Fern

FERN

When I was a kid, I loved school. There were several reasons for this, most notably:

The routine of going every day.

The timetable, which ensured I always knew what to expect.

The learning.

The reading.

There were many things about school I found troublesome, of course. The people, the noise, the lights, the smells. Still, I became adept at finding solutions. I tried to arrive at school after the bell had sounded, hence avoiding the morning rush. I sat in the front row, where chatter tended to be kept to a minimum. At lunchtime, I ate my sandwich outside and then went to the library to read. After school I went the long way home, so I didn’t need to make small talk with any of the kids. Generally, my work-arounds worked well. But there was one day each year that I had no work-arounds for.

Swimming carnival.

For a person with sensory-processing issues, a swimming carnival is what hell would look like. The warm, wet claustrophobia of the building, the cheering and shouting, the garish team colors, the stench of chlorine. I’d composed several compelling arguments in order to persuade Mum to let me stay home, but Mum always declined. You need to show team spirit, Fern, she’d say. It’s important to support your peers.

The first year, I’d steeled myself. I wasn’t required to participate, at least (one upside of attending a school with no mandatory sport). All that was required was that I stand on the side and cheer. I came prepared with earplugs, but it was the smell that did me in. It was something else. It wasn’t the mild fragrance of salt water and chlorine like I’d smelled in backyard swimming pools. It was warm and wet; stale and dank. The moment I walked inside, I felt it permeate every pore. It felt like being underwater, but without the wonderful silence. To the contrary, it was the worst kind of loud. Inside loud.

Rose had taken my hand as we walked inside, which I knew was supposed to be a gesture of comfort, but it made my skin crawl. It felt like yet another thing coating me, begging for my attention. She led us to the top of the stadium, the second row from the back, and sat me on the floor. From there, with everyone standing in front, the teachers couldn’t see us and no one could pester us to cheer. It wasn’t ideal, but it was the best I could hope for. I felt like I was drowning. The chlorine stuck to my skin, the back of my school dress, my feet. I tolerated it, just, until Rose went to do her races (Rose, for some unimaginable reason, had signed up for the fifty-meter freestyle and the relay). “Just keep your head down,” Rose had said before she left. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

I passed the time by counting backward from a million in nines. But the time dragged on and on. Just when I thought I couldn’t take it another second, Mr. McIntosh noticed me on the floor and shouted for me to stand up. (Mr. McIntosh was the science teacher. He had yellow teeth and smelled of onions and breath mints.) At the same time as he pointed, my team must have won something, because an almighty victorious roar erupted in the stadium. In the row in front of me, a boy I didn’t recognize, with long, white-blond hair, picked me up and spun me around, jumping up and down and shouting “YAAAAAAAAASSSSSSS.” My senses exploded. It was as though I’d slipped into another dimension.

I didn’t mean to hurt him. It must have been a reflex. A well-executed reflex that started with an eye gouge and followed with a knee smash to the groin. I was starting to calm down when someone touched me from behind. A reverse elbow strike later, Mr. McIntosh had a broken nose.

During the follow-up meeting, our school principal, Ms. Knight, commented that “the greatest concern is the fact that she hasn’t even shown any remorse.” I told her that, to the contrary, all I felt was relief, because it could have been so much worse.

I knew that in that moment, I could have killed someone.

---

I arrive at the Botanic Gardens at quarter to twelve, fifteen minutes before my scheduled date with Wally. I’d planned to use the extra time to secure a spot in the shade, lay out the blanket I’d brought from home, and unpack the sandwiches. I packed honey for myself, as usual, and one honey and one Vegemite for Wally, in case he doesn’t care for honey. But as I enter through the east gate, I am alarmed to find that Wally is already here, sitting on a blanket in the shade of a tree, his long legs stretched out in front of him.

“You’re early!” I exclaim.

“I always try to arrive a quarter of an hour early, if I can.”

“Really?” I say in wonderment. “So do I.”

“Who doesn’t value punctuality?” he says, shrugging.

“A lot of people, actually,” I say. “I think you’d be surprised.”

