Fern

FERN

Wally drives me home. I’m not used to being in a vehicle at night. It’s dark outside and the noises are sharper, more delineated. The click of the car’s indicator while we wait at the traffic lights. The sound of the steering wheel moving under Wally’s hands. It’s almost hypnotic. By the time Wally pulls up in front of my house, I’m practically in a trance.

“How are you doing?” he asks when I don’t get out of the car.

“Not great,” I say. “Pretty embarrassed.”

“Embarrassed?” Wally pulls up the handbrake. It’s loud in the quiet car. His gaze settles over my shoulder, as usual. “Fern, can I tell you something?”

I nod.

“Before I lived in this van, I developed an app called Shout! with a friend of mine. It allowed people to order food and drinks from their table without having to go to the bar, and it allowed restaurants not to have to employ waiters to take orders, only to ferry food back and forth from the kitchen. There are several apps like it now, but it was the first of its kind. I was the programmer—I designed it, coded it, tested it. And it was a huge success.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks. It was pretty exciting at first. But then I had to start doing other stuff, apart from coding. I had to go to marketing meetings, I had to network with investors, that kind of thing. My partner kept saying things like, ‘This is the most important meeting of our careers.’ We’d go to cocktail parties and have to talk to people—not even about Shout!, we’d just talk about sports or horse racing or whatever the other person found interesting. I didn’t understand what I was doing there, and I hated it.” Wally glances at me briefly, then back over my shoulder. “The pressure was enormous. It wore away at me. I stopped going in to work. I stopped getting out of bed. I think my partner would have ditched me, but we were so close to selling. Then we did sell it, and we got this ridiculous amount of money and everyone was ecstatic and I … just fell apart. The night after we sold, when everyone else was celebrating, I was in the emergency room, with chest pains. I thought I was having a heart attack. I was referred to a psychiatrist and kept as an inpatient at a mental facility for nearly a month. A full-blown nervous breakdown, apparently. I was so ashamed that when I got out, I left my big successful life behind and moved to Australia!”

“Why?”

He shrugs. “You can’t get much farther away than Australia, can you? And I had a passport, because of my mom. I thought, over here, I’d get another chance to just … be me. One of the reasons I got the van was because I needed to make my life small.” Wally shakes his head. “But over the last few months, I’ve been developing another app. That’s what my meeting is about tomorrow. Some investors are interested. My point is that lots of people get in over their heads. It doesn’t mean you can’t try again.”

“Are you suggesting I try bowling again?”

He thinks about this. “Or not. But don’t let it scare you off trying things.”

Wally looks away from me, at the windscreen. His arms loosely grip the steering wheel and I fixate on the dark brown hairs on his arms, his slender wrists, his long elegant fingers.

“Was it the touch?” he asks.

I wonder if I missed a critical part of the conversation. “Pardon?”

“At the bowling alley. I touched your arm. Before you screamed. Was that what upset you?”

“Oh. No.… Well … it wasn’t just the touch. It was the lights, the music, the smells, the staring. And the touch.”

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“It’s all right.”

“I should have known.”

“You should have known that I don’t like to be touched? Why would you know that?”

“Because,” he says, “I don’t like to be touched either. I’ve learned to do it—to shake hands, to hug, to pat someone on the back—because that’s what people do. But I don’t like it.”

“But just because you don’t like it doesn’t mean that I won’t like it.”

“True,” he says. “But … you are a little bit like me.”

I open my mouth in surprise. Alike? I want to cry, “What ways are we alike?”

But then it hits me.

The way that Wally looks over my shoulder.

His commitment to being punctual.

His failing to attend his interview and his frustration at himself afterward.

He doesn’t like to be touched.

Wally is indeed a little bit like me. How had I not noticed this? The idea of this brings on a flood of comfort and security. Like I’m being seen and understood. I feel like a foreigner in a new country who, after months of not being understood, has finally run into someone who speaks my language.

“You … don’t like to be touched?” I ask. “Not at all?”

“Some touching is okay,” Wally says. “If I’m expecting it, it’s not so bad. And a firm touch is better than a light one—”

“Light touches are the worst!” I exclaim. “Light surprise touches.”

“I’m okay with my loved ones touching me,” Wally says. “Though, usually they know how to do it right.”

“Or not do it at all,” I agree. “What about sex? Good or bad?”

Wally thinks about this for a minute. “Good. And bad. Depending on many factors.”

“I don’t really know what the fuss is about,” I admit. “It seems a bizarre thing to do, if you think about it. How did people even discover it?”

Wally rests his head against the headrest and frowns. “It’s a good question. I guess Adam and Eve must have got bored in the Garden of Eden from time to time. Maybe it was a dare? Or maybe Eve tripped and fell and … I don’t know, landed … on … Adam?”

