Motionless, I listen to my breathing, and to the wattlebirds, the mynahs and magpies. Somehow, I am still alive, and somehow you are too. But I don’t know how to move again.
I have lost you.
I will go back to my life in Barkingside, without you.
I think of the pills in my handbag—an option.
And then, as if in a dream, I somehow start the car, pullout of the car park, past the old man gums. I’m still crying as I turn onto the main road and pass cars, houses, a bus stop. There is only one man waiting at the bus stop, head down, hands clasped.
You.
I veer off the road like a hooligan and park on a verge further on. I hunch down in my seat, but I needn’t bother; you don’t look up. You are like a statue. What’s the use of getting out of jail if you’re just going to sit still and look at the pavement? I watch you in the rear-view mirror, trying to pick out the traces I once knew. The shape of you is right, more or less, you’re still tall, but you’ve sagged. You’re like an old football, kicked in the middle. I could still invite you into my car and take you away to a quiet place.
But would you have anything to say?
A bus comes by fast and hides you from me, and I’m instantly anxious. What if I lose you again? In the rear-view mirror, I see you get on. So, you do have somewhere to go. When the bus pulls out and overtakes my car, I duck down in my seat. Maybe you’ll see me, thump the glass to make the bus stop, run back. But the bus carries on, and I follow.
I keep a few cars between us, but I’m not watching the road like I should; all I can do is stare at the bus. I’m not crying anymore, which feels like a victory. Driving at sixty kilometres an hour feels like a good rhythm, too. I’ll just see where you go. I’m sure many people would agree that I’m looking after myself, that I have a right to find out. I’ll see where you live and that will be enough, the closure I need.
I overtake the bus as it stops again. I think I see you, about halfway down. You still don’t look up. How are you allowed toignore me when I can never ignore you? I grit my teeth, but the fury inside me feels better than fear. I trail you for close to forty minutes, through the suburb of Canning Vale and places I’ve never been, through the glare of the day, the house windows glinting. I’m a minotaur in these winding suburban streets and you are my prize. I have the urge to flash my lights and beep my horn as I chase you down, but I don’t want to alert you, not yet. I pull back, slowing each time the bus makes a stop. Someone is sitting next to you now; they have no idea about you or what you have done.
When you eventually get off, you keep your head down, and your shadow stretches behind as if it’s beckoning me along. I oblige, trailing in my car, still finding it hard to believe you haven’t noticed me. Or have you? Is this a ruse to get me to approach you?
You walk for twelve minutes—I measure on the dashboard clock. Wherever you’re going, you know the route. When was the last time you came here? There was no bail for you ten years ago. As you turn into a smaller street, Banksia Drive, I hang back and park the car. You’ve led me into an old housing estate: dusty red-brick dwellings, overgrown gardens, sun-stained cars sitting on front lawns next to rusting swing sets. I follow on foot. I like this new, proactive version of me. Crouching behind a bush, I watch you walk all the way to number 31 Banksia Drive, where you stop.
You knock. When no one answers, you knock again on the glass of the front window, and the curtain twitches. You glance back at the street, but not all the way back to where I am hiding. I don’t breathe as we wait.
You step away from the front door and run a hand throughyour lanky hair—the only sign that you might care about your appearance. I try to imagine your hair cut and washed, try to picture you with your shoulders pulled back, a tan, a smile. I can’t, not quite.
A woman appears in the doorway, and then disappears inside again.
A woman?
Denim shorts over pale legs. A pink tank top. Short, black hair. She couldn’t be your sister. She’s too thin, she’s not blonde. She didn’t hug you, either. She just left you on the doorstep, your hands held up in a gesture that could mean something like,See, I told you I’d come.
So, who is she? Was she expecting you? And if so, why wasn’t she at the prison? She can’t care about you that much.
One thing’s certain: this isn’t your house. You don’t believe in houses, in owning anything. You once told me that what’s yours is everyone’s and what’s out there is yours, which is ironic, really, when you took me just for yourself. Nevertheless, you walk into this house without hesitation, a vampire over the threshold. Would it have been as easy if it had been my door you’d arrived at? Would I have stepped aside so calmly? I think of Nick with his toe jammed inside the doorway of my flat, that nasty proprietorial glint in his eyes. What if Nick had been you? You’d have sloped in and expected everything to be like it was, and I would have let you in. The Ty I thought you were would have done that, anyway. The Gemma I thought I was…
But this new you? I don’t know anything about this version.
I wait to see if either of you comes out again. The dynamic of that house must have shifted now, like I have inside. Withhardly a ripple on the surface, a knock on the door, a step, and all our worlds change.
Who is she?
Prisoners often receive letters from admirers, especially if they look like you did when you went inside. Sometimes they even marry their correspondents while they’re behind bars—the ceremony takes place in prison. I’ve seen the documentaries. This woman could be one of your groupies, an opportunist, someone who claims to love you but doesn’t really know you. Maybe you need to be protected from her. There’s a gnawing feeling inside me now, and I know I can’t leave without finding out more. I duck my head, keep my eyes on the pavement and walk up Banksia Drive, my heart about to explode from anxiety. As I glance up at number 31, I both want and don’t want you to come out of the front door. I rehearse lines I could say if you do emerge, but nothing sounds quite right.
The house stays silent, so I creep down the side to the bins, listening for your voice, or hers. I open the lid of the recycling bin, reach armpit deep into packaging and pull out a bill.
A name: Louise M. MacFarlane.
That isn’t your sister’s name. Or your mother’s. Who is she? A wife? The name stares brazenly back at me, telling me I’m trespassing. But when did you get a wife? Why? You wanted me. Only me. You said it would never be any different.
I retreat into the shadows, breathing hard. You both lie under the same surname, lie in the same house. I lurch for my car and leave.
Back in my ocean-sized bed, I stare at the pills spread around me, but drink only rum for now. It’s cheap and tangy, boughtfrom the 7-Eleven on the corner. You have the release and the wife. What do I get?
After five pills, I reach for the phone by the bed and dial the number that matches her name. A woman’s nasal tone: