You Belong Here Page 10

  Came closer. Standing. Waiting.

  She shook her head. ‘Not gonna happen.’

  ‘It could.’

  ‘Do you want to know what happened to me today? Do you even care?’

  He looked hurt. Found his heart, just in time.

  Jay was done on the whole ‘man’ thing. Said that gender roles were most often based on a series of ideas that were dated from day dot. Said, we’re locked in an ideal perpetuated by movies and music, and then laughed loudly, as if amazed by the intricacies of his mind, sometimes sharp, but on other occasions resembling the pealing of a bell, a dull reverberation.

  Less embarrassed by his ‘man’ role, it seemed, when coming home just as his sister had smoothed the icing onto their mother’s birthday cake. Carrot, of course, and coated, thick cream cheese, a family recipe.

  She slid the cake into the fridge. But before she could close the door, Jay appeared, reached in.

  ‘Don’t touch it,’ she said.

  ‘A little bit?’ said Jay. ‘Just a piece?’

  ‘I have to get drinks,’ said Emily. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Ginger beer. And some wrapping paper. Don’t forget the wrapping paper.’

  ‘We’ve got some, it’s in my room.’

  ‘I’ll grab it.’

  ‘It’s cool, I’ll get it,’ she said. ‘Just later on, okay?’

  She headed out. Bought some drinks, and then headed to Dom’s. He wasn’t there, so she sat on the veranda for an hour, maybe two, thinking, Please come home. I won’t be mad if you just come home.

  It was dark when she got back. The door was ajar.

  She thought about going to the cops, but what would she say? That the house was eerily quiet? That something may or may not have happened?

  She walked in, flicked on the hallway lamp.

  ‘Hello?’

  The fridge was open. There was broken glass near the dining room table. A plate on the floor and cake mushed underneath. Icing on the wall, up high, as if the plate had been hurled across the room.

  The phone rang. She let the machine take it. Her mother, a bit worked up.

  ‘Em, are you home yet? It’s Jay, he’s gone right off. I’ll call again in a bit.’

  Her bedroom door was open; she could tell from outside that the throw rug had been pulled down.

  She rang Dom. It went straight to message bank. She told him he should have been home, that she needed him, and what was the point of being with somebody if they were never there when you needed them?

  The phone rang again. She picked up on the second ring.

  ‘Where are you?’ said Emily.

  ‘I’m heading home,’ said her mum. ‘Just finishing up some stuff at work. Jay’s at Sophie’s. Wasn’t making a lot of sense.’ She paused. ‘What have you done, Em?’

  Hard to say. Maybe I did it, she thought. Maybe Jay did. Maybe he wanted me to do it.

  ‘He’s lying, I didn’t do a thing.’

  ‘Yeah, you did,’ said Jen. ‘I have to go. We’ll talk later.’ The phone clicked. Emily walked to the kitchen, picked up handfuls of cake with a half-broken plate. Took shards, crumbs, and icing to the rubbish bin. Closed the lid. Washed the muck off her hands.

  The wrapping paper. He went into my room for the wrapping paper.

  Her nail polish was tipped over. Her drawers were open. Her bed was covered in letters, all from her father. The letters to Jay were mostly on top, with some unopened.

  Maybe he didn’t find it.

  She picked up the letters, sorted through them with shaky hands, checking dates and beginnings. Went through again, but with no luck.

  To her right, the mirror was tilted. Her PJ poster, torn down the middle. Saw the letter, scrunched by the bed. Picked it up. She already knew what it said.

  I’m sorry Jay no longer wants to talk to me. Tell him I love him, and would love to see him, when he’s ready.

  Dad wrote her letters. She could tell you what they said, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was he sent them to her. And you could tease that out. You could ask the necessary questions, but it wasn’t a riddle, a puzzle to be solved. It was a ring on her finger, fitted so tight that it cut off the circulation.

  I’m his favourite, Jay. Don’t ever forget that.

