Start to Make it Better

From the bedroom window, I watch them chase my sister-in-law down the street. Their lanyards jangle as their shoes beat the midnight pavement after Michelle in her dressing gown, a periwinkle banshee, her shriek signaling once again the death of the woman who’d found joy in vases of tulips, eating spaghetti, and playing Cluedo with her family. Her revival depends on the chasers who each take a limb and fold her ghostly body into the ambulance saying, “Sorry, Michelle,” just like every other time.

My brother Damo watches the ambulance leave, and as the social workers talk to him, I know he’s just nodding habitually. He’s not being blasé; he’s just heard all this before.

If my niece, Aria, had been awake, I would’ve watched The Simpsons with her until she fell back to sleep. But Aria’s thirteen now, grueling adolescence submersing her deeper into sleep. Smashing plates and unfamiliar voices haven’t disturbed her. I’m relieved, mostly for myself. I don’t want to be alone with her, which I know is selfish.

 

The first time Michelle had gone, Aria had been awake, a baby in my arms. Damo had listened to the social workers downstairs while I’d rocked Aria in her room, humming Twinkle Twinkle. Then I’d sang Hey Jude, because I also needed to be soothed. Michelle, who loves my brother, hosts fantastic Christmas dinners, and supported me when I came out, had raked Damo’s forehead with her fingernails, lost the focus to make a sandwich, and screeched “faggot” as her spittle flecked my face.

Hey, Jude! Don’t be afraid.

When baby Aria had drifted off, I’d looked at her doll face, a tiny version of Damo. Maybe she’d also be skilled with numbers and ruin film plots for me.

And what might she inherit from Michelle?

Take a sad song and make it better, I sang.

The social workers left, so I placed Aria in her cot and joined Damo on the sofa. I stared at the network of scratches Michelle had left on his forehead while he told me he was frightened that she had gone over the edge somehow, that she might never come back, that he’d be a single parent, that the neighbours would gossip and their children would hear stories of the crazy lady taken away in the night. I imagined Aria’s classmates telling her that her mother had screamed so loudly that all the birds had flown away.

 

As Aria grew up, I collected the peculiar things she said to construct who she was and might become. “It’s raining indoors again” was innocent enough as condensation trickled on the inside of the window. “I have a pet ghost” managed to make us laugh one Christmas when Michelle was back in hospital, and Aria had stroked an imaginary creature weaving between her shins at the dinner table. She explained how the ghost wasn’t very nice to her; told her she was stupid. We didn’t laugh at that.

Remember to let her into your heart.

 

The front door closes, and I hear Damo sigh. I walk past Aria’s closed bedroom door with the sign Beware of the Teenager. When I get downstairs, Damo is on his phone, the faint music of Candy Crush playing.

“Aria’s school has called me in for a meeting.” He doesn’t look up from his phone.

“Oh yeah?”

“About her behaviour.”

“Bit of mischief?”

Damo pauses. “Not exactly. They said they’re worried about some… oddities.”

There’re no scratches on him this time, but he looks worse. Gazing at his faint scars, I wonder if he’ll cope when his load doubles as also Aria drifts over the edge.

“Didn’t you expect this?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

Then you can start to make it better.

“Aria’s been through a lot, Damo. They’re bound to check in, offer teen counselling.”

“Apparently she’s interrupting lessons, talking to…”

He trails off. I know who she’s been talking to. The pet ghost doesn’t weave between her shins anymore; it’s too big for that. It sits with her on the sofa when she’s watching TV, or in her room when she’s trying to study. It whispers to her, makes her weep and cut, shows her things that make her cry out like her mother, like a banshee.

“We said all sorts of weird stuff when we were kids,” I say. “She’s just imaginative.”

Damo gives a small, breathy laugh. “Yeah. I’m sure you’re right.”

“Absolutely. Schools fuss about kids nowadays. We’re fine. Aria’s fine.”

He smiles. “Yeah. We’re fine.”

 

Dark Forest Theory

We always whisper by the telescope. He grips my knee and hisses, “The universe is filled with hostile beings in billions of galaxies, boy. If we’re watching them, what’s to say they’re not watching us, trying to control us.” His beer can tinkles with dregs, spittle flecking my smirking cheeks. I say that “We have roaring oceans, thundering skies, and bright cities. What’s the point of staying quiet?” His grasp on my knee tightens, his silence sprinkling eggshells for me to tiptoe through. I nod, finger to my lips as he puts down his empty can and reaches out.