Wally’s cheeks are extraordinarily red, I notice. It makes me laugh a little. And after a second, Wally does too. It’s magic. People rarely laugh at the same things that I do. Usually when I laugh, other people are silent. And when others laugh, I’m still trying to understand the joke. Before long, we are both laughing so hard that tears appear in the corners of my eyes and I have to wipe them away. Wally wipes tears away too. He steals a sideways glance at me, and we lock in a rare moment of direct eye contact. It’s funny what happens then. It’s as though there’s a change in the atmosphere or something. I have to concentrate on taking a breath, which makes me aware how loud I am breathing.

“Would you like to have sex with me?” I ask.

Wally freezes. It is, admittedly, a sizable deviation from my plan. For one thing, there are at least two days until I ovulate. For another, at least according to the romance novels I’ve read, when it comes to seducing men, there tends to be very little in the way of ascertaining of the other party’s interest. If the novels are anything to go by, sex is supposed to kick off with the hero crushing his lips against mine after doing something to upset me. So I watch Wally’s reaction with interest.

His eyes widen slightly and his lips part, but he doesn’t speak for some time. I am pleased with this reaction. I suspect I would have felt a little startled by the crushing lips. As he contemplates my request, I settle back into the cozy pod of the van with the darkness surrounding us. I am feeling something approaching relaxed … until a sudden pounding on Wally’s window sends us both flying off our seats.

“Do you have permission to have your van parked here? This is private property, you know.”

I recognize the voice as that belonging to my neighbor, Mrs. Hazelbury. Through Wally’s window, I see that she’s dressed in her peach candlewick robe, holding it together with both hands at the throat. I can’t see from where I’m sitting, but I’d hazard a guess she’s also wearing her matching slippers.

Wally rolls down his window and she peers into the van.

“Fern!” Mrs. Hazelbury says. “There you are! I’ve been trying to get in touch with you all night.”

This is a surprise. Mrs. Hazelbury never tries to “get in touch” with me. She prefers to wait at her window and call out as I walk by on my way to work. Have you seen my newspaper? It has gone missing two days in a row! Do you know what is happening to the block of land down the road that has been purchased by developers? Do you think the new people in flat number five have got guests staying?

“Your sister called twice,” Mrs. Hazelbury says, craning her neck to see farther into the van. “Apparently she’s been calling your mobile phone all night and there’s been no answer.”

I feel a shiver down my spine; a sluice of ice water. Rose has called? Again?

What have I done now?

“She wanted me to peek in your window and make sure you weren’t lying dead on the floor,” Mrs. Hazelbury says. “I have to say, I did notice a small dog in there while I was looking, which I’m certain is against the rules of the body corporate.”

“I left my phone at home,” I say to no one.

“There was a man hanging around earlier too,” Mrs. Hazelbury continues, taking a closer look at Wally. “It wasn’t you, was it? No. He was bigger and his hair was lighter.”

In the back of my mind, I think of the mystery man who visited me at the library. The same guy? Perhaps I’ve forgotten to pay a bill and they are sending someone door to door? But I put that thought aside for the moment. “What did Rose want?”

Mrs. Hazelbury throws up her hands. “How should I know? Perhaps you should go and call her back instead of idling in this car all evening, keeping everyone awake!”

After finishing her inspection of Wally’s van, she gives us a nod and wanders off. I reach for the door handle. “I’d better go,” I say. “Sounds like Rose is worried.”

Wally frowns, gazing just over my shoulder again. “Just because she’s called doesn’t mean you’ve done something wrong, Fern.”

I feel the tingle again, low-level dread, this time in the pit of my stomach. “Unfortunately, in my case, it does.”

“She’s very … involved in your life, isn’t she? It feels like she calls every time we’re together.”

“Rose is protective. She’s looked after me all my life, so she knows the … situations I find myself in. If it wasn’t for her … who knows where I’d be? Last time she called she saved Alfie’s life, remember?”

Wally doesn’t respond.

“Anyway,” I say. “I’d better go call her.”

I slide out of the car and slam the door. Wally waits until I’ve made it up the stairs and am safely inside. It’s funny to think that only a moment ago, I was asking Wally to have sex with me. Goes to show it really does just take a moment for everything to change.

---

I have seventeen missed calls, all of them from Rose. There is also a text message: CALL me ASAP. I run through a mental list in my head. What could I have done? Alfie is lying contently on the couch. The oven is off. Mrs. Hazelbury didn’t report anything out of the ordinary. What else could it be? I am still running through possibilities when my phone rings again.

“Rose.”

“Fern! Thank god. I’ve been so worried.”

“Why have you been worried?”

“Because! I told you I was going to call tonight at seven P.M. I wanted to see how Alfie was. I called and called, and you didn’t respond.”

I wait. “That’s it?”

“That’s it? Fern, you could have been lying dead in a ditch for all I know.”

“What would I be doing in a ditch?”

“Fern!” She exhales exasperatedly.

“I don’t remember you saying you were going to call,” I say. “What time is it over there?”

