My mother describes me as a 'cool' woman. She doesn't mean it in a nice way, at least not like others use the word. She means that I am cold. That I don't show emotion, that perhaps I don't have any. The truth is I do have emotions, I just don't know what to do with them. What purpose does it serve, to work yourself up into a palaver, to spray it all over other people? Often when I am speaking to someone, and I disagree with them, all the arguments I could make appear in my head. In the split second between thinking and saying, the same thing always comes to mind: what's the point? And I remain silent.
People have become frustrated with me over the years. My father is the same way, and he and I share a strong affinity for one another, if only because we can sit together in a room and happily say nothing at all. When Greg came to our house on the night I had finally conceded to tell my parents I was pregnant, my father answered the door. At first he seemed confused, like he was wondering who this man was and why he was asking to see me. I descended the stairs slowly, and met them at the door.
I was fourteen weeks pregnant, and soon would not be capable of hiding it anymore. My stick-like frame had little hope of concealing anything. Already my breasts had grown larger and were sore from being constantly squeezed in my bras.
"You know Elaine?"
"Yes, if I may, we'd like to speak to you together."
My father frowned, shook his head as if to clear cobwebs, and stepped back to allow Greg into the hallway. My father - Peter, if you'd like to know his name, though I rarely use it myself - was tall. He had a good few inches on Greg, who is himself just over six feet. By this time, my father was nearing fifty, and like all the men in his family, he had black hair that was fading fast to grey. It fell to his shoulders, wavy like mine, and somehow the haircut suited him. On most men, it would have looked like a desperate attempt to continue to look like a surfing fiend well into middle-age.
As Greg entered the house, I remember thinking how odd it was that they were dressed so similarly. Cargo shorts, thongs, t shirts. I suppose it's really just the unofficial uniform of Queenslander men.
"Alright, then, come on in. We'll go to the lounge room."
Our lounge room was my favourite place in the house. The walls were lined with bookshelves. Our parents weren't well-educated, but they were proud. They spoke well, they read often, and they insisted that we do the same. I don't believe I ever once had my homework checked, but my father prodded me once a week to ask if I'd read my book for that week yet. I always had.
We had a television, but it was small, and black and white. None of us watched it much, except for Kane. He was the least bookish one amongst us.
We sat in the lounge room, on our large red sofa. It was a little worse for wear, seating the six of us for years. Five, after Tommy died. Greg sat with his back to the window. It was dark outside, but a streetlight lit him from behind, making it look as though a silhouette was sitting on our sofa. I turned on the lounge room light on my way in, and the room was flooded with brightness.
"Alright, Elaine, you need to tell me what's going on."
Greg opened his mouth to speak, and my father held up a hand to stop him.
"Son, I need to hear my daughter speak now. Wait your turn."
I saw a muscle twitch in Greg's face. He was not used to being spoken to as though he was the teenager.
"This is Greg. We met a few months ago. I've been spending time with him for a while."
I sounded like a mouse. My father's face was a mask of passivity. I felt my heart rate slamming through my body. My hands and feet were tingling, my legs felt like rubber. I moved from the doorway to sit down next to Greg. After a long time, my father spoke. Quietly.