  Three letters in relation to the unforeseen and unfortunate demise of the precarious but ever-lovable mind of our son and brother, Jay Slater

  6 June 1997

  Dear Dr O’Neill,

  My name is Jennifer Slater and I am writing in response to your letter dated May 25th.

  I thank you for your thoughts, and am glad you reached out to me.

  In my opinion, Jay needs regular and sustained psychiatric help. While he has remained functional for much of his life, he shows a tendency to wallow in mistakes. He is overly sensitive to his surroundings and in the past twelve months has struggled to cope with the outside world.

  Growing up, I shielded him from things. At times, he sensed he wasn’t getting the whole story.

  While I have not been able to visit Jay as much as I would like, I love my son and only want what’s best for him. With that in mind, I trust your expert judgement and will support your call for long-term residency. If I can offer further assistance, then, please, let me know.

  9 June 1997

  Attn: Dr O’Neill (MAPS), Re: Jay Luis Slater

  My name is Steven Slater and I am writing in regard to your letter dated May 25th. I thank you for your candour and will, as best I can, give context to my youngest son and his ongoing mental health issues.

  Jay struggled in the wake of Jennifer’s and my divorce. I would like to say I’d been there to guide him through, but it’s hard when you work on the other side of the country.

  I’m trying to provide for them as best I can. When you get another shot at a job you thought you’d lost then there’s no time for discussion; you board the plane, make a promise to be smarter, sharper at the console. And yes, I miss them. And I know, not much of a Dad, all told.

  I appreciate your candour in what’s obviously a difficult situation. I only ask that you keep me informed as to our best course of action. I also want to let you do your job. In that respect, I’ll contact you only if, in the course of my research, I discover something pertinent.

  While I was initially hesitant to commit to Jay’s treatment (knowing little about the circumstances regarding his admission), I now see that we’ve done what’s best. As his father, I’ve often wondered how to raise, love, and protect him. If we have at times lost touch, it has only been with his best interests at heart or, more recently, at his request.

  2 June 1997

  Dr O’Neill,

  My name is Alex Slater and I am writing to support the release of my brother, Jay, into my care.

  Jay has now spent the last three months at Bell’s Lake, the first time we have ‘got help’ for him. In this time, I have seen his condition deteriorate. I’ve visited every week, ensuring he has his music, his videos, and some sense of his family. At first he pushed me away, but eventually accepted that I am going to be around for as long as it takes.

  Mum and Dad love him very much but are yet to visit. Dad lives interstate. He has a very important position in Sydney, he tells me, and we do our best to create a convincing impression of a father and son lost in deep, fulfilling conversation.

  I don’t know what Jay needs in practical terms. I only know I’ve long felt proud to be his brother, even when I haven’t earned the right to feel such pride.

  My brother loves everything and everyone in the world. Sometimes we let him down. You’d think he’d hate us for it but he keeps on forgiving, or tries to, because he thinks that’s what families do.

  I don’t have a medical reason as to why my brother should be released into my care. I know that since Dad left, I’ve looked out for him. I’ve hated him some days, but since he went in, I’ve felt sick. It’s killing me to feel this helpless.

  I would like to meet with yo
u to discuss my brother’s release. If I need special training, I’ll take it. If I need to cut back on work, I’ll do that too.

  I don’t know if I can do this, if I even have a shot in hell, but I’d like to try to be more than just his fucked-up older brother.

  Skin I'm In

  Alex and Jay sat in the darkened living room, a faded blue blanket hanging from the curtain rail to make up for the missing blinds. A couch the colour of wheat, with coffee so regularly spilled on it that the stains were now part of the pattern.

  Alex took the three-seater. Jay took the two. They watched Twin Peaks, six years late, and considered whether anyone in the world was more exquisite than Sherilyn Fenn. Jay said he sometimes dreamed that he and Sherilyn were living in a duplex; that she had the majority of the closet space, but he didn’t mind, so long as he woke up in the same bed as her, got to tickle her feet with his toes.

  ‘Don’t talk,’ said Alex, ‘You’re killing the fantasy.’

  ‘A townhouse?’ said Jay. ‘It doesn’t have to be a duplex.’