“It’s two hours after we were supposed to talk,” she says. “When you didn’t answer, I had to go through my emails to find Mrs. Hazelbury’s number and then I asked her to look through your window and check that you weren’t dead!”

“I know. She told me.”

“I was really worried, Fern.”

Rose sounds agitated. I, on the other hand, am flooded with relief. I missed a call. Not ideal for a worrier like Rose. But no one has been harmed. No one has died.

Everything is fine.

“Where were you?” Rose asks.

After everything that’s happened, it takes me a moment to remember. “At the team-building night. We went bowling.”

There’s a short silence. This is exactly why I hate phone calls. A silence can mean so many things. Has the call dropped out? Is she taking a sip of her drink? Is she waiting for me to say something?

Finally, she speaks. “You went bowling?”

“Yes.”

“Why? Is this because of the new boss?”

Rose knows how much I loved Janet. “Yes. It was compulsory for all staff to attend. It didn’t go well,” I admit.

I hear her exhale. “Oh, Fern. Did you get overwhelmed?”

“A little,” I say, deciding not to tell her about the sensory meltdown. Rose worries too much as it is.

“You must be tired,” she says. “How did you get home?”

“A friend drove me.”

Another pause. “Which friend?”

“Wally.”

The longest pause yet. “Is Wally a guy?”

There’s something about Rose’s tone that irritates me. Of course she could never just be happy that I have a guy friend! I also feel irritated at myself. Why do I need her to be happy? That’s the strangest thing about having a sister, in my opinion. The way you can be mad at them and want their approval all at once.

“Yes. He’s a guy.”

“Where did you meet him?”

“At the library. He was taking a shower.”

“A shower?” Rose sounds mad.

“He doesn’t have a shower,” I explain. “He lives in his van.”

I glance out the window and am pleasantly surprised to see the van is still out there. I squint at the driver’s seat, trying to spot him. The van is in darkness but it’s possible that he’s in the back. Maybe he’s already gone to sleep? I kneel on my couch to get a better view.

“So let me get this straight. You’ve been bowling tonight, and you were driven home by a man who lives in his van?”

From my kneeling spot on the couch, I replay the sentence in my head and find it accurate. “Yes.”

“Fern, you need to be careful. This man could be trying to take advantage of you. For money or food or even sex!”

I smile at the last part. If only she knew.

There is a knock on the door. I startle and fall off the couch onto the floorboards.

“Fern! Are you all right?”

“Fine,” I say, straightening up. “Er, Rose … I’ve got to go. Someone is at the door.”

“At this time of night—”

I end the call and get to my feet. Almost immediately the phone starts to ring again, but I ignore it, flinging open the door.

It’s Wally.

“I didn’t answer your question,” he says.

“What question?”

Wally’s cheeks turn crimson. “Well … we were talking about Adam and Eve? And you said…”

He drifts off. I wait. Wally rubs the bridge of his nose under his glasses.

“I said…?”

Wally lets go of his nose and steps into my flat, grinning. “Are you really gonna make me say it?”

“Say what?”

He shakes his head. “You are funny.”

I’m not sure why I’m funny, but as he sweeps me into his arms and presses his lips to mine, it seems moot, as I couldn’t have answered him anyway.

Sex with Wally is a pleasant surprise. The few times I’d had sex with Albert, it had been with duty, even with curiosity, but each time he crawled his way around my body I could barely think of anything else but the moment it would be over. With Wally, I find myself having a lot of thoughts. Thoughts of … Maybe we could try this next?, or What is it that you are doing there and why does it feel so good?, and How can I arrange for us to do this all the time? The fact that I was trying to get pregnant escaped my mind entirely until the moment it was over. When I do remember, I can’t find it within myself to care.

“Is it safe?” he’d asked, when we were both naked and he was hovering over me.

An odd question, I thought, but then I supposed it was important that one felt safe when they were in a new environment. I’d taken a few moments to ponder this, finally determining that while it wasn’t impossible that a madman could burst into my flat at any given moment wielding a handgun, neither was my flat war-torn Syria. So, after an appropriate amount of consideration, I’d replied, “Yes. It’s safe.”

And that seemed to be the right answer, because everything commenced rather quickly after that.

Afterward, I couldn’t stop giggling. When Wally asked me why, I couldn’t explain it. A physical reaction, I decided, was the only explanation.

“I think I had an orgasm,” I said. “I mean … I’m not sure. How do you know, do you think?”

Wally rolled over so he was lying on his side. “Actually, I’m not sure,” he said thoughtfully. “Shall we google it?”

“Good idea.”

And so we lay there, in bed, googling orgasms and clicking on articles. After reading eight or nine articles, we determined that it was very likely that I’d had one, but it would be better to try again so we could be totally sure.

