Caravellum

Too damn bright. I crack my sleep-gummed eyelids into a squint. The sun burns magnesium; its blazing glare reaches through the tree canopy, grips me by the temples and rattles my skull like an aerosol. The branches of the Hill Fig scream at me, loaded with long rainbows of chittering twenty-eights.
“Shut up.” They ignore me. The birds and the tree and the sun.
My head feels too heavy for my neck, and I feel the world spin as attempting to stand ends on my arse. I strike a rocky equilibrium on the third try, hands outstretched for balance like a toddler. The morning air is a doona, dry and heavy on my skin. I brush crushed leaves and birdshit out the creases of my button-up before running an inventory check: I’ve got the reek of yesterday on me; the pulpy mess of a Christmas cracker crown is sweat-bonded to my forehead; and my phone is a dead weight in my shorts, clanking against a pair of crown caps folded in half like olive pips.

A train lumbers into the station across the road, clacks and knocks echoing down the rows of concrete sleepers. I orchestrate the jumble of muscles it takes to get myself on board, not sure where I’m heading, but thinking I may as well be somewhere else. The carriage isn’t packed but it’s filled with chatter and the panting of an overworked air-con unit. There are a couple empty seats, but they don’t feel free next to the kid carving up the air with a bubble wand or the sniffler searching for a dry patch of handkerchief. I park myself on the priority seat so I can keep my head upright against the handrail, and the cool metal helps still the spinning and ebb the throbbing. I close my eyes so I can snatch a moment to think straight.

I remember cracking the crackers, I think. Aunt Jude’s ham was good, but it’s fuzzy whether the ham I’m remembering is yesterday’s or last year’s. And the carrots were some of Mum’s best, now that I think about it. I told her that; I must have done. Though that might’ve been after I brought the booze out and she was looking at me funny. I mean, they all were after that. And to think I had to raid my stash because everyone ‘forgot’ to bring some. Not a word of thanks from the pack of them. Just a line of blank stares like they didn’t know who I was.

One thing’s for sure. I remember Dad walking in, half a Red Rooster chook in one arm, a new woman on the other. That silence. So quiet you’d hold a fart in. God, that dog. Floated in like a kite and shrugged as if to say ‘you’re welcome’, then looked for the nearest sofa to get catatonic in. Of course, the first one out with a hug was Mum. He probably didn’t even clock it, because he was three hits in, but he knew Mum would do the hard work for him. Like always. Sure enough, Mum put the chicken on a plate – one of her nice ones with a couple flakes of the gold left on the rim – and none of us touched it. Then she sat the woman on a lawn chair by the Esky, and none of us touched her either. She tried to smile at me a couple times on my back and forth icefishing for longnecks. I should have said something then. Who knows, maybe I did. Wouldn’t have been smart, that’s for sure, I would have been a couple deep. But, god, it would have felt good. To stomp the eggshells and just rip into them. To call a spade a spade, and him a tosser.

“You got a ticket?” The inspector interrupts, a little patch of red tinsel stapled to his cap.
“Nah mate, don’t got no money.”
He’s gentle, but his hand on my back is firm enough as he leads me off the train. The inertia makes me queasy but I swallow it.
“I’m not gonna fine you today, but make sure you buy a ticket next time.”
“Yeah, alright mate.”
“Merry Christmas.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I’m already down the steps. I don’t know what station this is but it’s alright. I can smell the salt on the air. I got a fire in me now, and I can feel it in my heels. I stick to the shade of the marri lining the footpath, storming past green and gold wheelie bins crammed with torn paper and empty cardboard.

And, despite all that, I’m the one who gets tossed. My sister said something when she pushed me out the door, can’t remember what. Something about me making Mum upset. Nah, that was before. Something about being a bad influence on Dougie. Whatever it was, it felt rich coming from her, the poster child with the FIFO husband we’re all pretending she’s not cheating on with that PT from France or Croatia or someplace. I stared through the patio before I left, and decided against smashing the window. I remember thinking about it though. The party was boring as shit anyway. And really, if you’re not going to try and have fun, isn’t all this – the bizarre panto of a family pretending to be just fine – just a bit of a waste of time? Don’t stir the pot. Don’t rock the boat. God, don’t give me that shit.

But the concrete is sand now, so my feet don’t hurt as bad, and the cars are waves and gulls and children, and it’s nice to hear them laughing. I shuck my shorts and shirt and I don’t stop until my toes hit water so I can dive in to feel the sweat off my back and wash that mess of a crown from my forehead. The water hits cool. It always does on a day like this, and I float with my ears in and everything drones out. So I don’t hear anything anymore but my heartbeat. The rhythm of the waves pulls at me, and it feels good to be moved by something. To be picked up and held.

I wonder if they played cards after I left, and if Mum won like she always does when I’m not playing. And if Aunt Jude had brought out that vegan pavlova again, I would have laughed with Gran as we picked at it and waited for the coffee to brew to drown it down. She would have stared at me over her mug as she struggled to remember my name, but I wouldn’t have minded. I could even have asked for the story of how Pops saved that bird in the hailstorm again. I hadn’t heard it in a while, but I bet I could still hum every beat of it like karaoke. But really, I just wish I had seen Doug open his gift. It had cost me a good couple months’ pay and I had gone to four different stores to find one in stock, but it would have all been worth it to see his face when he tore the wrapping. But whatever, that’s all shoulda, coulda, woulda, and it doesn’t matter anymore. I should have done a whole bunch of things, but it’s all a little too late and a little too little. Cause I was too far gone and far too busy staggering out the taxi at the nearest pub open on Christmas.

I dunk my head in a wave and let out that scream that’s been building. Let out all the air and rage and hear it parodied all dull-like through the depth of the water. Like it’s telling me to let it out, so I can hear how stupid I sound.

Eventually, I’ll squelch out of the ocean in my soaked jocks. The headache will be gone but something worse will replace it, so I’ll wait on this beach until I dry out and my skin starts blistering. Then I’ll plod on back home. I’ll find Mum a card, write something stupid in it, and sit down on the couch to play a game with Dougie. I’ll promise them both that I’ll do better, but they’ll both know that I don’t know how. And then, as long as I don’t cark it, we’ll get to do this all again next year.