How to Grow a Family Tree

by Eliza Henry Jones

  ‘Your father’s dropped off his resumé to all sorts of places,’ Mum says, as we pull on our shoes. ‘He just texted me.’

  It’s going to be one of those walks. No letter bombshell, then. My heart sinks. Taylor calls them Monologue Walks. Where Mum talks full speed about how great Dad’s doing and we’re expected to nod along and she comes home a bit manic, a bit hopeful. Taylor and I always come home utterly exhausted. Tired. Spent. Drained. Drowsy.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about Dad,’ I say, as we walk out of the annex with the dog. ‘Because you don’t listen to anything I have to say about him and it’s super frustrating.’

  ‘But he’s doing so well! You know, I think he’s really turned a corner since you found him at the track.’

  ‘Which time?’ I mutter, too low for Mum to hear.

  ‘He said it really got him thinking about things. He’s even agreed to look for another counsellor.’

  ‘Which he won’t ever go to.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Nothing. Mum – can we get Muriel into aged care? I worry about her – working so hard in the garden here. Particularly in the heat.’

  Mum doesn’t even pause. ‘Anyway, Stell. If he gets another job and it sticks, we’ll be able to look at rental properties again, soon. Get onto some more payment plans. Things will start getting better, you know?’

  ‘Right. I really don’t want to talk about Dad. I just asked you something about Muriel.’

  ‘He’s just got so much potential, you know? Always has. Right from when I met him. It’s what really caught my interest – he was so bright.’

  ‘You’re not listening to a word I’m saying, are you?’ She’s running the chain and crucifix she wears around her neck very quickly through her fingers. She feels like a different person. I pluck some beans off the plant that grows near Trisha’s. They’re cool and chalky against my tongue. I hand one to Mum and she turns it around and around in her hands.

  ‘He’s always experimented with things, to ease his – you know – his sad periods. And I suppose the gambling’s just the latest thing. He’ll move onto something else. It’s just a phase. He’ll work out it just makes him more depressed, you know?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s exactly how gambling works,’ I say and Mum ignores the sarcasm – or doesn’t notice it. ‘What do you mean, sad periods?’

  ‘His depression.’

  ‘Dad’s depressed?’

  ‘Yes, Stell. I thought you girls knew. He’s struggled with it since he was a teen.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘It’s going to be an odd summer, but we’ll be back living our lives soon, Stell. I promise.’

  And I frown because I am living my life. Life hasn’t stopped just because something difficult has happened. Something strange and unexpected. Life keeps trucking on and I wonder, suddenly, if Mum feels like her life is on hold. I wonder how long she’s felt that way. I glance at her, looking determinedly ahead as we walk along the gravel paths. It’s a pretty rotten way to live.

  ***

  Mum’s getting ready for her afternoon shift. The shower groans in the bathroom and Dad watches as Taylor and I feed scraps to the dog and doesn’t mention it. Looking at Dad, I wonder how I haven’t noticed his depression. Surely the books should have prepared me for having a parent who gambled and was depressed. I peer at him, as though there’s some mark on his face that I’ve missed; some sign I misinterpreted.

  ‘What?’ he asks when he notices me staring.

  ‘Nothing.’

  When Mum comes out of the bathroom she nudges Taylor. ‘Taylor.’

  ‘Yes’m?’

  ‘Have you put more dye in your hair after I told you not to?’

  ‘No,’ Taylor says. She’s added thick tracts of green to her hair and I wonder if Mum’s going to push her on it, but Mum just shakes her head and heads out to the car. A little while later, Dad heads off with his toolbox to fix Cassie’s roof with Taylor trailing along after him. I feel a pang, watching her. Taylor’s so good at changing things that she doesn’t like. If anyone’s going to help Dad, it’s probably her. Not me, with all my books and articles and self-help webinar series. I hadn’t even realised he was depressed.

  I end up down by the river with my letter pressed into my pocket. If you change your mind. Matthew’s there, pulling cape weed from the gravel path in between the beds of bright flowers that Muriel’s set up in the dappled light under the gum trees. He’s working with a sort of furious energy that I can’t quite bring myself to interrupt. I sit down on the grass nearby and watch him.

