How to Grow a Family Tree

by Eliza Henry Jones

  Zin shudders. ‘I hate that place.’

  ‘It’s not that bad,’ I say. ‘We’re a very judgemental community.’

  ‘Yes, it is!’ Lara stretches out her long legs. ‘It is that bad. My parents signed a petition to get it closed. It’s like a ghetto.’

  ‘It’s not a ghetto!’

  ‘It’s a ghetto,’ says Lara.

  ‘Why are you so anti-Fairyland? Your parents own that caravan up at that park near the beach.’

  Lara snorts. ‘That’s a holiday park. Completely different.’

  ‘How? Fairyland’s by the river. Water’s water.’

  ‘I swear the river was glowing green the other night,’ Zin says, picking at a pimple on her chin.

  ‘Why are you so obsessed with Fairyland all of a sudden?’ Lara asks.

  ‘More importantly, why would Matthew walk you all the way home if there’s not something going on with you two? I don’t get it – I didn’t even know that he knew who you were. No offence,’ Zin says, looking thoughtful.

  ‘There’s nothing going on.’

  ‘He walked you home from Lee’s place. In the opposite direction from where he lives.’

  ‘Maybe he was hooking up with his girlfriend afterwards, who just happens to live near me? I don’t know!’

  ‘Did the police break the two of you up?’ Zin asks eagerly. ‘Please let the police have broken the two of you up!’

  ‘They didn’t make out in the front yard!’ Clem snaps. He looks at me sideways. ‘Right? You didn’t, right?’

  I roll my eyes up to Zin’s very clean, evenly painted ceiling. ‘This is all giving me a headache. I’m going.’

  ‘You just got here!’

  I frown. ‘I don’t want you all at me like this! It’s not good communication!’

  ‘Sorry,’ says Zin. ‘We forgot you’re a weirdo about this sort of stuff. I’ll make you a chocolate milk?’

  Lara sighs. ‘Yeah – sorry.’

  We sit in silence. ‘So, Stella starts brawls at parties, huh?’ says Clem.

  Lara hits him with a pillow and glances at Zin. ‘Stella spoke to Monica Ravensleigh last night,’ she says.

  Everything goes very still and then there’s Zin’s dangerously low voice. ‘You what?’

  ‘Both arms,’ Clem mutters, pulling his blanket up to his chin. ‘It’s going to be both arms.’

  ‘Why would you do that?’ Zin wails.

  ‘Relax – I had a plan. She’s going to message you this week. She’s got a flower situation.’

  Zin considers this. ‘A flower situation?’

  ‘A very serious flower situation. She’s in charge of flowers for her sister’s wedding. I dunno, Zin. How can you be interested in someone who doesn’t understand the difference between calendulas and gerberas?’

  ‘You know the difference between calendulas and gerberas?’ Clem asks me. ‘I don’t even know what calendulas and gerberas are.’

  ‘It’s the principle of it.’

  ‘That doesn’t answer my question.’

  ‘So, she’s going to message me?’ Zin asks. ‘Monica Ravensleigh is going to message me?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Oh, wow. Oh, wow. Oh, wow. Oh, wow.’

  ‘She’s short-circuiting,’ Clem says. ‘Whack her on the back or something.’

  ‘This is amazing,’ Zin says. ‘Stella – you’re in so much trouble, but this is amazing.’

  I grin.

  Zin freezes. ‘Her sister, though.’

  ‘What about her sister?’

  ‘Well, it’s all very troubling. I mean, what’s the point of getting married if you don’t organise all the flowers yourself? What’s the point?’

  ‘That you get to spend the rest of your life with someone you love?’ Clem replies. ‘I always thought that’s the point – not that it ends up being the case for many married couples.’

  ‘Flowers are the best bit about getting married,’ Zin says.

  ‘Speaking from personal experience, are we?’ I ask.

  ‘Don’t you go giving me attitude, Stella. You’re on thin ice. I’d told you not to talk to her.’ Zin pauses. ‘She’s pretty, right?’

  ‘She’s very pretty,’ says Clem.

  ‘But not in a squeaky, plastic way. She’s pretty in a real way. Don’t you think, Stell?’

  ‘She’s very pretty in a real way.’

