After he punched me in the face last night, Dad got blind drunk and forgot he was the designated driver. Mum had to book a room in the hotel. She and Dad slept on the suite’s queen bed while I collapsed on a roll-out cot. I couldn’t sleep for ages: every time I rolled onto my bruised eye socket it hurt like hell.
When I finally got to sleep, I dreamed I ate a poisoned wedding cake and it killed me.
In the morning, Mum kicks the roll-out bed to wake me.
‘Get in the shower,’ she says, tartly. ‘We’re going to have breakfast together. And we’re going to talk.’ Her pincer hands grab my chin and tilt my head towards her so she can examine my eye. ‘If anyone asks, you walked into a door. Silly boy. You’ve always been so clumsy.’
The shower water turns pink as I rinse my face. Dad really cracked me one. I have a proper black eye this morning: it’s a ring of swollen purply-red around my right eye. I think once I would have been horrified to have such a blemish. But the more I look at it in the mirror, the more I like the way I look with it. I look disobedient. Dangerous.
The buffet restaurant of the Mercurial Winds is pretty busy when we get down there about nine. That’s a relief, because at least Mum and Dad can’t go completely spare at me. One dramatic scene of family disharmony could be a once-off, but two would mark them as officially dysfunctional. Dysfunction is a given with our family – but never in public.
I line up for the buffet behind my parents. Just as I grab a warm china plate, four people file out of the restaurant. I only recognise the last one, with a chunky Rip Curl backpack over his shoulder, flexed biceps exposed by his West Coast Eagles guernsey. Even though we’re inside, he taps his wraparound sunnies down from his forehead to cover his eyes.
As a sad reflex, I say, ‘Hey, Hammer.’
I want something from him. Acknowledgement. A wink. Maybe a smile. Something to make up for last night.
Hammer gives me a blokey nod, and in the voice of a footballer fresh off a winning game, he booms, without breaking stride, ‘Have a good one, mate. Catchya round at school, ay?’
The footy star marches off to follow his family out of the hotel and into the car park. He doesn’t look back. I notice because I’m watching him the whole way.
Forget about him, I tell myself, in a voice I don’t recognise. Move on.
Move on to what? a much more familiar voice replies.
When we finish at the buffet and sit down at our table, Dad’s barely with us. His shades are hiding his eyes. He’s sipping orange juice like it’s potent anti-hangover medicine. Mum, on the other hand, vigorously scrapes a butter knife against a crisp slice of toast.
‘About last night,’ she says, ‘Zeke, your father is sorry he got physical with you. It was a stressful, high-emotion situation.’
‘Okay.’
‘You did something shocking last night.’
‘Okay.’
‘You must see how it made us all feel. Especially on your brother’s wedding night. It was completely inappropriate on your part.’
‘You could’ve just given Charlie some cake.’
Mum clicks her tongue. ‘This has nothing to do with cake.’
‘I know.’ My arms tingle. There’s some fight in them already. ‘Tell me what it’s really about, then.’
Mum slices through her cooked tomato. Hawkish eyes pierce mine. ‘We sent you to Father Mulroney for guidance. We thought you understood why what you did was wrong.’
‘Guess it didn’t take.’
‘You can’t do this, Zeke. You can’t do this to your father and me. But especially, you can’t do this to yourself. It’s a sad life Charlie Roth has chosen for himself. Those people end up depressed, on drugs, mentally unbalanced … you’re better than that. We want you to be better than that, love.’
‘You’re not a finocchio,’ Dad mumbles, scratching his chest. ‘You were dating that Sefton girl. You’ve just gotten confused, buddy.’
‘What if you’re both wrong?’ I say abruptly.
‘Zeke, keep your voice down,’ Mum hisses.
‘What if you’re wrong?’ I go on, a touch quieter, to shut her up. ‘What if I’m not better than that? What if I’m not confused? What if I was born this way and it’s in my genes and I’m stuck this way forever?’
Dad nudges his shades up onto his creased forehead. His dark eyes scan me back and forth, then settle on my face. ‘If that were truly the case,’ he says. ‘I’d feel like a failure as a father.’
‘Quiet,’ Mum says. ‘Robbie’s coming.’ She waves, her gold bangles jangling together. ‘Robbie, love! Over here!’