  When he turns around and notices me, he swears and takes off his headphones. ‘What are you doing? Jeez!’

  ‘Sorry.’

  He moves on to the next patch of weeds. ‘Don’t sneak up on me like that.’

  ‘I said I was sorry.’

  ‘It’s okay. I just . . . I just had a helluva night.’

  ‘Is that good or bad?’ I ask, trying to keep my voice light.

  ‘Bad.’

  ‘Oh.’ I pause. ‘You heard all that yelling and stuff, too?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he says flatly. ‘I heard all that yelling and stuff, too.’

  He doesn’t look at me and I immediately feel that panicked compulsion that Taylor calls word-vomit. ‘You’ve got a lot of interests, hey?’

  He glances up. ‘What?’

  ‘Like, all the stuff you do at school.’

  ‘The stuff I do at school? Honestly? I don’t like most of that stuff.’

  ‘But . . . you do so much of it.’

  ‘It gets me out of the house,’ he says, then clamps his mouth shut and frowns, like he’s said too much.

  ‘Is it true a guy here cooked drugs?’ I ask.

  Matthew glances up, his expression sad. ‘Troy. Yeah.’

  ‘It’s good they caught him.’

  ‘I guess,’ says Matthew.

  ‘What do you mean, you guess? How’s it not good?’

  ‘He needed money, Stell. His brother was really unwell and there was no place for him.’

  ‘Unwell how?’

  ‘Mentally. But the hospital kept discharging him. Troy was using the money to pay to help him. Buy him food, try to keep him safe. It was a mess. Troy . . . he was doing what he thought he had to do.’

  ‘Cooking and dealing drugs isn’t ever something that’s okay.’

  ‘I didn’t say it was okay! It’s not okay, obviously. I said that he was doing what he thought he had to do.’

  ‘He probably ruined a lot of people’s lives.’

  ‘You spend an awful lot of time . . . what’s the word . . .?’

  ‘Helping?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Being wonderful?’

  ‘No. I mean making out like you know what’s right and wrong.’

  I sigh. ‘The word moralising gets thrown around a bit, but I don’t moralise!’

  ‘That’s the one. You spend all your time moralising about what people should and shouldn’t be doing.’ He pauses and wipes his sweating forehead with the back of his hand. ‘Sometimes people have to make really tough decisions that don’t have an easy answer. Life’s not that simple.’

  ‘Well, it should be,’ I say.

  Matthew eyes me for a moment and then gives me a small smile. ‘Yeah. You’re right. It should be. Can we change the subject?’

  ‘Sure. I need a job.’

  ‘I bet you do,’ he says, and because he lives in Fairyland and has a dad who makes everyone roll their eyes, it doesn’t sting the way it would if Clem, Zin or Lara had said it. ‘You should try the pub.’

  I snort. ‘No way. Taylor gave the manager a massive serve.’

  ‘Because of your dad?’ He stops and sits down. ‘Pokies, right?’

  ‘Whatever he might be able to win money on.’ My tone is flat. Matter-of-fact. ‘But yeah – he seems to particularly like the pokies.’

  He shrugs. ‘Hey . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Is that guy . . . t
hat Ascott guy. Is he your sister’s boyfriend?’

  ‘Adam? Yeah. They’ve been going out for most of the year.’

  ‘Right. Cool. Anyway – try the pub. I work in the kitchen there and it’s pretty good.’

  I look at him closely, but for all our shared time at school, I don’t know him. I can’t read him. He keeps pulling at the weeds, almost mechanically. I hear footsteps and look up to see a man with the same blond hair and grey eyes as Matthew, striding down from the other side of the park.

  I nudge Matthew with my foot. He glares at me and then notices the man and quickly pulls out his earphones and gets to his feet.

  ‘What the hell are you doing down here?’

  Matthew doesn’t move. ‘I was just . . .’

  ‘Lazing around with your mates.’ He glances at me. ‘You’re as big as a horse.’ He turns back to Matthew. ‘Have you finished Reg’s guttering?’

  ‘I don’t have a ladder.’

