup. It’s shaped like a clam and the handle is a long crab claw. I can tell she loves it. She probably has ten cups of tea a day in it.
‘We’ve tried to calm him down,’ she tells me, ‘but it doesn’t seem to be working.’
I stride towards the office, and as I near it, I hear the honk of someone blowing their nose.
‘Vincent!’ I call.
‘Amelia Aurelia! Let me out at once!’
I can see they’ve blocked him in using one of the ornamental pillars, and I lean it on its edge to roll it aside.
‘This is a new low!’ Vincent says when I open the door. He points to the urn shaped like a weeping cherub. He then widens his eyes while pointing at a minuscule dead spider near the skirting board, before stabbing his finger at a ball of dust under the table.
‘I am not to be detained here,’ he says, now pointing over my shoulder at Shell, who stands behind me. ‘How would you like this to go online?’ Vincent’s eyes are so wide I can see white all the way around his irises, but he doesn’t look angry, just incredibly stressed. I have an overwhelming feeling of tenderness for him and his ability to cause such chaos.
‘I’m going to hug you,’ I say, moving towards him. ‘Stay still.’
Immediately, he drops his hand and closes his eyes, waiting for me, and I embrace him. His body softens against me.
‘Jack has poisoned you against me, hasn’t he?’
I keep holding on to him. ‘No one has poisoned me against you.’
‘And I bet you haven’t thought once about me and my pain.’ Vincent takes a large, shaky breath, and rests his head on my shoulder.
‘I have,’ I say. ‘I’ve thought about it heaps.’
I let go of him, and he pulls a chair out from the table and sits down.
‘Your brother got a python finally.’ He wipes his nose. ‘He named it Jeffrey and won’t put it back in its enclosure.’
‘That’s awful,’ I say. ‘What terrible timing.’ I put my hand on his back.
‘Carmen doesn’t believe animals should be in cages.’ He wipes his eyes. ‘Do you have any idea how it triggers my anxiety to have a snake crawling around the house? I can’t even sit on the sofa anymore because it likes to warm up between the cushions.’
‘Uncool.’ I shake my head and pat him in the same rhythmic way that Vlad patted me.
‘You probably would have sat on the thing by now and broken it. Jeffrey wouldn’t last a day around you.’
Tears run down his cheeks and drop into his lap, soaking into his pants.
‘Why didn’t you come to the funeral?’ he asks.
‘I couldn’t,’ I say.
‘None of us wanted to be there! But you go to funerals because you have to!’
He’s wearing an old skivvy, and as he wipes his eyes on his sleeve, I notice that it’s the one my mother banned him from wearing because he sewed shoulder pads into it. I lean down and squeeze him again.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, not realising how much I mean this until it’s out, and into his ears.
‘Jack said I can stay with you until my flight leaves tomorrow.’
This is a surprise, and I blink a few times, processing it.
He picks up Simon’s backpacking rucksack and puts it over one shoulder. He lifts his chin, arranging himself in a dignified posture.
‘I am calm, and it is safe to let me out now,’ he announces in a loud voice. ‘My daughter can verify this!’
Shell appears in the doorway, smiling warily. ‘All good?’ She addresses me, but nods towards him.
‘He’s fine now,’ I say. ‘It’s just an emotional time.’
Vincent walks towards the door, stopping to look back at me. ‘I’ll see you at Jack’s.’
I perform some perfunctory tasks over the next few hours while obsessing about what Jack and Vincent might be talking about without my careful monitoring.
I message Jack: How’s it going?
He replies: Yes!
It’s such a Vincent thing to do, to come unannounced and uninvited. He’s willing to risk it all. God knows what is happening between the two of them. As if this family needs any more drama or pain. They are both so unbelievably self-involved. And here I am, the piggy in the middle, trying to mourn my mother in peace. It will be the wedding portrait in the hall that will undo Vincent. My god. I should be there. I take the bins out and wipe all the keyboards with a felt cloth while Shell hovers nearby, asking stunningly probing questions.
As I wipe down the countertop, she washes her hands thoroughly at the sink.
‘So you have two fathers, and you call them both by their first names, but has it always been that way?’
I accidentally drop the cloth and stand staring at it for a moment, before bending down with a groan and picking it up.
‘And your mother died, and now you’re here with your biological dad, Jack, but you missed the agitated one—Vincent—a lot?’
I am still stressed thinking about the two of them at the house. I worry they will be too honest with each o
ther. Maybe they have even begun to blame my mother, or me. I want to adjudicate their meeting; someone needs to stop them from being unkind to one another.