Wally leaves before morning, which makes me like him even more. As much as I’d savored the night with him, I am keen to keep my morning routine intact. There’s been enough disruption this week, I decide. But as I go through my yoga poses, I find I’m still thinking about him. I imagine telling Rose about my relationship with Wally. Wouldn’t that be something? On television and in books, sisters always talk to each other about these kinds of things, teasing each other about boys, confiding secrets. I imagined Rose gasping and giggling and demanding sordid details. I imagine her helping me get ready for a date and begging for details afterward. It would be something I’d quite enjoy, I decide.

I’d hoped for this sort of reaction when I started dating Albert.

“I have a boyfriend,” I’d told her, even though Albert and I hadn’t specifically used the terms “boyfriend” and “girlfriend.” Still, I’d come to recognize our behaviors as typical of those in that kind of relationship, so it seemed a logical conclusion to draw. “His name is Albert.”

“What do you mean … you have a boyfriend?”

This should have been my first warning. Unlike the vast majority of the population, Rose didn’t usually ask questions to which she already knew the answer. She knew I didn’t understand it when people did this. But this day, she seemed to have forgotten.

“I mean … I have a boyfriend,” I replied.

Rose didn’t gasp or giggle, but she did ask dozens of questions about Albert, none of them in the least bit interesting. What was his last name? Where did he live? What was he studying? Her lip curled as she talked, as if a boyfriend was something that personally offended her.

“When can I meet him?” had been the last question, something of a surprise given that she’d seemed so disgusted by his existence.

After some prodding, I’d agreed to bring Albert to dinner at her place, where she’d proceeded to ask him all the same questions she’d asked me and more. There was no nudging or winking or giggling. There was nothing fun about it at all. There was nothing fun about it the next day either, when Albert stopped talking to me. So I decide it might be better not to tell Rose about Wally. For now.

---

At 9:15 A.M., when I’m about to leave for work, Mrs. Hazelbury knocks on my door.

“I’m sorry to bother you so early, Fern, but I wanted to catch you before you went to work. I have a copy of the body corporate documentation here.” She holds up a stack of papers and places her eyeglasses on her nose. “Section 4.2 states that no dogs are permitted in the building, and section 15.6 states, and I quote, ‘Parking of larger vehicles including trucks, trailers and caravans is strictly not permitted by building bylaws.’” She removes her glasses and looks at me expectantly. “Are you familiar with these bylaws?”

“I am,” I say. (In fact, I’d read the body corporate documents very carefully after moving Alfie into my flat, and then done subsequent research on the computers when the library was quiet.) “However, bylaws that have a blanket ban on pets have been found to be contrary to section 180 of the Domestic Animals Act, which advises that ‘a bylaw must not be oppressive or unreasonable, having regard to the interest of all owners and occupiers of lots included in the scheme and the use of the common property for the scheme.’”

Mrs. Hazelbury blinks. I take her blank expression to mean she needs further explanation.

“That means that the bylaw can say what it wants, but owners’ corporations do not have the legal power to prohibit pets from private properties.”

Now Mrs. Hazelbury understands. I can tell because she becomes red in the face.

“As for the van,” I continue, “you’ll find it is not a caravan or trailer. It is registered as a standard motor vehicle and as such does not breach any of the bylaws mentioned. Anyway, I do need to get going now, Mrs. Hazelbury, or I’ll be late for work.”

With that, I take Alfie by his lead, walk out, and close the door behind us, leaving Mrs. Hazelbury standing speechless at my front door.

Everyone is especially kind to me at the library today, and I ascertain it is because of the scene I made at the bowling alley last night. It is also possible it is because there is a dog by my side. With Wally at his meeting today, I had no alternative but to bring Alfie to the library with me. The fact that Carmel is at an interlibrary meeting for the morning is a fortuitous twist of fate, and one I take advantage of.

Alfie is a big hit with library staff and borrowers alike. Even the grumpy old folks who’ve been bused in from the nursing home cheer a little at the sight of him. Linda uses him as a prop during story hour. Gayle goes out to buy dog treats on her break and feeds him so many that he can’t do much more than loll about at my feet while I process returned books into the system. Of course, he chooses the second that Carmel has arrived back from her meeting to poop on the carpet.

“What on earth is going on here?” she cries, as I’m on my hands and knees with a spray bottle and paper towel.

I look up. Carmel is wearing those eyeglasses that become sunglasses when you go outside. Except she’s inside and the glasses don’t seem to have realized.

“Oh, Fern,” she says, softer now. “Hello. It’s good to see that you’re … feeling better, after last night…”

She trails off. I get the feeling I’m supposed to say something (I’m starting to get the hang of the strange way Carmel talks), but I’m not sure what. Eventually I try “Mmm,” and it does the trick, bizarrely.

“Anyway. As I told you the other day, dogs are not allowed in the library.”

“Actually,” I say. “Owners of assistance dogs have the right to take their animals into all public places and onto public transport, including buses and trains. The Commonwealth Disability Discrimination Act of 1992 makes it unlawful to discriminate against a person with a disability who is using an assistance—”

Carmel frowns underneath her rapidly fading glasses. “So … you’re saying this is an assistance dog?”