  ‘Well get one! Jesus Christ! You’re as thick as a plank of wood!’ The man runs his fingers through his hair.

  Matthew flinches. ‘I’ll come up now.’

  ‘Damn right you will.’ The man strides back up from the clearing and I see Matthew let out his breath.

  ‘Is that your dad?’ I ask.

  ‘That’s him in a good mood,’ Matthew says. ‘I’ve gotta go. See ya, Stella.’

  I watch him hurrying after his father with one shoelace untied. No wonder he does all those activities at school. I’d probably do the same thing in his situation. I kick myself, thinking about all the things I should’ve said to facilitate self-reflection and more positive communication. Then I kick myself for thinking in should statements, which – a recent article informed me – is the enemy of progress and enlightenment. I stop in at Cassie’s place. She’s painting her tyres out the front. ‘Hey, darl,’ she says, without looking up.

  ‘Cassie, I want to help,’ I say.

  Cassie puts her glasses on her head and peers at me. ‘Help?’

  ‘Richard told me you’ve been in prison.’

  ‘Richard needs to learn how to keep his trap shut,’ she says, but her voice is mild. She puts her brushes aside.

  ‘He didn’t mean anything by it.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘I read in a book that it can be hard for inmates to reintegrate with society and I just wanted to tell you that I can help you reintegrate.’

  Cassie snorts. ‘You’re pretty blunt, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m a clear communicator. Anyway, I’m good at action plans. And paving the way to future success.’

  ‘Paving the way to future success?’

  ‘It was a book about visualisation.’

  ‘I don’t need any help, but ta for the offer.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Some people might take offence at being told they need to reintegrate into society.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. Because apologising is a bridge to a happy future. But also, another book said one should never apologise lest one be perceived as a pushover. It’s difficult when the books all tell you different things. ‘What was it like?’ I ask, suddenly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Prison.’

  Cassie sighs. ‘I liked it, honestly. Best place I’d ever lived until I came here.’

  ***

  The pub isn’t a bad place, really. It smells of grease and beer and old carpets, but it looks out over the river, and from the windows you can’t see the shopping trolleys and old mattresses that are littered along the waterline.

  ‘Is the manager in?’ I ask the woman behind the bar.

  ‘Stu!’ she calls, and the manager Taylor had yelled at appears from the kitchen. He’s short and stocky and wearing a bright Hawaiian shirt that makes me blink.

  He balks when he sees me. ‘I promise, your dad hasn’t been in here.’

  ‘No . . . it’s . . .’ I can feel blood flooding to my cheeks. I clear my throat. ‘It’s just that I need a job. Matthew said to ask you about . . . a job.’ I hold out my resumé and don’t look at him.

  ‘A job, eh?’

  ‘I’m sorry my sister yelled at you.’

  ‘No, I get it.’ He takes my resumé and rubs a hand over his chin as he reads it. ‘You haven’t done much.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You any good at washing dishes?’

  ‘Yes. Extremely.’

  ‘Good – I need a new dish pig.’

  ‘A dish pig?’

  ‘Someone to wash all the dishes. It’s hard, boring work and the chef will probably yell at you.’

  ‘That’s okay. My sister yells at me. I can deal with yelling.’

  He smiles. ‘You can start now if you like? Just a two-hour shift to get familiar with everything. I’ll pay you cash and we’ll take it from there.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘That’s alright – Stella, right?’

  ‘Yes. I’m Stella.’

  ***

  On my way back from the pub, I pause outside Richard’s place. There’s a crowd of people inside and, for a moment, I’m terrified that something has gone wrong. But then I hear a laugh. I move closer, around the pots of geraniums, so that I can see in through the window.

  Zara is in the tiny space with a chopping board, a pile of zucchinis and some eggs from the chickens that Cassie keeps out the back of her cabin. She’s showing the group of people how to cook. Richard sees me and slips out the door.

  ‘You want to come in?’ he asks.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Oh, Mum.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘She realised that it’s all well and good to have the food around, but it’s not going to help anyone if they don’t know how to cook it. She finds simple recipes in the magazines and stuff – it’s been good for her English, I think. Working them out. And then she shows people how to cook basic meals. It’s zucchini slice today.’

