Sisterly Love is a serialized novel. To savor the full narrative experience, start at the beginning and work through the chapters in order. You can find chapters on the Home page or in the Archive.
CHAPTER 20
Summer set a mug of hot tea on her nightstand, fluffed up her pillows, then slipped back into bed with The Daily Tribune. The lead story announced the arrival of the iPhone from the US firm, Apple. There was a photo of the Sydney storefront showing a line of people stretching around the corner. The story told of hundreds of “tech theologians” who had camped on the street overnight in order to be first to purchase the device. An inset showed a close-up of the iPhone screen. The accompanying caption described applications that enabled the instant sharing of information around the world in just one click. Summer set the paper aside—there was no denying the excitement and pace of the technological revolution. She took her gaze to the window then to the rambling garden outside; its aimless meandering seemed as obvious as the stagnation that had seeped into her daily life these past five months. Her thoughts drifted back to the morning that she had been let go.
After leaving the newsroom, Summer had returned home to Potts Point. It was only 10 A.M. when she pushed through the door of her studio apartment. She recalled the feeling of dislocation, as though pulled away from everything she believed to be true. And yet, she was also aware of a sense of freedom; euphoric almost, as though she had escaped. She glanced through the living room window and out across the bay. The sea had been choppy and the sky dark when she left for work that morning, but now the water was calm and the boats all strained in the same direction. She lowered herself onto the sofa and tried to contemplate her future. After a while she stood and stretched. She checked her watch. Two hours had passed. She wondered where she had been and attempted to retrace her thoughts, but she could not get beyond the image of the boats securely fastened to their moorings. In the kitchen, she spotted the aphorism from a fortune cookie she had saved after a Chinese meal with Frankie. She tugged the little piece of paper out from beneath the magnet that affixed it to the fridge. In this moment, you are precisely where you should be, it read.
In the days that followed her dismissal, Summer consulted with Nana Laurel then with April. She did the math on her expenses and calculated fourteen weeks until she would have to dip into her savings—a sacrosanct nest egg she had intended for a visit to her sister one day. There was the redundancy package she had received from The Daily Tribune, but Nana Laurel forbade her to spend “even a cent” of these funds.
“Invest it and forget about it,” Nana Laurel advised, “and it will be there when you need it.”
“Here’s what I don’t understand,” Jess said, during what had become a regular nightly telephone check-in, “Why you’re not out there every day pounding the pavement in search of a job.”
“I am looking,” said Summer, “but not for a job. For my next career move; finding that takes time and patience.”
“Fair enough,” said Jess, “But how are you going to live?”
“Good question. I was going to rent April’s spare room,” Summer said, “but she and Karl are getting a place of their own.”
“Come and live with me then, Babycakes!” Jess said, all of a sudden.
Summer laughed to hide her surprise.
“You’d love my family,” Jess said encouragingly. “Ours is what Family & Lifestyle would call an extended family, but we're more civilized than the one you profiled.”
Summer laughed again then adjusted her tone.
“It’s an incredibly generous offer, Jess...” she hesitated.
But Jess was prepared: “Just until you get on your feet again,” she said, then added, “No strings attached.”
Jess lived with her parents, Vern and Coral, in a four-bedroom home that Jess and her siblings had chipped in to purchase after their parents retired.
“To keep the family close,” Jess told Summer.
This had seemed noble to Summer, especially after Jess’s sisters’ marriages had left Vern and Coral alone on a large rural property. The new family home in Sydney’s outer suburbs offered a central location for everyone to convene: Jess’s three sisters, their spouses, and their children; no one had to travel more than forty minutes and, on that count alone, it beat the three-hour drive on the “deadly” South Coast Highway which, according to Coral, was just waiting to claim one of them.
In structuring the arrangement, it had made sense for Jess to live with her parents. Coral and Vern were getting on in years, and it was understood that Jess would not marry or have children of her own.
“What makes you think you can't have your own life?” Summer asked, as she unpacked her belongings in the guest room.
“I do have a life! A good life,” Jess said. “My family accepts me.”
Summer both envied and admired Jess’s filial commitment, which made for a busy household at weekends, sometimes with up to five children staying over while their parents took time off from the drudgery of childrearing.
