Page 49 of Isn’t It Nice We Both Hate the Same Things

CHAPTER FORTY

When I disembark the plane, it’s my mother I see first, her head poking around the terminal doors. She needn’t have waited by the gate, but of course she is here. As close as possible to the plane – to me.

It is only natural I spot her first, with that hair.

It’s like an icecream – short, rounded mounds, sprayed stiff.

The colour of honey and just as thick, Mum’s signature style.

People have described her hair in all sorts of ways.

Peculiar, interesting, distinct. Someone once asked me how Naya and I had hair so different from our parents – me, wispy and ash blonde, and Naya, a frizzy wave of chestnut brown.

With Mum resembling confectionary and Dad plagued with thinning black hair, we could never figure it out.

For a fleeting moment when I was ten, I wondered if I was adopted.

Perhaps my real parents were out there somewhere, searching for me.

I imagined being switched at birth or accidentally lost in a shopping centre.

But Dad would not let me think that for a minute.

‘You may not have our hair, but look at what you do have,’ he’d said, tapping my nose.

‘That’s mine.’ He ran a hand along my pointed chin.

‘That’s your mother’s.’ He pointed at my knobbly knees.

‘And I dare say these came from both of us. If you look closely, you’ll see that your sister has them too. ’

And so I never entertained the thought again.

Mum mirrors a buzzing animal as we make our way through the airport – jittery, unable to keep still.

‘Look at you.’ She gives me a once over, offers to help with my belongings, but it’s just a handbag and one carry-on with wheels.

‘I got it,’ I say.

‘How was the flight? How are you ?’

‘The flight was fine. Thank you for picking me up.’

‘Nothing to thank me for. Nothing at all.’ Mum turns to me. ‘It’s a shame you can’t stay longer.’

My lips twinge.

Naya’s kids – they must be so big now. Will they even recognise me?

‘Big weekend,’ Mum says, then reaches across to drape an arm over my shoulder. Squeezes me like I might disappear.

Big weekend indeed.

Family dinner tonight. Naya, me, Leonard, the kids, all of us seated around Mum’s mahogany table. It’ll be nice to see Naya, and to reassure her. Tell her I don’t blame her for what she said to me. That I forgive her.

Tomorrow, Mum wants to drive to the cemetery.

The three of us, together, visiting Dad’s grave.

There’ll be flowers, I’m sure of it. It’ll be the first time I’ve visited his grave in years.

The last time I went, Darla was one. I loathe going – I dread the very thought of it.

The silence, the still air. The graves long forgotten, cracked and fallen over, next to ones covered in flowers and memorabilia – I’m not sure which saddens me more.

And finally, tomorrow afternoon, an afternoon tea at the house before Naya drives me back to the airport.

Three events over two days, and then I’m back on a plane and can forget about Dad for another year.

A couple of minutes and we’re through the airport and out the other side, in the carpark. ‘Naya mentioned the two of you speak a fair bit now, which is nice.’

Mum must not have the full debrief on what’s occurred. ‘We do.’ We’re now mere metres from her scratched sedan – not a single panel on that thing that isn’t damaged. ‘She mentioned you saw Genevieve.’

Somehow, we both know to stop.

‘How is she?’ Mum asks.

She told Dave I was planning to leave him.

I don’t know when, or why. But she did, and now I don’t know how to talk to her, because I don’t understand why she would’ve done that.

I feel hurt, and resentful. What could possibly have allowed her to think that was an acceptable thing to do?

I’m completely broken-hearted. Like she’s stomped on me and broken all my bones.

‘She’s good,’ I say. ‘She’d be thirty weeks now.’

Mum’s eyes bulge.

‘You must miss her.’

I turn. ‘I miss you .’

She melts a little and says it back. Gives me a warm smile, then takes my bag and loads it into the car.

In my pocket, my phone lights up. Vibrates like crazy. And only once I’m inside Mum’s car do I take a second to look at it.

Two missed calls from Genevieve. And one new text message.

Is everything okay? I feel like you’re ignoring me.

I’ve always loved our family home – a charming settler’s cottage, weatherboard and painted white inside.

Built in the 1960s. Sandstone steps leading to the front entrance, and then continuing behind the house through to the backyard.

Mum has a knack for killing any plant – indoor or outdoor – she attempts to pot, and so everything decorative is plastic.

The inside of our home has not changed since I last visited.

In fact, I cannot remember the layout of the furniture, the artwork on the walls, nor the colour scheme of the rugs and the pillows ever being any different.

Even the diffuser is filled with the same essential oils – lavender, rose, cedar.

It always feels so bizarre arriving home.

Everything is exactly the same – right down to the dark sandy shade of the welcome mat – and it deeply unsettles me.

Part of me wants things to change. I want to come home and say, Wow, look what you’ve done .

But instead, it’s like no time has passed, like I left mere moments ago. And I hate that.

The house pivots around a honeycomb colour palette – yellows, browns, a mustard-tinged vanilla, the occasional steel grey.

The lounge is plush eggshell white, with an earthy red woollen blanket draped over the armchair.

To others, the colouring may seem a little niche – perhaps a bit off-putting, as Dave once described it.

But for me, I’ve always found Mum’s decorating to be quite welcoming. Warm, light.

‘Spare bedroom is all set up,’ she says, dropping my bag by the corridor cabinet.

The cabinet catches my eye, in that moment. Something about it seems odd, but I cannot place it right away. The colour is the same – cream with brass handles – but there’s something askew. Something bare, like things have been moved around and they don’t quite fill the space.

Framed photos sit atop the cabinet, always have.

But they’re different this time. Leaner.

I think back to the last time I was here.

Most of the photos atop this cabinet were of me and Naya.

And the kids. I remember pictures of Naya and Leonard at their wedding and on holidays.

And there were about half a dozen photos of my dad, Marco.

Didn’t matter what age he was, he was always recognisable by his thick, black moustache.

He said it tickled once, when Naya asked, but that he couldn’t imagine removing it.

When he met Mum, she told him it suited him, and so he never considered shaving it off.

I run a hand along the cabinet, paying particular attention to the photos of my father. Work to remember his face so it doesn’t ever feel like it’s slipping out of my memory.

And then I realise. Suddenly clock why this cabinet looks so different – so sparse.

Beside Naya and Leonard, there used to be photos of me with Dave. At our wedding, at Darla’s christening, when we bought our apartment.

But now all traces of Dave have been removed.

I glance around the living room, and down the hallway, to the other spots where Mum likes to display photos. Naya and Leonard are still there. Their kids too. There are still photos of Dad around the house, even after two decades.

But all of my photos with Dave are gone. Not replaced, just gone .

There was a photo of us at the end of the hallway, from when we attended Genevieve and Bruce’s wedding. And by the television, there used to be a small polaroid that Dave gave Mum a couple of years ago, from when he accompanied me to a Christmas party.

But they’re all missing.

‘I wasn’t sure what I should do,’ Mum says, hovering by the front door. Wringing her hands. ‘Naya told me you might not want to see them. So, I pulled everything down.’

Somehow, it feels sadder than it should, seeing all traces of him removed from the house.

As if he never existed in the first place.

I feel like Mum loved him as much as I did.

I’m imagining her expression when she did it – her sadness as she collected all the frames, stored them all, somewhere hidden.

‘I considered cutting him out,’ she says. ‘Of the photos.’

‘That would be weird.’

‘I know,’ she agrees. ‘I thought about what might happen if you got back together. Could hardly sticky-tape him back in, could I?’

I soften. ‘We won’t be getting back together.’

Her posture sags. ‘I had assumed so.’ Her head tips to the side. ‘A shame it didn’t work out. I’m sorry, Charlie.’

Then, Mum reaches out, grabs my shoulder. ‘I know I’ve already said this, but it makes me happy that you’ve been ringing Naya. I’ve often wondered what would need to happen to bring you two closer.’

‘You’ve wondered that?’

‘Of course.’ Her face stills, as if she cannot believe I even questioned it. ‘You left for a good reason. You met Dave. But you hardly visited. You never called. And so yes, sometimes I did have moments where I wondered what it might take. For you to call us. Reach out.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I never guessed that it’d take a divorce,’ she says. ‘I feel for you, going through it. But at the same time, it’s brought you back, in a way. And now, with this anniversary, you’re here. Home. Gosh, not sure I’m making any sense. Do you know what I mean?’

I ponder this, for a moment. ‘I left rather suddenly, didn’t I?’

‘You did. She’s missed you.’ Mum straightens. ‘Since you left.’

Collectively, we step back. ‘I can’t believe it’s been twenty years,’ I say.

Mum nods. ‘Sometimes it feels like it’s been twenty minutes, and other days I realise just how long it’s actually been. Just how many people have forgotten about him.’