  ‘Your mum’s pretty special.’

  ‘Yeah. I know.’

  ‘Did I miss it?’ a girl who’d left Sutherbend a few years ago asks. She’s got tattoos winding up one arm and dreadlocks knotted away from her face. She bats at a fly and looks hopefully at Richard.

  ‘Yeah, she’s about to put the tray in.’

  The girl swears. She glances at me. ‘You’re Stella, right?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I’m Ginny. I hear you bashed up Joshua at Lee’s place the other night?’

  Richard raises his eyebrows. ‘She what?’

  I roll my eyes. ‘I didn’t bash him.’

  ‘Heard you got arrested and made out with Matty Clarke.’

  ‘What? No!’

  ‘How have I not heard about this?’ Richard asks. ‘Seriously.’

  ‘I’m going,’ I say. ‘It’s not true and I’m going.’

  When I get back to the annex, Taylor is talking to one of her friends in the bedroom and Dad’s sitting in one of the camp chairs. Depressed, I think. I don’t know what to do about Dad being depressed. Gambling is something you just stop doing, but how do you stop being something?

  Dad’s hands are shaking. Is he anxious because Taylor’s been following him around? It can’t be great for him, having someone there because they’re scared of what you’re going to do. I think of all the self-help books I’ve read and straighten my back.

  Picking up one of the notebooks and pens Mum’s been using to do our household budgets, I turn to a new page, not looking at him.

  ‘Right,’ I say, my voice uncertain. ‘You must be getting pretty sick of Taylor following you around everywhere.’

  ‘It’s nice spending time with her,’ he says tonelessly.

  ‘That’s crap. Anyway, I want to help you. What are your goals?’

  He blinks at me with red-rimmed eyes. ‘What?’

  ‘Your goals.’

  ‘I don’t know, Stella.’

  ‘Give up gambling,’ I say, writing down the words on the paper in front of me. ‘You look tired. Are you tired?’

  ‘Stella . . .
’

  ‘Get more sleep.’ I write down the words. ‘And that’ll help with having more energy.’

  He looks at me.

  ‘Cut down on drinking? You’ve been drinking a lot.’

  ‘I have one beer a night, Stell.’

  ‘Still, you can become addicted if you have a drink really regularly like that. I swear I read it in an article once.’ I tap the notebook. ‘So, give up gambling. And find a hobby. Something you love. Something that you love more than the pokies, okay? And maybe if you take on some of the housework? And that’s your thing that you have to do.’

  I keep talking, coming up with goals for him and breaking them down into little pieces. Until finally, finally, I run out of words. And Dad and I sit in silence and we don’t look at each other and I know – already, I know – that there is nothing on this list that he will do. That there is nothing, maybe, that he’s capable of.

  ‘Just pick one thing,’ I say, my voice cracking. ‘Dad? Just pick one thing, okay?’

  He closes his eyes and doesn’t speak, and I toss the notebook at him and go down to the river, where it takes a very long time to calm down.

  Furious. Helpless. Love.

  Because I love my dad. I hate him and I love him and I hadn’t realised until now that those two things could fit so perfectly together.

  ***

  Later that night Taylor wakes me up. She’s moving furniture around in the annex and when I go in there, she tries to shoo me away. ‘It’s all just right! Don’t ruin it before they get here, Stella!’

  ‘I won’t,’ I say. ‘I promise. Come back to bed, okay? It’s night-time. You need to rest before they get here.’

  ‘My geese, though.’

  ‘Oh, I know,’ I say. I tug her towards the bedroom. ‘I know. Your geese.’

  I wake up later to the sound of someone drunk and loud and then everything goes quiet again. I think about Fairyland. I think about all the jagged edges of it. How it’s both what I expected and also completely different. How there is sorrow here and desperation. How there is poverty and loneliness and wanting. But there is also community. There is sweetness and compassion and beauty, even if it all needs a bit more direction and action planning.

  When I talked to Muriel about other parks she’s lived in, she said that they’re all different; all their own little communities with their own darknesses and their own brightness. She likes Fairyland. She likes the bright parts of it and can live with the dark.