Being Kalli(52)

I look at her further, see the sad turn to her eyes. Yes, something like that. Please don’t be that.

“No, you don’t have to stop,” she says. Mum steps into the room, fingers trailing along the wall to the edge of my closet. “You’re great.”

“Thanks.”

I sit on the edge of the bed, hands in my lap, then think better of it and crawl to the headboard and lounge out, resting on the pillows. “Come,” I say to her, fluffing a pillow next to me.

She crawls from the back of the bed to the vacant spot and crosses her legs. We both wait, unsure. For a long time in the past, Mum’s done her own thing and I’ve done mine. Sitting here now, I haven’t a clue to describe one thing that kept us as close as strangers in the same house. We both had the opportunities but just consciously or unconsciously wasted them. And now, all my anger and frustration at her weekends partying or being crazy stupid seem like dust in the wind—unable to grasp or gather together.

Sitting here with my violin freshly packed away, I should be jittery as I usually am. Violin calms me, no matter how nervous I am when I practise. I didn’t get to practise for long today as I like to before concerts, but seeing Mum and putting it away so quickly makes me realise I must have not really wanted to, anyway. Practise overload too close to a performance is exactly the same as in high school when I knew the stuff before a test, yet revised and revised until I’d memorised what I thought I should know, stressing my brain past rational thought.

I just needed to do something in anticipation for the show, though over-practising shouldn’t have been it. Turns out that sitting here with my mum is oddly peaceful. Next to me, she turns and smiles, and like a contagious cough, I catch on and can’t help but smile back.

For the first time in my life, it feels right talking to her, which just loops back to make me wary, creating a vicious cycle. It’s odd being here, on the cusp of feeling like I can spill my secrets to her.

I spread my hands near my thighs, just to do something with them, but rather than feel the wrinkles iron out from the cover, I notice that my thoughts aren’t here at all, but on memories of my transformation to who I’ve become.

I’d slip away at the dinner table. Mum would be draining the pasta, and Chester was stirring a pan with the Bolognese sauce. Chester would dash off to the pantry to grab more oil or herbs, and Mum would stir both pot and pan, working like a seasoned mother cooking. Or she’d leave and Chester would stir both, dipping the spoon into his mouth, closing his eyes and tasting, then either moaning or making an “ick” face, adjusting the meal as was necessary.

I’d just wait and watch at the table or hidden on the couch in the next room, visible through a narrow passage of sight.

They’d only stop cooking as a team to kiss or play-fight with the food, as if they were kids. Everything … everything at that stage was so perfect, and I had no idea how to fit.

At ten, I lost my chance to tell her what He did to me. I’d fallen into a pattern of “It’s just been too much homework” or “Just a stupid boy” and I could make an excuse out of everything to satisfy people.

Course, I’d feel too sick to eat because of how dirty and broken he made me. When I did eat, I’d throw it up sometimes. Over the next few years, it became habit.

In the same way someone wakes up one morning and wonders how they’ve worked nine to five at a job they’ve always hated, I became that type of person. I’d caged myself in without any effort at all. I’d been protecting myself, only realising later when I coped and coped and coped, and had no one at all.

As I glide my hands over the comforter this time, it eases me back to me, on my bed, and Mum relaxing next to me. I don’t know how long I’ve been gone in my memories and thoughts, but Mum’s been busy doing some thinking of her own, because she doesn’t seem to be concerned.

“Hey,” I begin, then change my mind and end with, “oh, don’t worry.”

She chuckles. “To others, I say, ‘Yeah what?’ out of habit, but you’re different from others. You never say anything you don’t mean.”

“Well,” I say, “I wanted to ask why you liked him so much.”

There. Partly the truth. I’ve needed to know this and so many other questions about that for nine years. In the aftermath of my words, I dip my head and watch my hands smooth out the already wrinkle-free cover, and watch the patterns on the spread disappear and reappear under my fingers.

I’m not sure I’m here anymore. My head is a mass of thoughts. I just hope I don’t look like the nervous wreck I feel like inside.