I arrange myself comfortably on the blanket, which is adequately sized for the two of us and not at all scratchy, which is often the case with picnic blankets. Our date had been fairly straightforward to organize, once I’d explained to Wally what a date was.

“You’re asking me on a date?” he said, after I’d asked him. It was a surprise, since he’d clearly heard, and I couldn’t see how he would need any further clarification.

“Yes,” I said, as slowly and clearly as I could.

Still, he looked bewildered. So much so that for the barest second, he looked me directly in the eyes. “A … date?”

At this point I was starting to doubt his professed IQ. Wally was silent for long enough that I started wondering if he’d had a medical episode. Had I made a social faux pas? The brief research I’d done on the computers had confirmed that girls did this sort of thing nowadays—asked boys on dates—and yet the poor boy seemed utterly perplexed. It occurred to me that it might be the word “date” throwing him off.

“According to Urban Dictionary, a date is where two people get together for an activity when the possibility of romance between them has been broached but not ruled out,” I explained.

Wally’s face remained blank. I sighed. This was the exact reason I favored planning over spontaneity. Normally, when I did something outside of the ordinary—like competing in a karate tournament or attending a librarians’ convention at the state library—I spent a lot of time planning for it. Familiarizing myself with the best route to take, checking the train timetable, making sure the medical provider was running on time. But this day, it seemed, I’d gone off half-cocked. I decided to offer Wally one further explanation I’d sourced from Urban Dictionary before giving up.

“An activity between two mutually attracted people which very often ends in one or both leaving sexually frustrated.”

Finally, bizarrely, he laughed. A funny half laugh that seemed like he wasn’t sure if he was laughing or clearing his throat. Then he threw up his hands and said, “You know what … sure. I’m free Saturday.”

“Me too, after karate.”

He nods. “What would you like to do?”

I realized a picnic was the only real option for our date, considering I don’t go to restaurants or shopping malls and the movies can be troubling if the sound is too loud or the smell of popcorn too strong. Wally agreed to the picnic and then, as if the heavens had been smiling upon us (a ridiculous expression, as heaven surely doesn’t have a face, let alone a mouth to smile with), the printer burst into life and started working and I was able to excuse myself and dash away before anyone else could ask for assistance.

Now, here we are. Fifteen minutes early.

I notice Wally is wearing the same black-framed glasses and buffalo flannelette button-down shirt with jeans and, of course, that same ridiculous hat. I have to admit, I find the sameness of him soothing. It’s always been unsettling to me, the way people change their appearance. Linda from the library, for example, changes her hair with frightening frequency. Not just the color, but the style—some days straight, other days curled, other days scraped back to her scalp and glistening as if wet. Linda, of course, is an extreme example, but most people tend to change, at the very least, their clothes on a daily basis. A new pair of earrings or a brighter lipstick than normal. A change is as good as a holiday, the saying goes, but I’ve never found change or holidays appealing. For this reason, I am wearing my favorite sun-yellow skirt and rainbow T-shirt with comfortable sneakers. My only discomfort is that my lips feel tacky because this morning—after reading online that one should put effort into one’s appearance for a date—I’d applied lip gloss. I’d dearly love to remove it but find myself without anything in the way of a tissue or napkin.

“What is it?” Wally says.

“What is what?”

“You’re staring at me.”

“Am I?” I consider this a moment. Then I wonder how he even knows this, since his gaze appears to be over my left shoulder, as usual. “Staring competition?” I venture. It seems as good an icebreaker as any. But after a promising start where Wally’s eyes widen slightly, he just gazes back over my shoulder. I wonder if he has an issue with his eyes.

“Beat you!” I exclaim.

His expression morphs into that funny smile-frown.

“You’re no good at staring competitions,” I remark, pulling my sandwiches out of my tote. As I offer Wally the sandwich I brought for him, he opens his own bag and pulls out an impressive haul—an artisan loaf, a wheel of Brie, a bag of grapes, even a block of dark chocolate. “My goodness!”

“What?”