Robbie stomps over with his wide, clod-footed gait. He doesn’t look like a guy who just got married. He’s in a plush white bathrobe; his hair is tousled and sticking up like he just rolled out of bed; his eyes have dark bags under them; and he’s gnawing on his bottom lip like he’s about to burst into tears.
‘Robbie!’ Mum throws her arms around him and kisses him on the cheek. ‘What are you doing down here, love? Go back up to Natalie. You can get room service for breakfast.’
‘Mum … Dad … bro …’ Robbie mutters, unable to spit his sentence out. He doesn’t flinch when he sees my black eye, which tells me already knows what Dad did. He’s probably okay with it.
Mum’s fingers twist in the plush material of the robe. ‘What’s wrong, love? Is Nattie okay?’
Dad glares at me pre-emptively.
‘She’s fine,’ Robbie says, swallowing. ‘No, it’s nothing – I just had some bad news. Think I’m in shock.’
‘What’s happened?’ Dad asks sharply, standing up.
‘You know Shane from soccer? Shane Jones?’
‘Yep,’ Dad says grimly.
‘His brother, Matt, died last night.’
Mum’s face relaxes. It’s obvious she was expecting worse news that would affect her life in some way. ‘Oh, that’s awful love.’ She rubs Robbie’s shoulder.
‘Matt Jones … do I know him?’ Dad asks.
‘You’d know his face,’ Robbie says. ‘He’s got weird teeth. We used to call him Bucky.’
All the air has left the room. My fingernails are digging into my palms.
‘Oh, Bucky Beaver!’ Dad cries. ‘Yeah, of course! Oh, shit. I’m sorry, Rob. What happened?’
‘That’s the thing,’ Robbie says. He holds his arms close to his chest. ‘He killed himself.’
Robbie glances at me. ‘Yeah. Hung himself in his dad’s shed. They just found him this morning.’
‘Hanged himself,’ Mum corrects. ‘That’s never the way out. Silly boy.’
‘Poor bugger,’ Dad nods. ‘You okay, son?’
Robbie winces. ‘Shane’s a mess. I’m okay. I’m just shocked. I just need some fresh air, honestly.’
‘Don’t forget Natalie, love,’ Mum says.
‘Course I won’t,’ Robbie says. He kisses Mum on the cheek. ‘Love you guys.’
He shuffles off in his bathrobe.
I’m going to throw up. Or scream. Or both at the same time. I push my plate away and slide my chair out.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Mum says.
‘I have to go,’ I say, my ears buzzing. ‘I need to get outside.’
‘We’re in the middle of a conversation,’ Dad says. ‘We’re worried about you. Sit down.’
His voice sounds like it’s coming down a long, empty tunnel. An echo of a father.
‘Not now.’ I get to my feet. ‘I have to get to Charlie …’
Unexpectedly, it’s Mum who stands up. ‘Zeke, I forbid you from seeing that boy ever again. He’s dangerous.’
‘You can’t stop me,’ I say. ‘Without making a scene, at least. You don’t want to do that, do you?’
Dad leans back in his chair. The corners of his mouth turn down like he sucked a lemon.
‘Disgraziato,’ he says.
It’s the harshest thing he could say. It means his anger is beyond swear words. I’ve committed a mortal sin. I have shamed him more than can be tolerated by a Sicilian man.
For weeks, my bones have wanted out of my skin. My blood wanted to flood the flesh and wash the sickness out.
But this morning, suddenly, my bones and blood are at rest.
This time it’s my muscles that are alive. My calves are pounding with blood, ready to run a race; my core is tensed and humming; my arms tingle with energy, biceps ready to knock down anything in my path.
I look at my parents, and in an instant, I no longer see my mother and my father. I see two people who are too small to keep me here anymore.
‘You know what?’ I say. ‘Vaffanculo. Both of you. Vaffanculo!’
Dad roars to his feet. ‘Take that back!’ he screams. ‘We are your parents!’
I stare at them levelly as I back away from the table. ‘Not anymore, you’re not.’
And then I run, and the collective, horrified stare of every single person in the restaurant doesn’t burn like Saint Lawrence’s fire.
It feels like warm sunlight.