One True Thing (19 page)

He nods, but it's more an acknowledgement that he knows he's not meant to be here.

‘Fine,' she says. ‘We'll wait.'

They arrange to meet later – after I call – then head back the way we came. I wait for them to disappear into the thickening stream of pedestrians all considering their mid-morning coffee options, then I remove my hoodie, flick my hair off my face and hope I look at least reasonably normal.

I walk in. The pub is open but virtually empty. There's a small beer garden out front which is still damp from last night's rain. In the corner, near the front door, is one isolated patron, and by the slope of his back, the shape of his head and that long aquiline nose I'm so used to seeing on my own face, now sharply in profile, I know that this is Colin Leith.

My brother.

I stand there, paralysed, watching him. He's going to see me any second and be totally creeped out, but I can't stop staring at him. Short hair. Tattoos covering every bit of skin I can see. But in profile, I see Mum and me – even a bit of Luke. It takes my breath away.

I glance behind me to make sure Kessie and Jake are still outside, and then a voice startles me – an Irish voice, dry and brittle and as cold as ice.

‘Well, if it isn't the Premier's daughter. The child our mother
didn't
give away.'

I stare at Colin, mute. I thought I was ready for this. But here he is and here I am, and for the life of me I can't manage a single word.

‘Looks like we've got some catching up to do,' he says, the Irish accent as familiar to me as my gran's. Thicker, though. Coarser, too.

He heads back to his table and I hesitate, not entirely sure he expects me to follow. He takes his seat, the same as before, then frowns back at me. ‘Stop gawping and sit.'

Stiffly, I follow and take a seat across from him.

‘Drink?'

I laugh a little awkwardly. ‘I'm sixteen.'

He narrows his eyes. ‘I meant a Coke.'

Embarrassed, I mutter a thanks, and he heads into the bar, returning soon after with a tall glass of Coke and a packet of chips. I could barely stomach breakfast this morning, so Coke and salt-and-vinegar crinkle-cuts are probably not a good idea, but I smile and sip my drink.

My head is cloudy with questions I can't quite grasp, and everything I thought I knew and understood no longer make sense. Seeing this strange man, this
brother
, so plainly a Mulvaney that I can't believe everyone hasn't picked it up from the photos. Though, they were dark and in profile. But still. There it is, in the way he holds his head, the shape of his fingers, even Gran's square jaw. He's tall and thickly built. Arms muscled and covered in ink, red and green and black, hair close-shaven and fair.

It's a strange thing to meet a brother for the first time. Obviously I've been here before – when Luke came squirming and squalling into the world. I held him when he was barely two hours old. I was six and sceptical, asking Dad if we could be sure he was ours since he looked just like all the other babies in the nursery: wet-eyed, red-faced, wrinkled. Dad had laughed and made a show of checking the band on Luke's tiny wrist.

‘He's a Mulvaney-Webb, Francesca,' he'd said. ‘See, it's written right here.'

I'd squinted at that tag, reading my surname and the ‘Luke Brantley' in front of it, the blue colour indicating
he was a boy. ‘Okay,' I said then, trusting this very official-looking thing.

By the time Mum had brought him home, he'd changed enough for me to see that his lips looked like mine in my baby photos, that his eyes looked like Mum's, and those skinny legs were all Webb. He was one of us – anyone could see that. And then it was like he'd always been here. Had always been my brother. Even now I struggle to remember life before Luke, as if our family really began that day in the hospital. But this is different. This brother has arrived here fully formed. Nothing has prepared me for this.

Colin takes a long, thirsty drink of his beer, and it occurs to me that it's early to be drinking. I sip my Coke and then we're staring at each other, a million unanswerable questions forming a wall between us.

I clear my throat, but when I finally speak it's barely above a whisper. ‘When did you arrive in Australia?'

He blinks. I imagine a battle going on inside him too, though a different one to mine. Did he know about me before he came? Did Mum mention us?

I guess it doesn't matter – how much he knows, or for how long. He already resents us. Or me, at least. He made that clear the second he saw me.

‘A couple of months ago.'

I do a quick calculation. All Mum's unexplained absences that I kept assuming were about the campaign. The late calls and Gran's unexpected, hurried return
from Ireland – even her trip was weird, given how close the election was. Their stand-off at the launch party. Did Mum know he was here then?