“You’ve brought a veritable feast. Where did you get all of this?”

“All this?” he says, gesturing to the food. “I stole it.”

My mouth opens. “You stole it?”

He snorts. “Of course I didn’t steal it. What kind of person do you think I am? I got it from the supermarket!”

I am skeptical. “Why did you spend so much money, when you can’t even afford to live in a flat or a house?”

“It’s not that I can’t afford a house … I live in my van as a … a—”

“A lifestyle choice?”

“Yes.”

“Uh-huh.” I unwrap my sandwich. I feel his eyes and find him watching me with a dull smile.

“Well. You may not believe it, but I enjoy the simplicity of the van. But I do have enough money for food. I’m a freelance computer programmer, remember?” He retrieves a bread knife from his bag and begins slicing the loaf of bread, chuckling.

“Why do you freelance? Surely you could get a permanent job as a computer programmer?”

“I could.” He keeps slicing.

“But you don’t want to?”

He puts down the knife. “No.”

“Another lifestyle choice?”

He grins. “Exactly.”

It’s an odd choice, but I find myself admiring him for it. I’ve often thought about the way people blindly fall into the footprints of their forefathers, getting jobs, buying homes, working hard, and then dying.

“Well,” I say. “That’s very courageous of you, Wally.”

“Thank you,” he says. “Though my name is Rocco.”

“You don’t look like a Rocco.”

He gives another snort. “And yet that’s exactly what I am.”

Wally arranges an elaborate-looking sandwich of cheese, sliced ham, and tomato while I tuck into my honey-on-white. The date is going quite well so far, I think. We’ve made conversation; we’re consuming a meal. According to my research, that’s pretty much all there is to it. I’ve dismissed the possibility of getting pregnant today, obviously. Apart from the fact that it would be awkward and quite possibly illegal to have sexual intercourse in a park, I’m not ovulating. I know this because I bought some ovulation testing kits at the pharmacist, which tell me (by virtue of a smiley face in a small window) when ovulation is imminent. The booklet suggested testing around Day 10 of your cycle, with a view to ovulation occurring around Day 14, which, according to my calculations, means I’ll need a second date in just under a week to execute that part of the plan.

“So tell me about van living,” I say, swallowing a mouthful of sandwich. I’d preprepared the question. Asking questions is a tactic I use when small talk is required—it makes you appear interested while simultaneously putting all the effort of the conversation on the other party. “What do you like about it?”

Wally is lying on the blanket, resting on one elbow. “Many things,” he says. “I find the small space cozy, like sleeping in a little cocoon. When it rains, I hear it pelting the roof; when it’s windy, I feel the wind up against the car. It’s like I’m out in it … but protected. What else? I like that I can’t have too many possessions, so when I do buy something, I have to consider whether I really need it. It means I only end up with things that are incredibly useful or very precious. I like that I’m not imprisoned by anything. Debt. Weather. Bad neighbors. My home is wherever I am.”

“Where is the van now?”

“Down the road. There’s a four-hour parking spot about a mile from here.”

“Don’t you find it unsettling having to move about all the time like that?”

“A little,” he admits. “But moving around is kind of cool.”

I consider this. “I moved around a lot when I was a child. Not in a van though. I can’t say I found it … cool.”

Wally shifts on his elbow, getting comfortable. “Why did you move a lot? Folks in the army?”

I shake my head. “Honestly, I’m not sure. I would have preferred more permanence but … things always came up. Mum lost her job or the landlord needed us to move.” Wally is really paying attention to me, which is both awkward and quite nice. Perhaps this is why, on a whim, I add, “My mum wasn’t … the greatest mum, I guess.”

It feels like a betrayal, for some reason. I don’t like speaking badly of Mum. It feels wrong somehow. Rose doesn’t feel bad about it. She and Mum never got along, even when we were kids. I remember hiding in the closet with Rose when we were ten, after Mum and Rose had argued about something. “Fern, I know you don’t understand this,” Rose had said. “But Mum isn’t a good mum. You have to do what I say, okay, otherwise I can’t protect you. She isn’t a good mum, okay?”