“It’s the perfect arrangement,” Jess told Summer, with a note of pride. “Everyone wins.”
Jess then described the well-oiled sequence of preparations that characterized the work week.
“Mum and I get up at five, and we’re on the road by six to beat the rush-hour traffic into Sydney. At Leichhardt, I drop Mum at one of my sister's houses where she cares for the little ones—those children not yet in school—then I drive on into the city to my kick-ass job in Prudential Life’s marketing department where I…” Jess raised her chin and thrust out her chest, “am the longest-serving production coordinator!”
“Woo-hoo!” Summer said, playing along, “You’re almost a lifer!”
“Then at five thirty, I drive back out to the suburbs,” Jess said, ignoring Summer’s remark, “pick up Mum, and we do the whole thing in reverse.”
Summer imagined Jess and Coral snailing home along Parramatta Road in bumper-to-bumper traffic, diligently listening to Radio National and keeping “up to speed” on important world events—things like mass shootings in the United States, terrorist attacks in Europe, and human rights atrocities in developing nations. The robust discussion that followed these news reports, Summer was soon to appreciate, was a critical building block in what was a close-knit mother and daughter relationship.
“Mum's right,” Jess almost always announced as she burst into the living room, fired up from something they had heard on the radio. “Things are getting worse. Right Mum?”
And Coral, struggling up the stairs ladened with tote bags filled with children’s clothes for mending or apples that needed stewing, would respond in kind. “That’s right. Our only hope is in future generations.”
On the Monday of her first week in the household, Summer ventured into the kitchen and offered to help Coral prepare the boxed breakfast for the journey into the city. But Coral hadn’t wanted help, insisting that everything was “under control.” So Summer slouched on the counter and attempted to get to know the petite, silver-haired woman, flitting about the kitchen like a bird. She learned that Coral had trained as a nurse before she married Vern and that Jess suffered from “black dog” periods, though these had diminished since Summer had “come into her life.”
At this, Summer sat upright.
“Jess and I are just friends,” she clarified.
But Coral, who had disappeared into the pantry, had not heard and, emerging with the plastic wrap, was already sharing her view on “Jess’s gayness.”
“There’s never been any of that sort of thing on either side of the family,” Coral pronounced, as though Summer should be as surprised as she was.
“No?” Summer said.
“No!” Coral repeated, looking at Summer. “We just don't know where in the world it came from.”
That was when Summer understood that Coral was not engaging in conversation as much as she was absolving herself of blame. Summer decided to change the subject and asked Coral if she had siblings but when Coral exclaimed at the time, Summer excused herself and returned to bed.
Pulling the comforter up against the morning chill, she turned her thoughts to Jess’s father, Vern. She supposed he shared his wife’s views, though she couldn’t be sure. She had seen little of Vern since her arrival, observing him twice, both times at dinner, where she had thought him shy, withdrawn even. Jess had hinted at disharmony when Summer asked about Vern’s role in the family arrangement, and now she wondered if Vern’s detachment might be disenfranchisement.
“He’s useless,” Jess had said, dismissing the idea that her father could contribute in any useful way. Then seeing Summer’s surprise, she added, “He was a bastard to Mum, even before I was born.”
Summer wanted to ask Jess if Vern had been a bastard to her or if she was just siding with her mother in some kind of punitive bullying. But she thought better of it. She did not want to be coopted into a complex family situation. At the same time, she understood that Vern would be her only company during the week. This alone, she told herself, was good reason to get along with him and she immediately set about familiarizing herself with Vern’s daily routine; a program of eccentric moves, which she soon knew to a tee.