It's funny how obvious some things seem when you put it all together. On their own, they don't mean much, but when you step back to look at them, they take on a whole new meaning. Like the Alice photo Jake loves so much – when you let the right light catch it, and take in its full effect from a distance, it suddenly looks like something quite different.

‘Too long, if you ask me,' he adds. His stare is intimidating, yet a part of me wants to hold his hand. He is – or
looks
– so alone, though I have no idea if that's true at all. He could have a whole other family in Ireland, people who have known him his whole life, or most of it. I want to ask – god, a million things – but I don't know where to start.

‘Yeah. Right. The media's been pretty grim.'

He cocks his head. ‘Arseholes.'

‘They've said some stuff about you. About –'

He snorts. ‘They can't hurt me.'

‘How do they know all that stuff? Your name. Your …' I stop to search for the right words. ‘Background.'

‘Asked around, I guess. Made some of it up. Who knows?'

‘But not the truth,' I say flatly, wary of that word, given how flimsy it is. ‘Who you are.'

He squints at me. ‘Why? Who am I?'

I blush furiously. ‘I mean, about Mum.'

He twists the bottle between us, turning it round and round. ‘They've found a better angle, haven't they?'

Why let truth get in the way of a good story.

‘They just say what they want.' He slowly shakes his head, disbelief in his eyes.

‘You get used to it,' I say, then laugh shortly. ‘Actually, that's a lie. It sucks.'

‘Your mum does all right.'

I half-smile, half-grimace. ‘She's good at dealing with the media, but she really doesn't like it either.'

‘That's her problem.'

The cold edge of his voice is breathtaking. It hurts to hear it. Is this how he treated Mum? I glance out at the street, determined not to ruin this. It feels so fragile. I focus on a woman power-walking past, pushing a pram at lightning speed. Tears sting my eyes. I look down at the table, blinking them back. ‘She was sixteen,' I say finally.

Colin doesn't answer. He takes a long drink of his beer, then places it on the table between us.

‘Have you always known?' I ask.

‘That I was given up or that Premier Rowena Mulvaney was my mother?'

‘Both.'

‘Being stuck in an orphanage is usually a good sign your mother doesn't want you,' he says bluntly. ‘I was six
before anyone claimed me again. They didn't stick, either.' He takes a handful of chips. ‘I've known about a year.'

‘They didn't tell you sooner?'

He laughs. ‘They didn't tell me at all – closed adoption, records sealed. Then they shut the whole place down and burnt the files. People's lives went up in smoke.'

A tradie walks past us and hesitates at the next table. Colin seems to hold his breath until the man disappears inside, out of earshot.

‘It didn't matter for a while,' he continues, his voice lower now. ‘I didn't want to know who she was – who I was – even if they would tell me.'

‘Then how …?'

‘I guess the right people asked the right questions. Word got around. I got curious.'

I extract a couple of chips from the packet, chew slowly while I consider my words. ‘So, what happened outside the restaurant? Why were you fighting with her?'

Colin picks at the label of his beer. ‘She feels guilty and wants to play mummy now.' He pushes the bottle away and leans back against the seat, knocking my foot to the side as he shifts. I flinch and tuck myself in tighter. He's so angry. ‘Little late for that,
Mummy Dearest
,' he says to the sky, raising his beer in a mock toast.

‘Why did you come to Melbourne if you didn't want to see her?' Even as I try to maintain a neutral voice, the kind Harry would say a good journalist would use, I hear the judgement and frustration in my tone.

‘I didn't come for
her
.' He twitches a little as he says this. His fingers tear at the label on the now-empty beer bottle and his feet scuff the cement.

‘Then why?' I ask.

He stands up. ‘Do you want another Coke?'

‘I'll pay,' I say quickly, mentally calculating how much money I have in my wallet. Twenty dollars, max. How many beers will that buy? How much of this man's time?

‘Whatever.'

I stand up, then realise the bartender won't serve me. I extract a ten-dollar note and hold it out to him, smiling apologetically. ‘You'll have to buy it.'

He nods. ‘Right. You're sixteen.'

