Watching the banana bread rise in the oven, Joan pondered what her daughter’s face would look like as she opened her birthday present. Sophie’s twelfth birthday was still two months away but the shiny new bike was already wrapped and waiting in the garage. A cuckoo clock at the back of the brightly lit kitchen told Joan that it was one o’clock and she got up to fetch the mop. Half an hour later, the house smelling faintly of lemons, Joan returned to her place in front of the oven, watching the bread rise.
Dodging glances in the hallway, Damien made his way to his math class, a tune playing in his head weaving around a quick mental cram session in anticipation of the maths test. On the twenty-third question - something about Pythagoras applying to balconies and ladders – an image of his father crossed Damien’s mind. He remembered coming home a couple of months ago halfway through a Saturday to shower and get changed to go out again, and had walked in to his father on a ladder screaming at the roof and thumping it with a broom. Damien had muttered a hello and received a mumble about ‘rabid possums’ in return. Moving on to the lounge room, Sophie was bopping along to a music video show, pulling moves beyond her eleven years. Shaking his head, Damien passed the kitchen. And stopped. Tilting his now still head to look at his mother, he had never felt more connected to her. She stared at the oven, watching her soufflé wobble and shiver with the discordant pounding and screaming from her husband. As Damien watched, his father let out a string of obscenities, only half of which Damien understood, and came storming down the hallway, broom cast aside, cradling his index finger. As he stomped past, screaming at the top of his lungs, Damien saw the soufflé shrivel into its dish with a loud sucking sound. Joan turned to Damien, face remaining expressionless as she stated rather flatly, “Bad day for soufflé.” That was one of the only times Damien had ever felt close to someone in his family.
As Joan dusted her husband’s locked drawers she thought that maybe she would wear her red shirt tomorrow, and she would make cheesecake.
A cough brought Damien back to the test room and back to his ladder problem. Finishing the test, he walked out and almost ran over his girlfriend, Lauren. Greeting with a peck on the cheek, they walked to the park next to school where they spent their Friday afternoons before walking home.
Stretched out on the grass, Damien flinched when Lauren muttered, “We have to talk.” Eyes wide, Damien rolled onto his elbow to face her and saw with a shock that she was close to tears.
Joan was slicing the banana bread when Damien got in, “How was your day?” She asked over the bread. He looked a little different to most days.
Damien hated it when his mother asked him how his day was. He paused, considering another of their strained conversations. No. Tired of her overly bright smile, the try-hard hellos and her too sweet floral perfume, he slouched off to the light under his bedroom door. Pausing, hand on the cold and comfortingly rough door handle, he glanced back at his mother, obviously disappointed as she smoothed her frilled teddy bear apron in front of her bread.
He caught the sunlight flickering off her lush fair hair - so unlike his father’s, sister’s and his own – falling like silk around her soft featured face. Her green eyes contrasting his dark ones. The sight of her standing there, alone but too self involved to notice, made him wonder how she’d be in a week’s time, or a year, if she found out the truth about her husband’s idea of loyalty and her son’s state of mind. He felt guilty, not telling her, but if all went to plan, she’d never have to know.
He shrugged, opening his creaky door, in contrast to his well-oiled window. Automatically going to lock the door, as much habit now as need, he settled on his chair to contemplate his next twenty-four hours.
As the cuckoo began its second chime, Joan sat up brushing sleep from her eyes and nightmares from her mind.
“Gerroff’ me! HAVE AT THEM!!”
“Wake up Don.” She urged, nudging him. Leaving him to his grumbling she got up to shower.
Smoothing her red shirt and serving pancakes, Mum looked the vision of contentment, the dark hues under her eyes betraying her calm expression. Damien slouched into his position on the third stool and knew that his mother would give Sophie pancakes with maple syrup and sugar, his father would have butter and sugar. Damien would receive his with honey. Mum didn’t eat breakfast. Although she loved to cook she didn’t eat much. She hadn’t eaten breakfast since her and Dad had had a massive argument, they’d never told Damien or Sophie what it was about, but Damien had heard the word ‘divorce’ screamed quite a bit from Mum’s side of the dispute. Sophie had forgotten the whole thing before she had learned the meaning of the word.
After breakfast Damien retreated to his room but not before he had thanked his mother and told her he loved her, the same went to his sister. The look of shock on Sophie’s face was saddening. He passed his father without comment.
Smiling from her son’s unexpected statement of love, Joan loaded the dishwasher and brought out the ingredients for her cheesecake.
The music from Damien’s room was as loud as usual, and the light under the door was moving and coloured. Damien sat, deaf to the music, willingly hypnotised by the effect of his lava lamp and his fibre optic globe on either side of three mirrors. The colours played across his face and he reached out to touch them, finding nothing but his own breath, tingling on his hand. Thoughts in his head were erratic and he could only hear a mild buzzing around a few pounding mantras, ‘this isn’t beautiful anymore.’ ‘You’re not beautiful anymore’ ‘life’s not beautiful anymore.’ He could always find beauty in everything. Not anymore.