Precisely five minutes after the garage roller door stuttered and screeched to a close, signaling the departure of Coral and Jess, Summer listened out for Vern’s slippered foot as it thumped onto the bottom step of the staircase. After a brief pause, he set off, climbing each step at exact intervals. When he reached the living room, Summer counted a further five steps to the kitchen where she listened to him empty then refill the kettle. The element crackled as it heated, then there was a rushing sound as Vern poured steaming hot water over the tea bag he had dropped into his Royal blue mug, the one that bore the phrase “Keep Calm and Carry On”. He added milk. The fridge door closed with a light thud, and the sound of a spoon could be heard scraping the sides of the mug as he stirred in the sugar. Then, stationed at the counter, Vern loudly consumed his morning beverage while Summer counted the number of times he lifted and replaced the mug on the marble top; this was the only part of the practice that failed to comply with an otherwise strict rhythm. Later, freshly showered and shaved, Vern repeated the stairs routine. By this time, Summer was ensconced in the morning paper and she would unconsciously tap out the rhythm on the comforter. On the return journey, Vern bypassed the kitchen and strode toward the sliding doors in the living room. Here he paused and traded his indoor slippers for his outdoor slip-ons before venturing onto the balcony where he remained for fifteen minutes.
It was this part of Vern’s routine that eluded Summer, and during her second week in the house, unable to contain her curiosity, she slipped out of bed and tiptoed along the hallway to see how Vern passed this time. Peering around the corner, she had been touched to observe the frail little man carefully measuring then sprinkling a handful of birdseed into the two terracotta dishes that had been set on the oak railing. Dusting off his hands, she watched Vern take two steps back, fold his arms, and scrutinize the Rainbow Lorikeets as they noisily pecked out the husks of the seed, spraying empty shells over the floor. At the far corner of the balcony, Coral had placed a broom and a shovel to sweep up the carnage. It was the last thing Vern did before returning indoors where he spent the remainder of the morning in his recliner, reading the newspaper then mulling over the crossword before returning to whatever book he had borrowed from the library. At noon, he again ventured into the kitchen to reheat the leftovers Coral had placed in the fridge. After serving himself, he left the Pyrex dish on the counter for Summer.
One morning, as rain pelted the corrugated metal roof, Summer became aware that she had not heard Vern. She set aside the newspaper and listened but she could not detect his usual sounds. He’s probably fine, she told herself and returned to the story she was reading, but a low-grade alarm beat in her consciousness and unable to concentrate, she decided to check on him. As she pulled back the comforter, she asked herself Why? She reminded herself that Vern had shunned her attempts to start a conversation with him and made little, if any, effort to acknowledge her presence. She stepped into her slippers and made her way along the hall. It’s just curiosity, she told herself.
When she reached the living room, she spotted Vern immediately, standing motionless at the glass doors. His arms were folded high across his chest and he was peering up at the darkened sky. She sidled up to him, dragging her feet so as not to startle the old man.
“I’ll be dead soon,” Vern said, without looking around.
“You will not!” Summer teased, sensing he was not serious.
She plucked a ball of fluff from his cable-knit sweater and detected a glimmer of amusement. Feeling bolder, she inched closer, her shoulder almost touching his. She stared into the yard in the direction she thought Vern was looking. Her eyes located a trickle of water gently cascading from one maple leaf to another larger leaf below, where a pool had formed in a groove. Together they watched the puddle increase, they saw the weight of the flow reach critical mass and the leaf collapse, splattering droplets over the lawn.
All of a sudden, the doorbell rang.
Vern and Summer jumped. Summer looked to Vern, who remained passive. When it rang a second time, he sprang into action. With surprising agility and a certain grace, he stepped back, spun counter-clockwise on his heel then propelled his small frame down the stairs.
Moments later he reappeared.
“It’s for you,” he said, without expression.
Summer opened the front door to the pearly white smiles of a pair of Jehovah’s Witnesses.
“Oh!” she said, “You really couldn’t have chosen a worse address. The old boy’s atheist and I’m a lesbian.”
Determined not to give them a moment to consider her rebuke, Summer shut the door.
Vern laughed with such force his dentures fell out.
Summer went to the kitchen, turned on the kettle, and began to prepare tea. Vern appeared and flicked the kettle off, emptied it, and refilled it. Summer moved to the opposite side of the counter and sat on one of the bar stools. Now face-to-face with Vern, she plunged into conversation.
“So, you’re a horse breeder?” she asked.
“Was,” Vern replied, “but not much of one.”
“Jess thinks you love horses more than people,” Summer teased.
“They’ve got more going for them,” Vern replied.
Summer couldn’t help agreeing. She asked about the profitability of his equine endeavors and Vern shook his head.
“There was a lot of penny-pinching when Jess was young.”