  ‘I love her long hair, but I reckon she’s got the kind of face where she could shave her head and still look really cute, don’t you think, Clem? Don’t you think so?’

  ‘I dunno. She could be one of those attractive people who has a really lumpy skull.’

  ‘You think?’ Zin sounds alarmed. ‘You really think so? No. I don’t think so. Lumpy. You think?’

  I try to imagine being so consumed by someone that I liked. Maybe I’d like Matthew. Maybe I’d like a boy I’d walked past a million times and have never even noticed. I try to imagine not having to worry about where we’re going to live, or paying bills, or wondering if my parents’ marriage is going to survive. I try to imagine knowing the woman who’d given birth to me and having siblings who didn’t set things on fire, climb onto the roof or get thrown out of school. I try to imagine being utterly consumed by a person who needs help picking flowers and it’s like a chasm opens up between my friends and me, so wide and jagged that I almost lose sight of them.

  I take a deep breath. That type of thinking is pointless. I love my friends. I have a roof over my head and food in my belly and a family I love. I chant this to myself until the other thoughts disappear. It’s not repression, it’s just sensible. I pull the doughnuts out of my bag. Clem pales. ‘Oh, God. I just worked out what Tahlia had been eating with the Fanta.’

  ‘Yeah,’ says Lara, looking queasy. ‘Reckon the doughnuts are all yours, Stell.’

  I shrug and bite into one and both of them look away. ‘It’s not that bad!’

  ‘You weren’t there,’ Clem says hoarsely, shaking his head and opening the laptop back up. ‘You didn’t see it.’

  ***

  Later on, I’m sprawled on my bed, reading a library book about aromatherapy, when Taylor comes in and shuts the door.

  ‘What?’ I ask, without looking up.

  She perches on the end of the bed. ‘You bashed up Joshua Bennett?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘And made out with . . . with Matthew?’

  ‘No! God! Joshua was being crap to Chelsea and I . . . helped her.’

  ‘You helped her? How?’

  ‘It wasn’t a bad kick. Just a regular sort of kick.’

  ‘You kicked him? Ha! Love it.’

  Mum comes into our bedroom and stares at Taylor’s head. ‘No,’ Mum says. ‘No, no, no.’

  Taylor runs a hand through her bright-purple hair. She’s wearing her netball skirt and I wonder if she and Mum have had a row about it, yet. ‘I just thought it was fun.’

  ‘Where’d you get the dye? You’re grounded.’

  ‘I just used food dye,’ Taylor says. ‘It was in the grocery boxes.’

  Mum closes her eyes for a moment. ‘You look trashy, Taylor. And look! I’ve told you not to wear that tiny skirt!’

  ‘I don’t care,’ says Taylor, yawning. ‘Maybe I feel like looking trashy for a while.’

  ‘Didn’t need to dye your hair purple for that,’ I mutter and Taylor punches me hard in the arm.

  ‘She hit me!’ I say as Dad walks quickly past the door.

  ‘Come in here, Charlie,’ says Mum.

  ‘I didn’t hit you!’ says Taylor. ‘I just expressed my true emotions. It’s healthy. You always tell me that.’

  ‘Don’t hit me!’

  ‘I don’t have time for this,’ says Mum.

  Mum shoots Dad a look and it’s one of those moments where I don’t understand them at all. I need to read more books. I look at Taylor, wondering if she understands our parents more than I do – she belongs to them in a way that I never will. But she just looks impatient an
d bored and very purple. She tugs at the hem of her netball skirt. I guess she doesn’t get it, either.

  ‘Behave,’ Dad says. And we all look at him. He reddens and leaves the room with Mum close behind him.

  I lie down and close my eyes. I let myself imagine that I’m back home, in my own room. Taylor peers down at me. ‘I’ve been following Dad around,’ she says.

  ‘Hmm.’ I think about the lilac. If you change your mind. ‘You hit me. I’m not talking to you.’

  ‘I think it’s working. He’s getting pretty mad and I guess that means that I’m stopping him doing stuff, you know?’

  ‘My arm hurts.’

  ‘Hello? Are you even listening?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘God, Stella! This is important!’

  When I don’t reply Taylor pinches me and storms out, muttering under her breath about how she has to do everything herself. My arm stings, but I don’t move from the bed. Not for a very long time.

