The Marriage Gap Year, page 5
The old floorboards creaked under foot. Above him, slivers of daylight shone through broken roof tiles. Birds had nested in the rafters, leaving piles of bird shit everywhere.
Rob looked at his watch.
He’d just come to have a look, get Syed off his back, but Rob found himself wanting to stay. The place was a mess, but it had a hold on him. Emma would love it too.
FALL
Chapter Seven
Emma moved her head to the cheerful opening piano music of Dr Priya’s show, briefly using her foamy toothbrush as a conductor’s wand before popping it back in her mouth and continuing to brush her teeth.
Hey. Dr Priya sounded young and fun. Welcome back. Now, I don’t want to be the strict one, but how’s your homework going? You doing it?
Emma smiled to herself as she undid her bathrobe to put on deodorant. She had done the homework and spared a thought for those less driven, less committed people feeling guilty at this point in the podcast. It was always like that, wasn’t it? Whether it was school, or work, or a journey of self-discovery, you just couldn’t count on everyone doing the work. People were so unreliable. She put the deodorant back in the vanity and looked at herself in the mirror, turning her face from side to side. Was one nostril bigger than the other?
She thought about her aspirations, her path to a better life: doing exercise (okay she hadn’t run for a few days, but that was because she was sore from all the running she had done, so check); reconnecting with self (she was listening to this podcast wasn’t she, and let’s not forget this gap year was a profound measure of her commitment to reconnecting with herself, so check again); helping her son to find independence (big check, she was meeting Will that very afternoon).
She did her hair and makeup and listened to Dr Priya talk about goal setting. Emma even felt charitable toward those people who’d probably keep listening even though they hadn’t written their lists. Emma always did her homework.
So, said Dr Priya. You reckon you’ve got a sense of what you want? Emma nodded to herself as she rubbed in her face moisturizer. If so, that’s great. If not, don’t stress.
Hey, wait a minute. Why was Dr Priya letting the slackers off the hook? I mean, this episode was called “Doing the Work,” for god sake.
Here’s what I want you to do this week, this month or this year. It’s not a race, my lovelies. Do it whenever you can. But do it.
Dr Priya took a long breath as if she were about to disclose something profound.
I want you to take some time out to reconnect with yourself. Now, I’m not talking about having a drink out with your girls. No, I want you to reach out to your more dreamy, more hopeful, more optimistic self. For some people, it helps to go back to places you haven’t been in a while. Maybe the family home or a place you used to go to when you were young, a playground maybe or a park. The aim is to get out of the rut of everyday life.
But maybe you don’t like the idea of returning to your past. That’s fine. Not everyone’s past is a nice place. If that’s you, then go somewhere new. Some place you have no history. Some place where you can be alone, without expectations, a place that invites you to think and feel with abandon. Think nature. Maybe trees are your thing, or the beach. Or maybe just crack out the colored pencils somewhere and do some drawing, something creative. The point is to just go there with no agenda, no expectation of what success looks like. Just wander or draw or look at the sky and take note of what happens inside. That’s your homework for this week, my lovelies. Until next time, be yourself, whoever that is.
Well, thought Emma. What a coincidence. She’d already arranged to meet Will at a place that fitted Dr Priya’s description. Her path to wisdom was opening. The universe was recognizing her years of self-criticism as credit toward the self-acceptance that was her due.
This feeling of being blessed stayed with Emma as she strolled down one of the tree-lined paths at Melbourne University. Above her head, expanding patches of red and brown in the leaf canopy announced the fall, even if the cooler days seemed to come later every year.
She couldn’t believe it had been nearly thirty years since she first walked this same route, back when she was a student here. The campus looked the same, sort of. It was glossier now, more corporate than she remembered, echoing the same steel and glass structures in her new neighborhood. It all felt a bit colder than the warm embrace of the sandstone buildings she’d adored, the ones that made her feel part of something worthy and serious.
She turned the corner into the old quadrangle. Here, the Oxford aesthetic of the original buildings that had so impressed her twenty-year-old self still enchanted her. Through the ups and downs of her life, and whatever happened out there in the world, these buildings had remained unchanged. There was comfort in that.
As she strolled, she mentally traveled back and forth on her personal timeline, braiding it with her son’s. The overlaps were confronting. Was it possible that Will was now only three years younger than she had been when she first met Rob? It seemed only yesterday that her son was a baby. The whole experience of parenthood – of changing him, of teaching him to walk and talk, of childcare, elementary school and high school – all of it was summonable in one short montage. Such a show was life and she choked up at the beauty and brevity of it.
Groups of students walked around the campus, sleeveless tops and jackets tied around waists in this sudden burst of warmth. They walked close together, still cliquey but beginning their adult lives. She thought of Will and of Mish and Angie. Young people today grew up faster than her generation did. This group of young women passing her now, for instance. They already looked more sophisticated, determined and self-confident than her gang had been, when they were lounging around on that very lawn, back in the fall of 1994.
“Hey.” Will’s voice startled her.