“Okay,” I’d said.

“I’m sorry,” Wally says.

“She overdosed when I was twelve, and my sister and I were put into foster care.”

Wally sits up. “Wow. Fern, that’s awful.”

I focus on the remains of the food, the grapes lolling on the chopping board. “I was lucky I had Rose. She’s my twin sister.”

I half expect Wally to have a reaction to this. Inexplicably, people seem to have such curious reactions when I report that I am a twin. In social gatherings, often all I have to do is mention that I’m a twin and the rest of the conversation is consumed by the twins in that person’s family, whether they were naturally or artificially conceived, or how their great-aunt Margaret was a twin but her brother died in childbirth. I enjoy this, because all I have to do is nod and smile, which is infinitely easier than having to say anything myself. But, extraordinarily, Wally appears to be one of the few people on earth who doesn’t have anything to contribute to the twin conversation.

“Rose is my person,” I tell him.

Wally blinks. “Your person?”

“You know. Your person. Your wife or husband. Your child. Your boyfriend. Your best friend. Someone whose name you can put down on paperwork. Someone you can share personal information with. Someone you can rely on.”

Wally unscrews the lid off a bottle of water and takes a sip. “Interesting,” he says.

Conversation starts to dwindle then, so I decide it is time to proceed to the next part of the date. Astonishingly, I know what this should entail. Last night, in preparation, I’d undertaken a rom-com marathon, watching specifically for tips on the running order of a date. Trying to be scientific, I’d taken copious notes and, upon comparing them, found they had a lot in common. The first stage of each date was either a little dull or an unequivocal disaster where the person arrived late or dressed in entirely inappropriate clothing. The next stage involved each party sharing something personal. The final stage invariably involved a wacky incident such as a bird coming to eat the couple’s food or someone spilling a drink all over the other, forcing all parties to escape amid a cloud of hilarity which inevitably turned into a romance later in the show. As such, I determine that the wacky incident is the most crucial of the three stages.

I glance around for a potential wacky incident and, finding none, I open my water bottle and pour its contents over our remaining food. At a loss for what to do next, I throw back my head and laugh loudly.

Wally’s eyes boggle. “What the … Fern, are you all right?”

His enunciation is made particularly perfect by his bewilderment. My laughter dies down to an uncertain giggle. “I … don’t know.”

“You might be the strangest person I’ve ever met, you know that?” Wally says, shaking his head. And just as I am thinking things aren’t going to plan, he laughs. “I can’t believe I’m saying this … but I like it.”

---

An hour later, as Wally and I pack up the picnic, I feel irritable. I’m trying to figure out the reason why, since the date—at least when compared with some of the disastrous dates from my rom-com marathon—has been an unequivocal success, when I notice Wally waving his hands in front of my face.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

He holds up my phone. “Your phone. It’s ringing.”

“Oh.” That explains why I was feeling irritable. The sound of a phone ringing is among the most crazy-making noises in the world for me. The tinny, repetitive sound of it. The accompanying vibration. Thankfully, my phone rarely rings. Rose sends text messages unless it’s an emergency, and if anyone else calls I let it go to voicemail. But when I look at the screen and see it’s Rose calling, I feel my heart rate increase. She’s calling. It must be an emergency.

I press the phone to my ear. “What is it, Rose?”

“Oh, good, you’re there. I hope it didn’t scare you, me calling like this, but I have just heard from the neighbor and she said Alfie has been barking a lot.”

I scan my brain for a reason why Rose might be calling from Europe to tell me this.

“Was she okay this morning when you fed her?”

I start to get a bad feeling. “I didn’t feed her this morning.”

“You didn’t?” Rose says. “Why not?”

“Why not?” I repeat, trying to make sense of the question. But I can’t.

“Fern,” Rose says, “tell me you have been feeding and walking Alfie.”

“I … I don’t understand,” I say. “Why do you want me to tell you that?”

There is a long silence, followed by a long, low expletive. I wait, suddenly feeling quite ill.