I look at Alfie dubiously. “Yes…”

“I see. Then I assume you know it is a requirement that assistance dog owners must provide evidence of their disability when requested.”

I don’t reply. But Carmel waits, so I throw in another “Mmm.”

“So?” Carmel says expectantly. “Where is your evidence of disability?”

I’ve underestimated Carmel. I’ve also underestimated her glasses, because in this short time, they’ve almost returned to clear.

I cross my arms.

“Fern, the dog has got to go.”

I frown, looking off into the distance. “Sorry, will you excuse me, Carmel? I think I hear someone calling—”

I rise to my feet and am about to walk off when Carmel says, “Please don’t walk away while I’m talking to you, Fern.”

“But you’d finished talking. You said the dog had to go, and then I walked away.”

“But…” Carmel looks utterly discombobulated. “… you hadn’t answered me!”

I place a hand to my brow and close my eyes, breathing deeply, the way women in old-fashioned movies did before they “took to their beds.” I’ve always wanted to try it and it is surprisingly gratifying. “You didn’t ask a question, Carmel. How am I supposed to answer a question, if one hasn’t been posed?”

Carmel doesn’t reply, even though that was a question. Like me, she is also breathing deeply. I think she too would like to take to her bed.

“Fern, will you please make alternative arrangements for the dog?” she asks after a long silence.

I sigh. At least she has been clear, I suppose. I pull my phone from my pocket to check the time. Wally will have finished his meeting by now. I thumb him a text. Satisfyingly, he writes back almost immediately.

On my way.

“Someone is coming to get him now,” I say to Carmel.

“Good,” she replies, looking happier. “I trust I won’t see him in the library again.”

I wait until she finishes the sentence and, not hearing a question, hurry away before she can stop me.

---

Wally arrives at the library promptly, once again dressed in a suit and tie. The sight of him sends a bizarre, not unpleasant zing through me.

“Hello,” I call out from the back of the library (perhaps too loudly given the amount of people that turn to look at me). Alfie and I trot toward him.

“Hello,” Wally says when we are closer. We have a frightening moment of eye contact before Wally bends down to pat Alfie.

“How was your meeting?”

“It was a bigger meeting than I expected,” he says. “There were a bunch of people there. I gave a presentation.”

“Preeesentation,” I repeat.

Wally laughs. “Sorry. Presentation.”

I’m enjoying the interaction so much I decide to experiment with casual touch. I step forward and punch Wally on the arm, the way I’ve seen people do when they’re having a laugh. But I think I do it too hard, because he stops laughing and looks alarmed.

“Sorry,” I say.

“That’s okay,” he says, rubbing his arm.

“So it went well? Your preeesentation?”

“Yes,” he says. “Very well. Maybe I can tell you about it after your shift? It’s going to be a nice afternoon … maybe we can take a walk.”

It is, I decide, the perfect suggestion. No noise, no smells, no unnatural light. Lots of fresh air. There will be small talk, I suppose, but I’m getting used to Wally’s small talk. Even becoming fond of it.

“I can’t today,” I say, handing over Alfie’s lead. “On Thursdays, after work, I visit my mother. Then I have dinner with Rose.”

“Your mother?” Wally looks bewildered. “But … I thought you said your mother died?”

“I said she overdosed,” I reply. “I never said she died.”

As soon as the automatic doors slide open at Sun Meadows, the smell of casserole and urine starts to seep out. It’s a malodorous, tacky smell that clings to me, even hours after I’ve returned home, showered, and washed my clothes.

Tragically, it is also now my mother’s scent.

Once, my mother’s scent had been talcum powder and toothpaste and laundry detergent. “Cleanliness, godliness, and all that,” she used to say as she hummed around the house. I remember having to hold my breath when I was in the room with her, particularly when she bent down to kiss me at night.

One day she asked me why I was holding my breath, and I told her. “Your smell makes me feel sick.”

Mum had looked sad then. “I’m so sorry, baby,” she’d said. “I had no idea. If you’d prefer I didn’t hug you—”

“It’s okay,” I’d said, shaking my head. “It’s worth it.”

At the reception desk, a woman I don’t recognize smiles vaguely at me before returning to her paperwork. Security isn’t very tight at my mother’s establishment. I sign the visitor book, take a badge, and walk past the elevator, which has been screened off and bears a handwritten sign saying, OUT OF ORDR (no “e”). Fine by me. Elevators make me claustrophobic anyway and smells seem magnified in them, particularly if I’m sharing the space with other visitors. I take the stairs.

At the top, a man in a brown dressing gown pushes a walker down the corridor, scanning the floor as if looking for something.

“Hi, Fern,” one of the nurses says. It is Onnab, whom I have determined to be one of the best nurses when it comes to Mum’s personal hygiene and state of mind. “Your mother is in her room. She is having a good day.”