I sit back down while I wait for him to return, sorting through the contents of my wallet to make sure there isn't a missed twenty-dollar note in there that I'd forgotten about. I pull everything out. Five dollars plus whatever change he gives me.

I start slotting the receipts and other bits and pieces back into my wallet just as Colin returns. He looks at the pile in front of me, the printout of my precious Pearl Jam tickets peeking out from the mess.

‘What's this?' he asks, retrieving one of the tickets from the pile. ‘Pearl Jam? They're all right. Good seats?'

I smile, even though I know he won't return it. ‘Really good.'

‘You taking your boyfriend?'

I swiftly scan the street to see if Kessie and Jake are around. Did he see them? Is that what he means? ‘No. I'm going to go with … the drummer from my band.' This feels natural, for the moment. Two strangers who have something in common. I'm grateful for that. We could be like anyone else. Minus the whole separated-at-birth thing, that is. ‘Luke wants to go. Actually, he's begging to go.' I set down my Coke. ‘But he's too young. One day I'll take him.'

Colin nods, studying the table. Does he know I mean his brother, Luke? I feel a twinge of regret at having mentioned him. It feels like every word I speak has the potential to explode in my face. ‘But my friend – the drummer – she's a huge fan, like me.'

‘You're a musician?' He's looking at me frankly now. The distant, hooded stare seems to have disappeared.

‘Yes,' I say firmly. ‘I play guitar. I mean, I'm still learning.'

‘Cool.'

He places the tickets on the table between us. I'm careful not to snatch them up, pausing before I collect them and slot them neatly back into my wallet.

I take another sip of my Coke, but the ice has melted now and it's watery and flat. ‘So, why did you come to Melbourne? You didn't really answer me before.'

He holds the beer bottle up to the light, then sets it down. ‘Free ticket. Warm weather.' He sweeps a wide arc
around us, the cool air and evidence of past rain not even warm by Irish standards.

‘Free ticket?'

A harsh laugh. ‘You don't know any more about this shit than me, do you?'

What's the right answer? That I know nothing, that I'm here to find out and am therefore useless to him? Or do I admit to him that Mum's been lying to us? To everyone. He hates her already. Nothing I can say now will fix this. I rest my head in my hands, exhausted by all the second-guessing and double meanings. ‘I don't know
what
I know.'

‘What the
feck
does that mean?' He laughs so honestly and freely that I laugh too. Because, yeah. What the
feck
does that mean? Tension seems to leach from us both.

Finally, he cocks his head, the same way Mum does, the same quizzical expression in his eyes. It takes my breath away and I have to look down at the table to gather my wits.

‘There's an organisation – a charity – in Ireland trying to connect kids with their families, to make up for the years of secrecy and neglect.' His mouth twists into a wry smile. ‘There are a lot of us,' he adds. ‘I got into some trouble. I guess they felt guilty. Whatever. They paid for my ticket.'

I wonder if Mum knew he was coming.

He takes a drink, then sets the beer carefully in the middle of the table. Sweat beads dribble along its length. ‘Why aren't you at school?'

‘Holidays.'

‘So you're free today?'

‘I have to pick up my brother at five …' I stop, embarrassed. Should I have said ‘my
other
brother'?

He doesn't seem to notice. ‘Want to kill a few hours with a complete stranger who shares some of your DNA?'

‘Sure.'

He finishes his beer and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Let's go.'

‘Seriously?'

‘It's Australia. What else do you people do?'

The bay water is like ice and the sand is damp and cool underfoot. With the grey-blue sky in the background and the tension gone from his face, Colin looks like a teenager. More like in the photo. I don't know if it's the cold water or the idea of a beach that's suddenly made him seem closer to my age, but it ends at the chiselled cheeks and the smooth skin of his jaw. The rest of him belongs to someone who has lived – a lot. His chest is muscled and taut, and those elaborate tattoos cover his back and shoulders. They're the kind bikies have – all snakes and skulls and daggers dripping blood. Some
homemade ones too. I squint as he tests the water, feel my breath catch when I realise that on the bare patches of skin, free of tattoos, are other markings. Scars. There's a string of them, a pattern along his forearm that looks like a trail of tiny full moons. The shape of cigarette tips.