As the politicians danced before the speaker, paraphrasing the same half-baked idea for an hour or more, Joan felt a shudder. Sitting in front of the TV, smelling the cheesecake cook, her whole body and her neck cracked into a painful position. Shaking it off – and the dreadful feeling that came inexplicably with it - thinking it was just a bad shudder she returned to the television, though now she favoured a cartoon.
There was quiche Florentine ready and cheesecake cooled. Called for lunch, Sophie came bounding in and threw a fork into her quiche as she threw herself into the stool. Don strolled in and grabbed the quiche in one hand, drink in the other and dug in with a squish and a slurp. It made Joan think of a fish being squashed alive and she had a longing for the peace Damien brought to the table. It was interesting that he had not yet come to the table; he loved cheesecake.
Knocking on the door she heard only music, no words but a steady beat after the lyrics were done and the rest kept going because they could. There was no shuffling, or deep mumbling and standing at the surprisingly unlocked door, Joan felt an emptiness she had felt only once before. Years ago when she had miscarried Damien’s twin. Clutching her stomach and blaming a stomach bug she opened the door.
She felt the scream rip her throat as it escaped, and the sudden tension as Don and Sophie jumped in shock, the curiosity as they jogged towards her to enquire as her throat continued its high-pitched burn. . She felt those things and knew the sounds they would make, knew what Don would be asking.
She heard nothing. Nothing but the beat, now a lot faster. Dimly she realised it was her heart and she could not hear Damien’s music. She knew what the sharp intake of breath would sound like, knew that Don had his hand on her shoulder and was speaking in a low and hushed tone. She heard only her heart, knowing that Damien’s would beat no more. As her senses slowly returned, she smelled the quiche, could remember its mottled yellow and green appearance. She knew it would go cold eventually, she also knew she would never eat quiche or cheesecake again.
Don called the emergency number. The three sharp, piercing tones as he dialled were unheard by her still distracted ears, the beat was getting painful and Joan wondered if she would ever hear anything else. She didn’t see much point in the call, no ambulance was needed, no police were needed, there was no fire.
Walking slowly, beat still pounding, Joan reached out to the calm, still face of her favourite person in the world. Loneliness gripped her heart in an icy grip and after hyperventilating for a few seconds she was suddenly back at full alertness. She could hear all kinds of things, like coming up from underwater, now she could hear Sophie’s pained sobs and Don muttering in his distasteful voice, how she loathed him right now. This surprised her; she hadn’t liked her husband for several years but had never felt anything bad towards him. But the closer she got to Damien’s lifeless form, the more she hated her husband. And the more peaceful she became. She also felt a deep pity for Sophie, but knew she could not comfort her. Joan felt the tears well in her eyes, felt them brim over onto her cheeks and chase each other down towards her chin where they jumped and sailed down to the floor. She could hear sirens and knew they were going to take Damien away from her, another glance at him, at the eternal peace he now held, was enough. He was safe now, she told herself, shocked that she believed it. He knew what he was doing and he was going to be all right. The inner peace she had longed for for years swept through her as she stroked his motionless jawbone. She knew he had achieved his calm state of mind years ago and it felt as though he was passing it on to her.
Police were there, pulling her away from him much too soon, they untied the rope and took him away. Don locked his room and led her to the couch, Joan let herself be led, though she still held a large distaste for her husband. Sophie curled up on her lap, still sobbing. Patting her dark hair, Joan looked at her, startled at how much she looked like her brother. But they had never been alike. Sophie felt no calm, she appeared to think as erratically as she moved, as she spoke, not thinking but just go, go, go. For a long time Joan had not understood her odd way of going about her life, but now she realised it was her way of dealing with the family situation, the lies and secrecy, the isolation each member imposed upon themselves. Joan had her cooking, Don had his golf, and Damien had had his room. Sophie had always had her intensity, her ability to focus completely on any task, regardless of its importance. It kept her from thinking.
Leaving the lounge room hours later, Joan set off to her bedroom. When she passed Damien’s door however, she found she could not bear to leave it, though he was no longer there. Unable to enter the room, she sat across the hall. Only a metre away, she felt as though there were leagues between herself and the safety behind the door. ‘Where did that come from?’ She thought. After sitting and letting her mind drift for a further fifteen minutes she decided that she thought it was safe because Damien had acted as though he thought he was safe there, and in a way he was. But not from what mattered, not from his own mind.
The cuckoo was periodically letting her know that she had been staring at his door, afraid to go in for six hours. She got up and stumbled to the kitchen, her sanctuary now seemed quite menacing, it shocked her and she found herself holding her stomach as she crept through the vast interior of the place she had known as her own, where she had spent many hours, where she was now afraid to tread. The whole house was stifling now; Damien had not only brought peace to the table, but to her life. As it left, so had her ability to be comfortable in her own existence. She staggered to the pantry and got a bag of chips and a packet of cookies. A bottle of water from the fridge later she was back in the hall, staring at Damien’s door.