To silence Shell’s questioning for a moment, I tell her about Simon’s throuple, a mistake on my part, as Barbara overhears from the foyer and wanders in, eager to contribute.
‘It’s not such a big deal, though, is it?’ Barbara says, with one hand on her hip. ‘Paul and I are swingers—it’s quite normal these days.’
‘It’s totally different,’ I say, annoyed at myself for bringing it up.
‘Oh yeah—how so?’ says Shell, flicking on the kettle and pulling up a chair.
‘A throuple is an ongoing relationship between all three people,’ I say.
‘I can’t believe that works,’ says Shell, shaking her head.
‘Not necessarily ongoing,’ says Barbara. ‘It can be a one-off event. It’s rare that Paul and I meet up with the same couple. I like variety and Paul is happy to go along with anything.’
‘No, we are not talking about the same things. You’re talking about swinging—a throuple is different.’
‘I mean, there have been some men I’ve wanted to continue seeing—alone, if you get what I’m saying, not even with Paul present.’
Shell nods solemnly.
‘Again, that’s not a throuple—that’s an affair.’
‘Well, an affair never killed anyone,’ Barbara says, taking a mug from the shelf and spooning two sugars into it.
I’m growing impatient, as I need to be home to deal with Vincent and Jack who, twenty-five years after they first met, might finally kill each other. I am shallow-breathing just thinking about what could possibly be transpiring between the two of them. I imagine Vincent tearing the wedding portrait off the wall and smashing it against the banister. And Jack, mortified, cutting his hands trying to scoop up all the broken glass. I imagine them both on their knees, on the cut glass, crying and arguing.
‘I need to go,’ I say suddenly to Shell and Barbara, ‘I need to make sure everyone is behaving.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
On the drive home, I mount the side of a roundabout and overtake three big trucks. I pull up at an odd angle to the house and leave my bag on the back seat, barely stopping to close the car door behind me as I rush into the house.
‘Jack!’ I yell, checking the study to see if he’s there.
‘Out the back!’ he calls.
I haul open the sliding door to the deck, and see Jack and Vincent reclining on two sun lounges. Jack must have pulled them out of the shed so they could sunbathe, because Vincent is now wearing a ribbed tank top and looks like he’s had quite a bit of sun. I can see Jack has tried to share the wisdom of The Tibetan Book of the Dead, as it is lying face down and splayed open on the deck between them.
‘Hi, honey,’ Jack says, raising his glass.
‘How was work?’ asks Vincent.
‘Yeah, productive—lots of cleaning. Shell’s nice.’
‘Oh, she’s lovely, Shell is,’ says Jack.
I frown at them both. ‘So how are things with you two?’ I ask. ‘All good?’ I glance around the deck, looking for signs of damage that might have been caused in a tussle.
‘All good, honey. We’re all adults here,’ Jack says, as Vincent props himself up on an elbow and nods his head in agreement.
‘We’ve been looking at the view and talking about life, and how gorgeous this place is. There’s a healing river here too,’ says Vincent, waving a hand towards the bush.
‘Look, I hope you don’t mind, but I told Vincent about the kinky stuff—he’s your dad, and he needed to know,’ Jack says, as Vincent cups his shoulder and they look at each other, misty-eyed.
‘Sexuality looks very different these days, it’s fantastic,’ Vincent says. ‘Look at Simon! And you know, I was around in the disco scene, I’ve seen things, believe you me. There were a few years where it all got very loose.’
‘Very,’ says Jack. ‘But she needs to be safe, doesn’t she? There’re a lot of idiots around on the internet and, really, just all sorts hanging about looking for nice girls like her …’
‘I gave her a personal alarm last year,’ says Vincent. ‘What did you do with it?’ he asks me.
‘It’s in a drawer,’ I say.
‘A pocket knife would be better,’ Jack muses. ‘Or a shiv or something. An object to wield.’
Without replying, I walk inside and stand in the kitchen for a moment with my hands on either side of the sink. I stare into the plughole trying to get my bearings. I don’t think they’ve ever been in the same room before. I was expecting to get home to a tense atmosphere, but here they are, pissed on the deck, talking about philosophy and kink, and the atmosphere is one of affectionate camaraderie. Imagine Jack telling Vincent about the kink, imagine thinking I wouldn’t be embarrassed about my daily dad knowing. I pull a glass from the drying rack and rejoin them, helping myself to the cask of red wine perched on the end of Vincent’s deckchair.
‘You can have my lounge if you want,’ Jack offers.