“Fern! I told you I would put him in a kennel!” Rose has her breathless, flustered voice on—the one she uses when talking to people about packages not arriving or being overcharged for the electricity bill. She hardly ever uses this voice with me. “You insisted! You said you would feed Alfie!”

I have no recollection of this. But if Rose says I did, then I did. I take a moment to consider the ramifications of this. It’s been four days since Rose went away. Four days since Alfie has been without food or walks. I search my brain for information on how long dogs can survive without food. But I don’t know. I think I might be sick.

Rose is clicking her tongue in that way she does when she is panicking. “What are we going to do?” she says.

I look at Wally, who is watching me intently. “You said your van is down the road?”

He nods.

“Rose,” I say into the phone. “I’m on my way to your house.”

---

Wally is very efficient with time management, as it turns out. After I explain what has happened, he offers to run and get his van (and he does, indeed, run) while I pack up the picnic. By the time I shove everything into the bags and get to the gate, Wally is waiting for me in an orange vintage-looking kombi van. He opens the passenger door from the inside.

“Where to?” he asks, and I direct him to Rose’s house, a fifteen-minute drive from the Botanic Gardens. He leaves the radio off as we drive and does me the favor of not talking, which I appreciate as I need to keep my brain space clear to focus on Alfie. Not that I can think much. I feel wobbly with the anxiety of it all. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to keep myself calm. I will be of no use to Alfie unless I can stay calm.

When we pull up outside Rose and Owen’s house, it looks the same as always. Someone must be collecting the mail, because there isn’t any sticking out of the letterbox. I wonder why Rose didn’t ask whoever was collecting the post to feed and walk the dog too—if she had, maybe Alfie would be all right.

Wally gets out of the car first. “Where will he be?”

“In the backyard,” I say.

Wally races up the side of the house and flings open the gate while I walk more slowly behind him, arms still wrapped around myself. When I get to the backyard, I see Alfie is lying on his dog bed on the back verandah. He’s utterly still. I try to take a step toward him but find myself frozen on the spot.

He’s so still. Unmoving. I see him. I feel his skin and hair in my grasp. Wet, dead flesh.

I’ve done it again.

Wally kneels at Alfie’s side. “He’s alive. It’s all right, Fern, he’s alive.”

I nod, but relief is slow to come. Alfie’s alive. Not everyone has been as lucky.

“His water bowl’s dry,” Wally continues. “Where can I find the hose?”

I don’t reply. Wally looks around and finds it himself.

“We need to take him to the vet,” Wally says to me, filling the bowl. When I don’t reply, he says, “Fern? Fern, I need you to listen to me, okay?”

This appears to be a circuit breaker, and I snap to attention. “Yes. Okay. The vet.”

Wally places the filled water bowl in front of Alfie. When he doesn’t drink, Wally cups water in his hands and holds it to Alfie’s snout. After he’s had a drink, he picks up Alfie as if he were a newborn baby.

“Fern,” Wally says. “Can you get the car door?”

I do. Once I’m strapped into the passenger seat, Wally passes Alfie to me, positioning him so Alfie’s head is supported by my elbow. The whole process means that Wally is required to touch me several times, and while I am aware of it, I don’t recoil.

The vet has thick gray eyebrows. I am staring at them as he tells us Alfie is lucky. He’s dehydrated apparently (Alfie, not the vet), but he has been rehydrated on intravenous fluids for hours and he’s doing much better now. In fact, most of the vet’s concerns are about how the mix-up happened in the first place. He tells us that in these sorts of cases he usually calls the RSPCA, who then check to ensure the dog is in an adequate home, but Wally manages to convince him that Alfie will be fine in our care. He is impressively convincing. By the time he is finished, even I almost believe him.

“I assure you,” he says, “it was all a misunderstanding. Alfie could not be in better hands.”

I look at my hands. When I look up again, the vet is looking at me.

“Do you work, Ms. Castle?”

“Yes,” I say. “I’m a librarian.”

“So you’re out of the house most of the day?”

“Yes, but—” I say.