Vern spoke with regret. He told Summer that Coral had returned to nursing after the children started school to help make ends meet. He said that she had never supported his passion for horses.
“She was suspicious of pedigree,” said Vern.
“In what way?” Summer inquired.
“Thinks it’s elitist.”
“Elitist?”
“She never could see the value of investing in a good genetic background.”
Then Vern admitted that breeding had been a bit of a gamble, one his father had done well out of before losing everything.
“I was in it for the horses,” he said.
“It must have been hard to give them up?”
“They were my family.” Vern looked away.
There was a pause, and Summer was unsure how to navigate it; she did not want Vern to shut down but letting him flail in a moment of unintended emotion could set things back.
“You should write it down,” she said, at last, “for your grandchildren, if not for you.”
“I’ve tried,” said Vern, returning to the conversation. “Writing’s hard," he inspected his arthritic fingers, “hand’s wobbly.”
“Can you type?”
“Seventy-five words per minute!” he said, brightening up, “I was in signals in the Army.”
Summer offered him the use of her computer but Vern waved it away.
“I can’t use those things.”
“Sure you can.”
Summer insisted on demonstrating how easy it was, and Vern gave in and trailed her into her room. He watched intently as the screen came to life. For a moment, Vern seemed genuinely enthused. He adjusted her chair and remarked on its comfort. She watched his digits skip over the keyboard with flair and confidence and she praised him for his dexterity. But when Summer tried to show him how to use the mouse, his hand shook and he had trouble finding the cursor on the screen. He pushed the chair back and stood up.
“It’s not for me,” he said, brushing past Summer.
He disappeared down the stairs before she could change his mind.
Later, when Vern was napping, Summer wrote him a guide to using her computer. She crafted concise, step-by-step instructions that covered everything from remembering to plug the computer in at the wall to tips on saving documents. She included penalties for farting in her chair—Vern laughed at that—and when he reappeared for afternoon tea, Summer cornered him, and he agreed to have another go. Vern was an avid Solitaire player and Summer decided to try enticing him with the computer version of the game. The strategy was successful. Vern couldn’t believe a deck that shuffled itself. His arthritic pain, he claimed, eased just at the thought of never having to shuffle again. Within a week, he had learned to negotiate the screen with the mouse and within a month Summer had to establish a roster in order to get time on her computer.
One morning, as Summer was preparing a job application, Vern appeared in her doorway with a cup of tea.
“I’m going to the RSL this afternoon for an ale, if you want to come,” he offered, slopping the tea into the saucer as he passed it to Summer.
“I’ve never been to an RSL,” said Summer, suddenly wondering why; her father and grandfather were returned servicemen, though, she admitted, they weren’t drinking men and she could not recall a single family conversation about war.
Vern shrugged, “I’m leaving at two,” he said.
“I’m in,” Summer called after him.
“It’s no jeans and no open-toed shoes,” Vern called back, over his shoulder.
Summer rifled through her wardrobe, kicking herself for her shortsightedness when storing her belongings. For her stay with Jess, she had strictly limited herself to one suitcase. In it she had packed two suits for job interviews, one pair of jeans and a selection of sweat pants and hoodies for wearing around the house. She chose her navy-blue suit for her visit to the Returned Servicemen’s League, because it was less formal than the pinstripe, and wore a tee instead of a collared shirt under the jacket. But she had no choice on her footwear.
“It’s just the RSL,” said Vern, staring at her stiletto heels as he held open the passenger door of the car.
“I want to be respectful,” Summer replied, trying to hide her embarrassment. “And besides, you never know who you're going bump into.”
“It’s just the RSL,” Vern repeated.
“That’s my point,” Summer said, giving Vern a friendly punch, “The Queen’s daughter could be there!”
Vern put the car into gear then eased his foot off the clutch, smirking as he slowly accelerated.
“I’m serious,’ said Summer. “She is after all, the Princess Royal, Colonel-in-Chief of the Royal Australian Corps of Signals. But then, you’d know that.”
“You’re a smart one,” Vern said accusingly.
“Yes, I am,” said Summer, digging Vern in the ribs. “My grandmother always told me to be prepared; you never know what you’re going to encounter.”