The Other People(18)
“Has Steve been round?”
“Oh yeah. Just for a bit, last night.”
Steve. The latest in a long line of useless boyfriends that Lou seemed to pick up like other people pick up chewing gum on the soles of their shoes. The only difference being that Lou’s boyfriends didn’t stick around as long.
It was probably giving Steve too much credit to even call him a boyfriend, really. The relationship seemed more off than on. He wouldn’t call for weeks on end, then he’d turn up, out of the blue, whenever he felt like it. And it was pretty obvious what he felt like. Katie knew that he was just using her sister. But Lou refused to see it, trotting out all the usual excuses: he worked shifts, he was busy, he had a demanding job.
Katie supposed that at least he had a job, which was more than could be said for some of the walking disasters Lou had dated, like Mia’s dad, who had disappeared faster than you could say “unpaid child support” once he knew she was pregnant. But ultimately, none of that really mattered. Steve could have been a millionaire entrepreneur or a saint. The point was that Katie had one firm ground rule in the babysitting arrangement with her sister: no boyfriends stopping over when her children were here.
“When did he leave?” she asked now.
“Last night. He had to be up early for work.”
“Right. So, how did he get home?”
She saw Lou hesitate.
“He drove, didn’t he?”
“He doesn’t live that far.”
“Of all people—”
“Oh, here we go.”
“Here we go what?”
“You—being all judgmental. You never like any of my boyfriends.”
“That’s because they’re all idiots.”
“Yeah, well, at least I have boyfriends.”
“Yeah, well, at least I have my self-respect.”
“You’re such a—”
“Mum, Auntie Lou, can you stop arguing?”
Gracie stood behind them in her My Little Pony pajamas, hair full of morning static, hands on her tiny hips. “You always tell Sam and me not to argue.”
Katie forced a smile. “We’re not arguing. We’re just…”
“Discussing,” Sam said, spooning cornflakes into his mouth. “That’s what you always say. Sounds just like arguing, though.”
Katie glanced at Lou. Her sister offered a small shrug.
“Little ears hear big mouths,” she muttered.
It was what Dad used to say to Mum when they were kids and overheard something they shouldn’t. “Told you to be quiet—little ears hear big mouths.” Her mum would mock-scowl and whip at Dad with a tea towel. “Who you calling Big Mouth?”
Right on cue, Gracie giggled and pointed at Katie: “Ha—Big Mouth.”
Katie poked her tongue out and tried not to feel irritated that her kids always took Auntie Lou’s side in an argument.
Still, the moment was deflected. Mia banged her spoon on the table and started to wail. Sam screwed up his face: “Eurgh. Mia stinks. She’s done a shi—…a poo in her nappy.” Then, in the same breath, “I’ve finished breakfast. Can I play Super Mario?”
“No,” Katie and Lou said, for once in unison, and then smiled tentatively at each other.
“I’d better deal,” Lou said, bending to pick up Mia.
Katie nodded and sipped at her cup of tea. Even though she rarely drank, right now she wished it were something stronger.
* * *
—
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, she was loading Sam and Gracie back into her car. She waved at her sister, who stood in the door, still in her dressing gown, a cigarette in one hand and Mia clinging to her leg.
Katie sighed. What was the point? she thought. You do your best. You try. But you can’t force people to change. Maybe they never will. Not unless something drastic happens to shake them out of their apathy.
Or maybe that was the problem. Something drastic had happened. Something terrible. Something that had splintered their already fragile family into pieces.
Someone had murdered their dad.
There are many things you don’t consider about death. Especially bloody, violent death. For a start, you don’t consider that it will ever happen. Not to you. Not to someone you know. Not to someone you love.
We live our lives in a state of denial. A blinkered belief that we are different, special. Protected by a mystical force field that deflects all the bad stuff.
Terrible things happen, of course, but they happen to other people; the ones you read about in newspapers. The haggard, tear-ravaged faces you see on the television.
We sympathize. We shed tears. Maybe we even light candles, leave flowers, create hashtags. And then we get on with our lives. Our special, safe, protected lives.
Until one day, one phone call, one sentence.
It’s about your wife…and your daughter.
And you realize it’s all an illusion. You’re not special. You’re just like everyone else, skipping across a minefield, trying to pretend that your whole world can’t, at any moment, be blown apart.
You never consider how that will feel. Not really. Because you have spent a lifetime not imagining it, as if to do so might tempt Fate to turn his ravaged face your way and see something he likes.