“I’ll be with Alfie when she’s at work,” Wally cuts in. “I’m the dogsitter. Alfie won’t be alone for a moment.”

I look at Wally in surprise. He studiously avoids my gaze.

The vet looks from me to Wally and back again. Finally, he exhales. “He’ll need to be given small sips of water every hour for the next few days. I’ll also give you some electrolyte powder. If he isn’t keeping anything down, give him ice cubes to lick. I’d like you both to bring the dog back in a couple of days so I can see for myself that he’s being taken care of. Okay?”

“Okay,” Wally and I say in unison.

“Make an appointment at the front desk. Two days.”

We both nod. And a few minutes later, reluctantly, the vet releases Alfie into our care.

On the way home, we stop at Rose’s to pick up Alfie’s food, lead, and water bowl. Then I call Rose. It goes better than I expect. Rose is calmer once she knows Alfie is all right. She apologizes for being frustrated and says she blames herself—she should have checked Alfie into the kennel like she planned. I tell her that I’m taking Alfie back to my flat and will keep him there for the rest of the time Rose is away. I’m not sure why I didn’t suggest that when Rose asked me. I wish I could remember.

“How is Owen?” I ask.

“He’s great. He says to say hello.”

“Tell him I say hello back.”

“I will.”

“So, you’re having a good time?”

“A perfect time. Just wonderful. I’m missing you, though.”

“I miss you too.”

I wrap up the phone call quickly, partly because I expect that Rose will be busy with Owen and partly because it feels like it might be rude to chat while Wally is sitting right here in the car. When I hang up, though, I’m still feeling heartsick about the whole thing. It could have been so much worse. Just another few hours and …

“Stop thinking about it,” Wally says.

“I can’t.”

“The important thing is that Alfie is okay, right?”

“For now,” I say.

“For now?” Wally laughs. “Are you planning on hurting him?”

You don’t always have to plan it, I think.

“I don’t remember Rose asking me. It doesn’t even ring a bell. That’s what scares me the most.”

“Well,” Wally says. “maybe she forgot to ask? She was preparing for an overseas trip—she probably had a million things on her mind. It probably slipped her mind.”

I shake my head. “Rose doesn’t forget things.”

“Do you forget things?” Wally asks.

“Yes. With great regularity.”

“That surprises me.”

It surprises me too,I think. All the time.

“It can be distressing at times,” I admit. “Always worrying about what I might have forgotten, or what I might do wrong if left to my own devices.” This is more emotional than my typical conversation, and I don’t feel entirely comfortable with it. I wonder if it is a side effect of being on a date.

“What makes you think you’d do anything wrong?” Wally asks.

“Past experience,” I say as we turn in to my street. I point to my block. “This is my place here.”

Wally parks in front. He pulls up the handbrake and then pushes his glasses back up his nose, something that is fast becoming a trademark of his. “How do you live your life with that fear?”

There’s no good answer for this. “I just … do. What choice do I have?”

“Wow,” he says. “That’s brave.”

I don’t know what to say to that. It feels like a good time to change the subject. “Did you mean it when you said you would watch Alfie for me while I’m at work?” I ask.

“I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

“Well,” I say. “In that case … see you Monday morning? Nine A.M.”

Wally agrees and I slide out of the car, Alfie in my arms. As I watch him drive away, I realize I feel something akin to content. It makes me worry for a world where someone like me can feel content after what I did.

---

I fall asleep quickly, but I wake each hour to check on Alfie. I set an alarm for this, but each time I wake a few minutes before the alarm, instantly oriented.

There is no buffering period, no momentary confusion. I know where I am. I know it was a dream, even if I can still feel the cool wet flesh beneath my hands, the kicking and writhing, my fingers gripping so tightly that they tremble. I also know it wasn’t just a dream. It was a memory. A warning. Most of all, it’s a reminder. Don’t get ahead of yourself, Fern. Remember what you’re capable of.

As if I could forget.

I glance at the alarm clock: 3:43 A.M. Time to check on Alfie again, and offer her some water. Three more weeks without Rose.

Will I survive it?