  ***

  We hear fighting outside in Fairyland that night. A voice so slurred and distant that we can’t make out the words. Not properly.

  Taylor goes very still and then presses a pillow to her face.

  I sit up. ‘They need more lights around this place. Have you noticed how dark it is? I think lights stop this sort of thing. People get worried about being seen or whatever.’ I push the blankets off my legs.

  ‘Stell, don’t.’

  She reaches for me, but her eyes are covered, so I twist and stand up. ‘Stell,’ she says, but her voice is drowsy and I know she’ll soon slip back to sleep. ‘It’s nothing to do with us. Just leave it.’

  ‘No. Someone could need help.’

  ‘Just leave it!’ she hisses, but I’ve already got up from the bed. ‘Take your corkscrew!’ she yells after me.

  I peer through the plastic window of the annex. The park looks peaceful. The cabins are dark. I step outside and the cicadas around the front of the annex go very quiet. It’s unusually cold for summer and I feel my skin rise up in goose bumps.

  I wonder if my parents are asleep in their bunks, or if they’re awake and trying their hardest to ignore the sounds. Slipping on my thongs, I walk out onto the gravel road. Nobody stirs, but I can still hear the yelling.

  Just as I start moving towards the noise, I feel a hand on my arm.

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’ my mum demands in a furious whisper. ‘Inside, now!’

  I shrug her off and follow her back into the annex, where she zips the door up and safety pins it shut.

  ‘You know I don’t want you wandering around outside at night.’

  ‘I heard something.’

  She sighs. ‘I heard it, too, but it’s not our business, Stell. It’s just not.’ She brushes my hair off my face. ‘We’ve got to just keep ourselves safe, okay? Wandering off at night like that’s dangerous.’

  ‘What if someone needs our help? What if someone’s hurt?’

  ‘It’s just yelling.’

  ‘Still.’

  ‘It’s not our business,’ she insists.

  ‘What if I was getting hurt?’

  ‘Stell . . .’

  ‘And everyone just stays inside and says it’s not their business?’

  ‘Alright. I’ll go see what it is.’

  ‘I’m coming.’

  ‘I don’t think—’

  ‘I’m coming!’

  We go outside quietly and walk very close together up and down the gravel roads. The park is dark and quiet, the stars very bright in the sky. I can distantly hear the gurgling of the river, where it hits the rocks close to the bank.

  ‘It’s nothing, whatever it is.’

  I frown.

  ‘Let’s go back to bed,’ Mum says, turning for home.

  I look around, unsettled. As I do, a black dog appears, wags his tail and grins. I’ve seen him around Fairyland during my wanderings, although never this closely before. He follows me into the annex and I zip it closed behind him.

  Mum doesn’t move and neither do I. I want to tell her about the letter and the dried lilac. If you change your mind. Only the words won’t come.

  ‘You okay?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh, just tired. One of my favourite residents died today.’

  ‘Oh, Mum. I’m sorry.’ She looks tiny, standing in the annex. I want to reach over and hug her, but I can’t quite make myself. Part of me is furious with her and I’m not entirely sure why. I label my feelings, like the books tell you to. Angry, frustrated, scared. Betrayed.

  ‘Good night,’ I say.

  Mum starts to cry. Silent, heaving sobs that make my stomach curdle. ‘Mum?’ I say, trying to think what to do. Trying to remember what the books suggested when your mother bursts into tears in the middle of the night. I wish I had a pocket full of tissues. Or a hanky. Something to give her. Something concrete to do.

  The bunkroom door opens and Dad’s there, then he’s hugging her the way I couldn’t quite bring myself to. She clings to him and sobs into his chest, and I think about my letter. Confused. Frightened. Furious. Isolated. Disjointed. Discombobulated.

  The dog wags his tail. Dad’s always put his foot down when the rest of us wanted a dog. The dog jumps up onto the wicker couch, circles around twice and settles against the cushion with a sigh. The yelling starts up again outside.

  I walk into the bedroom and shut the door. What if my biological father’s the sort of guy who starts fights? I mean, my dad’s got his flaws, but the idea of him yelling at any of us like that is something I can’t even imagine. I often feel sorry for myself, lamenting how insecure everything feels at home – how Dad steals our things and we’re always on high alert, making inventories of our possessions and obsessing about what might be missing. But I’m safe. I’ve always been safe. I’ve never had to run away from my parents.

