Chapter 2

Sunday morning and Mum was shuffling around in her frog slippers, snuffling and rubbing eyes red-rimmed for more than one reason and blowing a snuffling nose. She made a pot of coffee and set her sourdough bread to rise for umpteen hours, doing her best to keep clean hands and not sneeze or cough around the culture, which could have awful consequences. Her back always gets very sore when she’s ill, all hot and cold at the same time, achy and shivery, and so she asked me to fetch up some old photo albums from the basement as she sat at the table cradling a mug of yarrow-elderflower tea, wrapped in a million blankets and attempting yesterday’s crossword.

‘You should still be in bed,’ I chastised her sternly, frowning a little. ‘You need more sleep, and not to work yourself hard.’

‘I won’t,’ she dismissed feebly.

‘You’re a terrible liar,’ I told her, and she laughed until she coughed.

‘Well, I can’t stay in bed and do nothing useful for when we have guests on a Sunday,’ she protested.

‘Uncle Kyron comes over for supper and visiting every Sunday,’ I pointed out. ‘He’s practically your real brother, you know him so well, and I’m sure he wouldn’t be offended if you slept some more. I’m sure he noticed how badly you were ill and fevered yesterday.’

It was silly of me to possibly have forgotten that they were closer than siblings, but I had only known them the way they really were for less than twenty-four hours.

‘Yes, I know he wouldn’t mind,’ she agreed, ‘but your father’s boss is coming over today as well.’

‘What? When did we find out?’ I asked, surprised. There had been no previous mention of such a distinguished guest!

‘This morning,’ Mum said tiredly. ‘Your father told me when he crawled into bed at 11.00 pm.’

The bed you made love to Uncle Kyron in, I thought to myself.

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Well. You! Go sleep. I’ll make supper then.’

‘No,’ Mum protested. ‘It’s my responsibility, and your pineapple upside-down -ake isn’t the same as mine yet.’

She was right.

‘I’ll make cherry pie instead,’ I said.

Mum sighed.

‘You can make the pot roast and Yorkshire pud,’ she conceded, exhausted already. ‘I’ll make the dessert. For now--’ she paused to yawn, ‘--I’ll go sleep some more.’

Dad was in his study finishing off some paperwork, and Gerry was still at soccer camp, so the house was fairly tranquil. I put on some Scissor Sisters and danced a little while I prepared what Mum allowed.

It was around noon when I remembered the photo albums, after the pot roast was in the oven. I wiped my hands clean and went down to look for them.

It wasn’t difficult, although they were covered in heaps of dust. I blew one off and scrunched up my face as the dust went in my eyes, then opened the cover. Immediately a photo fell out to the floor face down. I bent to pick it up and then stared.

It was a photo of Mum when she was about my age. We could almost pass for twins if there were photos of us side by side at this age. She was lying on her tummy in a twin bed somewhere with rumpled sheets wearing only a long blue sweater than says ‘Or Lose it’ on the back. Her legs are up as if she were kicking them while reading a magazine, which is what stereotypical teenage girls do. She’s looking back over her shoulder at whoever’s taking the picture and smiling a huge, soft smile. Her bare bum is right there below the sweater, but that’s all you can see other than her legs. She looks so young and happy.

Two days ago, I would’ve guessed that the photographer was Dad, of course. She did lose her virginity to him. Two days ago I would have barely looked at the photo, just glanced and smiled and thought how young and funny and in love they were.

But today, I recognized the sweater. Uncle Kyron still had it--he had a few old sweaters like it, frayed and a little hole-filled these days, but iconic. The one Mum’s wearing says ‘Use it’ on the front and ‘Or Lose it’ on the back. I turn the photo over to read what’s written on the back.

‘My darling Julianne on her 18th birthday after much celebration on our part.’

I tuck the photo in somewhere hidden and close the album, reaching for the next. When I pick up the third one a small book falls out.

The inscription on the inside cover says, ‘Property of Julianne Ophelia Benson.’

It takes me a moment to realize what feels unusual about the inscription until I remember that Mum’s maiden name wasn’t Benson--it was Wadder.

She was in deep with Uncle Kyron.

I bring the three albums I collected upstairs and give them to her, wondering what I’d find if I picked up the fourth or fifth album, but not daring to look.

Uncle Kyron arrives at half past three just like he always does, dressed in casual-formal clothing.

‘Where is everybody?’ He asks curiously, stepping into the quiet house.

‘Mum’s sleeping, I think, or at least trying to,’ I said. ‘Dad’s typing up some paperwork in his study, and you know where Gerry is.’

I rolled my eyes and we said at the same moment, ‘Soccer camp!’ (Gerry’s a soccer fanatic, and while we love his enthusiasm, it can get to be a bit much at times.)