  But like that it was gone, and instead of gently placing Lindt squares in the gap between Sherilyn Fenn’s breasts, towards her o-shaped belly button, Alex was talking elite-level, A-grade crap with his brother, Jay.

  Jay had been released from Bell’s Lake Psychiatric a month or so back. Jen wouldn’t have him, on account of the friction between him and Emily, and so Alex had picked up his younger brother along with his blue trek bag, a purple stain on its corner from where Jay had left the lids off a bunch of textas, tied together with a rubber band.

  Just like Jay, thought Alex, he ties the textas but ignores the missing lids.

  But then, Alex couldn’t make head or tail of any of it. He felt sad and sorry for his sister, his brother, and the fraught, familiar way that the family closed ranks when one began to sink. It felt tender if he touched upon it, like he’d picked up a peach and felt the bruise.

  He had taken Jay home, set him up in the spare room. Promised to look after his brother for the next two years, excepting any meltdowns that would lead to assisted care.

  The pressure of it all. His mother saying, Only take him back if it’s necessary, and of course I’d get your Dad involved but I don’t have his number. Alex wanting to pass it on but it wasn’t in line with his father’s request, now his kids were fully grown, to by no means give it to her.

  A callous thing, but no more callous than the majority of his parents’ post- break-up interactions. In his time, he’d seen more love on a footy field and had watched Tyson– Douglas slugfests with greater camaraderie.

  A funeral on Friday, their father’s father, more statue than relative, such was the stroke that had turned him to stone in the years when the deli closed at five and the Mirandas had the run of Beaufort Street.

  ‘You think Dad will come?’ said Jay.

  ‘No,’ said Alex.

  ‘Would you like him to?’

  ‘What is this, the “Make a Wish” Foundation?’

  Alex knew he was being a prick, but what did Jay want him to say? That he didn’t know how to shave? That when he tried he had nicked his nostril, double blade, a speck of tissue soaked in Brut to stop the bleeding?

  Jay ran his thumb past the tips of his index and middle fingers, over and over, as if rolling a ball bearing.

  ‘Jay,’ said Alex.

  ‘Mm?’ said Jay.

  ‘You taking your meds?’

  Jay didn’t respond.

  ‘Fuckwit, are you taking your meds?’

  ‘You’re not my dad.’

  ‘Well someone has to look after you,’ said Alex.

  ‘Why am I even taking meds?’ said Jay.

  You are taking meds for any number of reasons, thought Alex.

  You are taking meds because you chew your nails, and you have this way of talking to girls that makes them want to protect you.

  You’re taking meds because you freaked out, and of course everyone freaks out, it’s just that you are not allowed to freak out. You’re the one who’s supposed to keep it together.

  You’re taking your meds because I want, for once, to do good, to be good, for us.

  ‘You need to take your meds,’ said Alex.

  ‘And you need a girlfriend,’ said Jay.

  And he was right. Alex knew he was right. It’s just that Jay had already taken her.

  That afternoon, Alex thought of Penny. He came quickly, but felt sick afterwards. Grabbed a letter she’d written when they were together, more a note, some words she had written down while scoffing the last of his croissants. He ripped it up, threw it in the bin. Went to a payphone, called her number, and hung up when she answered.

  There was a knock on the door at around five. It was Penny.

  ‘Why are you here?’ said Alex.

  ‘I need to talk to Jay,’ she said.

  She got together with Jay a month or so after Alex and Penny had finished up. Jay didn’t know they had even been a thing. Had brought her to his brother like he’d won her at a quiz night, arms held out as if to say ‘tada.’

  Alex didn’t take it well. He ran sprints on Railway Parade, with peak hour roaring a little too close. Sold the dummy to trees, occasionally hitting up against them, shirtfront, shoulder-bump, but still no good, and he ran and ran, but at some point he knew he would have to go home.

  ‘He’s at Freshies,’ said Alex. ‘Wait if you want.’

  They walked through to the living room. Sat on separate couches, eyeing each other off.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Penny.