  I crawl into bed beside Taylor. Safe.

  My phone buzzes with a message. Clem, who always seems to know when things are strained or difficult for me.

  You ok, Price?

  Yeah. I’m fine. Sleep well.

  You too. And then there is a pause and another message comes through. Xo

  I stare at the two letters. Clem doesn’t send me those sorts of things, ever. I guess he’s done it without thinking, perhaps mistaking me for his mum or mucking around. I put my phone away.

  I lean over and retrieve the photo from where it’s poking out under Taylor’s pillow. Judy and Charlie. I wonder if the dress Mum’s wearing is something that she sewed herself, or something that her mother had sewed for her. Mum had sewed things for Taylor and me when we were young. Before she had to start in her second job. Before she stopped smiling as widely as she’s smiling in the photo.

  I can still hear her sobbing in the next room, and Dad murmuring to her.

  ‘You’re freezing,’ Taylor mutters, frowning and half-asleep. She reaches over an arm and a leg and warms me up.

  It’s a while before I get to sleep. And then I dream I’m awake, pacing around and around Fairyland with my breath caught tightly in my chest.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The next morning, I head out with the dog meandering around after me. Taylor seems to have Dad covered, so I’m going to start helping people at Fairyland. I find Richard re-potting basil plants in his lean-to. He smiles when he sees me and puts the pot down.

  ‘Hey,’ I say.

  ‘Hey.’

  I pick up one of the empty pots and fiddle with it. ‘What was going on last night?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘The yelling.’

  ‘Oh! Joshua Bennett and his mates started smashing up the pavilion a bit before midnight. They didn’t get very far, though. Matt’s dad called the police.’

  ‘There was yelling after that. Just before dawn.’

  Richard doesn’t say anything.

  ‘Who was he yelling at afterwards?’

  Richard sighs. ‘Matt’s dad was yelling at Matt. But Matt doesn’t let it get to him and he hates talking about i
t. Can we change the subject?’

  ‘Fine.’ I cross my arms. ‘It’s just not fair – he shouldn’t be yelled at like that.’

  Richard grunts.

  ‘So, I’ve been thinking . . .’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Well, Matt mentioned that your mum doesn’t go out much. And I was wondering if . . . if I could help, somehow?’

  Richard blinks at me. ‘You want to help Mum leave the cabin?’

  ‘Well, yeah. I mean, I’ve been reading up on agoraphobia. There are lots of strategies and things she could try. Just small things – like having the front door open.’

  ‘She doesn’t care about the front door.’

  ‘Well, standing on the doorstep, then. Or in the garden. Or on the road. Just breaking it down into little parts so it stops being so overwhelming.’

  Richard tilts his head. ‘You think we all need fixing.’

  ‘No! I just . . . I’d like to help, that’s all. It must be hard for her, being cooped up in there all the time.’

  ‘You know she saw my dad die?’

  ‘No. I didn’t know that. I’m so sorry.’

  Richard nods. ‘Before we left for Australia. I don’t really remember it, but Mum thinks about it all the time. She used to have nightmares and . . . well. It’s been tough for her. And . . . being in the cabin? It’s where she feels safe. It works for her. It works for me. Sometimes people fix themselves in ways that no one else really gets. But I get that about my mum. I do. We’re okay.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You don’t need to fix everyone, Stella.’ His voice is gentle, like he’s breaking bad news to me. ‘You really don’t. People don’t need to be fixed.’

  We re-pot tomatoes for a little while without speaking, but I feel flushed with embarrassment and head back to the cabin pretty soon, where I look at my letter.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Mum asks, poking her head into the bedroom. She glances at the dog, curled in a ball on the floor. He’s hung around for most of the day, popping off around lunchtime and coming back smelling strongly of roast chicken. ‘You want to go for a walk with me? Just around the park. It’s nice out there.’

  ‘Alright,’ I say, putting the letter in the bedside drawer like it’s no big deal. Thinking that this might be the perfect time to drop the letter bombshell. To ask if Mum knows what Kelly means. If you change your mind.