A good day, I have learned, can mean a vast range of things. It can mean Mum is happy to see me and will attempt conversation, or it could mean she is quiet and doesn’t say a word. She is rarely aggressive or combative, and I’m grateful, because apparently that isn’t always the case with people in this ward.

Mum’s door is ajar, and I knock lightly then push it open. Mum is in a wheelchair in the corner, dressed in a pair of gray trousers and a white blouse that is turning a little yellow. Her hair has been brushed and is pinned back, which makes it look very gray around the temples. She’s even wearing shoes, the black Velcro ones with white socks underneath. It does indeed appear to be a good day.

“Hello, Fern,” Teresa says.

Teresa is Mum’s new speech pathologist. She was twenty-seven years old last time I asked. She has a thick brown ponytail, a singsongy voice, and lots of ideas about ways to improve Mum’s speech. Today, for example, there is a machine beside Mum’s chair, which is attached to a long cord. At the end of the cord is a flat circular object that hovers over Mum’s head.

“What’s all this?”

“Transcranial magnetic stimulation,” Teresa says. “We did it last week too. Your mother is responding very well to it. Watch.”

She holds up a flash card showing a picture of an apple.

“A-pple,” Mum says.

“Now this one.” Teresa holds up a flash card of a lion.

“Lion,” Mum says.

I am impressed. Because of Mum’s brain damage, speaking is hard for her now. Usually she pauses before each word as if gathering strength, and then her mouth stretches wide around each syllable. Even with all the effort, her pronunciation is hollow sounding and requires extreme concentration to understand. But these words come out remarkably clearly.

Mum looks at me. “Pop … pet!” she says, with painful slowness.

Mum started calling me “Poppet” after the overdose. I think it’s because sometimes she doesn’t remember my name. Mum had never used affectionate nicknames for us before. But a lot of things have changed about Mum. She smiles more now. She is easily delighted, reminding me of a much older lady, or a younger child. She’s actually very good company, most days.

Mum’s overdose happened sixteen years ago. She took the pills in the evening, and Rose and I didn’t even think about it when she didn’t get up in the morning. Mum had never been a morning person. At midday, we helped ourselves to lunch. In the afternoon, we toyed with the idea of waking her, but Rose was nervous about upsetting her. She had a point—Mum was always cranky when we woke her up.

It was nine that night when we finally knocked on Mum’s door. By then she’d been in a coma for hours. Too many hours, they told us later. I called the ambulance, because Rose was mute with shock. It was perhaps the only time in our lives when I was the one to step up in a moment of emergency.

We found out later that Mum had overdosed on Valium and alcohol and her brain had been irreparably damaged. A few weeks later, Mum was moved to a permanent care facility and Rose and I bounced around foster homes until we were eighteen.

“Well,” Teresa says in her singsongy voice. “I think that’s enough for one day, Nina. You should be very proud of yourself.”

“You should, Mum,” I agree. “I haven’t heard you sound so clear in … years.”

Teresa beams. “If she continues to improve at this rate, she’ll be speaking in full sentences by the end of the year. I can’t wait to have a good old chitchat with her, hear all her stories.”

Teresa removes the round thing from Mum’s head and starts fiddling with the machine. Mum looks at me. “Where … you … sis … ter?”

Mum asks this every time. I’m not sure if it’s because she doesn’t remember that Rose never visits, or if she just hasn’t given up hope. In the early days after her accident, it had been a requirement that our various foster parents bring us for weekly visitation, but the day Rose turned eighteen, she stopped coming. (“Mum unsettles me,” she said, when I asked her why. It must be one of those things I don’t understand, because I never feel unsettled by Mum. To the contrary, our hour of unthreatening, halted conversation is one of the most settled parts of my week.)

“Rose is in Europe,” I say.

Mum’s eyes widen, which means she is interested.

“I know,” I say. “She’s gone to visit Owen. He’s taken a job there this year and Rose is visiting him for four weeks.”

I’m grateful that today I don’t have to lie about Rose’s whereabouts. Often, when I tell Mum that Rose isn’t coming, her eyes fill with tears. Her emotions are unpredictable since her overdose, happiness to tears in an instant. I wish Rose would just come in and visit.

“Owen?” Mum frowns. “Eur-ope?”

“Yes, he’s taken a job there,” I repeat. “Anyway, Rose is just visiting him. She will be back at the end of the month.”

Mum doesn’t reply.

Sometimes I am sad that Mum doesn’t say much. Sometimes, like Teresa, I’d like to have a full conversation with her and see what she has to say. Sometimes she seems so frustrated by the fact that she can’t talk, she clenches her fists and grinds her jaw. Other times, she seems like she’s made her peace with her disability, and just sits there and lets my chatter wash over her. During those times, I have to admit, I like the fact that I can talk and talk and never have to worry about making eye contact or talking too much or missing any social cues. It’s probably the only place in the world where I feel like I can do that. That, I suppose, is what mothers are for.

“I have some news,” I say to Mum on a whim. It feels good, because I never have news. Mum’s eyes widen again.

