Page 52 of Isn’t It Nice We Both Hate the Same Things

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

You’re dead. That’s how I see it.

The next morning, Naya cancels on the cemetery trip.

Tells Mum that Darla is sick, and she’s not up for the visit.

Darla could be sick, but I’d rather accuse Naya of being ashamed.

Of needing space. I’m picturing her practising her apology and working out how best to mend this.

Between last night, and that horrid phone call, my sister has a lot of grovelling to do.

She thinks me deceased, and it’s all I can think about. I leave home and she considers me as good as dead.

‘She’s still coming this afternoon, before your flight,’ Mum says. ‘So, that’s something.’

They didn’t stay long last night – not when the kids were playing up like that – so there was no time to confront her.

‘You two, honestly.’ Mum is near the door, buckling her tan sandals. She’s very well dressed, for a cemetery visit, in a sleek black shift dress. ‘She shouldn’t have said those things last night, I’ve told her that. But I still think it’s a nice thing she’s done, getting you here.’

‘She tricked me.’ I’m still irate about it. A couple of times this morning, I thought I’d processed it, and then I circled right back to where I started. Furious.

‘Well, maybe you needed to be tricked. I was starting to forget what you looked like.’ She opens the front door. ‘Come on, we’ll be late.’

‘Late?’ I say. ‘Mum, I don’t think he’s going anywhere.’

She throws me a look, unamused.

There is only one cemetery in town, nestled on the side of a towering hill. It’s where everyone around here ends up.

Hectares of graves and family plots. Manicured grass and hedges, angled with precision.

Some might think that Mum picked Dad’s spot for its beauty, but I know it’s because of the view.

She spent half her savings for a grave near the top of the hill.

She felt he deserved it, after the life he lived.

After he was cheated out of so many years.

I’ve always detested this cemetery. All cemeteries, really.

But this one in particular, because I have so many memories here – so many mornings when Mum dragged me and Naya to visit the grave.

Speak to our dad. Reminisce about him. I understood it the first couple of years.

His death was still so raw, and it made Mum feel better to come here.

And there was a time when Naya enjoyed it too – once admitting to me that she felt comforted being near his grave.

But that was years ago now, and I wonder if that is still the case.

‘When was the last time you were here?’ Mum asks. There’s something routine about how she moves, placing fresh flowers on the grave. Collecting the dead ones. Placing a delicate hand on top of the headstone and whispering something I cannot catch.

I think back. Before the twins, I know that. When Darla was a toddler – not long after her first birthday. ‘About five years.’

Mum makes a noise – a short, blunt whistle with her tongue.

It’s quiet this morning. Quieter than I was imagining. In the past, there have been other cars moving through the grounds, but today I don’t see any. We’re alone, and this place makes me feel uncomfortable. How many people are here, forgotten by their families?

Looking at the dead flowers in Mum’s grasp, I step closer. ‘How often do you come here?’

‘All the time,’ she admits, without pause. ‘Four times a week. Sometimes less, sometimes more.’

I catch my breath. ‘Jesus, Mum. That is a lot.’ Fidgeting, I lean forward and place a hand on top of the tombstone. As if to say, Hello, I’m here. I know it’s been a while .

‘You don’t consider me dead, right?’

‘Oh god , of course not. She shouldn’t have said that. She was upset.’ Pause. ‘It’s becoming a habit. She said some things to me recently that she’s since apologised for.’

‘I know.’

Her expression softens. ‘She told you? That I rely on them too much? Maybe she’s right, on some level. But I do it for them. They need me.’

I grab the dead flowers from her hands. ‘I should come home more often. And call.’

‘We can’t expect you to visit. You have your own life, and we’re proud of you.’ Then she looks me in the eye and repeats, ‘We’re proud of you.’

The subtext is clear. We’re proud of you for doing something others wouldn’t. For leaving him, and leaving that life.

She sneezes, then coughs, then clutches her head.

‘Are you okay?’ I ask.

‘Just a headache,’ she says. I’m sceptical, watching as she clears her throat and straightens.

‘What do you usually do when you come here?’

‘I talk to him.’

‘What do you say?’

‘Oh, it could be anything. My day. My work. I find myself talking about Naya a lot these days.’

‘Naya? Why?’

The corner of her mouth jerks down. ‘Sometimes I wonder what her life might be, if things had been different.’

‘Different how?’

‘She took care of me, that’s all. When she didn’t need to.’

After Dad. Naya was sixteen and Mum didn’t get out of bed for weeks. Someone had to feed me, get me to school. Wash everyone’s clothes. Naya got so good at running the household that even after Mum resurfaced, she was still helping our family in ways that should’ve been reserved for Mum.

