Read an extract from I'm Not Really Here by Gary Lonesborough.
1
It’s a warm Thursday afternoon when we pull up at the front of our new home in our new town – the town of Patience. The streets are lined with small houses built of bricks and wood, most of which wear peeling paint and hold old cars in their driveways and discarded toys and swing-sets in their front yards. Our front yard is bare, no trees or flowers or garden – just a gate, a freshly mowed lawn, and a narrow cement pathway up to the house. There are two long rectangular windows on either side of the white wooden front door. The house itself is orange brick with a tiled roof, and looks about fifty years old, like the rest of the houses on this street.
Our real estate agent waves to us from the steps. She’s wearing a light blue collared shirt underneath a black blazer, her short blonde hair slicked to the side. She stomps out her cigarette and I imagine what she’s seeing as she approaches us: an early 2000s model Holden Astra with an Aboriginal family inside – Dad and his three sons.
Patience didn’t look like much from the top of the mountain we had to travel over to get here. Surrounding it are acres and acres of dairy farms, which Dad says keeps the town running. Heading into town, we crossed a bridge over a river, and passed bare fields, where someone was riding a horse. I saw a lagoon but I couldn’t see any ducks swimming. The main street was long and busy with shops and people and cars and traffic lights. Then, we drove over a big hill, passing a church and a school and a motel. We turned down a hill, and now, we’ve arrived at our new home.
Dad’s all smiles as he waves to the real estate agent. It’s the first time we’ve had our own home in years. Dad and Aunty Jo scouted the house online, already picked out rooms for us so we wouldn’t fight over them.
‘Here we are, boys,’ he says.
Dad’s first out of the car, and then me; Zeke and Luke follow. My legs are still waking up from the six-hour drive.
We walk into the front yard. Dad’s been trying to get us to Patience for the past year. He’s told us stories of growing up here, riding his bike around town with his cousins and friends, how they’d bike out of town to the river when it was hot, and how he won grand finals for the local footy team, but now that we’re here, it feels kind of disappointing.
I look over the trailer attached to the back of the car. It’s bulky and full, covered in a blue tarp. It’s hard to believe our whole lives are contained beneath that tarp.
‘Fred King? Lovely to meet you in person,’ the real estate agent says as she shakes Dad’s hand.
‘You too, Miss Waters,’ Dad says.
‘Please, call me Wendy.’ Wendy Waters. What a shit name. She points to the trailer. ‘Looks like you’re all set to move in.’
‘We don’t have much, to be honest,’ Dad tells Wendy Waters. ‘I’ve been in touch with my old school friend Cherry. She’s got a spare bed frame and a fridge we can have. Once we’ve emptied the trailer, we’ll go grab ’em.’
Dad gestures for me, Zeke and Luke to come closer.
‘These are my boys,’ Dad says. ‘This is my eldest, Jonah.’ I shake Wendy’s hand and her palm is sweaty. She sees me – a fat boy with brown skin whose shirt is tighter than it should be. She can see my man boobs and the sweat pooling on my shirt underneath them. ‘He’s in Year Eleven, a budding writer.’
‘Hi,’ I say. Dad always mentions I’m a budding writer whenever he introduces me to someone, all because I won this comp when I was ten and a few teachers went out of their way to tell him I’m a good writer.
‘And this is Zeke and Luke, my eight-year-old twins,’ Dad says.
The boys wave to Wendy Waters, not saying a word.
‘Well, you really lucked out that we had a -three-bedroom house to fill,’ Wendy says. ‘I’m glad you could make it so quickly. Welcome to your new home.’
Wendy leads us up the four steps to the front door. After she unlocks the door, she hands the keys to Dad, saying they belong to him now.
Dad follows Wendy inside and me, Zeke and Luke loiter outside. There’s a small concrete platform before the door – a perfect spot for a welcome mat or a fuck off and leave us alone mat.
‘This is like our old house,’ Luke says.
‘Not really,’ I reply, as Zeke and Luke disappear inside.
The bottoms of my shoes click on the lino floor. The front of the house is the living room, with a small kitchen behind it. There’s an oven at the end with a bench and sink on one side and cupboards on the other. Everything is empty and bare and there’s a strong smell of cleaning products in the air, lemon scented.
The hallway is narrow with doors on either side, and the back door is straight ahead, where the lino stops and tiles begin in the laundry at the end of the hallway. Zeke and Luke’s voices are echoing from the first door to my right.
‘This looks like a good spot for the bunk bed,’ Dad says to Zeke and Luke. He holds his hands out like a photographer framing a shot. ‘We can put it against this wall. What do you reckon?’
‘Yeah,’ Zeke replies, rushing to the wall opposite the one Dad is envisioning bunk beds on. ‘And I can put my Undertaker poster up here.’
