found water again.
How’s that feel? Mason thought. Serves you right. You think I like this? Cleaning up after you all the time? You are a baby. You are helpless.
A floorboard creaked in the hallway. Mason glanced over his shoulder to find Henry staring wide-eyed at the bath, flinching at their mother’s spluttering coughs. Mason’s mind had gone elsewhere for a second. He quickly jerked forwards and yanked the rubber plug out of the plughole. A gurgling vortex formed between his mother’s feet as the water level started to drop.
Mason turned and walked out of the bathroom, avoiding his brother’s gaze. ‘Go to bed,’ he told Henry as he passed.
In his mother’s bedroom, Mason remade the bed with robotic precision: clean sheets, crisp corners, fresh blanket, new pillowcases. When he returned to the bathroom, Henry had made himself scarce, and despite the fact that Mason had ordered his brother away, he still felt a twist of annoyance.
Why do you leave me to deal with her on my own?
Mason hauled his mother out of the tub, wrapping her in a dry towel before staggering back down the hall with her. Ivy complained and elbowed him as he peeled off her wet T-shirt before letting her fall against the mattress, leaving her wet underwear on as he yanked the sheet and blanket over the top.
When it was done, Mason trudged around the house switching off lights and collecting sodden towels. There wasn’t a word to describe how drained he felt; he ached all the way through to his bones. Eventually, when he returned to the kitchen, he walked over to the glass cabinet in the corner and stared at his mother’s adored Wedgwood plates for a long time. He scanned every one until his eyes landed on the plate he was looking for. Middle shelf, second from the right. Her favourite. He removed it from the cabinet before gently closing the glass door.
Mason studied the plate for a moment, running a finger over the matte finish, the delicate white cameo resembling icing on a smooth blue cookie. He carried it carefully across the kitchen to the front door, then out onto the verandah and into the darkness.
When Mason reached the brick carport, the sensor light blinked on, sending mice scurrying for the safety of shadows. He walked over to the wooden tool bench where Wayne had often tried in vain to resurrect their broken appliances. Glancing down at the plate in his hand, Mason’s thumb found the familiar chip on the rim. He pressed the fleshy part of his thumb deep into the crack until it broke his skin.
Then Mason cocked his arm and pitched the plate at the wall.
Now
Ivy Weaver’s words don’t really hit me until I reach the post office. Despite my best efforts, my throat tightens and I have to blink to stop my eyes from leaking. I shove Luisa’s letters into the post box on the footpath and hurry to the PO Boxes at the side of the building. It’s away from the road here and thankfully there’s no one else around.
My hand is unsteady as I attempt to line up the key with the lock. When I finally get the small door open, I grab the pile of envelopes and junk mail and shove them into my tote bag in one messy fistful.
Your fault.
Sabeen would tell me Ivy doesn’t mean it, that she’s lashing out because she’s feeling helpless and needs somebody to blame. She’d say I shouldn’t take it personally, that it could have been any one of us who copped it; I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.
The thing is, the Nolans see a different version of Ivy Weaver to the one she’s shown me. They get smiles as she’s picking up a pizza, friendly chit-chat on the footpath outside the pub. When Ivy was drunk at the park on New Year’s Eve, Liv and Sally took care of her and drove her home because she’d ‘overindulged’. They make excuses for her because she’s ‘had a rough trot’ and ‘her heart’s in the right place’. I know that’s not her. Or, more accurately, that’s not the only version of her. And I’ve had enough encounters with her over the years to know she doesn’t like me.
When I was around ten or eleven I tried to speak to my mother about it. She laughed it off and said, ‘I think you’ve misinterpreted something there, honey. Grown-ups have a bit more to worry about