Sea Lavender

When I can't find my keys, I empty my handbag on Pa's doormat.

welcome to paradise.

On my knees, I sift through the mess. 'Shit,' I mutter, standing to knock on the door. There's nothing Pa hates more.

I remember when I arrived here four years ago, jet-lagged and clammy with sweat, my entire life slung around my shoulders. How there'd been no answer to my knock at the door, though I could hear the TV blaring. How I'd called out, 'Hello?'

'WHAT?!'

His shout had been a shock of lime green.

Once there'd have been Nan, soft like a peach, opening the door, petals unfurling. Once there'd have been tea brewing and a tray of biscuits in the oven. Once there'd have been Pa's loving embrace, picking me up, swirling me around. Nan's smiling eyes and cheerful banter. Pa's wild stories and raucous laugh.

How jarring it was, that WHAT.

'It's Olivia,' I called.

'WHO?' he yelled over the blasting TV. I thumped the door with my fist. 'Olivia!'

There were clumsy footsteps, and then the door cracked open. 'I'm not interested. Piss off.'

I grabbed hold of the door before he had a chance to close it. 'Pa, stop. It's me—it's Olivia.'

And then the door opened, and a man with skin more grey than the last time I'd seen it looked me up and down. He was wearing a cricket cap, an ironed white shirt, beige trousers and leather shoes. 'I thought you weren't coming till this afternoon,' he said.

I looked at my watch. 'It's three o'clock.'

Pa shrugged and stepped back, allowing me in. 'Looks heavy,' he said, gesturing to my rucksack. 'I'd help you but my back is screwed.' He rubbed his hip.

'No worries,' I said, following him in. He moved painfully slowly.

'Here's the lounge room,' he said, as if I'd never been here before. 'Kitchen.' Pointing to the cramped kitchen with lino floors, an empty fruit bowl. 'The balcony is best in the morning.' I looked out to the balcony where a succulent sat shrivelled in a terracotta pot. 'I thought the point of owning a succulent was that it won't die,' I said.

Pa laughed, but the sound was shallow water. 'Everything dies.' He tapped a closed door. 'That's my room. When I'm in there, I'm not to be disturbed. Got it?'

I nodded.

Then he showed me the bathroom and the room that would be mine— instructing me not to touch the boxes under the desk or the box in the bottom of the cupboard—then excused himself to get back to the cricket.

I unpacked then returned to the living room, was ignored when I asked him if he wanted a cup of tea.

It wasn't till an ad came on the TV that Pa turned to me. 'Sorry I couldn't meet you at the airport. I've been busy.'

I looked around, taking in the half-completed crossword on the coffee table, the cricket resuming on the screen, the three empty beer bottles. 'All good,' I said. 'I like your hat.' But his attention was back on the cricket. He reached under the coffee table, grabbed a pack of cigarettes and lit one. That was new.

I stood in the kitchen, watching him suck on it, the embers burning. He exhaled, and a cloud filled the room. He cleared phlegm in his throat. His hands shook. I looked at his fingers, thin and knobbly, his nails yellowing, his wedding band loose. Even then I could see he was starving without her. Time eroding his body. But not fast enough.

The kettle on the stove began to whistle. I poured water over my tea, watched the water change colour, change shape. On the kitchen bench was a bouquet of lavender, brown stalks, the flowers limp and furry. I could only guess how long they'd been there.

When I visited as a child, Nan would hide lavender in my drawers, so that I'd carry the scent of her wherever I went. How magic it had seemed. But these were flowers dying as slowly as he was.

I joined Pa in the living room, and looked out and up the hill to where the lights on St Patrick's Seminary were coming on. 'Do you remember how you used to tell me there were fairies living in St Pat's, and that's why it lights up at night?' I asked, standing over him.

Pa shook his head. 'Can't imagine why I would have said something like that.'

I took the seat beside him. And so began four years of Pa's body tensing every time I sat in Nan's chair.

***

Now, the TV is blaring behind the door as usual, only I can hear there's a soap opera on. Pa never watches soap operas. He must be in a mood.

I brace myself, and knock.

There's no answer.

I knock louder.

Still nothing.

I call out. Knock again. Shout through the door.

'For fuck's sake,' I mutter. It's the third time I've locked myself out this month. He's ignoring me on purpose, I'm sure of it.

The door on the opposite side of the landing opens and Will sticks his head out. 'Locked out?' he says.

'Unfortunately yes.'

'You need a lanyard.'

I roll my eyes. 'Does your mum still have the spare key?' 'Unfortunately yes.'

'Very funny,' I say. He ducks back inside and returns a moment later with the key, chucks it to me.

'Nice catch.'

'Nice throw.'

He winks, says, 'See ya,' and goes back inside his apartment.

I let myself in. 'Hey,' I say as I pass Pa, who's sitting in his chair in the living room.

He ignores me.

In my room, I dump my bag on my bed, kick off my boots, shake off my jacket, walk back out and put the kettle on.

'Sorry I didn't come home last night, but you won't believe what happened to me.'

Silence. Not even a grunt to feign interest.

'Pa?' I say.

The kettle starts to whistle.

He must be really mad. Though I've stayed at Adam's before without telling him, so I'm not sure what the big deal is.

'Pa?' I say again, reaching for the kettle. I pull it off the stove, start to pour, though I'm not looking at the cup; I'm looking at my grandfather, slouched in front of the TV.

Boiling water dribbles over the bench, splashes my feet through my socks. I jump back. 'Ow, shit!'

He doesn't tell me off for swearing.

'Pa?' I whisper, rounding the bench. That strange slouch … I shiver and edge forwards.

His head is cocked oddly to one side, his neck folded.

I take another step.

And then I see them, his eyes, glazed, half open, milky. I reach forwards, my hand shaking, touch my fingertip to his cheek. It's warm. That means he's still alive, doesn't it?

'Pa!' I shout.

***

Will opens his door, laughing. 'How have you locked yourself—' He pauses, frowns. 'Are you okay?'

'N-no,' I stutter. 'There's something wrong with my pa.'

'Mum!' Will calls over his shoulder.

'What?' she sings out from the other room.

'Mum!'

'What is it? I'm busy!'

'MUM!' shouts Will.

Annie emerges a moment later.

'I think my pa's having a stroke,' I tell her.

'Oh, Christ,' Annie says, rushing past me. 'Will, call an ambulance.'

I follow her into my grandfather's apartment. She touches him.

Shudders.

Outside, the lights on St Pat's come on, gold against dusk.

Annie takes his wrist, checks for a pulse. She exhales into the blue space where he doesn't.

'Honey, I'm so, so sorry,' she says.

'But he's warm. I felt him.'

Will comes in behind me. 'The ambulance is on its way.' Annie shakes her head.

And suddenly, I feel myself touch the ground. Like I've spent my whole life floating around in outer space, and I'm just now feeling gravity for the first time. It's a shock, this force on my body.

The weight of it is crushing.