Page 53 of Isn’t It Nice We Both Hate the Same Things

We turn right out the front of the driveway, and for a few minutes we say nothing, biting into Mum’s baked goods. The shortbread is a winner, as it has always been.

‘How is she today?’ Naya asks, her voice muffled as she swallows the final bite of her tart.

‘I didn’t realise she visited him so much. Did you know?’

She gives me a look. Of course I knew .

‘Four times a week is a lot.’

There’s a chuckle. ‘She’s lying to you. She goes almost every day. And I go with her most Sundays. Largely so I can get out of the house, but also because I don’t like the thought of her being alone so much.’

‘Every day? Seriously?’

‘She likes to visit him,’ Naya says, defensive.

‘It’s been twenty years. At some point I thought she’d move on. Every day ? She’s one step away from sleeping by his grave.’

‘I don’t think it’s possible for anyone to move on completely.’ Naya runs her hand through her hair, brushing it over her shoulders. ‘Leonard and I thought she might’ve met someone else by now, but I guess not.’

I frown. ‘She told me something today. At the cemetery. About you. She said that you were different before Dad died.’

‘Of course I was different. We were all different.’

‘No, she didn’t mean it like that. It was more like, if I knew what you were like before it happened, I’d understand how it’d affected your life. What it … changed about you.’

The wrinkles on Naya’s forehand smoothen out, her face still and her posture alert. ‘She shouldn’t have talked to you about that.’

I’m desperate to push, but Naya picks up the pace, hands shoved deep inside pockets.

‘I’m worried about her.’ I struggle to keep up. ‘About Mum. Aren’t you?’

Naya stops. ‘I’ve done nothing but worry about her. And as much as I love her, it can be tiring taking care of her all the time. I’d appreciate some help.’

‘Taking care of her all the time? Why do you need to take care of her?’

Her eyes narrow. ‘I can’t tell if you’re being serious or not.’

‘Naya, she’s an adult.’

She gestures back to the house. ‘She’s seventy-two and lives alone. Why do you think I take the kids around every weekend? She has, what, three friends? No parents, no siblings, just us. And the grandkids.’

‘Oh.’

‘I need a break, Charlie. I have—’ She stops herself.

‘Four kids?’ I say, swallowing a smile.

‘That’s not what I was going to say.’

‘That’s absolutely what you were going to say.’

‘You’re never around. Have you honestly never thought about what it might be like for her since Dad died, living by herself?’

I glance back down the street at our mother’s house, and picture it. Isolating. Quiet. For a moment, I think of Graham in his mansion. I think of me in his mansion. Alone and deeply uncomfortable, like I’ve been left behind. Like I’m missing something.

When I got home from that sleepover and Dad was dead, I’m ashamed to admit that I felt left out. Distraught at having missed it, when the others were present. It’s odd, I know, and I can’t explain it, but that’s how I feel when I’m alone.

Like I’m missing something.

Like I’ve been left behind.

So I surround myself with whoever I can – whenever I can – and pretend that feeling never existed.

‘Guess not.’ Naya squares her shoulders, her upper body turning rigid.

She is, evidently, not done yet. ‘Who do you think helps her maintain that backyard? And the garden? Who is mowing the grass and trimming back her trees every year, and wiping the dust off all her artificial plants? Leonard.’ She lets out a measured breath to calm herself.

‘Half of his injuries are from helping Mum fix something or build something. I know we laugh about Leonard, but I love that man so much for everything he does for us. Mum needs something and he’s there for her. He’s too nice to say no.’

‘But you could say no,’ I retort. ‘No one is forcing you to do any of this.’

‘You’ve been gone a long time, Charlie,’ she says, flustered. ‘You disappeared and you left me here with her.’

‘And I’m dead to you, right?

Guilty, she looks away.

‘I’m waiting for your apology.’

She baulks. ‘Apology? I’m not apologising. You apologise.’

‘I should apologise for you calling me dead?’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘No one asked you to stay.’ I turn, walking back towards the house. Naya is close on my heels. ‘Aren’t you tired of taking care of everyone around you?’

‘I took care of everyone because I had to,’ Naya snaps. ‘When Dad died, Mum wasn’t getting out of bed and you were too young to do anything about it. Who else was going to make sure you had food to eat? Who else was going to make sure you woke up early enough to catch the school bus?’

‘And I’m grateful for it, I am. But you don’t need to take care of us anymore. I’m not in school and Mum gets out of bed by herself now. And you’re still taking care of her. And Leonard. It’s like they can’t survive without you. Or you don’t let them survive without you.’

This fires her up. ‘You have no responsibilities, Charlie. None . You have no idea what it’s been like for me here, without you.

And I never said anything because we barely spoke anyway, but then you left Dave and you lost all of your friends and suddenly I can’t get rid of you.

Suddenly you’re calling me all the time, wanting to chat, and I can’t think of what to talk about with you, because we’ve never really talked to each other. ’

She pauses, then continues. ‘I shouldn’t have called you dead.

That’s not how I feel. It came out wrong.

What I meant is … What I meant is, I barely know you.

I’ve done the best I can with Mum. But if she wants to go to the cemetery seven times a week, or even seventy times a week, I’m not going to stop her.

And if she wants to make confit every week, fine.

I’ll eat it. I’ll compliment that monstrous slow cooker and tell her that I love her rubbery chicken.

I make sure she has someone to talk to, and things to do. She minds the kids, and I like that.’

She pauses to catch her breath. ‘But I can’t do everything for her.

So, yes, she hasn’t moved on and she probably should’ve, but if you want to change that?

It’s your turn. You’re the one who has a lot more time on their hands.

You’ve left your marriage and your friends are gone.

You have all the time in the world to help Mum out.

If you’re truly worried about her, do something about it. ’

We’re back at the house now, and Naya is so flustered she’s shaking her hands, as if trying to calm herself.

‘I was so mad at you last night I could’ve flipped that table. Talking about Genevieve and Graham leaving. How much you miss them,’ she says, laughing bitterly. ‘Now you know how it felt for us. When you left.’

She pulls her car keys from her back pocket. ‘I can’t stay, not when I’m this angry. And I know I said I’d drive you to the airport, but I’m not going to do that anymore. That would be taking care of you, wouldn’t it? You can find your own way there.’

It all happens so fast I don’t have a moment to process what she’s said. Naya slips into her car, starts the engine and drives off, and it isn’t until she is gone from view that I realise we didn’t say goodbye to each other.

Later that evening, I’m still thinking about the conversation with my sister.

I was still thinking about it when Mum woke from her nap, and when she chastised me for letting her sleep too long.

I was still thinking about it when I packed my bag, and when Mum drove me to the airport.

And then I thought about it for the entire plane ride home, and then again when I landed, turned on my phone and found four missed calls from Genevieve but nothing from my family.

Suddenly you’re calling me all the time, wanting to chat.

I barely know you .

I’d never realised what my sister really thought of me, and how trapped she might feel.

And now my friendship with Genevieve is damaged – perhaps long-term – and Graham has left and Dave’s back to being furious with me.

And I can’t call Quinn or Ivan or Dora because they couldn’t possibly understand any of this.

Somehow, in all my efforts not to be alone, that’s exactly how I’ve ended up.

I almost forget my bag as I exit the plane, and then I pass the flight attendants with a curt, albeit distracted, nod. My phone, nestled in my hand, is giving me grief. What do I do here? I’m attempting to craft a message to Naya, but I’m not sure what to say.

Sorry?

Call me?

I barely know you either, so how do we fix this?

Everything feels inappropriate, and like it won’t make a difference. Maybe I call her when I’m home. Maybe I just call her now. That’d be better than a text, right?

Walking through the departure lounge, I’m so lost in my own thoughts that I’m not paying attention when I step onto the escalator. So distracted that I step too far forward, heel sliding off the edge and then my leg crumbles beneath me, propelling my body forward.

My phone flies out of my hand. My bag drops off my shoulder. As I tumble down the escalator, my body flips faster than I thought possible. Two or three times. It’s a blur. I think I hear a crack, maybe two. And then finally, I land on the tiles on the ground floor.

Immediately, I know something is broken, that my arm shouldn’t be at that angle, and that my leg is twisted.

The airport is quiet when it happens and even quieter after it happens – there’s a split second as everyone turns to assess my fall. The pain isn’t immediate, but when it hits, I cry out. It is excruciating .

A crowd forms, fussing.

When the paramedics arrive, they ask if there’s anyone they can call. Faces flash in my mind. Genevieve, Bruce, Graham, my mother, my sister, Ivan, Dora, Quinn. People I need but cannot call. People who are gone.

It destroys me, realising this. My mind and my body feel detached from each other, my heart like it’s been sliced and squished and pressed into the smallest thing it can be. All these years on earth, and in my greatest moment of need, I cannot decide who to call.

When the paramedics ask again, I tell them the only name I can think of. The only person still here, in town, who I know will definitely answer the call.