“I’ve met a boy,” I say, and finally I get the gasp I’ve been waiting for.

When I arrive home from Sun Meadows, Wally’s kombi van is parked in my parking spot. It looks distinctive among the maroon sedans and white Toyota Corollas, and it adds some character to the place. I reach the sliding back door and pause a moment. I don’t know the proper greeting when arriving at someone’s van, so I knock loudly and wait.

“Hello,” Wally says, poking his head out of the driver’s-side window. Alfie sits happily on his lap. “Did you have a good visit with your mum?”

“I did.” I go around to the passenger door of the van and get in. Alfie immediately leaps across the seat and lays his head on my lap. “So, tell me more about your preeesentation. Who did you preeesent to?”

“A group of investors. They’re the same guys who gave us the money to start up Shout!”

“What is this idea? Another app?”

He nods. “It’s a social prompter called FollowUp.”

I scratch behind Alfie’s ears. “What is a social prompter?”

“Basically, you enter all your invitations and engagements into the app, and it spits out communications that you can send via text, email, WhatsApp, or whatever platform you use. For example, if you receive an invitation to lunch that you want to decline, you can click on ‘lunch’ and ‘regular’ or ‘one-off’ and ‘business’ or ‘pleasure’ then press ‘Go.’ And the app will give you an appropriate response. Like…” He fiddles with his phone, then begins to read the screen. “No can do, I’m afraid. I don’t do Mondays. Or Ah, would love to, but I’m slammed next weekend. Sounds like it will be a ripper! or Have a great birthday. Wish I could be there but I’m going underground till I get through this busy period at work.”

I look at the responses in wonderment.

“I still have a lot more coding to do. Eventually we’ll be able to personalize it with the person’s name, the event, follow-up excuses if they change the date, auto phone calls to give you an excuse to leave midway through an event, and also phrases to use if you are confronted by the person in real time. You’ll be able to give it instructions to accept an invitation now but decline on the day saying you have an illness. It will also remind you what your excuse was for future communications with that person, so you don’t go making any gaffes.”

“Wow,” I say. To have these turns of phrase at my fingertips—to not have to ask Rose or agonize over a response for hours—that would indeed be an app I would be willing to pay for. “It’s genius.”

“I think it will have a market. And now that we have investors, I’ve got work to do.”

“So no more freelancing?”

“Not for the moment, no.”

I consider this. “Is this cause for celebration?”

“I think it might be.” A small smile comes to his lips. “But how should we celebrate?”

“Usually I celebrate by reading. But that’s not really very sociable.”

Wally frowns. “I often reward myself after a day of work with a few games of Fortnite. But, like reading, it’s kind of a solitary endeavor.”

We drift into silence as I ponder alternatives for celebration. After a short time, I notice Wally is staring at me. Right at me.

“Staring competition?” I ask eagerly.

“Actually, I was wondering if I could kiss you.”

I giggle. Again. This time I can’t even blame the orgasm.

That night, as we make love, I don’t think about getting pregnant at all. Not once.

---

I see him, under the surface of the water. His hair fans around him like a halo. He’s struggling. I hold tighter. Just a little bit longer, I think. It’s almost over.

When I do let go, he is slow to rise to the surface. He’s bloated and unnaturally white. Limp. His eyes and mouth are open.

I jolt awake.

“Fern. Fern! Wake up. You’re having a nightmare.”

I’m in my room. It’s quiet, as usual, but something is different.

Wally shakes me. “Fern?”

“I’m awake,” I say.

“Are you all right?”

Wally hovers over me. It’s hard to make out his features in the dark room. I nod.

“Are you sure? It sounded like you were having a nightmare.”

“Yes,” I say. “I just have them sometimes.”

Wally lies back down. He scooches up close behind me so we are a pair of crescent moons. He throws an arm over me. The weight and warmth of it is a surprising comfort. I focus on enjoying it, while I steady my breath.

On this night, sleep comes surprisingly fast.

---

In the morning, when I open my eyes, I am looking at Wally. His eyes are closed and his long, black eyelashes lightly touch his cheeks. My eyes drift down to his shoulders, his chest. He has a hairy chest, with a freckle just above his left nipple. His body is definitely on the slender slide, particularly his legs, which are dangerously close to skinny. But his arms and chest are shapely and muscular, and I admire them curiously.

Until I lurch upright. “Shoot!”

Wally jolts awake. “What?” He scrambles around the bed, looking for his glasses. “What’s wrong?”

“I slept in!”

He pushes his glasses onto his nose. “What time is it?”

“Seven oh seven A.M.,” I say, scrambling out of bed. I haven’t slept in for years. My body is my alarm clock and it wakes me every morning without fail between 6:10 A.M. and 6:30 A.M. Without fail until now. The fact that my body has failed me is unsettling enough, without the other unsettling things I’m starting to register. Like the fact that I’m dressed in last night’s clothes. Partly dressed. I’m not wearing a top or bra, but my skirt is bunched up around my waist and I am still wearing socks. My skin and teeth feel grimy. It takes me a few moments to realize that not only did I not undress properly before bed, I didn’t brush my teeth or wash my face or apply lotion to my shins or anything. I did none of it! And now it’s after 7:00 A.M.! By now, I should be in downward dog on my yoga mat in the living room.