‘Yep,’ Dad smiles. ‘And Luke can put his Roman Reigns one next to it. And we could get a couple of beanbags as well.’
The bedroom is carpeted, with a built-in wardrobe, the doors of which are full mirrors. Dad spots me at the doorway.
‘Your room’s across the hall, Jonah,’ he says. He follows me into my room, which is smaller than Zeke and Luke’s. There’s a large square window, white blinds rolled up at the top. I slide the window open and dust flickers in the air. The outside of the screen is dressed in cobwebs.
‘Can I get curtains?’ I ask.
‘Yeah,’ Dad says. ‘We can get those hooks with the sticky stuff and put up a curtain. We’ll get you a single bed and a bookshelf. Might be able to fit a desk in here as well.’
By six o’clock, night has come and my jumpers, jackets and shirts are hanging in my wardrobe. I’ve sorted my underwear and socks into the drawers and the rest of my clothes are folded and stored on my shelves.
Dad, Zeke and Luke are finishing putting the bunk bed together across the hallway. I head into the bathroom and have a shower. The water pressure is great, which is at least one positive thing about this strange new life of ours.
After my shower, I change into a singlet and shorts and flop my single mattress to the floor. My room is just my mattress, my clothes in the wardrobe, and my phone charging at the power point near the door.
Home for us is back in Rushton, on the north coast. This place doesn’t feel like home.
For dinner, Dad orders pizza from Patience Pizzeria – one meat lovers, one Hawaiian. Dad’s eating with Zeke and Luke in their room and I put a slice of each pizza onto a plate and then return to my own room.
I stop at my doorway and glance into Dad’s bedroom beside Zeke and Luke’s. His room is still bare – just some blankets against the wall and two check-covered plastic luggage bags. Dad doesn’t have a mattress yet. At Aunty Jo’s, he slept on the couch.
In my mind, I see his room at our old house, before we lived at Aunty Jo’s house, before we had to move to the caravan park – when it was his and Mum’s room. They had a double bed with a wooden frame and big headboard. They had a chest of drawers with a mirror and the walls were decorated with photos of me, Zeke and Luke. I see Mum lying on the bed, sitting up among white sheets and blankets, blinking to clear her eyes and see me at the door.
But she’s not here. This isn’t her room.
After dinner, we all load into the car and drive to Dad’s friend Cherry’s place. At the end of our new street, we pass tall bushes where bats are chirping and flying.
The roads of Patience are black and quiet. Driving into town, we pass the showground. There aren’t any cars driving the streets, I swear it’s just us and our rattling trailer. The town must go to sleep by eight p.m.
We take a turn out of town and cross a short bridge. Ahead in the distance are mountains, black in the night with the moonlight behind their peaks. We pass a golf course and country club, then Dad pulls into the driveway of one of the houses along the other side of the road.
Our headlights shine over an old, well-driven Kia Carnival and a tin roof above it which is acting as a shelter. The house itself is a long, thick rectangle. It’s as old as our own house, with peeling white paint on its wooden walls. Wide windows are covered in curtains and the lights are on inside.
Dad shuts off the car and I climb out with him. The front screen door screeches open and an Aboriginal woman walks out of the house barefoot. It’s freezing now, but she’s wearing a tank top and blue jean shorts. She’s tall and thin, with brown skin and long curly hair. She rushes down the steps and opens her arms as she approaches Dad.
‘Freddie King,’ she says as she hugs Dad. ‘It’s been a long, long time.’
‘Cherry, you haven’t changed one bit,’ Dad replies, and their hug is lasting a little longer than I’m comfortable with. ‘I want you to meet my boys. This is Jonah.’
‘Hey,’ I say.
‘Jonah, lovely to meet you,’ she says.
‘And Zeke and Luke are in the car,’ Dad says, walking Cherry to the back seat window. ‘They’re a bit shy with new people.’
‘Oh my god,’ Cherry says, gazing in. ‘They’re identical.’
‘Yeah, pretty much. Zeke’s got lighter brown hair, though.’
‘It’s been years,’ Cherry says, sighing and placing her hands on her hips. ‘We’ll need to sit down together soon.’
‘Definitely,’ Dad says. ‘For tonight, just the bed frame and fridge, I reckon.’
‘Of course. Come with me.’
Inside the front door are piles of shoes, big and small. The first thing I hear are gunshots, ringing out from a video game being played in one of the bedrooms.
‘Harley!’ Cherry shouts as we move past the sunroom, a kitchen and into the living room. The shooting sounds stop down the hall. Two little girls, a few years younger than the twins, are on the lounge in the living room, the smaller one fiddling with an iPad while Finding Nemo plays on the TV.
‘These are my daughters,’ Cherry says to Dad. ‘Elaine’s the one with the long brown hair, and Maisie is the one playing with the iPad.’
‘Wow,’ Dad says. ‘They’re the spittin’ image of you.’