‘Well, I’ll pop in and say hi to your dad,’ Kyron said, ‘and then I’ll go see if your mum’s awake. Don’t worry, I won’t disturb her if she isn’t.’

‘She wanted to be woken soon anyway, since she insists on making the dessert,’ I told him.

‘Hm,’ he said. ‘We’ll see about that.’

As he’d said, Kyron went into the study, chatted briefly with Dad, and then started up the stairs armed with broth on the off-chance Mum was awake and hungry.

I followed a minute or two later, intent on listening again to whatever they might talk of or do.

The door was open the two inches again, and I could see Kyron in the mirror sitting on the edge of the bed gazing down on Mum as she slept and smoothing her hair tenderly. ‘Oh, my love,’ he sighed, and stood.

I scuttled quick and silent to my room just before he came out, closing the door with a soft click.

‘She’s not making anything,’ he tells me firmly when I emerge from my room. ‘We’ll do it instead, won’t we, Rosalie?’

‘Of course.’

Uncle Kyron nodded firmly and winked at me, beginning to roll up his sleeves. ‘Let’s knock the socks off this boss, what’d you say?’

We ended up making a squashy jam cake whose imperfections were hidden by the whipped cream with icing sugar we spread over the cake liberally.

Kyron wasn’t necessarily a dab hand in the kitchen, but he wasn’t bad and he did seem to enjoy it, humming along to bits and pieces of songs on the radio and doing some ridiculous dance moves that made me laugh and try to beat their ludicrousness.

Uncle Kyron woke Mum in time to dress into semi-formal day clothes for supper before Dad’s boss, Mr. Weatherall, arrived. She came down the stairs leaning on Kyron, her eyes still thick with sleep and cheeks flushed with sickness.

Mr. Weatherall turned out to be a very kind and jovial gentleman. He ate everything on his plate and asked for more, praising Mum highly on the meal. She smiled weakly and said, ‘That’s very generous of you, sir, but our daughter made the meal because of my recent illness.’

He turned to me, inclining his head in a courteous fashion. ‘It’s wonderful, Miss Meyers. You’ve got a real talent in the kitchen.’ I flushed a little bit at his compliment and thanked him, but Mr. Weatherall continued. ‘I heard you have a brother. Where is he tonight? I was hoping to meet him.’

‘Yes,’ Mum answered for me—not that I minded. Mr. Weatherall had been making me a little nervous. ‘My son is away at soccer camp. He will likely be here for our next supper, however.’

This time, I was noticing the little subtleties. I realized in that moment that Mum always referred to me as ‘our daughter’ when she was with Dad, but called Gerry ‘my son,’ whether or not she was with my father. It hadn’t seemed at all significant or unnatural before, but now I realized ... and now, I knew why.

There were other things too that had become visible to me. The sparkle in Uncle Kyron’s eyes when he looked at Mum wasn’t merely an old friendship which felt as natural as the rise and set of the sun; it wasn’t just that they were friends for so long they now felt as close as twins; it was that he loved her deeply, with all his self. It was a silent, distanced adoration.

After the supper, we all cleared the table and Dad congratulated us on the success of the whole event.

Yawning, he said, ‘Oh, boy. I’m beat. I think I’ll go to bed. Maybe I’m coming down with your illness, Jules.’ He grabbed Mum’s nose affectionately between bent index and middle fingers, the way you would when teasing a child, ‘I’ve got your nose!’ hugged her, kissed her very briefly, and then started towards the stairs. We called our goodnights after him.

‘I think I’ll go up too,’ I announced, stretching. ‘Long day, and there’s school tomorrow.’

Mum and Kyron smiled at me in tired approval, and both offered me hugs before I retired, which I accepted, leaving them alone in the den in front of a crackling fire together. It had a door, which I almost completely closed again as I left.

A moment after I was gone, they moved close on the sofa, and my uncle put an arm around Mum’s shoulder. She leaned into him, and they spoke in low voices after I left; serious things for a while. Financial situations in each of our homes, the economy, about Gerry and I—how we were doing in school and such. Surprisingly, they spoke philosophically as well, talking about how short life was and how abrupt deaths make you remember there’s no guarantee you’ll live as long as you thought.

There was a lull in the conversation then, while Kyron continued to stroke her hair softly.

When he cupped her cheek and moved in to kiss her, Mum’s breath caught and she jerked away in an almost frightened manner.

‘Kyron,’ she warned. ‘I said not again.’

‘I just want to kiss you, Julianne,’ he said in a soft voice. ‘I couldn’t stop thinking about you all last night and today. You remember what it was like after we made Gerry. I could barely keep my hands from your lovely body. We only just resisted the temptation to give into each other again, and I had to go away for a while to fully regain enough control over myself so we wouldn’t. It’s just a few kisses. They can sate my hunger for you while I get control over myself again.’