“Oh sweetheart,” she said, reaching up and putting her hands on his cheeks. She pulled him close. Will bent down at an awkward angle. “Come on,” she said, “you hug your mom. Don’t be all cool about it.”
“I’m hugging,” he said.
She patted his back. “You’re so big.”
“Ma, come on. I’ve been this size for a while now.”
“I know,” she said. He pulled away. She looked him up and down. “It’s just…” Emma choked up. “Sorry,” she sniffed.
Will stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked over his shoulder. “You want to walk around a bit? Get a coffee or something?”
Dr Priya was right. Places like this were important, the ones that brought past, present and future together. She could connect to the idea of herself as the center of her life, that middle dot where tree rings begin. She smiled at her son, “Yeah, I do.”
“Come on,” said Will in a gentle voice. “I’ll show you around the village.”
They strolled back the way she’d come, through the stone buildings to the old quadrangle with its courtyard of unblemished grass.
“Soak up the wizard-school vibes,” said Will.
Emma frowned. “I think it’s pretty.”
Will and Emma walked along the brick laneway toward the student village.
Emma had been the one to push Will to live on campus. Rob had seen it as a needless expense, but she’d insisted. Living with other students, she reckoned, was the best way of getting the most out of the university experience. Plus, he’d just mope around if he stayed at home. All this talk about social anxiety was fine, but in the end, you had to do something about it. He needed a push. If he couldn’t handle shared accommodation, this was the next best thing.
“Oh wow,” she said as they walked through the main door of the student accommodation. The place had been virtually empty when they’d first visited months ago. It now felt like an upmarket youth hostel, with young people purposefully coming and going from the various communal areas: the kitchen, the gym, the games room, the outdoor pool. It was more resort than dorm, several steps up from the grungy house in Brunswick that Emma had shared with three other girls and a guy whose body odor Emma still recalled every time she smelled a kitty litter box. “This is great,” she said, absorbing the bright airiness of the common areas in these student dorms.
She noted her son was nodding to a few people as they walked through the hallway. He had friends! This evidence of a social life vindicated the staunchness with which she’d advocated for Will’s right to live here. It would do him good, was already doing him good, and she’d been right to fight and win that battle with Rob. Having options. Isn’t that what money was for? Rob never wanted to spend any of it. And never seemed to recognize the rainy day he said they were saving for.
“This one’s mine,” said Will, opening the door.
“Oh, it’s cute,” said Emma, walking inside. The studio apartment had seemed luxurious the first time she’d seen it, new and modern. But the self-contained space, with its small kitchen and ensuite bathroom felt different now that Will’s stuff was scattered inside it. There was a sour odor of burned toast and unwashed clothes. She cast her mind back to the kitchen of her student share house where leftover pasta competed for space in the communal fridge.
“Do you ever go downstairs to the dining area?”
“Not really.”
“How come?”
Will gave her a blank look. “Got everything I need here, I guess.”
Perhaps this room hadn’t been the best idea after all. How was he supposed to learn how to live with other people if he was shielded from them?
“You going okay, though,” she said.
He nodded.
“You sure?” Emma straightened and smoothed the pillow on Will’s bed. He looked at her and she stopped. “You can tell me if you’re not.”
He looked away. “Look, it’s just…I know university was, like, the thing for you, but I’m just not sure I feel that.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. I can’t get into it. It just feels like a waste of time. And money.”
“Will—”
“It’s true.” He swallowed. “I keep thinking if everything’s as fucked as it seems, if the world’s really burning, then why bother? Maybe I should just live for now, and not wait for some mythical future.”
“Bit dramatic, don’t you think?”
“Is it? I’m not sure. I don’t know what to believe.”
“Well, that’s why you go to university.”
Will rolled his eyes. “The people here don’t know anything either. The professors and that, you can learn half the shit they teach on YouTube. A degree isn’t a golden ticket anymore. And universities?” He shook his head. “Their days are numbered. But everyone just keeps pretending the world’s not crumbling around them.”
“Oh.” Emma shut her eyes tight. “I remember being your age. But that just sounds stupid.” She rubbed her temples. “Look,” she said, softening her voice, “I want you to go to university. I just do. And not because I think it’s the only way to get a job. It isn’t. But the more you learn, the more aware you are of how much you don’t know. It helps stop people from becoming too cocky. Plus, the world outside isn’t pretty. It’s about “productivity” and “cost cutting”, and it’s soul-destroying. I want you to experience something else.”
“But that’s your experience you’re talking about, Mom, not mine.”
“It will be.” She tried to look him in the eye, but he wouldn’t meet her gaze. “Will,” she pleaded. “You’ve just started. Give it a chance.”
Her son turned away. Emma sat at the foot of the unmade bed and traced the valleys of the wrinkled bedspread with her fingers. “About that text,” she said. “I tried not saying anything, but I have to.”
“Yeah, sorry, I was a bit drunk when I sent that.”
“Is it true?” she said. “That you think it’s all my fault?”
He turned toward her but looked at the ground. “I don’t know.” He paced and flattened the hair at the back of his head. He’d always done that when he was nervous.