“You have to go, Wally,” I say.

“Why?” he says, at the same time as there is a knock at the door. His eyebrows rise. “Are you expecting someone?”

“It’s probably my neighbor. She likes to come over and read me the bylaws of our building.”

I locate my bathrobe and wrap it around myself, and Wally heads toward the bathroom. Alfie is at my heels as I fling open the front door. I only have a second to register Rose before she catapults herself into my arms.

“Rose!” I choke. “What…?” Normally, I don’t mind when Rose hugs me, but today there is something strangling about it. “What are you doing here?”

Rose lets me go and I notice she’d managed the hug while balancing a box in one hand. “I missed you!”

Rose pushes past me, into the flat.

“Why are you home early?” I ask, closing the door.

“Aren’t you pleased to see me?” Rose places the box on the table. “Don’t answer that. Just sit down. I brought donuts.”

Rose sets the box on the table and opens the lid, demonstrating that she has indeed brought donuts. It’s odd. Rose doesn’t eat donuts very often, because of her diabetes. I, on the other hand, eat a lot of donuts. Often Gayle brings a box of them in to the library and while everyone else stands around deliberating whether or not to have one, I am happily helping myself to thirds.

“Sit!” Rose repeats.

I look at my watch hesitantly. “I have to go to work, Rose! I’m already late.”

“What time do you have to be at work?”

“Ten. And I haven’t done yoga yet.”

I expect Rose to ask me why, but she is obviously distracted. “It’s just after seven, Fern. You have time to catch up if I drive you to work.”

Reluctantly, I take a seat at the table. The moment I’m seated, the bathroom door opens and Wally comes out.

“Hi there,” he says.

Rose looks at me. She looks so baffled I almost laugh.

“Rose, this is Wally,” I say instead. “Wally, this is my sister, Rose.”

Wally extends his hand. “Good to meet you,” he says. “Though I must point out that my name is in fact Rocco.” He shoots a reprimanding smile at me.

Rose continues to stare at him. It’s strange. Normally Rose is so poised, so polite. She always has the perfect response to everything. Today, she seems like the sister who doesn’t know how to behave.

“Pleased to meet you too, Rocco,” she says finally, taking his outstretched hand. She holds it for longer than appropriate (maximum of three seconds, she’d always told me) and stares at him in a manner I would have considered rude. “You look familiar. Have we met before?”

Wally picks up his shoes from beside the door where he’d lined them up neatly the night before. “Not that I recall, but you never know. This world is a small place. Anyway, I’ll leave you two to catch up. Fern, I’ll talk to you later?”

It is a statement, but he poses it like a question, rising in intonation at the end. In light of this, I decide to go out on a limb and answer it as one. “Sure. Talk to you later.”

Wally gives me a little salute and lets himself out with his shoes still in his hand. It’s so peculiar I find I can’t stop smiling.

I look back at Rose, who is gaping at me.

“He slept here? Fern! You can’t just invite a strange man into your home!”

“He’s not that strange.” I wonder if she is referring to the salute.

“He’s a stranger, Fern. We don’t know him. Is he the one who drove you home the other night after bowling?”

I nod. “In his van.”

“That’s another thing,” Rose says. “I saw Mrs. Hazelbury on the way in and she’s not happy about that caravan outside.”

“It’s not a caravan,” I say. “It’s a kombi van—”

But Rose isn’t listening. “What did you say his name was again? Rocco?”

“Yes. But I call him Wally.”

“What’s his last name?”

“Ryan.”

“Rocco Ryan.” Rose frowns frustratedly off into the distance, contemplating that.

“You still didn’t tell me why you came back from your holiday early! Is everything all right with Owen?”

A tiny smile comes to her lips. “Everything is perfect with Owen. We’re back together!”

Rose is beaming. I get the feeling that I should be excited. But I’m confused.

“Back together? But … did you break up?”

“Well … no.” Rose’s smile fades. “It’s complicated. Suffice to say, I have been worried about the state of our relationship these last few months. But not anymore.” Her smile returns. “Now, I’m more confident about it than ever.”

I smile, still not totally understanding.

“So, where is Owen?” I ask. “Back at your place?”

She shakes her head. “He’s got to finish the project he’s working on. But he’ll be back as soon as he can. In the meantime, we need some serious sister time. Just you and me, and these donuts. What do you say?”

She dives into the box and pulls out a chocolate-iced donut for me. She has one too, after checking her blood sugar on her glucometer. When we are done, I shower and get ready, and then Rose drives me to the library. It’s not until much later that day that I realize that Rose never actually explained why she was home early.