  ‘Mm-hmm.’

  ‘We caught up at Ash’s twenty-first. You were supposed to be there.’

  ‘What’s your point?’

  ‘So you’re mad now?’ said Penny. ‘Is that how this works?’

  ‘Penny——’

  ‘You’re the one who stopped answering my calls,’ she said. ‘Or am I wrong? Is that not what happened?’

  Not quite. But if he tried to explain, there was no way he would be able to stop.

  That night they were in Jay’s room, with Penny making all kinds of noise—deep, guttural moans like she was speaking in tongues. Alex was head under blankets, with pillow wrapped around his ears. He knew he couldn’t leave his room. That it would crush him to see the light leak out. Penny moaned, first slow and then fast, and before he had a chance to stop, he’d hit the wall with a closed fist. No reply. If anything, they grew louder, sounding as though they were about to sneeze, but they never did, and his guts tightened, and he knew he had to leave.

  Alex and Penny had been friends, or something like it. Pizza nights, once or twice, stayed over, talking mostly, till one night he found her hand upon his chest. All a bit fucked up, in each other’s business, and closer than they should have been.

  He called her again after Jay went into hospital. He’d planned to call a few friends that night, to pass on Jay’s room number. They went out to the Subiaco Dôme that weekend, two decafs, and then she came back to his. Stories spilled out, about Jay and him, what they were like as kids.

  Her eyes lit up the more he talked about Jay, thinking then that she was warming to his stories, big brother, little brother. Maybe she was. Hard to tell. Harder still with a girl like Penny. Pinkish hue in her cheeks; hair cut just above the neck, and darker at the roots; tiny wrists, so small you could wrap your hand around them.

  She stroked her thumb across his palm, and they kissed, knocking teeth, a tremble in his hands at the touch of her face.

  He had woken the next day. Reached for the alarm, but found Penny. Stroked a stray curl into place, waited, and watched. Chef’s jacket on but unbuttoned, half into his checks when she finally stirred. Again, he watched: her hair, bed messy, toes poking out from under the doona. When he got back from work she had taken the spare key, slid a hand-scrawled note under a vase.

  Jay had got worse at Bell’s. Went right off, pounding walls and swearing at the guards. Penny came over. She suggested solitary, at least until he
settled. Alex had thought the same, but on hearing the words he felt hollow, despicable.

  He went to Bell’s the next day to meet up with the doctors. They arranged a visitation plan: each morning, a thirty-five minute drive to Bell’s and then back to work the split-shift. He nearly nodded off a few times. But for the grace of God, he could have been an obituary notice in the Weekend West.

  He stopped answering when Penny called. He couldn’t manage her and Jay, not the way he was. She dropped off some things—a couple of books, a T-shirt, and a DVD. He had stood inside, back from the window, watching her walk down the path, her thighs silhouetted in a semi-see-through summer dress.

  His plan had been to find the old Jay and then Penny. Soon enough, he found both, as one, in Jay’s room.

  Alex slept in late, wrapped the doona super snug, shielding himself from daylight. Heard Jay’s bedroom door open, Jay sliding his slippers on the polished floorboards with a light whoosh, popping his head around the door. Headed to see the doc. He needed more meds—or more of one particular med, the type he took to get a buzz.

  Alex got up later and Penny was in the bathroom, popping out a double-shot of Nurofen, in Jay’s Mr Messy shirt and nothing else, as far as he could tell.

  No smart comebacks this time, just a murmur, the rush of sound in his head, and a ball of pain, like fire, in his solar plexus.

  She threw the pills into her mouth, bent down to get a mouthful of water. Straightened up. Gulped. Smirked.

  ‘So now you love Jay?’ said Alex.

  ‘I love you,’ said Penny. ‘You know that.’

  ‘You could have waited.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  She rested against the sink, crossing one leg over the other. ‘Alex . . . do you love me? But then why break up with me . . . unless you didn’t break up with me? Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Just go.’

  She came closer. Waited. ‘Alex——’

  ‘I had to take care of him. No-one was going to take care of him.’