Spencer

The bell above the doorway dings as Spencer arrives at the vet’s. Joseph at reception is flicking through a copy of Woman’s Day. A man with a cat carrier on his lap is in the waiting room, staring at the off-white wall opposite as if it may suddenly split open and reveal another world.

Spencer drops his bag behind the reception desk and Joseph points at a photo of a female celebrity in the magazine. She’s frolicking on a beach and there are blown-up pictures of sections of her upper thigh.

‘Can you believe they’re actually giving a woman this thin flack about her cellulite?’ Joseph asks with endearing sincerity. Spencer can believe it. That’s generally what women’s magazines do.

‘By buying those magazines you’re supporting them, Jo,’ Spencer points out. ‘Buy a book instead.’ It sounds like something his mother would have said, years ago. He’s trying not to think about his mother, but it’s impossible.

Joseph looks up from the magazine. ‘You’re right. I tell you, you kids are smarter than they give you credit for.’ He clearly means this.

‘Hey,’ says Spencer. ‘You were a kid yourself ten minutes ago.’

‘More like ten years ago. And not a smart one. Is Nina sick?’

Spencer pauses. ‘No. She, uh, moved.’

‘Really? Didn’t tell me. Where to? Can’t imagine why anyone would leave here. Paradise. With excellent veterinary services.’

‘We’re…not really…in touch, at the moment.’ He’d like to tell Joseph everything, but he’s trying to stay cool.

‘Ah. I see,’ Joseph says, in such a way that Spencer believes Joseph has seen inside his head and does indeed know everything that’s going on, and sympathises.

‘Hey, Spencer,’ says Diane, appearing in the doorway. Spencer waves. Her hair is piled on the top of her head in a haphazard bun—she looks like she has just rolled out of bed. The man in the waiting room stops staring at the wall as though it’s his ticket out of there and stands up. Diane ushers him and his cat through to the operating room.

Spencer wanders out the back and inspects the cages, looking for Morrissey, Nina’s cat. Diane comes in and starts rifling through a drawer.

‘Where’s Morrissey?’ Spencer asks.

‘He got adopted on the weekend,’ Diane answers, smiling. ‘Good, hey? Elderly lady, really taken by him.’

It’s such a stupid thing to feel as if his heart is breaking again. It’s not even as if it really was her cat—it was just a cat she named and looked after one afternoon a week for a couple of months. But he can’t help that he feels devastated by it. It’s as if Nina had hardly existed at all—except for everything he remembers about her.

‘That’s wonderful.’ He gives nothing away in his tone. He reminds himself that this is all in his head—there is nothing physically wrong with him. His heart is still in one piece.

When he returns home, Monica is standing at the stove, stirring, an ancient cookbook propped up in front of her. Whatever she’s cooking smells like cinnamon.

‘Hi Monica,’ he says. ‘Good day at school?’ He still expects her to talk but she doesn’t respond, doesn’t even glance up from the pan. Obviously she’s in a worse mood than usual, because she doesn’t bother to give him a Conversation Heart.

He can’t stand the silence and walks into the living room, switches on the TV. Judge Judy’s brusque, condescending tone is almost soothing. Soon there’ll be a melodramatic soap opera about two feuding families having lots of nearly incestuous relations. He never used to watch much TV, but now he’s thinking that these shitty afternoon programs will be vital to his survival.

‘It’s rude to ignore people when they speak to you,’ he yells out to Monica. He meant to say it good-humouredly, a joke between the two of them, but it comes out sharp and wrong and mean.

He returns to the kitchen and lifts himself onto the counter beside the stove. Monica glances at him, then returns her focus to cooking. ‘Our own junior master chef, hey?’ says Spencer, attempting a smile.

Asking questions only to receive no response is depressing. It shouldn’t be his job to deal with Monica, should it? Perhaps he’s being massively selfish, a really awful big brother.

Chance wanders into the kitchen, sniffing around for crumbs. He’s grateful for the presence of the dog, silent, non-judgemental. Living in a house with people who are silent is just frustrating—who knows whether they’re listening or not.

‘Planning on sharing any of that with me?’ asks Spencer. It looks like she’s making an apple cake.

Monica stops stirring and produces a packet of Conversation Hearts from her pocket. She pulls one out and presses it into Spencer’s hand. It reads All mine.

Spencer laughs. ‘I’m going to write to the company that make these and suggest some new ones. Like My brother Spencer is wonderful and It’d be my pleasure to take out the bins and feed the dog.

Monica turns away.

‘Dad’s home, right?’ asks Spencer. He swallows. ‘I’m just going to go upstairs and chat with him.’

This is it. He’s cooked and made cups of tea and been considerate to his father for almost a week now, since she left. His dad’s still stumbling around in a daze. He has to know it’s not good enough.

Spencer is pacing the hall outside his father’s room. He is not a confrontational person, but right now he needs to confront his father.

He knocks on the door. ‘Dad?’ Inhale, exhale.

No response. He opens the door slowly. His father is sitting at his desk, laptop open, staring blankly at the screen. He glances up at Spencer. He looks as if he hasn’t slept in an eternity.

Spencer eliminates opening lines in his head. We need to talk, gone. I understand you’re going through a lot right now, no way. He is not the school counsellor.

‘Shit, Dad.’ Perhaps not the most tactful thing to say. ‘This family is messed up at the moment. I get that you’re freaking out right now, but look, I’m dealing with my mother leaving. And Monica—she’s not even speaking. She barely acknowledges me. You can’t just be a zombie, moping around the house like this forever. Life has to go on.’

He’s channelling every person in every film that involves somebody dying and/or a rousing speech delivered to a failing sports team. He’s dealing with this. He’s not curling up in his room and pretending the gaping hole left in their family will heal over on its own. He paces back and forth across what used to be his parents’ room. A few of his mother’s clothes, photos, books, perfume are still in there. Artefacts from a different time, belonging to a different family. His dad just watches him.

Spencer breathes in deeply, breathes out. ‘Aren’t you angry at her? Can’t you…can’t you get angry and get over it? I’m angry at you, too, now. Christ, it’s not your fault she left. I don’t think it’s anyone’s fault. But you need to get through it and help us. I can’t deal with Monica or the quiet or this feeling that we’re not even a family, that we’re just a bunch of depressives sharing a house. Well, it’s felt like that for a while. But it’s killing me now.’

There is an uncomfortably long pause, and neither of them is able to find the right words to say.

Finally, Spencer bursts out with, ‘You know, normal teenagers? They fight with their parents. This isn’t right. Me yelling at you and you not reacting. That is the definition of messed up.’

His father speaks so faintly Spencer hardly hears him. ‘I’m trying, Spence. I really am.’

In a flash, Spencer realises the futility of this scene. He’s not going to be able to confront his father and have him return to normal. Raising his voice isn’t going to heal anyone’s emotional wounds, let alone his own. But he’s so goddamn frustrated. And he doesn’t like always being able to hear his own thoughts.

‘Why does everyone have to be so bloody quiet!’ he shouts down the hall.