‘The frame’s in my room and the fridge is out in the garage,’ Cherry says. We follow her into a bedroom with a double bed, boxes against the far wall and a clothes basket on the floor.
Footsteps approach behind me. I turn and see an Aboriginal boy. He’s about my age.
‘Harley, this is Fred, an old friend from school. And this is his son, Jonah,’ Cherry says. Dad shakes Harley’s hand, then Harley reaches out to me. His eyes are brown, and his skin is darker over his eyelids.
‘Hey,’ I say.
‘Hey,’ Harley replies. His voice is soft and gentle, the kind you’d hear in an ASMR video. He’s tall, taller than me. He’s got curly hair just like Cherry. His body is fit. His chest is chiselled and bare and he’s wearing only football shorts.
‘Jonah,’ Dad whispers.
Oh my god. Harley has been holding his hand out for me to shake it and I’ve just been staring at him, frozen like a fish in an icy lake for I don’t even know how long.
‘Sorry,’ I say, reaching my hand to his. Harley’s palm is rough and hard and his grip is strong.
‘What are you sorry for?’ he asks, smiling.
‘For . . . umm . . . nothing, I guess . . .’
Real smooth, Jonah.
‘Harley. Help us get this bed frame out to the car,’ Cherry says, rescuing me from my implosion of embarrassment.
‘Are you enrolling the boys at school soon?’ she asks Dad.
‘Yeah,’ Dad replies. ‘I’m getting that sorted tomorrow. Jonah will be going to Patience High, and I’ll put the younger fullas in Catholic, where we went.’
‘Oh, Harley’s at Patience High,’ Cherry says. ‘What year is Jonah in?’
‘Eleven this year,’ I say.
‘Perfect, Harley’s in Year Eleven.’ Cherry turns to Harley. ‘You’ll look after Jonah, right Harley? Just until he settles in.’
‘Yeah, sure,’ Harley replies, as he takes the bulk of the deconstructed pieces of the single bed frame in one go. Me and Dad follow him with the other pieces. Outside, we load them onto the trailer. Harley helps Dad get the fridge from the garage, then Dad secures everything in with ratchet straps.
‘Oh, Harley, run in and grab those bags, will ya?’ Cherry says. Harley dawdles inside, barefoot on the dirt and patchy grass. When he comes back out, he’s carrying two filled garbage bags. He hands them to Cherry, who hands them to Dad. ‘We put together some old school clothes for your boys, just in case they were going to the same schools. One less thing for you to worry about. If they fit, that is.’
‘Wow. Thanks,’ Dad says. He turns to me. ‘What do we say?’
‘Thanks,’ I say.
‘Seriously,’ Cherry says, hugging Dad again, ‘let’s sit down together soon.’
‘We will,’ Dad says. ‘Cheers for helpin’ us out.’
‘Of course.’
Harley holds his fist out to me. I’m hoping he’s looking for a fist bump, because that’s what he’s getting.
‘See ya at school,’ he says, with that gentle voice.
‘Can’t wait,’ I say. Harley chuckles. Can’t wait? That’s the stupidest possible response I could have come up with. I should have said yeah, or sure, but nup. Can’t. Wait.
Cherry waves us off as we back out of the driveway. As Harley rushes inside, I watch his big, athletic thighs and calves. I’m re-creating them in my mind all the way home. He seems nice. He is nice. He’s going to look after me while I settle in at school. I hope he doesn’t think I’m weird or stupid or something; I’m still thinking about how long it took me to realise he was trying to shake my hand, and how I told him I can’t wait to see him at school.
At home, I help Dad bring the fridge into the kitchen. We take the bed frame into my room, and I’m covered in sweat by the time we’re done. I have no energy for building it tonight.
Zeke and Luke get ready to spend their first night on their bunk beds and Dad retreats to his room.
My throat is dry so I pour myself a glass of water. I stop outside my bedroom because I can hear Dad’s voice. His door is half open. Inside, he’s placed his tallboy against the wall, and a framed photograph of Mum rests on it.
‘I know you never liked this place,’ Dad whispers. ‘Patience is where all dreams go to die. That’s what you said once. But we’re here now. We’re okay. Things are finally looking up for us. The kids miss you, of course, but this is a fresh start for us. I feel really good about it.’
Dad likes to talk to Mum sometimes when he’s alone. He says it helps him. It’s his way of coping, I guess. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t feel weird to overhear it. He told me I should try it a while ago, but it feels too strange to me.
Back in my room, I stare at myself in the mirror of my wardrobe. As I sip my glass of water, it hits me that Patience is my home now. I don’t know anyone here. It’s a new life, a new town, a new home, but I’m still the same fat brown boy in the mirror.
I'm Not Really Here
by Gary Lonesborough
A wonderful coming-of-age queer romance from the multi award-winning author of The Boy from the Mish.
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