A little while later Sophie wondered into her room, sketchbook in hand, with a slightly subdued expression on her face. She knocked over an oven mitt on her way through and as Joan glanced at it she remembered a Saturday a few months ago, when she had tried to make soufflé, Don had ruined it by screaming and Joan had been quite detached by the whole thing, Damien had been there and she had felt so much love for his calm demeanour that she had been given a sudden euphoric rush that she had sent Don and Sophie out and danced the day away in the living room in front of the stereo. She hadn’t felt so happy in years. Damien had walked past her on his way out, tilted his head and seemed to come to a decision.
A few weeks later it was just Damien and Joan in the house and Joan was cooking apple pie. Damien had brought out a CD that was labelled ‘Dance’. He put it in the stereo and Dean Martin started telling them to sway. Damien had danced her around the living room silently. He was a stunning dancer. Joan had never taught him and had no idea where he had learned. When the song drew to an end he pointed to the stereo and mouthed ‘your CD’. He had danced with her for the CD’s length when he left, leaving her with tears of joy streaming down her face. He hadn’t said a word. She had never loved him more.
Joan knew that Damien had kept diaries, also that no one had bothered to look for a suicide note. She also knew that she would very much like to be in that room, to breathe in his scent, to see his things. She wanted so badly to have him back. Failing that, to be as close as she could, his room. But still she could not bring herself to cross the threshold.
So she sat, staring blindly, eating chips and cookies, drinking her water. She thought of her life now, without Damien. The thought made her want to take her own life, to follow him. She began to panic and become frantic, at the same time calmly thinking of ways to do it. As she whirled into the conclusion that she did not want to live, she felt a strange calm settle over her, and knew that she would live for many years to come. In that moment she had only one thought, Do It For Sophie.
A collision at the end of the hallway shook Joan back to her senses and she turned to see that Don was home. She had barely registered him leaving but it seemed he had been away. He would have to have been, Joan knew that the house didn’t contain enough alcohol to have him reeking as he was. As he struggled to pick himself up, Joan heard a soft click and looked at Sophie’s door, the lock had turned. Joan crawled into the bathroom and locked the door as her husband stumbled past to collapse in the bedroom. As Joan peeped out she saw him fall forward and let out a soft moan as he slipped from consciousness. She crept softly to the door and locked him in before returning to look at Damien’s door.
She thought about the words do it for Sophie. Confused, she shook her head.
Damien had once asked her about Sophie, a few years ago, when he was about fourteen. He was six years older than she was but could not remember Joan being pregnant when he was around five or six. Joan had told Damien that after he was born Joan was told that she could no longer have children. She was horrified Damien’s twin had passed away and she thought Damien would need a companion. It took six years for the adoption agency to catch up and they loved Sophie as their own. Damien had instantly welcomed her and often stole her away to his room when she was small to play.
Sophie had learned that she was adopted when Don was drunk and spat it at her in a fit of rage when she refused to come out of her room. She was nine, she saw what had happened to mummy, she knew not to come out of the room. When he had left, she came out to talk to Joan. She asked why they had wanted to adopt her and why her real parents had deserted her. She had been adopted because Joan had wanted another child but was unable to have one, and her real parents had died; her father in the army reserves, her mother of blood loss giving birth. Since she found out the intensity possessed her more often, and stronger.
As Joan stared in the hallway, Sophie slipped quietly to her side, holding two pieces of paper. She put one on Joan’s lap, Joan recognised it, it had been drawn about a month ago. A picture of a creek flowing through a forest. Joan looked up at Sophie, confused. Sophie put another picture on her mother’s lap. It was new and the pencil still fresh; it smudged as Joan picked it up. It was of a creek flowing through a forest, but now a tree had fallen into the creek, the roots of the tree were gone, the base rotting. The tree was dead. The creek looked the same as in the other picture, the only difference being the presence of the tree.
“It still flows.” Sophie whispered in her ear. She then got up and left, taking her pictures with her.
Perhaps Damien had rubbed off on her more than she thought.
Joan pondered the pictures, yes, she thought, the creek continues to flow, and the tree will decompose and be carried down the river and act a fertiliser for all growing things in and around the creek. Death creates.
Joan had been in the hallway for two days. Sophie gave her food when she and Don ate, Don didn’t even notice her, drowned in his own thoughts. Sophie had coped best with the loss of Damien. She had wept long enough and was moving on. Don did not speak. Joan did not move.
On the fourth day of staring Joan kind of slipped away. She was awake, though she had no idea what she was doing. She got up in her daze and crossed to the other side of the hall. Locked door. Unlocked door. Open door. The sight of his room woke her up and she could barely breathe. Hyperventilating she took a hasty step back. Then the calm came again, a wave that eliminated all else. She strode forward the edge again, the edge of her world, the crossing to his.
One step, that’s all it was. Joan could hear the pounding again, nothing else. Her left foot rose of its own accord and began to float forward. As it settled down Joan quickly followed it with her right foot. There she was, Damien’s room.
The calm came again. And stayed.
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