Emmet

Sundays were for family, according to Mum. It was one of her longstanding rules. She had other rules, too: refill the water jug before putting it back in the fridge; don’t leave dirty clothes on the bathroom or bedroom floor; if you finish a box of cereal or a packet of biscuits, add the item to the grocery list pinned on the kitchen noticeboard.

Because Sundays were reserved for family, Auntie Tanya and her kids usually joined them for a late lunch, or they went to her house. Sean was also a regular face, even on the days they went to Tanya’s. Tanya and Sean were Emmet’s godparents.

‘One sensible, one not so sensible,’ he’d overheard his mother say on his confirmation day, when Sean had been late turning up to the church.

Emmet had never thought too much about godmothers and godfathers until the last nine months. Godparents were meant to step in if something happened to your parents. It had been a fundamental shock, the realisation that Mum could die – if not straight away, then at some future time: cancer could be like an unwelcome guest who kept knocking on the door. This analogy he overheard from Amy, Bridie’s godmother, in a conversation with Dad after Mum’s surgery.

Now Mum’s voice carried from the bottom of the stairs. ‘Emmet, Bridie, Dad’s serving up.’

‘Where’s Tanya today?’ Emmet asked, arriving downstairs to the smell of roast beef and gravy.

‘They can’t come. One of the girls has a sports presentation.’

Bridie joined them and then there was a distinctive knock on the door, three quickfire raps – a warning for everyone to brace themselves – before Sean let himself in and charged down the hallway. ‘Hello, hello, hello.’

The energy in the house changed abruptly.

Sean kissed Mum and Bridie on the cheek, before vigorously shaking Dad’s hand, followed by Emmet’s. He had a distinctive smell: aftershave mingled with last night’s alcohol.

They sat down at the outdoor setting on the deck. It was actually quite a nice day. Emmet hadn’t noticed: he’d been in his room all morning, studying, until the summons for lunch.

His uncle shovelled several overloaded forkfuls into his mouth. Emmet’s dad ate quickly – big family syndrome – but Sean was on another level. It looked like this was the only proper meal he’d had all week.

‘Jesus, Rachel, this is delicious,’ he declared.

‘Rory did the cooking,’ Mum pointed out tartly.

‘Rory, this is delicious.’ His plate was almost empty, as was his first bottle of beer. ‘How’s it going with you, Emmet boy? Everything alright?’ Sean sounded more Irish than Dad, which was one of their many differences.

‘Yeah, fine,’ Emmet replied awkwardly.

‘End-of-year exams start soon,’ Mum added, to make conversation, even though Sean was the last person in the world to have any interest in exams.

‘Go away, it’s only August.’

‘Year Eleven finishes a term early,’ she explained. ‘It’s so they can get a full twelve months of Year Twelve before the HSC exams.’

Sean’s eyes glazed over. Emmet could empathise: exams and school were fucking boring. A second plate of food along with a second bottle of beer revived Sean, and he turned his bleary gaze to Bridie. ‘What about you, darlin’? Gotta boyfriend yet?’

‘For God’s sake, she’s only fifteen,’ Dad said tersely. ‘What would Bridie be doing with a boyfriend?’

Sean smirked, his voice growing even louder. ‘It’s do as I say, not as I do, is it? Ha, ha! I could tell you a few stories, kids. Your dad was chasing girls long before he was fifteen.’

The afternoon went in a familiar pattern from there. A third plate of food consumed with a third beer. Then a fourth, fifth and sixth beer. As Sean became brasher and more exaggerated, the rest of them became quieter. Emmet could detect his parents’ tension, Bridie’s reticence and his own discomfort, maybe even revulsion. It occurred to him that Sean was a bit like Amy’s description of cancer: an unwelcome guest who kept knocking on the door.

Finally, Mum called an end to it. ‘We don’t want to go late, Sean. I’ll call you an Uber.’

Sean lived in Blakehurst and didn’t own a car. As far as Emmet knew, he relied on lifts from other painters to get to whatever job he was working on, often located in distant suburbs that took ages to get to on public transport.

Mum called the Uber: like the dinner and the beers, its cost seemed to be included in the hospitality they provided every Sunday. Emmet shook his uncle’s hand and retreated upstairs, where his English study notes were waiting.

A couple of hours later, Mum knocked on his door. She’d taken off her wig and looked vulnerable and diminished with her light fuzz of hair. ‘I’m just off to bed, love. Are you finishing up soon?’

‘Yeah, I’m nearly done.’

‘Night, love.’

‘Is Sean an alcoholic?’ he heard himself ask, just as she was about to retreat.

Mum startled, then hesitated, as though she were coming to a decision about how much to say. ‘You know what, Emmet, I’m not going to lie to you. We love Sean but, yes, he is an alcoholic. He’s had on-and-off problems with drugs and gambling, too. His addictions have affected his work, his ability to pay bills, his relationship with us and the rest of the family in Ireland.’ Her expression was sad and disappointed. ‘But we love him, we’ll always be here for him, and we’re still hoping he’ll turn things around, even though addiction is stronger than love and practically everything else. The sad thing is, Sean had a lot of potential when he was younger. Still does.’

Don’t turn out like Sean was the subtext, the unspoken warning.

Emmet had no intention of turning out like his uncle. He was ready to make his mark on the world. He just needed to find the courage to tell his parents.