I look away. I roll up my jeans and wade into the shallows beside him. A small, foamy wave crashes against my legs. I leap at the cold and watch helplessly as the water soaks my jeans. ‘Too cold!' I yelp, heading back.

‘Pathetic!' he calls out, a crooked smile taking the edge off his tone.

I sit beside his towel, unrolling my pants in the hope they'll dry. It feels good to have sun on my skin, weak as it is.

He dives into the water and disappears. The water is brown and cloudy from the swirling of sand every time the wind picks up. I shiver with cold just watching him. When he breaks the surface, Colin lets out a short, sharp laugh and his arms briefly flap about like a kid's. But when I smile, he seems to rein himself in, gathering his gestures into something smaller and more contained. He crouches in the water and turns his back to me so that only his head and shoulders are exposed. Despite this, I can see him shivering. We sit there for some time, only a few metres apart, me on the shore, him in the shallows.

He stands up finally and wades to shore, the lapping waves nipping at his feet.

Some kids are playing footy with one of those Nerf balls that float when they land in the water. I watch them as Colin towels off, thinking about how different my life would have been if I'd been born first, when Mum was sixteen. If she'd given me up instead. I see those scars, the trail of moons like a smile on his muscled arm. I suppress a shudder, then realise that Colin's watching me.

‘What was it like?' I ask.

He wipes his chest, dries his legs, shakes his towel free of sand and spreads it next to me. He plonks down in the middle of the towel and rests his arms on his knees. It's so natural and unselfconscious that we could be anyone.

‘I don't know any different,' he says finally.

‘Do you have other family?'

He shakes his head.

Neither of us speaks for some minutes. I feel like I should go, leave him alone. He's not even looking at me now, and any of that lightness from moments ago has vanished. The hard ball of tension is back. The cold eyes. The wall of silence.

I begin to stand when his voice stops me. ‘What's she like?'

I pick up a stick, damp and stringy, then put it down again. ‘I'm pretty mad with her right now, but she's all right usually.'

Across the bay, the white caps bob and dip, the murky depths reflecting how my head feels. He's still waiting, expecting more.

‘She drives me crazy,' I add, offering a lopsided grin. ‘But I love her. We all do.'

His expression is unreadable. I feel a powerful urge to apologise to him – for my mum, for Gran, for all those years he was on his own, for the marks all over his body, the moon-shaped smile. For everything.

‘Tell me about her,' he says so quietly I have to strain to hear.

My heart sinks. The brittle thread between us feels just that tiniest bit stronger, but telling him my life has been pretty great can't end well.

I reach for the stick again, mark out a square, place a dot in the middle of it. ‘She's smart,' I say. ‘Really smart.' I steal a glance at him, but he's looking dead ahead. His shoulders hunched and taut, arms wrapped around his knees as though to ward off attack. ‘Funny, too. I guess you'd know that if you've seen any clips of Question Time on YouTube.'

I let a slow smile touch my lips because there's been so much to be ashamed of, so much out there about her life,
my
life, things that should be private, that I forget how much of the good stuff is there too. The things that show her best side. The moments that have made me proud.

Colin tilts his head as though he's not prepared to admit to it. ‘As a mum.'

I carve a hashtag into the circle, next to the square, straining for the right words. ‘She's good,' I say. ‘She's a good mum.' I look at him, and he finally meets my gaze. ‘She's a really good mum.'

He looks down at the sand again.

‘She's hurting pretty bad too, if that helps,' I add. ‘I know she tried to find you.'

He laughs bitterly then. It's a sharp, guttural sound. ‘What the feck difference does that make?'

‘I don't know. I just thought –'

‘You thought what? That I'd forgive her?'

I bow my head.

He looks away, studies the footy group for a long minute, then turns back, eyes blazing. ‘I don't know why I bothered,' he says, his hands clenched by his sides. ‘You all deserve each other. All of you,' he finishes, casting a wide sweeping arm to take us – the whole world it seems – into his words. Then he grabs his towel and stalks up the beach.

I watch the shape of him disappearing. He reminds me so much of Mum then – the stubbornness, the unflinching determination – that I decide there's only one thing I can do.

I stand up unsteadily, brush the sand off my damp, clingy jeans, and head towards the street.