Vincent rubs the side of his. ‘What is this? Maple?’
‘Pine!’ Jack says. ‘Lovely finish on it, though.’
‘I’m fine standing for now,’ I say, drinking and pacing in front of them.
As Jack waves a freshly opened bottle of port, I drain my glass, suddenly overwhelmed by fatigue. I need to sleep, I decide, to process everything. The new job, the two dads, life.
‘I’m going to have a shower and head to bed,’ I say, sliding the screen door open as Jack replenishes his glass then lies back on the lounge.
‘No! She can’t! What about the plan?’ says Vincent, tapping Jack on the knee.
‘Yes! We have a plan and it involves you,’ Jack says. ‘You need to come back out here after your shower.’ He tries to sit up and spills part of his drink down his chest.
‘I’m really glad you’re here, and I’m glad you are both very chill, but I have unprocessed trauma that I need to sort out quietly and alone. I bid you both adieu.’
‘Oh, come on!’ Vincent says. ‘The trauma can wait. We’ve both put ours on hold! And you’ll love it, I promise.’
‘We’ve got something very groovy planned, Lia, I swear,’ says Jack.
I return to the kitchen, dressed in a robe and a pair of hiking socks, and see them both seated at the table in semi-darkness. They have three tall glasses of rum in front of them, and the door to the deck is wide open, letting in a light breeze.
‘Do you want me to turn the lights on?’ I ask, taking a step towards the switch.
‘No, we can see the moon like this.’ Jack looks out at the sky. ‘Shooting stars and such.’
I slide into a chair opposite the pair of them, letting my eyes adjust to the dimness.
‘We are part of nature, you know that?’ Jack says to Vincent before taking a sip of rum.
‘I do know that,’ Vincent says, sliding a glass across the table towards me.
‘Is this the plan?’ I ask.
‘Where the bee sucks, there suck I …’ Jack continues, pressing his glass to his cheek. ‘That’s Shakespeare.’ He takes another sip.
‘It’s about feeding from the same tit, isn’t it?’ I say.
‘No, it’s like emerging from the same water, rising and falling with the same sun,’ Jack says.
Vincent nods.
Jack continues: ‘This might sound bonkers, Lia, especially considering the two of you are experts in it, but do you want to hear what I know about grief?’
‘Okay,’ I say. The rum is strong, and I am tired.
‘It’s ancient. It’s primal.’
‘It’s all-consuming,’ Vincent says. ‘Devastating.’
‘I’m dying with it,’ I say.
Jack tilts his head to the side. ‘Honey, we think it’s time you plucked it out …’ He mimes yanking something out of his body. ‘And we think you should take it, set fire to it, and watch it burn.’
I squint
at him, unsure.
‘So, we are going to help you.’ He knocks back the rest of his rum.
‘Enough is enough,’ Vincent agrees, draining his own glass.
‘Let’s go,’ Jack says. He stands up, grabs the bottle and slides the screen door open.
Vincent and I follow him down the steps and onto the lawn.
Jack unscrews the lid from the bottle and begins to run in large circles, pouring rum on the grass in large arcs.
‘Stop!’ I say, raising both hands.
‘Lia, this needs to happen! We are burning your grief, and we are doing it all together.’
‘You’re wasting it,’ I say.
‘No, I’m not—I’m writing her name down, just like you did on the window!’
Vincent motions to Jack. ‘This is so important—very symbolic. He has really great ideas.’
Jack has slowed down, puffed from his initial efforts, and he now ambles back and forth, loosely throwing the rum around, as the desperate croak of frogs nearby overlap each other, reaching a deafening chorus, which in turn makes the cicadas buzz even more loudly, competing for attention.
‘Now, you’re going to burn it.’ Jack tosses me a box of matches. I’ve never seen him look so happy. Is it the company? The booze?
‘We’re really close to quite a few dry trees, and it’s summer, so I’m just a little concerned …’ I look to Vincent, who has picked up the hose reel and carried it closer. He drops it at my feet and they both stand waiting for me.
‘You can do this,’ Vincent says.
I light a match and hold it to the grass, which quickly catches fire.
‘Stand back!’ Vincent yells.
‘Fucking hell,’ says Jack.
We spread out across the lawn, watching as it burns in uneven patches.
‘This should help,’ Jack says after a minute.
‘I can’t imagine how it wouldn’t,’ says Vincent.
I look at the grassfire slowly blowing out in the breeze. There are singed lines across the yard, and I know she would have loved this. Every part of it. The rum. The three of us facing the dark black of the water. Her name on fire. The honking of the frogs.