“Say what you want to say, Will.”
He sighed and squinted into the light of the tiny high window above the bed. “I want to be supportive and everything, but I can’t help think this whole situation is a waste of time.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you and Dad. I mean, you’re either going to get back together or you’re not. Why do the whole year apart thing? It’s cringy. Just prolongs things. I don’t see the point.”
Emma scoffed.
Will furrowed his brow. “What’s to figure out? You’ve basically been estranged, or whatever, for years.”
“Estranged?”
“Well, strained. It’s been awkward for a while. You guys don’t even sit on the same couch anymore. You think I don’t notice?”
“It’s your dad’s fault too, you know.”
“What? Did he cheat on you?”
“No.”
“Well then what?”
It was that simple for him, wasn’t it? Two sides. No middle ground. She almost envied the simplicity of his perspective if it didn’t irritate her so much. Will always took his father’s side.
“Right, I have no idea, said Will.”
“Hey! Watch it. You think this whole set up here just happens? Ta da! Well, it doesn’t. It takes sacrifices, Will. Years of ’em. And you have no idea what that means.”
“Okay, threats. Nice, mom.”
“It’s not a threat, Will. I’m sharing with you. And I’m saying that I worked damn hard so you didn’t have to.”
She reached out her hand and guided him to sit next to her on the unmade bed. He did, but he looked rigid and distracted. “Look,” she said, resting her hand on his knee. “I’m sorry to hear things have been weird for you. I honestly thought we were doing a pretty good job of hiding it from you, but I was wrong. But you have to understand that I’m in a strange place right now.”
“What, are you sick or something?”
“No, I’m just feeling lost. When I see an ad or something that says follow your dreams, I don’t have any. I’ve become this person who’s just sort of…there. I never thought I’d be like that. And it scares me. It feels like I’m disappearing. Does this make any sense to you?”
Will smiled as if to himself.
“What?”
“It’s just funny. You grow up thinking all these people around you, the adults or whatever, that they have some idea of what’s going on, like they’re living their lives based on some kind of plan. But no one has a clue.”
Emma gave Will a hug, and as his arms tightened around her shoulders, she felt a surge of love.
Chapter Eight
Rob stepped from the shade of the stone house into bright sunshine. Inside, the place had been silent as a church. Outside, the crash of distant waves met the rustling of leaves stirred by the offshore breeze. He breathed in the sea air. This was a good spot. It was good to be back here. Syed was a lucky bugger.
Sitting in the flatbed of his truck, Rob finished checking his own measurements against the architectural drawings Syed had given him. Dimensions, footings, load bearings. It all checked out.
Whoever built this place knew what they were doing. Whatever architectural know-how they lacked, they made up for in grit and over-engineering. These walls were thick and the foundations deep. This house had withstood whatever time and the elements had thrown at it. It was built to last. Rob silently praised its builder, some migrant, desperate to rebuild his memory of the English coast a world away from home. It wasn’t just a house, it was a life raft, and he felt himself ever more drawn to the idea of honoring this place. It was a project he could pour himself into. Being out here, on this spot, would do him good.
Rob could’ve been an architect. He’d seriously thought about it. Even got some drafting certifications. But that was a dream from years ago. He couldn’t get past the building part. In the end Rob was a doer, and no two-dimensional drawing or computer render could substitute the feeling of putting something together, a real building, a place you could walk through and live in, something you made. Maybe Emma recognized this in him when she’d pressed him about the table.
That feeling of creating something with your own hands was probably familiar to whoever built this place. Built like a fortress, its solid walls testified to hardship, a need to fortify oneself against the world outside. Rob pulled out his notepad and sketched swift pen strokes that quickly took the shape of the building in front of him.
Rob continued to draw, needlessly shading, cross-hatching the grass, the slope of the hill. He was enjoying the repetitive motion and the sense of dimension it added to his sketch of the house, imagining the bigger windows he’d put in, and all the sunlight that would pour through them.
Rob used to draw like this all the time. He’d spend hours in his bedroom, drawing cross sections of cars and houses and boats, loving the soothing sense of order he could create on the page. Even if perfect space only existed in two dimensions, it wouldn’t stop him trying to build it in real life.
As a kid, Rob would keep his best drawings tucked inside the pages of an old phone book. He didn’t like how the edge of his illustrations would stick out from the book, curling and fraying his drawings over time. But it kept them hidden from his dad, who’d scolded him for taping a drawing to his bedroom wall. “You going to pay for the repainting?” he’d said. “Use your head.”
It felt good to draw, and Rob did his best to capture the weathered blocks of granite, stained by years of water runoff from the roof tiles, sagging under the weight of time.
He stopped sketching, wedged the pen between his teeth and held the notepad at arm’s length, considering his drawing against the real thing. The pages of the notebook quivered in the sea breeze, but the clamp of Rob’s calloused thumb kept the pages from turning. He smiled and brought the pad back to his lap.
Rob cocked his head to admire his creation when something in the distance caught his attention. A growing dust plume on the dirt road. It was a truck coming down the hill. Who the hell was that?