‘You were probably too young to remember,’ Mum says.

‘I was twelve when he died. I remember it all,’ I respond, irked. ‘And I’d give anything to forget.’

She glances across at me, pity on her face. The sky is overcast now, the sun tucked behind a thick sheet of clouds. I’m still holding the dead flowers.

I lower my gaze, picking at my fingernails. ‘I was at a sleepover. Kristy Le Voun’s house. Dad told me he was going to cancel it, to punish me for what I did to Naya. But he didn’t. I’m not sure why.’

‘Because I told him not to,’ Mum says. ‘I thought it’d be cruel. And I saw Naya push you, so I kind of understood.’

‘Kristy’s mum made milkshakes that night and her sister kept following us around. I remember thinking she was annoying.’ I smile. ‘She’s a scientist now, did I ever tell you?’

‘Kristy? Or the sister?’

‘The sister. She studies diseases. Or fungi. Can never remember.’ ‘Impressive.’

‘She was a pest back then, that’s all I kept thinking. And then Dad died and everything changed.’

Mum places a hand on my shoulder, and squeezes. ‘It didn’t make a difference, you not being there. You wouldn’t have been able to say goodbye, even if you were home.’

My mouth twitches. ‘It made a difference to me. Not being there. I got home and Naya was stripping your bed. The house just felt empty. Like everything had been ripped out of it. I felt so …’ I gather my thoughts. ‘Alone.’

‘You’re never alone.’

‘You should see where I’m living. I feel alone there.’

‘You miss living with Genevieve and Bruce.’

‘I think it’s good for me to learn how to be on my own,’ I say. Then, I think about how I’ve been acting in Graham’s house – pacing back and forth, constantly trying to fill my time. ‘But I don’t think I’ve handled it very well. I don’t like when things feel so …’

She waits, then prompts. ‘Feel so?’

‘Empty.’

Immediately, she understands.

‘Naya told me what he’d looked like, and how you sounded when she was trying to pull you off him. The ambulance took six minutes and she said it felt like twenty.’

Mum’s jaw clenches, but not out of anger. Like she’s trying not to cry. ‘Naya got so used to helping us, she never lived her life. That’s why I feel for her. And it’s why I help with the children when I can, and why I talk to Leonard as much as I do.’

‘We survived,’ I say. ‘Sometimes that’s all you can do.’

Mum nods.

‘And Naya is fine. She’ll be fine.’ Will she? I’m ashamed to admit I don’t really know my sister at all. You’re dead. That’s how I see it .

Mum looks at me. ‘You don’t remember what she was like before your dad died, do you?’

I hesitate.

‘If you did, you’d understand why I worry.’

‘Tell me.’

She wipes her brow. ‘Later. I’m feeling tired. Shall we?’ She makes her way back to the car. I take a minute before following, placing a hand on his headstone again.

It’ll be years before I’m back here. Who knows what our lives will be like then, what kind of people we’ll be?

In my back pocket, my phone rings. Genevieve .

I stare at it for a good moment, before declining. Even if I weren’t at the graveyard with my mother, I’m not sure I’d answer her call. I feel betrayed and embarrassed. I’m at a complete loss as to what I would even say to her.

Mum falls ill not long after we return from the cemetery, clutching her forehead and complaining of headaches.

Her nose is blocked and her voice is deeper than usual.

She retires to her bedroom for a nap, apologetically.

On the way, she rattles off a list of the food she has in the kitchen for afternoon tea later today – scones, tarts, chai tea bags and some shortbread.

She asks me to wake her when Naya arrives.

I don’t.

Hours later I meet my sister at the door, hushing her quiet. ‘She’s sick.’

Naya slips a hand inside her jacket pocket. ‘Damn. Flu?’

‘And migraines.’ I step out of the house, locking up behind me.

‘Let’s go for a walk. The weather is nice.

’ And I want to talk to you about last night , I want to say.

Want to pepper you with questions about the things you said, the hurt you felt.

Want to understand what Mum meant about the kind of person you were before Dad died.

‘No afternoon tea.’ Naya’s lower lip puckers. ‘I was rather looking forward to it. My house is a germ zone at the moment.’ And then she glances up, as if only just realising that it is a lovely day – no clouds or wind, just sunshine. She closes her eyes, lets it warm her face.

‘Here.’ I extend a hand, unwrapping paper towel to reveal an assortment of our mother’s treats. Naya’s excitement is immediate, eyes widening, the corners of her lips lifting. She takes a tart and a piece of shortbread and leaves the rest to me.